here you go my sweeties, as promised some older bruce. yes this is self indulgent. #daddy ( ˃` ⩌ ´˂ ) .ᐟ .ᐟ apologies for the spelling mistakes or wtv
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you weren’t sure how this whole predicament started: you wake up in silky sheets with messy hair and a rosey bite mark on your collar. you remember being thrown over a really large man’s shoulder, squealing excitedly and kicking at his torso and something about a very loud whine of “daddy daddy daddy”
you’re mid thought when you hear the sound of feet tapping on the floorboards, moving towards you.
“hey, sleepy head. drink this for me.” bruce demands as sweet and quiet as possible. his arm is extended out to you with a glass of water in his hand. you take it with a small, shy nod.
bruce watches to make sure you drink everything before he sits down beside you, taking the cup and putting it on the nightstand. he rests his achy back against the headboard with a tiny groan. You look up at him with big puppy eyes,wondering if you did something to hurt him.
“‘m okay, just gettin’ old” he chuckles and pats your head playfully.
“you’re not old” you laugh softly and lean into his hand.
“you barley know me,honey” bruce murmurs and takes his hand of your head to cover you back up with the comforter.
Later in the morning, you leave the bedroom with a yawn, hoping to find bruce looming somewhere. turns out he was napping on the couch like an old grandpa. cute!
you giggle quietly and bend over the back of the couch to run your hand through his hair, just like he did to you. you knew bruce was insecure about your age difference: it’d been obvious the first night you slept together. he doesn’t know that you love having a big strong old man to take care of you.
bruce’s eyes flutter open, looking up at you with one eye barley open. he sits up and grabs your waist from over the couch cushions, pulling you over them gently like a baby kitty. He places you on his lap as he runs his hands up and down your sides.
you smile down at him, hands on his chest, waiting for some form of attention from the handsome guy below you. slowly, your fingers travel to his jaw and rub against his salt and pepper stubble.
“hot” you whisper, trying not to make eye contact with bruce’s gorgeous eyes, that are roaming your entire body like you’re some sparkly treasure he found.
your hips grind slowly against his lap with a small hum coming from your throat, whilst you grab his huge hands and force them onto your tits.
“please” you pout, begging for nothing in particular, you’re already taking everything you need.
“i gotcha, bunny” bruce grumbles, his hips moving away from your pussy so he can pull down his sweats and move your cute little panties to the side.
you squeak a little as his cock fits snug inside of you, your walls contracting roughly. “bruce, oh fuck!” your whimpers and whines pour out your lips as you struggle to move your hips onto him.
bruce, being the most observant man, lifts you up, his cock never leaving you, and lays you softly on your back.
“yeahh, there we go, ain’t that nice?” he grins down at you, he wants to get rough just like you want but he can’t hurt his baby. you’re tiny compared to him, his body engulfing yours, making you feel every vein and muscle on his body as his dick kisses your cervix.
his soft stomach presses against yours as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders. “sweet girl, always so good for your daddy” he growls. oh so he did remember what you called him last night…
“oh shit, bruce!” you pout and grab at his forearm.
“not my name, honey” bruce snickers as he leans down, pushing your legs back slightly, meanwhile pushing all the way into your pussy. “tell me, and i’ll let you cum with me.”
“daddy, oh gosh, you’re my daddy” you moan out before bringing your hand to your mouth and biting down, trying to stop yourself for saying something even more icky and embarrassing. “m cummi-“ you attempt to scream until bruce thrusts completely inside of you once again, painting your walls just like he did the night before, and before and before.
“good baby” he pants taking his cock out of your pussy and looking at his art. he uses his thumb to part your folds, watching your mixed climax drip out of your hole.
You want to wake up like this every morning, with your old man that you sometimes called daddy.
this man would be so tired and drained after stopping another one of riddler’s riddles and preventing city hall from blowing up. —again— that the first thing he needs to do when he comes back home is to immediately wrap you in his arms and not let you go
even when he was in the bathtub, his hands couldn’t learn to let you go.
“god, i needed this” he groaned on your lips, cock buried deep in your pussy and hands on your waist to hold you in place while you straddled him. the air smelt of lavender from the bath salts and jasmine from the candle you lit, along with the faint aroma of soap enveloping it altogether. this was different than the sex you two would often have. this time, it was slow. you were taking your time with him, not with lust, but with love. the thrusts were slow— deep, but slow
you let out a soft moan, feeling his lips swallow your sound and trail his lips down to bury his face in your neck. your arms around his neck buried his face more to your body, something that bruce would gladly take up on
the water would slightly swish from each movement of your hips. bruce would feel his body absorb the warmth from the water and the warmth of your walls around his cock, his pants on your neck now turning into love bites.
“i love you” he whispered on your skin, his mouth now pressing a kiss down your throat. “so much” on your collarbone. “so so fucking much” and on your chest, right where your heart was
you felt one of the veins slowly brush on your walls just right, right enough for you to softly gasp and clench on him for just a second, making both of you moan at the same time. god, if bruce wasn’t tired, he would have you bent over the damn tub to fuck you properly
he lifted his head from your body to whisper on your lips without touching them, a smile on his face as his eyes met with yours. “takin’ me so well, sweetheart” bruce cooed. “feelin’ so much better already”
your hands went to push his wet hair back and to get a good look at him. the tiredness and fatigue in his face were a contrast to the slightly bleary yet blown look in his eyes—even then, he still looked gorgeous and still the man you fell in love with.
from there, you pull him into a kiss and move your hips deeper to swallow a groan from his lips, meeting them with a soft, deep and slow kiss. the type of kiss that bruce definitely needed tonight, the type of kiss only you could give him
god, did this man love you
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masterlist!
(a/n: guys it literally swings.... im not even joking it LITERALLY swings good fucking lord i am not okay for this man i want him so bad)
summary : when you’re husband gets put on time out after a nasty mission, you suddenly find yourself seeing him in ways you haven’t seen before. CW : suggestive, reader is a freak, breast play ᵎᵎ
masterlist ノ DC masterlist ੭﹕﹒
Bruce Wayne had been benched for three weeks.
A nasty hit to the ribs during a patrol gone wrong had Alfred putting his foot down: no suit, no rooftop jumping, no “I’m fine” excuses. The great Batman was stuck at home, healing, and slowly going insane from boredom.
You, on the other hand, were enjoying every second of it.
The first few days he was sulking in sweatpants and an old college hoodie, grumbling about “rusting” and “losing edge.” By week two, the stubble on his jaw had grown into a proper beard, and you were shamelessly obsessed with running your fingers through it.
But the real surprise came when the body hair started growing back.
Bruce had always been meticulous about shaving everything that the suit touched. Chest, arms, legs — smooth as marble. You’d never seen him any other way. So when he came out of the shower one morning in nothing but low-slung sweatpants, towel around his neck, you nearly dropped your coffee.
There it was.
A soft, dark trail of hair across his chest, thickening between his pecs and fading down toward his abs. Not overwhelming, just… natural. Real.
You stared. Openly.
Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
He raised an eyebrow, drying his hair with the towel. “What?”
You set the coffee down carefully. “You… have hair.”
He glanced down at himself, almost self-conscious for the first time in years. “It grows back when I stop shaving. The suit chafes otherwise.” He rubbed a hand over his chest, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It’s been a while since I let it. I can shave it if—”
“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t. It’s… nice.”
Bruce paused, then a slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips. “Nice?”
You crossed the kitchen, unable to stop yourself. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers threading through the soft hair there. It was thicker than you expected, warm from the shower, and felt ridiculously good under your palms.
“Really nice,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. You leaned in and pressed a kiss right over his sternum, then another, then another, working your way across his chest like you were discovering new territory.
Bruce’s breath hitched. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides through your robe. “You’re… very enthusiastic about this.”
“I’ve never seen you like this,” you admitted, kissing lower, right over his heart. “It’s… hot. You look like a real person. My husband. Not the polished billionaire or the statue in a suit.”
He let out a low, surprised laugh, but it turned into a soft groan when your lips brushed one of his nipples. His fingers tightened on your waist.
“Careful,” he warned, voice rougher now. “You keep doing that and I’m going to forget I’m supposed to be resting.”
You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe I don’t want you to rest.”
Bruce’s eyes darkened. He cupped your face with one hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You’re going to be the death of me, Mrs. Wayne.”
“Good death,” you whispered, rising onto your toes to kiss him properly.
The kiss started sweet but quickly turned heated. Bruce pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other slipping under your robe to rest warm against your bare back. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it — deep, slow, full of all the love and want he usually kept so carefully controlled.
When you broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he said softly. “Even when you’re ogling me like I’m a science experiment.”
You laughed, pressing another kiss to his chest, right over the soft hair there. “I love you too. Especially when you’re all… natural like this.”
He groaned, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But I’m your ridiculous,” you corrected, kissing lower, lips brushing over his abs. “And I’m keeping you exactly like this for as long as you’re benched.”
Bruce’s hands tightened on your waist. “You’re going to kill me before I’m cleared for duty.”
You looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “Worth it.”
He pulled you back up for another deep kiss, hands roaming your body with that perfect mix of reverence and hunger. The robe slipped off one shoulder. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You shivered, pressing closer, feeling the warmth of his chest hair against your skin. It was softer than you expected, and the way it brushed your nipples when you moved made you gasp softly.
Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
He smiled against your lips. “You really like this, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled, kissing him again to hide your blush.
He chuckled, low and warm, and lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. His mouth moved to your neck, then lower, kissing and nipping gently across your collarbone. One hand slipped inside your robe, palming your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arched into him with a soft moan.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “My beautiful wife.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped you with slow, deliberate kisses. The world outside the penthouse didn’t exist. There were no missions, no galas, no Batsuit waiting in the cave.
Just Bruce. Just you.
Just the two of you, tangled together in the morning light, rediscovering each other in the quiet weeks of his recovery.
When he finally pulled back, lips swollen and eyes dark with want, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he said again, voice rough but sincere. “More than the suit. More than the money. More than anything.”
You smiled, cupping his face. “I love you too. Hairy chest and all.”
He laughed — bright, genuine, the kind of laugh that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
“Brat,” he murmured fondly, kissing you once more.
The coffee went cold on the counter. The city kept moving far below.
But in the warm glow of your kitchen, Bruce Wayne held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
And for once, the detective didn’t need to solve anything, and he already had everything he needed.
a/n : this is unbearably self indulgent because I like body hair. Just wait till I start writing about biceps 😊
— ୨ৎ asking husband!clark kent to dress up as superman for halloween!
husband!clark kent who is standing in the kitchen helping one of your kids carve a pumpkin when you casually drop the most dangerous sentence imaginable.
"you should dress up as superman for halloween."
the room goes silent. your youngest looks up from their pumpkin whilst your oldest freezes halfway through stealing candy, and clark nearly drops the carving knife. "what?" he says a little too quickly.
you smile innocently, too innocently, the one with a motive he can't ever figure out behind it. "superman."
"superman."
"yeah."
clark laughs. a very fake laugh. "why superman?"
your children immediately join the conversation.
"dad would look cool as superman!"
"he's really tall."
"and strong!"
"and he kinda looks like him."
clark chokes. you reach over and pat his back. "you okay, honey?"
"perfect." he absolutely is not. clark spends the next week internally panicking. now every costume store feels like an attack, every superman display seems to be mocking him and every time you bring it up he gets more nervous.
"please?" you ask one night while curled against his side on the couch. "it'd be cute."
clark looks down at you, then at the children sprawled across the living room floor discussing their costumes, then back at you and immediately caves. what can he say? he's a weak man when it comes to you. "okay."
the children explode.
"really?!"
"dad's gonna be superman!"
"mom won!"
"hey," clark protests. "i wasn't fighting." you give him a look, to which he adds, "okay maybe i was fighting a little."
halloween arrives. clark has somehow managed to find a costume that's suspiciously accurate. alarmingly accurate. "wow."
clark shifts awkwardly. "too much?"
"how did you even find one this good?"
he pauses. "amazon?"
it's the least convincing thing you've ever heard, but your children are absolutely losing their minds.
"dad looks exactly like him!"
"dad! fly!"
clark nearly walks directly into a wall. "can't do that, buddy."
"why not?"
"uh..."
he looks at you desperately. you are no help whatsoever because you're too busy laughing. throughout the entire night your kids refuse to leave his side.
they hold his hands while trick-or-treating, show off their candy to him, introduce him to strangers.
"this is my dad!" and then proudly: "he's superman."
every single time. clark smiles and plays along. "that's right." he'll say, "i'm superman." while internally thinking: well technically...
and, later that night, after the kids are asleep and mountains of candy have been sorted, you're both sitting on the couch. the house is quiet, finally.
clark still has part of the costume on, the cape draped over the cushions, the boots kicked off near the coffee table. you glance over and start smiling.
"what?" he asks.
"nothing."
"that's a lie."
"you were really cute tonight."
the expression on his face immediately softens. "yeah?"
you nod. "yeah." you lean your head against his shoulder. "the kids loved it."
clark's smile becomes impossibly gentle, the kind of smile he only wears around his family. "they did."
for a moment he just watches the hallway leading to the kids' bedrooms. then he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. "best halloween we've ever had."
you hum. "even with the ridiculous costume?"
clark laughs. "especially because of the ridiculous costume."
the second you're both alone, you tug lightly on the edge of the cape. "you know."
clark already knows that tone. "what?"
"this might be the first halloween costume you've ever worn that's actually accurate."
he groans immediately. "i'm serious." you insist.
"absolutely not."
"it's literally your work uniform."
"don't call it that."
"your little superhero pajamas."
"okay." he stands up. "conversation's over."
you can barely breathe from laughing. a second later clark scoops you up anyway, despite pretending to be offended, despite the dramatic sigh and despite the fact you're still teasing him.
after all these years, clark kent still looks at you like you hung the moon and every halloween, without fail, he wears the superman costume again.
mostly for the kids. a little for you. and definitely because hearing you tell people "isn't it amazing how much he looks like the real superman?" never stops being funny.
⤷ warnings; f!reader, smut, praise, pinv, reader is in a headlock, size kink, unprotected sex
⤷ word count; 350~
inspired by this blurb
plap plap plap
the sound of wet skin echoes throughout the room, your moans shamelessly muffled by the fat of his bicep as he continues to fuck you.
you hadn’t even made it to the bed, instead, your back is pressed against his wide chest, his left arm wrapped loosely around your neck where your slobber dribbles on the meat of his bicep.
you're barely touching the ground, toes just barely grazing the cool floor as he carries your weight like it’s nothing. his mouth pressed to the crown of your head, switching between praises and kissing your scalp.
“my good girl” “taking me so well” “that feel good angel?” “doing such a good job f’me m’so proud of you” he whispers in your ear, voice cracking and horse as he chases his own pleasure.
his breath tickles your hair before his right hand moves from pressing on your lower belly to your folds, parting them before rubbing tight circles into your clit. “i know you’re close baby just a little longer, can you do that for me?” he whimpers, circles only growing tighter and harder as he realizes he’s closer than be thought.
your jaw tightens on his arm as the heat in your stomach grows closer. your spit coats his arm and your chin and you can’t control it. you love how big he is, every part of him.
you love that his frame swallows yours, you love how strong he is and how his bicep is as big as your head, you love the thickness of his thighs, his fingers, his chest, his… everywhere. he was perfect and what better way to show appreciation for that then literally drool all over him.
“yeah? yeah, baby” he mumbles, thrusting into you for the last time before your both cumming. your thighs shake and his finger continues to move as his thrusts stop.
his kissing your neck and your shoulders when he gently puts you down and despite the shake in your legs you’re still somehow standing. “my perfect girl” he grabs your chin to kiss you before laying you down on the bed and crawling on top of you.
Not A Lot, Just Forever - Clark Kent x SingleMom!Reader
Clark Kent x SingleMom!Reader
Summary: You reminisce about life with your little girl before Clark came along, which makes you feel lucky to be where you are.
Tags: Fluff, Ryn attempts to be poetic, you have a daughter named Delilah, Clark isn't stepdad he's the dad that stepped up, cute Clark and kid interactions, not proofread, more fluff <3
Word Count: 1.3k
The sun is hot as it beats down on Clark and your daughter, Delilah. You watch from the back door as he hoists her up into his arms and holds her high above his head. She squeals with that childlike laughter that makes your chest feel tight with happiness, with relief.
She is safe.
She is loved.
She is seen.
You step forward with two glasses of fresh lemonade as Clark ‘flies’ Delilah around the yard. She claps when he sets her down, and begs for him to do it again in that sweet, soft voice of hers. Clark catches sight of you before he can respond.
“Let’s visit with Mom first,” he says, touching the top of her head gently. She glances back, then starts towards you with her hands out, ready to take hold of the glass of lemonade. Your throat feels tight with an emotion that you can’t quite identify as she and Clark approach.
“Are you having some, too?” Clark asks as you hand each of them their cup. You nod, offering him a small smile.
“Mine is inside,” you say. He looks you over, noting your energy. You’re off. Something is wrong. Or, at the very least, something is amiss. He wraps his arm around you as Delilah downs her lemonade easily and sets the glass on the outdoor table before running back towards her swingset – the one that Clark bought her for her fourth birthday last month. You inhale sharply, shakily.
“Hey,” he says, squeezing you. You look up at him. His brows are furrowed. Concerned. “What is it?”
You struggle with yourself for a moment. Images flash through your mind – a few summers ago, when Delilah was two, and the two of you were living in a shitty little apartment in the outskirts of Metropolis. The months of June, July, and August were spent living paycheck to paycheck. You could hardly pay for a sitter, and when the sitter was there, she would cry and cry and cry for you to come back home.
And then there was last summer, when you and Clark were beginning to date, and he was meeting Delilah for the first time after reassuring you that he’d be good to her, that you didn’t have to be scared and guarded anymore.
When you look into his eyes, now, you feel the same way you felt that very first time you watched him playing with your little girl. The way he’d taken yours and her lives into his so easily, the way he was ready to have both of you without restrictions…It proved that yes, you and Delilah are easy to love. You two are worth it. You two deserve it.
Well, of course you knew that she deserved it, but you? It took a while for you to accept it, and now that you’re here, a year and four months into a relationship with Clark Kent, you certainly do.
You reach up and touch his cheek, then kiss him softly. He lets you, but it doesn’t ease his worries.
“Nothing,” you tell him, shaking your head. Clark gives you a look.
“Honey…”
You smile tearfully, your bottom lip quivering.
Sleepless nights, tight budgets, long hours at work…It all paved this path that was leading you to a nice home (one with a fenced-in backyard, a washer and a dryer, space for all of your hobbies) that you get to share with the man of your dreams and, of course, your little girl. He helped, yes, but you worked hard for this. You saved, and you dreamed, and you got it. It’s all for Delilah. It’s all for Clark.
It’s all for you, too.
“I just feel really lucky,” you say softly, voice wavering with emotion. Clark smiles softly, then tugs you against his chest and holds you close. He kisses the top of your head.
“It’s not luck,” he says gently. You look up at him.
“No?” you ask, chuckling as you wipe a few stray tears. He shakes his head.
“Mm mm.”
“Then what is it?”
Clark kisses you properly, his plush lips working against yours. You sigh, reach up to cup his cheek as he holds you.
“Love,” he says when he pulls away. Your heart soars, just as it did when he asked you to be his girlfriend. You squeeze him, then pull away.
“Love,” you repeat. Clark nods. “Mm. I like that.”
“I like you,” he says, sipping his lemonade.
“Dad! C’mon!” comes Delilah’s voice. 4
The sound makes you feel weepy all over again when you look over at her and watch her call out to Clark with a voice that she’ll never have to muffle. She won’t have to hide who she is, not with Clark. She’ll never have to worry about being shut down, or tossed aside, or feeling like a burden. Not now. Not ever.
Clark finishes his lemonade, then squeezes your hips before jogging across the yard while Delilah runs away from him, giggling and squealing.
They don’t have the same eyes, or the same complexion, or the same smile – but it was never about that. Clark was right. All along, it was only ever about love. Giving it, getting it, holding onto it. Letting your people feel it radiating off of you whenever they need something to grasp. It’s sacred, it’s meaningful. It’s everything.
As you watch Clark and Delilah playing together, you’re reminded of how grateful you are that things didn’t work out with her dad. This is how things should feel. This is what having a family is.
When it gets dark, Clark carries Delilah inside and gives her a bath while you get dinner ready. Music plays softly from the speaker in the dining room, and when Delilah comes downstairs smelling like body wash, you kiss her forehead and ask her to help you get everything set up for dinner. Clark’s shirt is wet from the bath, but he doesn’t seem to care one bit.
Everyone sits to eat. Clark drinks his root beer, and Deliah asks for a few sips, which he gives to her when he thinks you aren’t looking, just to make Delilah laugh. The house isn’t tense or scared or silent. There is laughter, there is joy.
What more could you ask for for your little girl?
He takes Delilah down the hall once she’s done eating, and he supervises tooth-brushing while you tidy up dinner. When you make your way back to her bedroom, Clark is in bed with her, a book in-hand as he reads to her, silly voices and all. You lean against the doorframe.
When you look at Clark, everything else in the world feels small and irrelevant. With his strong arms and his dark curls and his pretty blue eyes, he’s captivated you. You stare at him as he reads to Delilah, then kisses her forehead and gets out of her bed. She begs for one more story. He tells her that he’d be happy to read her as many as she wants tomorrow while you step forward to give her a hug and a kiss.
You tell her you love her and that you hope she has a happy sleep, then Clark does the same. The two of you step out of her bedroom and close the door almost completely. You look up at Clark, and he hoists you up into his arms easily. You laugh, surprised by his actions, and he carries you down the hall to yours and his bedroom. He nudges the door shut and locks it before setting you down on the bed and getting on top of you.
He kisses along your throat, humming as he does.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Clark breathes. You smile, running your fingers through his hair.
“So are you,” you tell him. And god, do you mean it when you say it. You kiss him firmly as his strong body moves on top of yours, keeping you close.
You are safe.
You are loved.
You are seen.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
Taglist: @corens0ups @brucesfavebabymama-28 @avastarred @supermanville @whydontyouputyourseatbelton @punyparkerr (Are you interested in joining one or more of my taglists? Please fill out the anonymous google form here to let me know!)
rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.
MONACO GP 2026 🇲🇨 - DAY THREE: Papa Toto with little Jack in his arms down by the Monaco Harbour where Kimi performed the winner's tradition of jumping into the harbour 🥹 [X]
clark kent x single mom reader! clark would be the best partner to a single mom and is obviously so girldad coded maybe reader has a little girl and he fits into their little family like he’s always been there
this is so cute. fluff. asks are open. word count: approx 1k.
single mom reader! in which you try your best to balance both work life and domestic moments for your beautiful daughter. the weight of such responsibilities immediately lifting the moment you started dating clark. somehow despite being ‘mild mannered reporter clark kent’ and ‘man of tomorrow: superman’, he’s managed to effortlessly fit both you and your daughter in his life.
you enter your shared apartment after work to the smell of a sweet red velvet cake followed by the sound of giddy laughter and childish screams paired along with a deep chuckle. the warm yellow light of the kitchen outlining their silhouettes. your daughter and clark at the kitchen amid a giant yet controlled mess. flour and icing smeared on their matching aprons and across the kitchen counter. the sink overflowing with bowls, spatulas, measuring cups. just as you enter, you manage to catch him using his super speed to catch a bowl of icing your daughter accidentally nearly tipped over. although your daughter couldn’t care less when she saw you, running up to you with a glee and hugging your leg tight.
clearly having enjoyed her baking with clark, “mommy! clark let me stir the sauce, he said i’m the best baker in metropolis!”, you let out an airy laugh. glancing to clark before you picked her up, “did he now? well i don’t think he was lying sweetheart, it smells wonderful in here”, you reassure her, pinching her soft cheek which earned a high pitched giggle, her soft palms playfully pushing your fingers away.
then a warm steady hand rests on the small of your back, clark leans in to give you a soft kiss and you catch the faint taste of icing on your lips, his voice is deep and welcoming as always, "welcome home honey, sit down and rest, we made an excellent cake for you today and someone missed you terribly", he gestures to your daughter, poking her cheek gently. he gestures to the kitchen with a nonchalant gesture, waving his hand with a playful smile when he looked to the counter, "we had a slight...mishap with the flour but i promise it'll be spotless before bedtime.", he gave you a look he knew you couldn’t stay mad at.
and that was only one of the many occasions between your daughter and clark, such as...
despite the man being faster than a literal speeding bullet, he always lets her win at tag, sighing with a faux frown, "aw shucks, you caught me again? how are you so fast?", he huffed, placing his hands on his hips and looking to her with admiration, the kind that made her jump and laugh about in pride.
or how he’d pretend to have such a hard time finding her during hide-and-seek despite having x-ray vision. clark keeps a frantic gaze over the apartment, scratching his at his soft curls in a confused manner, “i wonder where she could be…will i ever find her??”, he’d murmur just loud enough for her to hear, grinning internally when he catches onto her soft snicker from the closet, believing she’d successfully hid from him. she jumps out of the closet, clapping at her victory, “haha! you couldn’t find me! you’re really bad at this game”. clark smirks shyly at her criticism, “hey don’t be mean, i really tried!”, he protested.
or how you'd find the two perched up on a mini tea set, his hair in all sorts of braids and ties with pink scrunchies and crème-white bows. he looks way too large for the scene but he hugs his knees to sit across her, slowly reaching down and pouring them both tea in an elegant manner, he carefully makes sure the tea is not too hot to burn or harm her.
clark of course doesn't just protect her physically, he's right by her side emotionally. in those quiet moments whether it's at breakfast before school, or at night before bedtime, he'd sit with her cross legged on the living room floor, playing with her toys and listens intensely to her stories about school, "a stupid boy stole my blue crayon", "i saw a really cool bug today!", or a thought she had that day or even a particular toy she likes (p.s he always gets whatever toys she mentions). and clark makes sure she knows he's listening, responding between each pause in her sentence with a curious, "really?", "mhm, go on?", "and then what happened?", as though he's taking in details for a front-page breaking news headline.
there had been times where you've worried about finding someone who'd love you and your daughter just as much. but clark washed that worry away, always subtly reminding you that you two are a team and one that he cherishes. he gently nudges you with his elbow when your daughter asks him for an extra scoop of ice cream for dessert. sometimes, clark knows you're in a rush for a work and struggling to ready breaktast so he uses his heat vision with a cheeky grin to toast some garlic bread for your daughter.
when the day comes to a slow end and the sun winds down in metropolis. the three of you brush your teeth together, and clark funnily (but not surprisingly) has a ‘brush your teeth' song, both you and clark tuck your daughter into bed. but clark never leaves without an elaborate bedtime story. changing his voice for each different character in the book.
thanks to his superhearing, if your daughter is having a bad dream, clark immediately catches onto the hitch of her breath, or the soft whimper that sleepily leaves her throat. without even a second thought he gets up and approaches her gently, whispering soft comforting reassurances, “hey, s’okay, you’re okay..y’re safe now, okay?”, he walks back to your shared bedroom, bouncing her gently on his arm as he rubs her back. he tucks her in between the two of you and sleeps peacefully holding you both close. wrapped in his presence, you both felt anchored and cushioned, drifting off to sleep.
pairing: Bruce Wayne x Batmom
warning: Y/N used, Jason cameo, Oliver Queen mention, Superbat mention, nicknames (honey, my love), this is just cute Bruce & batmom, if you see grammar mistakes...no you don't
wordcount: 2,293
author's notes: Surprise, you get this earlier than I intended. Thank you all for the support with the first part. I'm so glad everyone is enjoying. As always likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated :)
[Batfamily Interviews Masterlist] | <- previous - next ->
The video opens up with a clip of a moment later in time. Bruce Wayne is in the hot seat with you asking the questions.
"I feel like this is going to be boring because you generally don't really lie." you say.
"What? I lie to the press all the time…and our children." Bruce states.
"Truth." the operator, Judd says.
You stare at him with wide eyes, "Honey, you can't say that."
The video cuts to both you and Bruce sitting next to one another. Both of your hands are clasp on the table while Bruce's are hidden under. One of them of which is on your thigh though the camera doesn't see it. A female crew member from Vanity Fair sits just off camera on the other side of the table.
"Y/N, Bruce, you were both brought here today to take a lie detector test. One of you will be hooked up onto the machine and the other will interview. Then you switch." She tells you. Both you and Bruce nod in understatement. "This is Judd, our polygraph operator." she introduce the man sitting off to the side.
You and Bruce both turn to him. Bruce gave him a greeting nod, you smiled and gave a small 'hello.'
"Who wants to be in the hot seat first?" the crew member asked.
You laugh nervously and turn to look at your husband and he looks at you.
"Is the hot seat the lying seat or the other one?" Bruce asked.
"This side is the test and also it's the truth seat." you tell him.
"Well then ladies first." Bruce says, which you gasp in shock.
You are getting hooked to the machine and are suddenly getting nervous. Judd, the lie detector operator, places your right arm on the table.
"Try not to move this arm too much." he told you.
A montage of setting up the lie detector starts to roll before the camera is on Bruce, now sitting opposite of you.
"My love…to calibrate the machine, I'm going to ask you some straight forward questions. Please answer honestly. Is your full name Y/N M/N Wayne?"
"Yes." you say.
"Are you 39 years old?"
Once again your eyes widen, "Didn't anyone tell you it was rude to ask a women her age?" Bruce just gives you a smug smile. "Yes." you finally answer with an eye roll.
"Are you about to take a polygraph exam?"
"Yes…everything I say feels like is a lie." you say then looked over at Judd. "Is it registering than I am?"
Judd shakes his head, "No, you're doing fine."
Bruce raised an eyebrow at you, "Are you nervous?"
"Well I wasn't before we arrived, but now being hooked up, I am. I guess I never realize how much I lie in life. Now I'm actively trying not to and it just feels wrong." you say.
"You lie more times than you think you do." Bruce stated.
Y/N Wayne Tells The Truth
Bruce reads off the first prompt, "You once told the Gotham Gazette that you feel like everyone hates you." you nod your head. "Do you still believe that?"
You nod your head again, "Yeah."
The camera switches back to Bruce, whose face had nothing but concern written on it.
"Why?" he said so quietly that it also didn't get picked up by audio.
"Um…I mean I don't know why anyone wouldn't have like some resentment towards me. You are like Gotham's baby, the prince of Gotham City. The city loved your parents and by extension you. Then here I come, a low-middle class girl from Star City, somehow got the playboy to settle down. I was living most Gotham girls fantasy and different from everyone else. So yeah I knew people hated me and I think some still do."
"I wouldn't trade you for anyone." Bruce stated.
"Awe you sap."
"Is the real reason you took the job to be my assistant because you secretly wanted to date me?"
"Really? That's the next question, even after what I just said?" you rolled your eyes, "No."
"She's telling the truth." Judd said.
"I truly had no idea who you were. I'm from the west coast, we didn't care about what was happening in the east. Which also if we are being honest…I think Alfred was looking for someone who didn't care who you were."
Judd nods, "Truth."
"Am I a good husband?" Bruce ask with a straight face.
You take a moment to answer, "Yes."
Judd shakes his head and Bruce tilts his head at you.
"What? No! You are you're a great husband…I will say though that you weren't a very good boyfriend, but I've had worst."
"That's the truth." Judd says.
"Okay so then follow up, what made me not that good of a boyfriend?"
"Well, there are two big things, but for legal reason…I can't say." you say.
"You went to the same high school as this person." Bruce slides over a picture of Oliver Queen.
You knit your eyebrows in confusion before realizing who it was, "Oh Ollie."
"Don't like how you said that…" Bruce mumble. "You dated during your senior year. Would you say that he was one of your worst that you were talking about?"
Your mouth twist as you looked at the picture, thinking hard. You opened your mouth to speak, but then retracted it.
"No." you finally say.
"That's a lie." spoke Judd.
Your jaw dropped as Bruce laughs a little, "What? I didn't lie. Sure he wasn't the best and he owns up to that…now at least. The ones in college though…" You make a face.
"Ones? Plural?"
"Oh, don't act like that…you practically had a new girlfriend every month according to Alfred."
"I already know the answer to this one," Bruce says and you give an offended look, "Do you look at fan accounts dedicated to you?"
You laugh, "I look at fan accounts dedicated to all of us. Especially ones about Dami."
Judd nods, "She's telling the truth."
You look into the camera, "I gotta make sure everyone is being respectful and appropriate about my baby."
"We see it all." Bruce comments.
"You make me watch a lot of reality TV." Bruce says.
"I don't make you, you enjoy it."
"Do you think we should have our own reality TV?"
You shake your head, "God no. We are kind of public enough, I don't need the world seeing into our home life."
"Truthful."
"If I asked to with hold information from a super villain to cover for me, would you?" Bruce makes a face.
"No." you say equally making the same face.
"I would never ask you to do that."
"I don't even think our kids would cover for you." you and Bruce both laugh. "Also, I've done that before…wouldn't recommend."
"Did you lie at any point of this interview and we didn't catch you?" Bruce asked.
"I think I was pretty truthful consider that fact that I felt what I was saying was all lies."
"My turn I guess." Bruce said tossing what he was reading off of behind him.
The camera cuts to now Bruce getting hooked up to the polygraph machine.
"Bruce, to calibrate the machine, I'm going to ask you some straight forward questions. Please answer honestly." you read off of a note pad. Bruce nods. "Is your full name Bruce Thomas Wayne?" you asked.
Bruce nods, "Yes."
"Are you from Gotham, New Jersey?"
"Yes."
"Are you about to take a lie detector test?"
Bruce smiles at you, "I suppose that I am. Yes."
You look toward Judd, the lie detector operator, "Good?"
"All good." Judd says back to you, and you turn your attention back to your husband.
Bruce Wayne Tells The Truth
"I feel like this is going to be boring because you generally don't really lie." you say.
"What? I lie to the press all the time…and our children." Bruce states.
"He's telling the truth." Judd says.
You look at him with wide eyes, "Honey, you can't say that."
Bruce shrugs, clearly not caring.
You look down at the paper the crew gave you. Pre-reading the first one, it makes you laugh.
"I'm already not liking this." Bruce admits.
"How often are you faking that you remember people at Galas from when you were a kid?" you ask.
Bruce doesn't hesitate to answer, "Oh, all the time."
"That's so bad." you say, "You're horrible."
Bruce shrugs again.
"The family group chat often talks about how hot this person is " you slide a picture of Clark Kent in front of Bruce.
"Oh no…" Bruce says already knowing where this was going.
"There is a part of the internet that is very dedicated on shipping you two together..,"
"Shipping?"
You gave your husband a deadpan look, "Don't try to act like you don't know what that is. I know Stephanie's explained it to you before."
Bruce chuckles.
"The two of you are seen pretty close with each other. So the question is would you leave me if Clark Kent declared his love for you?"
Bruce draws his lips into a thin line. Staring a the photo of Clark on the table, contemplating. Five minutes go by and you, on the other side of the table, look at your so call lover with with shock.
"Bruce this is a long time, goodness!"
Bruce shakes his head, "No, no I wouldn't leave you." You turn your head to Judd.
"Truth." said Judd, but you shake your head.
"I don't believe you. Would you leave me for Clark Kent?" you ask again.
"No." He said it clear with a stern voice.
You are narrowing your eyes at him as Judd tells you that Bruce was telling the truth.
"Before dropping out of Gotham University, you were dorm mates with Former District Attorney, Harvey Dent. Was he a good roommate?"
"I think we were both equally bad roommates…" Bruce said.
"Would you say that you are or were more successful than him?"
"Ohhh." Bruce made a face like that question psychically hurt him. You laugh at his reaction, "No absolutely not."
"Deceptive." Judd said, causing both you and Bruce to laugh.
"Oh well I already know the answer to this, but when was the last time you made a dinner reservation?" you laugh. Bruce makes a face that you couldn't describe. "Never." you said as you shook your head. "I don't think you ever have, Alfred does it for you."
"If I did and this was before you, I would just call and pretend to be my own assistant…" Bruce revealed.
"Well, you didn't have to," you told him laughing, "It was just something you chose to do."
"You're quite well know for your physique. What's your secret for staying so fit and or hydrated?"
Bruce thinks on how to answer, "I get wet when I…"
The camera cuts back to you. You are slightly shaking your head, trying not to laugh.
"No…say something else." you say. Bruce breaks into silent laughter. "Please say something else."
"What was the question again?" Bruce asked.
"What's your secret to staying so hydrated or fit?"
"I get wet when I-"
"NO!" you yell, "Bruce say it another way…" you tell him.
"I drink water? I work out almost everyday?" Bruce responds.
"There you go. Oh my god, Bruce." you say.
Bruce laughs at your panic expression.
"Moving on from whatever that was-"
"What I was trying to say-" Bruce began, cutting you off.
"NO! Honey, we're done." you say.
"We have a lot of kids." You state reading of the card, "Out of all of them, who is your favorite?"
"Are you trying to start a war?" Bruce ask.
"Not me, Vanity Fair."
"I don't have a favorite." Bruce claims.
"That's a lie." Judd tells you. You burst into laughter
"It varies week to week. Who ever runs my patients the least that week the is favorite."
"Truth." Judd says.
"So then who gets on your nerves the least?" Jason's voice said from somewhere off camera.
"Cassandra…and Duke."
Judd nods, "Truth."
"Are you the crime fighting vigilante known as Batman?"
Bruce sighs, "Am I going to get asked this every interview we do?"
"Answer the question, honey."
"No." Bruce declared.
Judd's face twitch a little, "Ask him again."
You let out a little surprise noise, "Did it not pick up?"
You lean forward looking into your husband's eyes. He was staring back at you, with a shit eating grin on his face.
"Are you Batman?" you ask again.
Bruce leans forward too, leaning into your eyes. You're enjoying this, he could tell.
"No." Bruce answered.
"He's telling the truth." Judd announced.
You fell back into the chairs, "We almost had him guys." you say referring to the people of the internet.
"Okay that was all the question. Did you lie at any point during this interview and we didn't catch you?"
Bruce nods, "Yes."
"True." Judd said.
You looked wide eye at your husband, "Are you serious?" Bruce smiles and nods. Mouth open with shock, "When?"
"I'm not going to say."
"Can I say what I think you lied about?" you smiled.
"What?"
"Leaving me for Clark Kent." you laughed.
1,1010 Comments
@ shootingforthestars
Bruce knew exactly what he was saying
@ littleotter13
"Is that the lying seat' bruce for you every seat is the lying seat
@ FemboyJackie1
She looks at the camera like she's in The Office
@ noname-kA17
the concept of the industry's biggest pathological liar taking a lie detector test.
@ DCalc12
Y/N Wayne taking about Blark was not on my checklist for 2026
@ harleendefender09
Whose out here hating on our queen???
more notes: can you guys guess what three lie detector test videos inspire this??
normally, if someone ever came back from an event or gala as prestigious as the ones you and bruce often go to, they would be knocked the fuck out and drained from all the social interactions and boredom
dont’t get me wrong, both you and bruce do get tired from them. but tonight said otherwise.
because here you were, lying on your stomach and arching your back, your dress rolled up to your waist so bruce could feel the warmth and flesh of your ass pressing on his hips. the rhythmic, deep pace of his cock stuffing your pussy did nothing but make you whine and claw your manicured nails on the leather seats of the limo, feeling the cold metal of his belt meet with your ass and your necklace bounce on your chest
“take it baby, take all of me”
“gonna leave this limo all filled up with my cum, yeah? you want that? you’re gonna have to speak louder, dear”
“keep that ass up for me, sweetheart”
was bruce fucking you in the back of the limo with the partition rolled up? yes. were you two loud? also yes. and did the driver hear anything? with the headphones that were blasting music in his ears, he didn’t even know that the richest and most powerful couple in all of gotham were getting the seats dirty
“gorgeous” he groaned, giving you another deep thrust and feeling his grip on your waist tighten. “absolutely gorgeous” bruce’s tie was thrown somewhere in the limo, the first few buttons of his collar were undone and the sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, his armani belt unbuckled and hanging from the belt loops of his pants
“couldn’t focus at that damn gala with you lookin’ like that” you felt bruce’s large hands slither under your dress to squeeze your boobs and pinch your nipples, making your body immediately jerk and his name leaving your stuffed mouth with a moan
“all i could think about was bending you over. your dress —hah— ripped in shreds, your body under my touch and squeezin’ my cock dry with that pretty cunt, just like now”
your sounds were muffled from the panties stuffed in your lipstick-smudged mouth thanks to bruce, spreading your legs more and arching your back to take more of his length— as if its entirety wasn’t already buried in you
bruce leaned forward to bury his lipstick-covered face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your perfume that had been clouding his senses all night as his chest was pressed to your back, groaning on your skin. “my gorgeous wife—” thrust. “my wife—” thrust. “mine” thrust.
his tip pressed on a spot that felt so good it made your pussy flutter— almost clenching more than it already was— over his cock, a choked groan of your name leaving his lips and his pace now speeding up and getting irratic to chase the high that was approaching both you and him
the gala may have ended, but the fun was about to start
—————————————————————————
masterlist!
(a/n: if asia asks, asia gets <3 little long for a drabble but we ball. im so shocked as to how i never wrote this for bruce.... good thing thats changed)
FIRST DATE
━━╋━ fluff, nervous clark being sweet as ever, awkward n cute, flowers, compliments, he's just grossly perfect...
“you look gorgeous.”
clark mumbles quietly staring up at you from down on your porch in a sleek suit. he's smiling all excited and proud whilst leaning against the side of his little car. his eyes are wide with awe, taking you in, how you got all dolled up for him in that smooth silky dress that matched your eyes perfectly and the delicate jewellery that made you look absolutely darling.
you're giddy as ever, practically bouncing on your feet as you pad towards him as if presenting yourself.
“you think so?”, you tilt your head up at him prettily, beaming up at him with a shy smile.
“mhm— beautiful.”
clark nods with his usual confidence letting his gaze run over you, your hair, your outfit, your skin. it was all so perfect to him. he could feel himself getting lost in the thought of you.
“c'mon gimme a spin, pretty—”, he smiles, taking your hand softly, so delicately, as if you'd shatter with a harsh touch. clark spins you around, watching your dress flare out and how happy you looked, listening closely to your little giggles. you steady yourself against him, little hands on his big arms. it felt like a movie, some cheesy rom com that you would grimace and cringe at but with clark it just felt different. it felt right.
“what a gentleman…”, you joke fluttering your lashes up at him, feeling a little shy with all the tension.
“only the best for you.”, now he's taking in all the little details, the things most people wouldn't notice, how you matched your heels with your dress, the pinky gloss that adorned your plush lips and how you must've manicured your nails as well as the light flush across your cheeks, or that could've just been him. its like he has to restrain himself from brushing his knuckles across you face, grazes your skin with his, wanting to feel that warmth.
“oh yeah—”, he shakes his head letting out a deep chuckle as he brings himself back to reality.
“got you these.”
he produces a bouquet of lilies from the open window of his car, perfect and pink, in the prime of their bloom, holding them out to you with a hint of nervousness on his face that shatters as soon as you perk up with a smile widening across your pretty face, clasping at them with a little gasp.
“they're perfect clark.”, you nod softly, admiring them.
“yeah— yeah, i'm glad.”, he lets out another nervous laugh scratching at the back of his neck as he shifts on his feet.
“thought roses would be overrated…”, he mumbles out quietly watching you hover over the flowers and prodding gently at the petals.
you look like heaven, an angel. he wonders how he even scored this date.
“right, I got us those reservations you were talking about—”
“what?”, you gasp out, this wasn't just any restaurant you were talking about the other day, it was some five star, michelin type shit, you couldn't even imagine yourself there let alone how he got them.
“clark— wha— how?”, you blink up at him, mouth agape, watching him sheepishly shrug and flash a grin of those perfect teeth.
“i have my ways.”
it was official, clark kent was your dream man. this dorky journalist with a mess of dark curls and thick glasses had your brain running overtime.
“got us a pretty good table.”
he holds out his arm for you with a little smirk at the look of awe that adorned your face.
you let out a little giggle taking his arm as he walked you around the car to the passenger seat.
“yeah you better have.”
eventually you're both in the car, he's driving coolly and you can only stare at him, watching his every move like he was an alien or something. you thought to yourself that there was no way this man was from earth, you'd never been treated so nicely, so preciously. clark knows you're staring, he can feel it, your gaze lingering over his jaw and down to his collar and over his big hands that gripped at the wheel.
“y'know you're something else clark.”
“is that something you like?” he asks carefully, glancing over at you.
you can only nod happily. giddy and awestruck as your heart thrums against your ribs. he glances at you from the road as he turns the corner to the restaurant parking, smiling right back at you.
“and you're happy with tonight— so far at least?”
“of course i am— don't go all journalist on me.”, you let out a precious laugh that has clarks stomach doing flips.
“right—”
he parks up and the little car suddenly feels very warm, like you're both realising what this is.
“i like this— like a lot, i like you a lot...”
you feel yourself flush, it felt so simple, almost childish, like some high school crush. a break from reality allowing you to lose yourself in the rosy haze that clark brought with his flowers and chocolates and fancy dinners. he was a classic romantic.
Summary: You arrive at the First Grove, the first site within the king's palace grounds, but further from the palace. You travel with Navë, Hareth, Branniel, and your guards, planning on using Hareth's memory as fuel for your healing of the corruption. What you don't expect is for the Elvenking to witness this experimental attempt.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 4
Author's Note: Hi folks! I've been so excited to post this chapter! We are really getting into the weeds of this corruption in Mirkwood. I love how it turned out. Your comments and kudos mean so much to me! I literally freak out every time I see one. I can't believe people are liking this lil long fic of mine. Blows my mind.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Preparing for the Grove
“So he said yes?” Navë pokes her yellow-haired head out of the door to your quarters.
“Yes, he did,” you smile, knowingly. Candaer also smiles at her excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they look upon your happy attendant. “You’re coming.”
That afternoon, you and Navë go back to the healer’s storeroom to get more vials, a small blade to scrape, and basic healing supplies in case someone gets injured later. With Fergrath now on-watch outside of your door, it is just you and Navë remaining in your quarters. You prepare some less-delicate clothes for tomorrow, and begin to walk Navë through the basics of healing while sprawled on the covered floor, a richly red carpet cushioning your repose. The skirts of your blue-grey dress fan out like ice over blood.
“Here,” you hand her some gauze. “So now pretend that here –” you gesture to a spot on your arm with a beauty mark for a reference point. “– is a stab wound. How would you wrap it?” The amber-eyed elleth squinted her eyes at you, slowly lowering the gauze. As she lowers it, a smile creeps onto your face.
“No. I must clean it first before I dress it,” Navë tilts her head, challengingly.
“Well done, but clean it with what?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at the array of herbs in front of you.
“With…athelas?” She asks, gesturing to the curly leafed stalks bundled together tightly.
“Not alone, or at least, when the men brought this plant from the West, they taught others to boil it for its best properties, so either reach for this, which we already extracted –” you gesture to a small bottle with a greenish liquid in it. “– but more importantly, you must also call the spirit of the person to come and aid you in healing their wound.”
You extend a hand to her, and she takes it softly, looking up to you. “Healing the spirit comes with will and song. Sing a song of old to me,” you ask.
“Of old? What do you mean?”
“Of your history, a song from the Woodland Realm that I would not otherwise be familiar with.”
“The Feast of the Stars is coming up, and there is this one…this one often gets sung,” she clears her throat. It is not in Sindarin, my lady. You may need some practice to learn it. The more simple translation says, ‘I go walking/Beyond the forest/Where the world falls away/And the white light/Of forever fills the air.’”
“That’s so beautiful,” you melt into the ethereal meaning. “Please sing it to me so that I might join you come the festival.” Navë smiles and begins to bind the wrappings upon your arm – just as you showed her – singing softly,
“Hae ephadron
Theri thaur
Am na dhû
Ias fîr i ambar
A trehil I ‘alad ‘lân uir ‘wilith”
The sound of her voice rings delicately and serenely off of the natural curves of the walls of your rooms. You hum in appreciation, closing your eyes for the duration of the song. Your arm is fully bandaged – and bandaged well – by the time she finishes the song, humming the melody again for you almost as another verse.
“I’m glad you like it,” Navë smiles, pausing and setting down your arm. “Do you think the forest can truly hold onto such memories?”
You pause and consider, then tell her, “Bodies can remember pain, no matter how well you heal them,” you hold up your beautifully bandaged arm, realizing it is the arm that was choked by mud in the tumultuous woods. “So, at least in theory, if bodies remember, then – perhaps – forests do too.”
“In theory?” Navë bites her bottom lip nervously.
“That’s all we have for now,” you sigh. “We should rest before tomorrow, but thank you. I shall practice your song.” Navë stands from the floor, and helps you ready for bed before leaving for her own rest. Not many more words are said, yet you find yourself in the most content of company.
Scene 2 – Arrival at the First Grove
Hareth and Branniel meet you, Navë, Candaer, and a very tired Fergrath at the large palace doors, all of you dressed practically for the mission ahead of you – much more practically than for a simple medical errand.
Doors open with a gust of biting wind, and guards call out to each other as you make your way outside.
It has been nearly a week since you were last outside of the walls of the king’s palace. Judging by the tense looks on all three elleths’ faces, the whiteness of their knuckles, you can’t be sure how long it has been since they have left. The wet stone of the bridge splashes droplets around the ankles of your boots, but your boots rise to just below your knee. Leggings tuck into your boots, a light sleeveless ranger’s tunic with a mock neck peaking just above your mother’s clasp that rests back where your throat meets your collarbone. You wear your dark blue cloak of Mithlond, the Grey Havens. Your hair is pulled back with clips that look like the vines of the forest, a detail Navë felt quite clever adding.
Hareth’s shoulders nearly reach the lobes of her pointed ears, tense. Her face twists with every step.
“Lead on,” you encourage her, placing a hand on her shoulder. You give her a warm smile, “You know the way better than I.”
“You have a map, don’t you?” She snaps. I’d be emotional too, your heart squeezes thinking of how difficult it must be to leave along the path you once walked with your great love. Branniel carries a small rucksack of supplies over her shoulder, a few paces behind, more in step with Candaer and Fergrath. She watches Hareth closely, brows furrowing at Hareth’s tone.
Navë is uncharacteristically quiet, taking cautious steps, walking next to Candaer who helps her jump over larger puddles instead of having her move ahead. Cute.
“I do have a map, if you’d prefer,” you swing your small pack around, about to dig through it when she puts a hand on yours to stop you.
“No, it –” she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Follow me.” You nod, bowing subtly. She takes a breath and starts down a very bumpy path, littered with vines and roots, leaves and debris. You all watch the woman weave and bob through the vines, her brows knit together in memory, her lips pursed. Her eyes trace the ceiling of trees that must have been green before. Nimbly for her age, she moves with pace, intentionally, and it does take some effort for the rest of you to keep up. You follow the flashes of silvery-grey hair as she traces the nearly forgotten trail to the First Grove.
As you got more of a look at the back of her head, it suddenly occurred to you that Hareth wore her long grey hair down today – with the exception of only two small braids that tucked behind her ears. It’s not like her, you realize, to wear her hair down at all instead of a practical and tight, low bun.
You turn to Branniel to ask her about it. “I think she wore it like this with her husband,” she says. “Though, this is the first time I am seeing it.” You clutch at the swans of your clasp, bowing to each other.
In your vigorous pace to follow the senior healer, after only ten minutes on foot, you come to a dome of branches, bound together like a shell, great trees with roots as tall as you form a massive circle the size of a grand courtyard. The dome covers a large pit of briar. Within the pit are cracked stone benches, carved arches and large roots that drop down into the pit to form archways. You imagine couples arm in arm, imagining where they once passed. Pale white buds peppered the thorny briars, flowers that would never bloom in this corruption or cold. Blackened vines choke old stone walking paths.
Hareth stops at the very edge of the path and goes very still.
Scene 3 – White Flowers
“Is this –” You begin to ask. Hareth gives a solemn nod.
“The Grove,” she says, voice tight.
“How have we never come across this place before, Fer?” Candaer remarks in awe.
“Did you see how bad the path was to get here?” Fergrath replies, pulling a twig from the buckle of his boot.
You shoot them a glare, nodding over to Hareth who seems frozen in thought. Navë steps on his boot sharply to double down. He cringes in realization, mouthing an apology.
You step to her side, lacing your arm through hers. She clutches onto you, her eyes still fixed ahead. “Tell me about him,” you encourage softly, trying to follow her gaze down into the thorny courtyard.
She gave a teary but sharp HA! “You’re just trying to get me to tell you so you can use it,” she retreats defensively, pressing her eyes shut, as if trying to keep her memories of her husband hidden behind her eyelids, keeping them for herself alone.
“Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?” You ask, earnestly. She doesn’t reply, but she releases the tension on her eyelids. You pause in consideration, then speak again; “Was he handsome?”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” she laughs despite herself, blinking softly. The wall of salty tears wobbles in the waterline of her tired eyes. She lifts her hand to blot them away, but it just gives permission for more tears to patter upon the bleeding earth.
You wait for her to continue. The rest of the group waits a few yards behind the two of you who were at the edge of the vine dome. After a moment, she squeezes your arm, encouraging you to look where she points. With a sniff and a straightening of her posture, she says, “We met each other while he was courting another elleth, taking her around the Grove. The problem was that she and I were…seeing each other privately.”
“Hareth!” Branniel exclaims.
“I used to have my fun too,” she smiles slyly back at her apprentice. “But she and I were not each other's One. We knew this. Though, I did not want to admit it at the time. I completely tripped him on their way out. He got covered in mud and she laughed at him. He was so embarrassed that I felt horribly. I smeared mud on my own outfit, and she thought me so strange. She left. And we spent hours together that day. Every day we would try to look out for each other in this grove. There,” she pointed to a bench across the way, “he would bring me ridiculously large flowers. I didn’t even know what to do with them, but he’d tuck them behind my ears.”
When she drops your arm to touch the place behind her ear, you let the story course through you, reaching out to the vines of the dome.
Hareth continues as you begin to channel your energy into the place in the dome where it swallows the stone path down into the grove. An entrance should be here, you intuit. You focus in, closing your eyes.
“We argued about what plants work better for treating head pains. I told him he gave me head pains. I can’t tell if he made me laugh or if I was too clever in teasing him, making myself laugh. Either way, we laughed here.”
Navë instinctively reaches for Candaer’s arm, and he extends it, blushing. She rests her head against his shoulder. His black hair contrasts with her golden straw-colored hair.
White light blooms from your palms, and Hareth heaves a shaky breath, muttering, “A healer from the sea indeed.”
The rot loosens. Some of the vines begin to shrink back into the earth, pulling and parting in the shape of an entrance way. Some of the flower buds begin to open and bloom. “Yes!” Hareth claps her hands, exclaiming with tearful delight. “Flowers like these ones.” You allow her memory to course through you like a song, proud of the joy you are bringing her. For a brief moment, even as she is done speaking her memory, when the healing should have run its course, you feel a momentary surge where you more deeply connect with the ground. The path’s roots uncurl from their walking stone captives.
Then, as soon as the surge starts, it stops. The roots slow their descent into the earth. They stutter. Your palms don’t lose energy, but rather you feel the tug of something much more challenging to overcome. The entrance into the First Grove courtyard is not entirely open, though the roots have braided themselves into an arch around it, only one or two roots stretch across the opening. There’s a resistance to going further. You open your eyes.
Across the First Grove, atop a horse of white, the elvenking watches, a violent expression across his face.
Scene 4 – Projections in the Mire
The Elvenking sends for his horse at the break of day. He informs his guard that he will be personally witnessing the healer that was given to him. Thranduil, donning his silver armor, makes his way from the palace tenuously, waiting for your party to go ahead. Taking a longer path around to the grove than the one his senior healer would most likely take, he canters cautiously among the trees, using their dark cover to observe from a distance. He imagines that he should be concerned that his guards do not notice him, or appreciative that they do not react if they do notice him.
Icy blue, discerning eyes seek to make their judgement. He finds you across the way, slightly obscured by the dome of vines, but his sharp vision and sharp hearing never fails him. Wholly absorbed in trying to hear you speak to Healer Hareth, Thranduil catches your voice, soft, lilting, persuasive: “Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?”
His mind drifts to things he remembers truly wanting. What did he want with you…he imagines the slope of your neck in the dress yesterday, the shape of your waist. What did you truly want with him?
Finally, he sees the light, the glow pouring from your hands engulfs your body in a halo of light – its purity unseen since the likes of Galadriel. He considers, purity, yet you are covered in mud. Thranduil leans forward, drawn in by your beauty. There is serenity in your face, yet an intense focus. You are clearly powerful, yet so unguarded.
His lips part in shock when he sees it. Your will and light begins to move the vines around the dome. They pull back into the earth. He felt an unfamiliar stirring beneath his armor, his heart speeding up at the thrill of watching you. You, this new thing to behold, a weapon much sharper than promised.
What if you did fix this forest for him? Hareth, whom he has known since he was a young ellon, is an incredibly hard person to get through to. Was memory truly so powerful when combined with your touch? Hareth, of all people, letting herself be guided…
Thranduil ponders his own memories here. Imagining her. The mother of his child. His late wife. Had they not walked here in the Grove together? She carried their son in these gardens. She listened to his woes. Yes, their marriage was political, but they shared so much. He presses his eyes shut, trying to keep his grief at bay.
Atop his horse of white, the platinum-haired ellon opens his eyes to gaze on the grove. He can’t help himself. Looking below him, he faintly pictures the First Grove when it was greener, imagining his family whole. He pictured the shape of a life before loneliness hardened around him. The most painful form of hope pierces his heart; a yearning for what might never be again until he is nothing but the spirit which holds his long memory.
How long it has been since his life felt like this memory, bittersweet as their marriage was. He imagines her long pale eyelashes as they closed when they kissed under one of the arches at dawn. He remembers when they closed for the last time.
This pain, at first a dull yearning for this place to be healed, the dull yearning of nostalgia corrupts like the black branches above him. He wants to cry out in anguish as the projections of his own mind dissipate until he stares plainly at the briar that separates you from him. Guarded by armor, he feels bare as you open your eyes, the glow gone, and you see him.
You. Have you done this? Had you pulled him into your magic? Your healing process?
“My Lord! I am so honored to see that you came to witness this! The grove responded to the theory!” You shout across the thicket. You are too far away to read your expression entirely. Thranduil scowls at this, for how dare you be joyful at misery being the cure for this sick wood.
Once you call out, Hareth whips around to look at him with alarm, worry plastered across her face at how vulnerable she had been in front of the Elvenking.
Shame and wrath rise within him, guarding him better than silver armor could ever. “Quiet!” He hisses across the way, cutting through the tightening air. He rides his horse almost all the way around the grove. Then, he dismounts, storming over to you.
He towers above, every bit the wrathful king Elrond said he would be. You immediately turn red, realizing that you forgot yourself in your excitement. You bow down, curtsying deeply, gaze on the forest floor. You hear your guard companions clink as they drop into a deep bow behind you. The other healers join your curtsy.
Every step towards you, he allows the knife of memory to twist in his heart, glaring at you, you sharp thing.
As you look at the ground, waiting for his approach, to your horror, the vines begin to creep back. Slowly at first, then as he gets closer to you, they roar out of the ground. You turn before he storms over to you, curtsy be damned. You rush to the spot where you had healed the wounded grove, and attempt to save it, wildly willing your healing to come to these vines to no avail. The entrance is doubly covered in brush with the king’s tandem wrath.
The flowers wilt within seconds. You drop to your knees, cupping the dead petals, he doesn’t halt his stride, even as you kneel on the ground. His boots stop just feet from your knees.
Hareth, who never dropped her gaze when she curtsied, stands to her full height when the kind stops. She looks between the king’s seething countenance and the corrupted and wild growth. And then she understands.
Scene 5 – Hareth’s Stash
Looking down at the half-elf curled on the ground, cupping a dying flower, Thranduil seethingly bends down, silver crown atop his head shining. “Rise, healer of Mithlond,” he commands calmly, summoning surprising coolness despite his apparent anger. Rather, his eyes are piercing in his analysis of the vengeful vines. “I would like an explanation of how you did this. I watched you have some limited success before the vines returned, something I have not seen from my healers yet.” He moues a disappointed frown to compliment his bored expression, as he shoots a look over to Hareth who purses her lips, but does not lower her gaze.
“They were entirely instrumental in my work today,” you say in your party’s defense. You brush off your tunic, standing from your despair at the failure of the vines in holding down. It hurts to drop the petals to the ground, just for them to become another layer in the earth. “I listened to Healer Hareth speak of her late husband and their times here. The story…it helped me channel my own healing.”
“You would make grief into a tool, and call the result healing?” He scoffs mirthfully. You have to tilt your head back just to look up at him, the already tall elf feels like he casts a menacing shadow over you. You feel a burning feeling of shame across your cheeks. You did fail. You failed like you did with the river vines.
“I offered my memories, my lord, they were not exploited. They were freely given, to be used to repair this grove.” Hareth says, her own expression icing over. Branniel adjusts the bag on her shoulder, her expression fixed and firm in agreement with her teacher.
“I require a full report, and until you can tell me how you mean to prevent this backlash, you do not leave the grounds of my palace just to further corrupt my kingdom,” Thranduil says, eyes flashing as they meet yours. Your eyes sting in guilt and apology, but through it all, as you hold his intense stare, you swear you see pain beneath his commanding gaze. Just as he turns, you catch his arm at the silver bracer.
“I never meant to –” Your heart feels pulled towards his pain. He heaves, breath heavy with anger. His eyes snap to your hand. His mouth barely parts, then closes again. He snatches his hand away. His chin lifts. He looks stricken – eyes wide before they narrow and look past you as he regains control of his expression.
Thranduil mounts his horse.
“Go back to your quarters,” he says in a surprisingly soft yet still commanding voice that you’ve never heard before. The thrumming of your own heartbeat in your ears overwhelms you. He rides off, back down the main trail, the white haired ellon on his great white steed.
“What in Valar’s name were you about to do?” Hareth snaps at you incredulously, face full of concern. “Give the king a hug?”
“I - I don’t know. I just…” your words trail off as you see, in the king’s wake roots burst out of the ground, thorns and thickets grow. The roots finish pouring back, reclaiming most of the progress you made and then some, closing up most of your way back.
“Did you bring your sword?” Fergrath asks you, heading towards nature's wrath and beginning the hard work of chopping at the new vines.
“Come now, this worked!” Hareth nudges you. It makes you smile faintly, though the shame of disappointing the Elvenking was still sitting heavily on your sternum.
“And you were quite the cynic, too, no?” Navë says to Hareth, trying to encourage you.
“Listen. I’m happy to be proven wrong. This grove accepted your help. You have something very special, child. A powerful gift,” Hareth admits. She then drops her voice to a low and hushed tone so as to speak only to you, “However, we do need to speak privately.” You look over to her, the pit in your stomach and pressure on your chest only deepening. You nod.
You cut and chop your way through with the help of Breeze, Fergrath, and Candaer. You come back to the front entrance. Knowing that you had a looming limitation on exiting once you entered those doors made it feel like you were entering into a form of imprisonment, though you knew you could leave at any time and go back to Rivendell. Though, it would mean another treacherous journey back, just to admit that you had failed your lords when they entrusted you with such a mission. Perhaps you couldn’t just leave at any time: bound by your mission and the Elvenking.
The party makes their way to their respective rooms, Fergrath following you and Hareth to the healing wing.
“Please wait outside,” Hareth says before slamming the door in the red-haired ellon’s face.
“Hareth!” You exclaim at her rudeness.
“We need to talk about the king, and like it or not – friend or not – his responsibility is to the king. I would say, I’ve lived longer than King Thranduil has. My responsibility is to the realm.” You let that sink in, pulling a worn chair away from one of her large tome-ridden tables. She doesn’t sit.
Hareth moves to a back cupboard, stained a dark and rich brown. She opens it up, pulling out a bottle of wine, grabbing a knife and beginning to open it. She does not ask if you want a glass, pouring rich blood-red wine into a silver chalice. You have no idea until she hands it to you just how full the cup is. It is very full.
Sitting down in front of you, she takes a long swig of her wine. “Drink.”
You take a sip of the wine, the bombastic scent of cherry and flowers and rich verdant soil hits your nose before the rich drink touches your tongue. “Wow, this is beautiful,” you go back for another sip.
“Don’t mention it,” Hareth waves, clearly trying to focus the conversation. “Did you see him as you were healing?” The elder healer did not need to clarify who he was. The silver-crowned Elvenking was at the forefront of your mind.
“No, only at the very end. I usually need to close my eyes to focus on the healing, if I know that it is a larger amount of energy that I need to summon.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I saw,” Hareth leans back in a chair, starting to tie her hair back into a tight knot.
“When I spoke of my husband, when you were working, the grove seemed very open. And when King Thranduil watched at first it looked like your healing held well.” Hareth tips her glass to you.
“Do you think the king…so, you think the king helped?” Your mind races.
“I know he was looking at you. I’m not sure. He seemed fairly neutral, and the roots were moving well into the ground. Then he changed to this dark, dark expression. It was quite sinister.” Her voice darkens as she imagines it again.
“And that’s when the roots stopped moving?” You ask, trying to follow her logic.
“Exactly. And when he rode away, after you tried to reach out to him – which we still need to unpack whatever that was –” she looks at you sharply as you start to blush, looking down into your goblet of wine. “– I know you also saw his distress and the wake of corruption that bloomed behind him.”
“I did see that. So, you’re saying that he’s causing this or that he’s…what?”
“If he didn’t cause this, then he certainly – at the very least – has a significant role to play with you being able to heal any of this,” Hareth stops rocking on the back legs of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, smoothing her hair back with the hand that isn’t holding the wine, unnerved. She looks and sees your bewildered expression.
Sighing, she adds, “In other words, if your healing is a door, we can open the damn thing, but the king has to stop slamming it shut. Even better, is if he could open the door all the way and keep it open for you to do what you need to do.”
“What if it was a coincidence?” You ask, weakly.
“Do you honestly believe that after what we saw?” Hareth rolls her eyes, finishing her goblet. You now see why she poured you a cup.
“I don’t know what to think right now, nor do I have a good explanation for grabbing his arm, I don’t know. Do you think he hates me after this? I have absolutely killed this whole effort by not thinking!”
“Drink.” Hareth repeats. You take a shaky sip. “Our king is a passionate one. He cares very deeply about the safety of the realm,” she grants.
“I can’t imagine how scary it must be to see the vines come back stronger after I healed them,” you say softly. “He just looked so…hurt. I –” you almost, even now, wish you could reach out. Heal that broken look in his eyes. Grief…but for what? You recall your preparations for going to Mirkwood, how Elrond had warned you of the king’s temperamental nature, and warned you that he lost his wife over a millenia ago. You knew they were an arranged marriage, but were they in love? Did they stroll together in the First Grove? Did they kiss under the arches like Hareth and her husband?
A knot forms in your gut as you imagine Thranduil bending down, gently cupping an elleth’s face in his hands, her similarly white-blonde hair long and perfect as he kissed her passionately, filled with the care he had for his home. You imagine him melting into the kiss. How he would shift and sigh. How you would pull him in by his arms. How you would soothe him with your lips. How –
“Valar, tell me you’ve had wine before,” Hareth curses, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink, hard. Fuck…what were you thinking?
“I have, it’s just been a long day,” you explain, though you can feel the warmth of the wine beginning to spread to your fingers and chest. You do feel lighter, but so warm. The heady flavor of the wine lingers on your tongue.
“Mhm,” Hareth looks at you askance. “You should still meet with the king for the report. I suspect you’ll want to clear the air as well,” she pours some more wine into your cup before you can protest.
By nightfall, conversation flows…more loosely between you.
“Be honest, do you think he hates me?” You palm your forehead in tipsy anguish. Navë taps at the door, cracking it open.
Hareth assures you sleepily, “My love, you have absolutely no way of knowing that, nor can I condone you wallowing in your own anxiety! All. Will. Be. Well.”
“My lady, it is such a late hour. Candaer was looking to relieve Fergrath at your chambers but you are still…here,” she pauses, taking in the now drunk bottle of wine in front of you.
“Decompressing, are we?” Navë laughs.
You give a small nod.
“Let’s get you to bed though,” she giggles, as you stand. You don’t wobble. You weren’t too lost in your cups, but you did feel a pleasant buzz across your skin. You give her a smile and a laugh as she ushers you out the door.
“Did you save me a glass?” Fergrath jokes, eyes floating shut from exhaustion.
“Oh, no! Was I supposed to bring you a glass? Is that a thing here?” You wonder aloud, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. A light dizziness hums in the back of your neck, a welcome buzz from the wine.
“No, it’s not. Now, walk us back and you must go to bed as well,” Navë scolds your guard. You make your way back the winding path into your hallway, passing a few elves who glance in your direction, but most of them tipsy or destination-focused themselves.
You make it to your quarters, greeting the dark-haired ellon at your door. You push inside with Navë, stripping with every step as you go further into the room. “I have to report to the king tomorrow, Navë,” you start. “I really do think he hates me, and I’ve lost all favor with him. Now, what will I report to my lords back home and in Rivendell?”
You slip on a comfortable night garment, and crawl into bed.
“How desperately do you believe him to hate you?” Navë asks, regret already pouring into her words as she asks. She looks upon you, your whole countenance wracked with anxiety. “I do have a…person I know who tends to the king in his quarters,” she whispers, looking towards the door.
“I used to see him before…”
“Before you and Candaer?” You ask, oblivious to her attempt at stealth.
“Shhhhh!” She covers your mouth with her hand. “Yes, but he is now married and very happy. We are friends alone. Still, you have to promise not to say anything. He works as an attendant to the king. I can ask after the mood of King Thranduil tonight, see if his behavior is out of the norm. He owes me a favor, but obviously he would get in trouble if you reveal that you know anything.”
You vigorously nod, agreeing to these very agreeable terms.
“Very well. I will try to find him tonight. You’ll owe me then,” Navë smiles at you. “Now, rest.” You feel your heart float to ease. Your forehead releases its tension that it has been carrying subconsciously. You sink into your mattress and allow your dreamless rest to take you.
Summary: In the aftermath of the failed healing at the First Grove, learning more about how the corruption is caused, you wish to learn more of the corruption within the realm. Further, you realize that in order to fulfill your healing duty, you must play diplomat even better, especially to win the king's trust.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 5
Author's Note: Hi! Welcome to Chapter 6! This one has some delicious plot set up for the next act as well as the next chapter. I think you guys are going to like the next few chapters a ton :)
Now, I know I said I would post on Fridays...however, I am hella busy tomorrow, so I thought I'd post a tiny little bit early. Thank you guys so much for the likes and the reblogs/comments! It fills me with so much joy whenever I see the notif or when I check and see that someone took the time. Now, enjoy!!!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – A Tenuous Report
“I bring news,” Navë shakes your shoulder roughly. You awaken hazily, more hazily than usual. Wine. Then, you remember: Thranduil.
You sit upright, “Go on!” You bite at your lower lip nervously, the strap of your night dress slouches down your arm, leaving your shoulder bare.
“Well,” your attendant pauses awkwardly. “I don’t know if this is exactly a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Please, just tell me,” your anxiety began to pool in your chest. “Was he furious?”
“He…spent a long time, an unusually long time, in the bath,” she says slowly. You spiral, Great, he literally has to wash himself so thoroughly that he has to spend a long time in the bath. I must have disgusted him. Navë sees your eyes go wide and flit from side to side as you think the worst.
“Oh, no, I– I don’t know how to say this,” she cringes as she goes to soothe you, rubbing your back.
“I promise I am clean, I –” you bury your head in your chest. Navë stops soothing you abruptly.
“Clean? I mean, we bathe together. Of course you are! What are you even–ohh. No, no. I, um, I don’t think that’s what my friend meant about his time spent in his personal baths,” Navë stumbles, unsure of how to say what she means to say. “But the rest of the night, he seemed to pace. He didn’t seem angry, just deep in thought, which is what you wanted to hear, right?”
Forget the bath. He can prune for all I care. I just wanted to help him, you stew. “Not angry is good,” you reply, taking a centering breath. “I can work with ‘not angry.’”
“Definitely!” Navë smiles, happy to see you calming down. “Also, every day poses new challenges for the king, I am sure that yesterday other things might have been going on!”
“It was pretty early in the morning,” you look at her frowning, raising an eyebrow.
“I mean, he hardly rests. Last night he was up all night,” Navë shrugs nonchalantly for such a critical piece of information. Was he worrying about you? Worrying about what happened at the First Grove? Some part of you thinks that worrying is not the way you wish to keep the king up at night. You imagine his brows tiled up, forehead creased in concern, then his forehead creased with…another feeling. You mindlessly touch your fingertips to your lips and trace the underside of your lower lip, letting out an exhale.
“Have you written the report for him yet?” Navë asks. You snap back to reality at the mention of the report. Fuck, what would you even say in it?
“I have not. But let me do so now. Would you mind finding something to wear that conveys my apology. Something convincing? I trust your judgement,” you ramble to your attendant who watches you tug at your hair, almost amused at your frenzy.
“I can,” she lilts, “but what if I’d rather watch you scramble?” You shoot her an exasperated look. “Fine,” she laughs. “I’ll pull something together. You write.”
You shove off the rest of the covers from your plush bed. Your feet hit the mosaic of soft carpets that haphazardly tile the floors of your room. You sit down at your vanity and open the drawer. You grab parchment, lift the ink and quill out, realizing that your letter to Istel is gone. Did I misplace it? You look to find Navë. She is curled around the door about to leave. You quickly shout across the chambers, “Wait! Did you send my letter?”
She pushes herself out of the doorway, rocking back to look at you. “Is that okay?” She looks concerned, like she may have overstepped.
“I’m just grateful,” you assure her. “Thank you.” She bows with a small smile, dipping out of your chambers.
You look back to the task at hand. This daunting, daunting task. What did you want out of this? You want to regain his trust, you want to be able to leave the palace again, out to the forest.
Yes, you visited the First Grove, but where else did you need to heal? Where else did you need to go? Should you write that ‘the king caused the healing ritual to fail and then compounded the corruption’ on your paper?
In your vexation, you feel so lost in your own tension between your twofold mission. Diplomacy: assure the king, regain his trust, get close enough to solve the issue through his memory, openness and your healing. Practically? You healing the woods, with or without his approval, would earn the respect of those relying on you. Unfortunately, the pragmatic task is becoming more impossible without the diplomacy as you learn more about these woods and their connection to the elvenking.
You title the report, ‘Report on the state of the Woodland Realm’s Forest’s Corruption.’ By the time you underline the title of the paper, you realize you need a more complete picture of the future of this project. You need maps of important sites, you need to know of important places to the Silvan elves of Mirkwood.
Throwing on a tunic, leggings, and boots, hair unbraided, you take your incomplete paper out of your room.
“Hey, Navë isn’t back yet,” Candaer says, taking in your disheveled appearance amusedly.
“I know,” you say, striding ahead. “I’ll be back. We are going to the healers’ — I need to do some quick research.” He sighs, pushing back his curly black hair, giving you a tired look.
You practically jog there. Candaer’s armor clinks as he paces in long strides behind you. “For all that is good, spider-slayer,” he swears under his breath as you finally slow at the door.
“Back so soon?” Hareth gives you an amused look, looking up from sipping tea from a ceramic mug, forehead crinkling.
“Yes. Do you or Branniel have a list of sites that have significance to you all, Woodland Elves? I would like to include it in my report to the king,” you ask. She sighs, taking another sip of her tea. The smell of peppermint permeates the room.
“Have at it,” she gestures to her long table, the length of a table one might see at a feast, no spot on the table’s surface is visible. It is entirely covered in multiple layers of her research.
Around the corner, you hear a clatter, then Branniel shouts a muffled, ‘Wait!’
She comes around the corner, apron covering her green tunic and brown leggings, hair completely swept over to one side. “I have a system for Healer Hareth’s table…kind of. What are you looking for again?”
“Impressive that you navigate this,” you laugh, looking back at Hareth who shrugs in response. “Locations of other sites we would need to go to; ones of significance to the king and all of the elves of this realm.”
“Maps or journals?” Branniel unties the apron, draping across the back of a chair approaching the table, hands on her hips as she starts scanning.
“Either work, but lists are preferable,” you peer from behind as she starts peeling back some layers in the upper right hand corner of the table.
“Perhaps a list of the most deeply corrupted sites and cross referencing them with any cultural, ritual sites?” Branniel suggests while she heaves two large tomes off of the bottom right corner of the table.
That’s so much smarter. “Why didn’t I think of that?” You bemoan. “Please, that would be so good.” More rustling sounds come from the strong elleth’s end of the table as she tries to prevent the whole balance of parchment from falling over.
“Ha! Here. A scroll of a map of festival sites, feast locations, and just mapping out the forests.” Branniel unfurls it. Red star marks traditional waypoints for those going through coming-of-age rituals, white for marriages, hazel for funerals. “I know some of these have existed since thousands of years ago.” Branniel leaves you with this map to find the other half of her suggestion.
You trace the outline of the woods, then find the heart of them, Thranduil’s palace. Heart of the woods, indeed, you think, remembering the wake of corruption that was born from him as he rode his horse away.
“I found it,” Branniel holds up a tiny journal that looks like it could have fit in a pocket.
“This is where you put the most significantly corrupted places in the forest that you have thus seen?” You double over laughing.
“Laugh all you want, this notebook does its job,” Branniel huffs, trying to ignore the stifled laughter of Hareth behind her.
Hareth softly adds, “It was Branniel’s first scribe notebook.” The palm-sized, red leather notebook was simple, but the notes were increasingly pristine. Though, they were in Quenya.
“I am more fluent in Sindarin than Quenya,” you apologize. Branniel waves your apology away, and you both get to the hard work of finding the patterns on a time crunch, knowing that you will have to present these ideas in front of the king that afternoon.
‘Report on the state of the Woodland Realm’s Forest’s Corruption.’
In the Woodland Realm, there has been a sickness and corruption that permeates the forest, resulting in harsh muds, stalling rivers and brambles, festering spider nests, unseasonal dying of local flora and fauna, and allowing for extreme and unnatural overgrowth of black roots and vines. This healer believes that there is a correlation of memory and sadness in the Woodland Realm, and that the corruption is curable with the healing of the minds and spirits of the elves of the Woodland Realm following the fall of Sauron. Dol Guldur’s darkness is no longer feeding corruption in this realm.
This healer requests that she and other healers are able to attempt to visit sites of corruption. These include sites of courtship, abandoned gathering places, places of forgotten festivals, places of funerary tribute, the sealed areas of the palace behind the gates, including courtyards and former gardens.
You finish the report on top of a small stack of wooden crates with bandages in them. You say your farewells to Hareth and Branniel, bringing the map and the journal with you back to the room.
“Navë’s going to have been looking for you,” Candaer chastises you with a crooked smile.
You look at him sardonically, “Are you suggesting we jog it back, then?”
He quickly backtracks, “No, no, I think she’ll be fine. I’m sure she is torn between colors of dress.”
“Mhm,” you smirk.
Scene 2 – The Request Earns the Summons
Expecting your attendant to have an outfit prepared and a letter from Galion as to when you are expected by the king, you are entirely shocked when Galion himself waits inside your quarters, sitting on one of the armchairs. His long auburn hair that isn’t tied half up with a loose bun, drapes onto his rust-colored tunic, neatly collared. He checks underneath his nails. Valar, how long had he been waiting? Given Navë’s expression, it has been a long time.
“Ah, our esteemed emissary,” Galion coos as he stood up from the armchair. “You have been summoned by the king to his personal wing to give him the formal report, away from listening ears.”
“Right away?” Navë asks, before correcting herself, “Right away, Master Galion?” You had entirely forgotten that Galion is technically her superior, in charge of her position with you.
“I’m afraid I can only afford you another moment or two to collect your things,” Galion looks you up and down, reconsidering, leaning back, arms crossed. “Mm, perhaps five minutes. I’ll wait outside.” I’ll try not to be too offended, you decide. He steps out, boots clicking against the limestone.
Navë rushes to you with an indigo velvet dress, the purple is the color of the sky after the sun just dips over the horizon. There is a deep cut neckline. You ran your fingers along the pearls sewn delicately along the edge of it. The sleeves were embroidered with white pearlescent beads as well as floral swirls, from your shoulder to your elbow. Navë slips it over your head once you undress. Heavy folds of fabric spill from your elbows and swallow your hands. Your attendant pleats them back with practiced fingers, and instructs you to keep your wrists slightly lifted to catch the fabric before it falls or to rest your hands neatly at the height of your navel.
At least it gave you something to do with your hands. Perhaps intentional so that I do not reach back out to the king…and make the same foolish mistake twice. You grimace at the memory of his shock when you touched him.
When you step out of your quarters with the map, report, and journal, Galion remarks, “You are quite the sight to behold, sea-daughter.” A fitting comment; in this moment, you look like and are every bit the ‘sea-daughter.’ Your hair is loosely pinned back in layers spilling down your back with a dozen small pearl clips, a design that looks so intentional but is done so quickly by Navë’s deft hands. Pearls adorn your neck, fingers, and earlobes. Even a very slight white shimmering powder is applied to the lids of your eyes as she applies a sparing amount of rouge to your cheeks and lips.
Candaer makes to follow you and Galion, but the auburn-haired elf holds out a hand.
“The king has requested privacy in this conversation. I will take her myself. Our lord appreciates your diligence,” Galion orders. Candaer is left opening and closing his mouth, frozen at the doorway, unsure of what to do at that moment but continue to stand there.
You follow Galion around the bends of the palace, through doors and halls, past the throne in the throne room, until you end at a wing of the palace you have never been before. The doors reach the ceiling, thirty feet tall. Galion nods to two guards who pull the doors open.
As if an entirely separate palace exists, chandeliers of candles hang from the ceiling. As you walk in you see a massive shadowed silhouette of the autumnal crown of the king, a shadow only possible by him sitting in front of a large hearth.
Stepping further into the room with the king’s head attendant, you are correct. In this large antechamber with a roaring fire in the heart of the room, several benches and couches for sitting around it. Behind that area is a massive formal dining area being cleared by five different servants, all wearing the sage green robes that Navë wears.
Waiting for you by the fire is Thranduil, not wearing his autumnal crown. Even without the crown holding his hair in place, it perfectly falls from his head, not a strand out of place. His crown sits atop the mantle of the hearth, though the reds of the berries and flowers are much less vibrant than the last time you saw him. It is one of four, a crown for each season sits atop the mantle in the order of the seasons.
Him not wearing the crown within his own wing of his palace isn’t what catches you off guard though.
This antechamber is too formal for comfort between the carved fireplace with a mouth as tall as you are, polished dining room table, a straight back to every chair in the room: pure precision. And yet Thranduil sits diagonally across the couch as if it is the most natural thing in the world; one long leg stretches toward the fire, one arm lays across the back cushions. The posture should have softened him. Instead, it makes the room feel more thoroughly his, as if even ease obeys him.
“Sit.” His voice pulses through you.
“Where would you like me to sit, my lord?” You step into the semi-circle of chairs and chaises, the center couch occupied by him.
He silently gestures to any of the other seats with his hand that’s leaning across the back cushions. Thranduil watches the fire with a firm expression on his face. Despite his icy tone, the orange light of the fire makes his pale skin and pale hair dance with warmth. You imagine running your hands back into his hair, your hands to cup his face. What if you sat with him? The impish thought flickers across your mind for just a moment. You sit to his left, looking into the fire as you look into the briar with Hareth. You follow his gaze.
“Everyone!” The king’s attendant claps twice. “Out! Now!” Galion shoos the last of the staff out of the elvenking’s wing. “Do let me know, my lord, if I may aid in any way to make this conversation more confidential.” Thranduil tilts his chin down a nearly indiscernible amount to acknowledge Galion’s efforts, a part of a code forged between them over the course of a thousand years. With a bow, Galion shuts the massive doors behind him, pulling with all of his might.
Scene 3 – Hearth
You extend the report to Thranduil, head bowed, steadying the rolled map and the small journal on your lap. It’s hard to keep your vision down because your eyes seem to beg to rise to look upon the king in his relaxed state. Your mind seeks to grasp at anything besides your imagination. The carpet pattern is really beautiful, you suppose. You feel him pull the report from your hand.
Finally, you are able to look back up at him.
His busy face as he reads is so tempting, his discernment and appraisal similar to the first time he looked at you. Despite the heat of the hearth, chills drift down your spine at the memory. He reads the paper, eyes flicking back and forth across the lines. You nibble at your lower lip nervously. Say something, you plead to him in your mind.
His eyebrows crease as he reaches the end of the report. “I’m still not convinced,” he settles back, finally dragging his attention over to you. He wears a challenging look in his eyes. His sharp jawline clenches as he rakes his icy gaze stoically up your dress, pausing at your throat, then your lips.
Thranduil’s stare doesn’t make it to your eyes. Why won’t he look me in my eyes? Is he trying to make me dance for what I want?
You stare at him back, even if he won’t meet your gaze. You fix your posture from deferential to determined, rolling your arms back. You decide to cut through whatever game he’s playing. Honesty disarms, you can hear Lord Círdan remind you as you prepared for this. You prepared for this. “My lord, before any requests that I have for you,” you start.
“Too late for that,” he lilts, picking up the refolded report, tapping the edge of it on the arm of his couch.
“Before I reiterate any requests that I wish to make of you, I wanted to discuss yesterday at the First Grove,” you lower your voice. As you say this, you study his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He does an incredible job of keeping it very still, except for his eyes that snap to yours from their previous place, lingering on your lips.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he stiffly states. Then he turns his head to the fire.
“I wanted to apologize,” you offer. You watch him clench his jaw again, eyes narrow, almost like he wants to know where you are going with this, a morbid sort of curiosity. You look at the far hand that is draped across the back of the couch, resting along the back cushion, thumb mindlessly stroking the dark moss-colored fabric. “I – it was instinctual.” You both know you were referring to you grabbing him. You see his hands tense, thumb stopping its sweeping movements and in his other hand, his grip on your parchment tightens.
Yet he doesn’t speak.
“You seemed, taken aback by something. I don’t know if it was my fault or not, but if I upset you, my lord, please accept my most sincere apologies,” you shift to the edge of the chair, trying your best not to waver in his cruel silence, playing with the pearls at your neckline. “And I do not mean to upset your people by asking for vulnerable memories to exploit them. I will never take what is not freely given, my lord.”
You see him take a heavy breath in as you say the last bit.
Thranduil says, “The people of my realm, in the last century, have seen much risk associated with others coming in, offering to help me, yet truly seeking my help, respite at my hands. Now, you ask of me to allow you to lend you the pain of my people who have already lost from this disease upon my woods, lend you unrestricted access to my lands, my home, to —” and his gaze is finally cast to his left forearm, the place where you grabbed him yesterday. He stands, ripping his arm away from how close it was to you, seated to his left. “— to the heart of my realm.”
You watch him move to the fireplace, back facing you. In this tunic, you can see the taper of his broad back to his waist. How were you going to defend your requests — that he admonishes — when you were so distracted by him?
“I believe that what Healer Hareth offered yesterday was willing, and I think my healing only works when responding to positive emotional memories with the space in question, and I have been trying to come up with spaces that I could try to heal while I am here in your service before leaving the remaining sites of corruption in the capable hands of your healers,” you attempt to refocus the elvenking, who seems to be concerned about you committing a greater conspiracy than you could ever pull off.
“Bodies remember wounds, and I am sure the forest remembers who it was before this corruption, including who it belongs to,” you add, watching him slow his pacing, watching the careful, linear placement of his boots on the glowing stone floor. But like a cat bathing in the sun, he preens as you say this, languishing in your acknowledgment of his claim on the land.
“Wounds, yet the forest worsened with your touch,” he replies, eyes flashing, like daring you to argue back. Because of you! Because you closed off to the healing of this land. What memories haunt you, Elvenking? You bite your tongue. This time your facade cracks. You narrow your eyes, sucking your teeth, tilting your head.
In a clipped voice you say, “As a healer, the spirit is just as critical to healing the wound as treating the affected area. I believe this forest is incredibly wounded, and I seek to treat its spirit,” you push, wanting to stand and confront him. His command to ‘sit’ echoes in your head.
“How many of my people do you seek to distress as they remember what was taken from them?” He retorts.
One, if he lets me. He extends his pacing to behind your chair. The weight of the room, despite being much smaller than the throne room still feels heavy upon your shoulders. You hear his steps, but do not turn to look at him, refusing to let him intimidate you out of getting what you want. “I seek to distress none. Beyond that, I can only do as you permit, my lord. If you ask me to find another way, I will.” You white-knuckle the rounded, carved ends of the arms of the chair that you are diplomatically bound to.
“Correct,” he smirks, clearly reveling in your frustration. A sort of revenge? He could ask you at any moment to change your plan. You fix your mind on attempting to get what you seek: access to the locations, access to records, access. Fuck, why did I suggest that? You curse yourself. Then, a plan starts to form.
“You surprise me with the level of love and care for your subjects,” you give a light laugh. He immediately stops his pacing as he makes his way around the back of the couch he was initially on, trying to determine if what you said was a deep insult or a questionable compliment.
“Though, to find another way, I do need access to those areas to experiment with various alternative methods.” You raise a challenging eyebrow at him. Your move, elvenking. You could have told him that you didn’t need his subjects, just him, but you didn’t think he’d go for that plan either. Plus, you didn’t want to overstate what you could not immediately or firmly prove to him. Granted, it was strong and founded speculation.
He considers this, adorned fingers resting along the carved arm of the couch.
“You ask to walk wounded ground,” he says at last. “You want to use the joy and nostalgia of my people to help your healing, you ask for locked areas, old memories, and the trust of those who owe you none.”
His gaze moves over the report once more, then returns to you.
“No. Not yet.”
Your fingers tighten around the journal in your lap.
He considers amusedly, running adorned fingers along the edge of the upholstery, formulating a counterstrike. “But if it is the joy and nostalgia of my people you require to help your healing, then, spider-slayer, come to the Feast of Stars. As an emissary representing such powers from the other elven realms, you will attend as my honored guest. It is in six days time. I can send over a list of some approved locations from this…lengthy list.”
You blink, thrown by his turn. His honored guest? “That is too kind, too generous, I —” you begin.
“It is controlled,” he corrects, calm as winter. “Do not mistake the two.” You recoil.
“You ask to walk wounded grounds,” he says. “Despite not being one of my subjects, you are in my care. What I saw was explosive vines, deep magics in the earth.”
The warmth of the fire is suddenly too warm. Was he scared of your healing power? He’s seen so much more danger in his life.
“Yet I offer you something safer: memories of what stood before the corruption. Speak to my subjects, ask them for memories then, if it is their joy and revelry you seek.”
How did he turn the tables so quickly? How was he so good at giving you everything but what you asked for? A feast, but not access to his full palace. Yet you could not deny him. Not when his breath sent chills down your neck, down your spine.
“Then I thank you for the honor, my lord. Though I suspect you have not given me quite as little as you intended.” This time you dare to look up at him from your chair. He straightens before your noses almost touch. He does not offer you a hand to help you rise, rather he backs up, hands clasped behind his back. He almost smiles when he sees your inner written all over your face. Your chest feels tight.
“Galion shall deliver your list,” he walks towards the door. I didn’t even need the map, the journal. You clutch your materials to your chest. As he approaches, Galion opens the doors. Guards are not there. A matter of confidentiality, surely.
“Until then, healer of Mithlond.” Thranduil’s practiced voice returns, so neutral, except for the glint in his eye.
Unsure of how to say goodbye, you settle on a curtsy. Thranduil nods to Galion who extends a hand, guiding you from the antechamber of Mirkwood’s king. Thranduil retreats back inside. You don’t see him look back over his shoulder to watch you walk away before his guards return and close the doors.
description: clark's been growing his hair out lately, and you've definitely noticed. how could you not?
warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected sex (please wear a condom for the love of god), kitchen sex, floor sex, oral (fem receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, light spanking, loads of pet names from clark, one sir from reader, orgasm denial (only for a second), brat/brat tamer dynamics, clark switches between being mean and nice because this is my self indulgent fantasy, cumming inside, slight aftercare, praise, pre-established relationship, swearing, i'm probably forgetting smth i have not slept in almost 24 hours, clark should be his own warning
word count: 3.8k
a/n: this insanity was obviously created due to the set photos lol; divider is from @stanmarvelous and the pics are from twitter/pinterest. any errors are purely mine because i wrote half of this past midnight and have not slept since
You were among one of the first people to discover that Clark Kent and the infamous Superman were one in the same.
You didn't mind the cancelled dates, or the nights where he stumbled into the apartment after a fight with a particularly determined foe. Not many words were passed between the two of you as you laid him down on the couch, putting ice packs on his bruised sides.
"What did I do to deserve someone like you?" Clark would ask afterwards, arm wrapped around you as if you could fly away at any moment.
"Don't know, but pretty soon I'm gonna start charging you for my services. Medical care isn't cheap, you know?" You'd tease, a giggle passing through your lips when Clark would roll his eyes at you.
Outside of the whole superhero thing, you and Clark lived a relatively normal life. You'd wake up together, shower together, eat breakfast together, then head off separately to your jobs.
You and Clark were currently laying on your couch on one of your sparse joint off days. His head was laying on your chest while the two of you watched reruns of The Good Place. Clark had his arms wrapped around your middle, his full attention on the TV.
"Do you think we would make it into the Good Place?" He asks suddenly, lifting his head up to look at you head on. You smile softly at the curl that falls down his forehead, pushing it back behind his ear.
"I think we can certainly try. But that's kind of the whole point, you know? Even when you try and do something good, you end up fucking up somehow." You say with a shrug. "It's a big philosophical question that we are certainly not qualified enough to answer."
"I think all that matters in the end is that you tried in life. It's the content of your heart and character that really matters." Clark mumbles, going back to the TV like it was no big deal. It was one of the things you loved the most about him; he wanted to believe that if you did your best, everything would work out in the end. Even after all this time, he was still that optimistic guy you met 2 years ago.
"Yeah, something like that." You mutter, your fingers continuing their path through his hair. The two of you just sit there, enjoying each other's company. As your hands are coasting through his hair, you realize something. "Are you growing your hair out?"
"Huh?" Clark asks as he lifts his head up once more. "Oh, well, not intentionally. I just haven't gotten it cut in a while. Do you not like it or something?"
"No no, I do like it." You respond quickly, tugging on a strand thoughtfully. "It's cute. I like your hair longer."
"Oh." Clark says, his cheeks tinted slightly pink. "Well okay then."
The two of you went back to just enjoying each other's company, and you didn't think much of the conversation.
But Clark could not stop thinking about it. Ever since that day, he's started putting a bit more effort into how his hair looks. Not that he wasn't before, but longer hair means that you need to spend more time caring for it properly.
He wanted to look good for you, that's all.
And he kept his promise—he didn't go out to get his hair cut. And that was when you finally started to notice.
"Wow, Clark, your hair is really starting to get long." You say with a giggle as you bump his hip. The two of you were standing together in the kitchen; you chopping up vegetables and Clark rinsing the rice.
"Oh yeah, guess I haven't noticed." Clark says timidly as he drains the water from the rice. It's clear that he's lying through his teeth, but you choose to be nice and not comment on it.
"That's fair, you've been pretty busy saving the world and whatnot." You tease as you toss the vegetables in their own bowl.
Clark scoffs and rolls his eyes at that, shaking his head. "I think saying that is a bit of a misrepresentation of what it is I do."
"I think the citizens of Metropolis thank you very much for stopping whatever scheme Livewire has set up for the week." You say, setting everything aside and hopping up to sit on the counter.
"Well, it's not like I can just let her roam around and do whatever she wants." Clark states, setting the bowl of rice aside to stand between your legs. Your arms move up and around his neck on autopilot, pulling him in closer to you.
"My handsome, long haired savior." You say, your mouth split open by your grin. Clark always got a little big-headed when you complimented him like this, so you made sure to do it. Very often.
"Oh yeah? You really like the longer hair this much?" He asks as he rests his hands on your thighs.
You hum softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Of course I do. Plus, it gives me something to hold onto."
Clark groans out your name at that, burying his face in your neck. "You can't just say stuff like that out of nowhere, sweetheart."
"What, it's true." A giggle slips past your lips, your legs wrapping around Clark's waist. "Having something to grip onto can come in handy."
"We're supposed to be making dinner, and here you are trying to get me all riled up." Clark complains as he lifts up his head to look at you, but his heart isn't in it. "Are you doing this on purpose?"
"What? Of course not, I would never do that to you on purpose." You say with a fake gasp, hand to your chest to play up the dramatics even more. "I am a lady, Mr. Kent. I would never rile you up for the purpose of having sex."
The look Clark gives you makes it clear that he doesn't believe a word coming out of your mouth, but when you bat your pretty little lashes at him, there's nothing he can do to resist. "You're a tease, did you know that?" He mutters as he trails kisses down your jaw and neck.
"Am not." You say with a scoff as you tilt your head back slightly. "I just know what I want, and when I want it."
"You mean you're bossy." Clark corrects as he moves his lips down to and across your collarbones, sucking a hickey right there. "But that's okay, I can handle a bit of bossiness."
"Clark." You whine, already tugging at the strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Patience had never really been your strong suit, especially when it came to Clark and his mouth.
"'S okay, sweetheart. I got you." You can feel his breath through the fabric of your shirt, watching intently as he works his way down your body. He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, causing you to gasp and grip onto the counter tighter. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall."
Any other time, you'd knock him a down a peg or two for the smugness that was coloring his tone, but you couldn't bring yourself to care when you were watching his fingers quickly undo the button on your jeans.
You'll get him back for this later. Much later.
You lift your hips up slightly to assist Clark in getting your jeans off, watching the way his eyes dilate as your underwear come into view. "Fuck." You loved when he got like this; when he became so focused on you and your pleasure and his usual farm-boy manners slip away.
"Like what you see?" There's still enough fight in you for that comment, but it quickly fades away when Clark kisses you over underwear. You whine his name, trying to lift your hips to urge him to do more.
"Uh uh, stay put." His hands wrap around your waist, keeping you pressed down firmly onto the counter.
"Yes, sir." The words are out before you can stop yourself, and you barely have time to register what you said before Clark has torn your underwear in half. "Clark—"
"Shut up." He says firmly before beginning to mouth at your clit. Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at him, watching as he licks stripes up and down your slit.
"Clark, please." You moan as you thread your fingers through his hair, trying to push his head down deeper.
Clark pulls away with a chuckle, his fingers digging into the skin of your thighs. "Please, what? If you're gonna act like a brat, then I'll treat you like one."
There was this look in his eye, the one he only got every once in a blue moon. The look that meant that you wouldn't be able to walk straight tomorrow. As soon as you feel his lips on you once more, you try to savor the feeling. The warmth of his tongue as he circles your entrance, teasing you for a moment before dipping in. Your back arches as your eyes roll into the back of your head, the grip you have on Clark's hair and the edge of the counter becoming almost forceful.
For any other guy, it would be too much and he would've pulled away. Thank god for Clark and his Kryptonian genes.
The way that Clark was flicking and sucking and biting was all too much. "Clark, please." The plea comes out almost breathless, all your strength going to keep yourself upright on the counter.
"What is it, hm? Use your words for me, baby." Clark mutters as he nips gently at your clit. "I can't give you what you need unless you tell me, remember?"
"Fuck, just don't stop." You were sure that if he stopped now, you would explode and that wouldn't be any good for either of you. "Please don't stop, Clark. Please keep going, please."
Clark smirked at that, reinforcing his hold on your thighs. "Well, if you insist." That's all the warning you get before he puts almost twice the effort he had before into sucking on your clit, his tongue working it's way in and out of you. Your eyes are practically screwed shut, small pants and moans of Clark's name falling from your lips at the intense pleasure.
"Oh my god, I'm gonna cum." You whine as your legs begin to shake. The coil in your stomach is close to snapping, causing you to grind your hips up against his mouth. Your hand that's in his hair tightens for a second as you finally let go, a moan ripping through you as your release takes over you.
The smell of sweat, your perfume, and Clark's cologne are mixing together in the air around the two of you, your focus going in and out. But Clark? He's focused on helping you ride through this orgasm, his movements slowing down but never stopping completely. "Oh my god, Clark!"
As you came down from your orgasm your hold on the counter slipped a bit, but luckily Clark could hold you up all by himself. You expected him to stop now that you've cum, but his head was still buried between your legs and he was eating you out like a man starved. "Fuck baby, you taste so good. 'S this all for me?"
"C-Clark, I can't—" You gasp, trying to pull away from his hold on you. The overstimulation was too much, but at the same time you wanted more. You wanted Clark to throw you over the edge, over and over and over again until you physically couldn't take anymore.
"Shh, it's okay. You can handle another, I know you can." Clark whispers, sucking and flicking your clit. "Give me another one, yeah?"
And when Clark asked you for something, especially all pretty like with his head between your legs and treating you like you were the only thing that mattered, who were you to tell him no? You're not really sure where Clark ends and you begin at this point, but you don't really care. All that matters right now is the pleasure coursing through your veins.
The second orgasm is somehow more powerful than the first, but this time you could hear the soft grunts Clark was letting out into your pussy. If you didn't already know that he was impossibly hard, you might just think that he would spend the rest of the night down there to give you as many orgasms as you wanted.
Clark makes sure that you're fully sat on the counter before standing up himself, looking at you like he could just ravish you. "You don't know what you do to me." He groans out before smashing his lips against yours.
You use the little bit of strength you have left to pull him closer, one hand finding it's way to his hair and the other grabbing his ass. The two of you stay like for a while, your lips melded together as the two of you try to become Clark. You whine when the two of you pull apart, trying to pull him closer. "I need you. Please?"
"Anything you want." He mutters as he sucks on your collarbone, pulling you off the counter and flipping you around so that he could bend you over. "Just need to make sure that you're ready for me, yeah? Can you be a little more patient for me, sweetheart?"
Your arms are resting on the counter, the cool temperature helping to ground you a bit so you don't grind against Clark like an eager slut. Not that he would complain.
Clark keeps a hand on your waist as he unbuckles his pants and takes himself out of his boxers. "So pretty. So good for me, too." He whispers as he presses kisses along your shoulder. The whine that slips out is involuntary, as well as the way your hips shift back to feel even a hint of him. "Patience, baby. Don't wanna hurt you."
"Just put it in." You beg, pushing back once more. There's a sharp slap against your ass, causing you to gasp and jolt forward.
"What did I just say?" He scolds, rubbing his tip against your slit. "Be patient. Only good girls get rewards, remember? Don't be a brat."
"'M sorry, just—please? I'll be good, I'll be so so good, just put it in." You beg, looking over at your shoulder at Clark. On the surface he looks like his usual calm and composed self, but you know better, because you know him. You can tell that he's on the verge of losing all his control, and now you're determined to be the reason he does.
"Clark, please?" You ask, putting that little lilt in your voice that you know always gets to him. It's almost as if you can see the final thread snapping, and you barely have time to react before Clark is lining up with your entrance and burying himself to the hilt.
"You just couldn't be patient for another second, could you?" He grunts as he slowly pulls out and thrusts back in, enjoying the way your breath hitches in your throat. "I thought you were good at following instructions, what happened to that?"
"No fun." Is all that you can get out, too preoccupied with the slow, deep strokes Clark is giving you. He's doing this on purpose; giving you what you want but holding back just enough so that you won't be cumming again anytime soon. But frankly, you're a bit wound up right now and that just won't cut it. "Clark—"
"No," He says firmly, pressing on your back to make you lay flat on the counter. "I already told you; if you want to act like a brat, then I'm going to fucking treat you like one. And brats don't get what they want."
The speed of his thrusts speed up, knocking the wind from your lungs. Clark's grip on your waist is tight, and you're honestly glad because there is no way your legs work anymore. The feeling of him slamming in and out of you, the way that he's trying to keep his weight off of you— it's all too much too fast, especially after having two back to back orgasms.
"Clark, slow down." You moan, fingers slipping on the counter. "Too much, it's too much."
"You can take it." Clark growls, his hand wrapping around your throat and pulling you up so your back meets his chest. This new angle tears a moan from inside you, your hand clawing at Clark's arm.
"Fuck!" You shout, your eyes screwing shut as you struggle to keep yourself in enough control to not let Clark win.
You're failing. Hard.
"Are you gonna cum again, pretty girl?" Clark whispers as he nibbles on your ear, trailing kisses down your neck and shoulder. "Gonna cum on my cock?"
You nod frantically, your body tilting forward slightly. Clark allows you to, making sure that you don't slam into the counter on your way down. He also picks up the pace, chuckling softly at the weak moan that escapes your lips.
"Need a little help there?" He asks mockingly, his hand sliding down your body and in between your legs to rub tight circles on your clit. "Come on baby, I know you can do it. Cum for me."
Spots of white cloud your vision as you cum this time, your moan fading in and out. You can vaguely make out Clark whispering small praises in your ear as you come down, but you're still too out of it to focus on what he could be saying. Your body is limp, and you no longer have any control over it. But that doesn't matter, because Clark carefully pulls out and lays you on the floor.
"Did so well for me, princess." Clark whispers sweetly as he presses kisses against your chest, gently massaging your sides. "Do you think you can give me one more?"
The more logical part of your brain is screaming at you to say no. To tell Clark to get off of you, because you may never walk again after this. But the greedier, more Clark hungry part of you wants you to say yes. Wants you to keep saying yes and to not let go of him, because there will never be so much thing as too much Clark Kent when it comes to you.
That louder part of you wins, that stubborn little bitch.
"Okay." You whisper, smiling weakly at the look of pure glee that comes across Clark's face.
"Thank you, baby." Clark mummers as he leans down and presses a chaste kiss against your lips. "Thank you." He repeats as he slides back in, groaning at the way you wrap around him.
One of his hands lifts your leg up to wrap around his waist while the other laces your fingers together. He rests his forehead on yours as he starts moving, the thrusts slow and fueled by love and passion. A soft sigh floats it's way in the air, and you can't tell if it came from you or from him.
"I love you." You hum, bringing his hand up to your lips to place a kiss on it. The grin that overtakes his face can only be described as goofy, and he doesn't even have to reply for you to know just how much he loves you back.
His love is in the way he's holding you like you could break at any moment. His love is in the way he kisses from your jaw to you neck to your chest, because he knows that it soothes you and keeps you grounded during intense moments like that.
"Doing so well for me." He says, almost like a prayer. "Always so good for me."
You giggle softly, pressing a kiss on one of the freckles that littered his shoulder. "Only for you."
Clark lets out an unintentional moan at that, his grip on your hand and waist tightening ever so slightly. "I'm gonna cum." His head drops to the crook of your neck, his breath tickling your ear.
"Please, Clark. Inside." You whine, not caring how pathetic or desperate you might sound right now. Clark doesn't need to be told twice, only making it three more deep thrusts before he's spilling inside of you with a loud moan. His release triggers your fourth and final one, your teeth sinking into his shoulder in an attempt to quieten the sounds coming from your mouth.
Clark thrusts shallowly a few more times, kissing you once more as he slowly and carefully slides out of you. "Stay here for a second, okay?" He instructs, leaving one last kiss on your nose as he gets up.
He disappears into the bathroom to get a towel to clean you up, while you lean yourself up against the bottom cabinets. He returns fairly quickly, immediately dropping to his knees and pressing a warm towel between your legs to help get rid of the mess.
"Sorry." He apologizes sheepishly, the tips of his ears tinted pink. You chuckle softly, shaking your head at his sudden embarrassment. "I guess I got a little carried away there, huh?"
"Don't apologize, I enjoyed myself. Like, a lot." You say reassuringly as you push back some of the hair that had fallen in his face.
"Good." Clark declares as he finishes cleaning you up, setting the towel aside to be dealt with later. "Here, let me." He says as he helps you stand up, allowing you to rest your weight on him while you regained feeling in your legs.
"Guess this is what happens when you grow your hair out." You laugh, taking a moment to look at your discarded clothes and the forgotten dinner the two of you were supposed to be making.
"Yeah, I guess so." Clark mumbles, scratching his neck as he takes in the damage for himself. "Why don't you go sit down and rest? I can finish up here."
"Well, if you insist. I'll never turn down an opportunity to sit down and gawk at you." Clark rolls his eyes at your comment, lightly smacking your ass.
"Careful, unless you're looking for round two. And I don't think that you can handle that at the moment." He warns, taking off his shirt and putting it on you so that you'd be covered. Even when he was scolding you, he couldn't help but be a gentleman. It's one of the reasons why you loved him so much.
"Alright, but don't hesitate to call me if you need help, okay?" You say, giving Clark a playfully strict look as you make your way to the living room.
Yeah, Clark was never allowed to cut his hair again. And if all the scissors and clippers in your shared apartment seemingly disappeared overnight? Well, that was between you and the trash cans.
🍒 after a long patrol, bruce wayne comes to the manor to relax. || smut, mdni. fem!reader. bruce is harsh. aftercare. not proofread… 2002 words || ⋆˚࿔ this was inspired by the amazing @bloomcissa 😋 thanks for inspiring me the other day diva ily
You didn’t even hear his footsteps as he entered the room you shared together.
Coming back from the bathroom, you were ready to hop into bed and sleep after so many failed attempts. Sleep couldn’t find you that night and you were uncomfortable because you missed him so much.
Ever since you started living in the Manor with him, this was a routine for the both of you. He would leave for the night and come back when the sun was rising— sometimes earlier than that if you were lucky. This time, he came back later than usual. Maybe that was why you couldn’t sleep? You were not sure but it still bugged you that he wasn’t with you, hugging you in his strong arms and face dove right in your chest…
You could only realize he came back when he opened and slammed the door back with such great force that it echoed in the corridors of the Manor. You were standing right next to the bed when he saw you. He froze right there, obviously not expecting you to be awake.
The sheet in your hand dropped back to the bed as you slowly made your way to him. For some reason, you were scared that he would get angry because something happened while patrolling. He looked… pissed.
You wanted it to be gone.
Before you could get to him, he paved the way with two steps. His hair was wet. He probably showered in the cave to clean himself off of Gotham’s streets.
You gasped when he pulled you to himself by your waist. He was unclothed, you were only in your nightdress. You could feel the tension sprawling out of his body. His hand on your waist travelled down your hips and grasped a fistful of your ass alongside with the fabric of your dress. You had no time to even hiss as he grabbed your hair and pulled you into a devastating kiss.
He was fast, at least faster than normal, with his kiss. He devoured you with his mouth. His breath slammed against your lips. When you couldn’t catch up with his lips, he angled your head and helped you out with his speed— but this time you moaned loudly against his mouth when his hand on your ass squeezed and rolled up the fabric of your nightdress.
“Bruce,” You tried to push him away to take a glance at him but he didn’t budge. You were so close that you could feel him swallowing.
“I need you,” he left open mouthed kisses on your lips right before traveling down. “I need to fuck you.”
Before you could say anything he made you turn around. You could feel his erection on your ass. Your back made contact with his chest. His hands were steady on your hips. His lips were soft as they touched your neck. He licked your skin before speaking again, “No underwear?”
For a time, you couldn’t even tell if it was a question or not, so you decided to answer anyway. “I… I was thinking about you.” You looked down at the floor and his eyes followed your stare only to land on the discarded panties. A smile of his perched on your neck. He was getting even harder.
You gasped loudly when his two fingers made contact with your clit before you could even know what happened. “And so wet… all this for me?”
“Who else, Mr. Wayne?”
He grunted an answer before pulling you into a bruising kiss. Your neck started to hurt from the position you forced yourself into. He must have realized your discomfort since he repositioned himself to give you a better stance.
Down there, his fingers were working wonders. He was circling your clit with his thumb, making you even more wet. You mumbled against his lips when you felt his finger circling around your entrance. He pushed a finger in without giving you a moment to breathe. Your legs trembled with joy as tears formed in your eyes.
But this joy was shortly cut when he pulled his fingers out and away from you— as well as his mouth was pulled away from your lips. Bruce didn’t wait a second before pushing his fingers into your already opened mouth. He grunted next to your ear when you closed your lips around his fingers. And finally you could elicit a loud moan from him by touching his hard dick.
Your hand stroked him up and down. Feeling the way he squeezed his abs on your back, you couldn’t help but sigh with the thought of him being inside you, making a moaning mess and him being as loud as you.
It was a dream that could easily be achieved.
Bruce’s free hand slipped the strap of your nightdress down. His eyes met yours in the mirror of your vanity as he kept pushing it down. He twitched in your hands with the feeling of your tongue circling around his fingers in your mouth. You saw him close his eyes for a few second through the mirror. When he opened them back, his eyes fell on the view of your breats. He gently tocuhed the swell of your breasts, fingers brushed over your nipple. His gentleness vanished away when he squeezed you in his palm, making you yelp one more time.
He finally slipped his fingers out of your mouth. Spit followed his tracks as he went down and down until he reached your pussy one more time. “My pretty woman,” he whispered to your ear. “So wet and ready for me… As always.”
Your eyes nearly rolled back in their beds. God, the things he could make you feel with only his words…
You couldn’t wait anymore. Bending yourself over to the vanity, you teased your entrance with his hard cock. You heard Bruce curse, his filthy mouth was on your neck as he breathed deeply. “Bruce, please… Please.” Your pleas kept slipping out of your mouth. He gently pushed your hand on his cock and held himself against you. He pushed your gown a little bit down, making it pool around your waist. After he gave your tits one last squeeze, he pushed your body over the vanity, having you completely lean on it. You watched your perfume bottles falling to the ground but neither of you couldn’t care any less.
You could see Bruce from the corner of your eyes, you could see everything he was doing, but nothing could prepare you to the sudden feeling of his cock entering your cunt in a swift move. You almost screamed as you were pushed forward by his hips hitting yours. Bruce let out a groan alongside with a loud “Fuck” meanwhile you were getting accustomed to the fullness inside you.
He hit such places that made your eyes roll back. Your mouth was agape. You thought it would be the peak and then you’d get used to his cock being inside you— but when his hips started beating yours in a harsh speed you’ve never had before, your moans filled the room. You heard the slapping of your hips even through your moans and his gruntings. He hit the places you never knew existed.
“Bruce…” You whined into nothing. Your hands tried to grab something but couldn’t find something suitable. Even though you had found something, you wouldn’t be able to grab it because as soon as Bruce realized how desperate you were, he caught both your arms and pulled them behind you, locking your hands together in his grasp.
His other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and helped your head up, showing you your reflection in the mirror, and him behind you. “See how pretty you look when I’m inside you,” He pulled himself out, only leaving the tip inside, then pushed again. You saw the woman in the mirror gasp and laugh at the same time. Must have been the pleasure you were gettting… “You take me so well, love. Just for my cock to fill.” His hand grapsed your chin this time. You saw his smirk in the mirror. He was having so much fun. His moans arrived at your ears when you squeezed around him. “Cum on my cock, angel, I can feel you.”
You could feel him, too. He was close, so close, but was waiting for you to finish first. This was something Bruce had, it was like an obession with him. He had to make sure you were having your pleasure. His pleasure was such a small thing next to yours.
“Bru— I’m so fuckin’ close.”
It was like fuel for him to hear your words. After giving your cheek a good caress, he places his hand on your hips. Now, as he was pounding into you, he was also pulling you towards himself, doubling your pleasure. The fact that your hands were held behind you, away from being able to touch your aching clit was making you go even madder. Before you could close your eyes with the building knot inside you, you felt his hand slap against your ass. “No, watch yourself. I want you… to see…” You realized he was holding himself. He was so close. “What I love seeing.”
So you watched yourself come undone. It wasn’t like you could focus on your face as he pounded into you, making you see stars, but you didn’t avert your eyes from the sight in the mirror as you came on his cock. You felt something wet going down your chin, but you didn’t care. He slammed his hips one more time and stayed rooted deep inside you. You felt his cum hit your walls. His graps in your hands got loose and eventually he let your hands fall. You placed them on the wood surface of the vanity. Bruce leaned over your body until his chest was resting on your back. He left small kisses on your shoulder as he took deep breaths.
You still could feel him twitch inside you, but as seconds passed, he was getting softer. He slowly pulled himself out of you and you whined into the void with the sudden emptiness. His seed was leaking through your cunt and flowing down your tighs. Bruce caught them before they could stain the carpet, and pushed right back in.
“Bruce…” You warned him. Everything was so sensitive.
Bruce laughed and pulled you both to stand up. Your legs were shaking, he knew that, so he had you lean into him. His arms wrapped around your body, completely cooconing you. “You were so good.” He whispered against your skin.
“I see your mood is up.”
“Thanks to you.” He grabbed your legs and picked you up, making his way to the bathroom.
Your arms hugged around his neck and did not move an inch while he was cleaning you up. His touch was so feather like that you barely felt him there. Your eyes were nearly closed, sleep was haunting over you, but you found the strenght in yourself to kiss his cheek. You felt something slick on your skin once again and this time you checked what it was.
“Ugh, disgusting.” You murmured and he raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe you had me drooling.”
A cocky smirk was placed on his face. He wiped your chin with the back of his hand. “Sweetheart, we do worse than drools. If you think that is disgusting—”
“Oh, shut up.” You slapped his naked chest. You placed your head on his shoulder as he kept cleaning your body with a wet towel. You were sitting on his legs and it was the most comfortable place ever. “What happened tonight? What got you so mad?”
His hand stilled for a moment but then he kept doing what he had been. He patted your thigh to make you sure before he spoke, “Nothing worth mentioning. I am better now.” He said. “Better than ever.”
Hi, I hope you're doing well. I love your blog! Could I ask you to write a story featuring TOTO Wolff and a MILF!reader? Both of them should be divorced.
Tiny Strategist, Big Trouble
🐺 main masterlist
Toto Wolff x milf!reader
Summary: You are a divorced Mercedes engineer, desperately trying to survive a race weekend with your very observant seven-year-old daughter in tow. Unfortunately for your dignity, Greta immediately befriends Toto, exposes your feelings with surgical precision, and accidentally becomes the most dangerous strategist Mercedes has ever employed.
a/n: It was in my drafts for a while, but here it is! 😉
Word count: 3.9k
You arrive at the paddock with one laptop bag, one backpack full of snacks, one tablet, three emergency juice boxes, two stuffed animals, and a seven-year-old daughter who looks at the Mercedes garage like she has just walked into a kingdom she intends to conquer.
Greta holds your hand, her little face serious beneath her Mercedes cap.
“Mummy,” she says, “this place has too many men standing around looking important.”
You nearly choke on your coffee. “That is… painfully accurate.”
She nods wisely. “Do they all know what they’re doing?”
You look toward the garage, where three engineers are arguing over data, one mechanic is gesturing at a tyre blanket like it personally betrayed him, and George is walking past with a smoothie and the expression of a man trying not to get involved in anything.
“Mostly,” you say.
Greta gives you a look.
You sigh. “Some of the time.”
“That sounds like my school group projects.”
You squeeze her hand. “Please do not say that near anyone important.”
Naturally, this is the exact moment Toto appears. Tall. Immaculate. Black Mercedes shirt. Sunglasses in hand. The kind of calm authority that makes everyone around him suddenly remember they have jobs, responsibilities, and possibly sins to confess.
His eyes find you first. Then they drop to Greta.
And then, because the universe enjoys making your life difficult, his mouth curves into that slow, amused smile that has been your personal problem for months.
“Well,” Toto says, stopping in front of you. “This is new.”
You straighten immediately. Professional. Competent. Not a woman who has been thinking about his hands far too often during debriefs.
“Toto. This is Greta. My daughter.”
Greta looks him up and down. Very slowly. Then she says, “You are very tall.”
Toto’s eyebrows lift. “I have been told.”
“Do you use it to intimidate people?”
There is a small, deadly silence. Somewhere behind you, Bono coughs like he is dying.
You close your eyes. “Greta.”
Toto’s smile grows. “Sometimes,” he says.
Greta nods, approving. “Efficient.”
Toto glances at you. “I like her.”
“Yes,” you mutter. “Most people do until she starts asking questions.”
“I ask good questions,” Greta says.
“You ask dangerous questions.”
“That means they are good.”
Toto laughs. Actually laughs. Not the polite media laugh. Not the dry, diplomatic sound he uses when someone asks if Mercedes is “confident” after a chaotic Friday practice.
A real laugh. Warm. Low. Ridiculously attractive.
You hate the universe.
Greta looks between you and Toto with sudden interest.
Oh no. You know that face. That is the face she makes when she solves a puzzle.
“Mummy,” she says slowly, “is this the man you complain about and then smile at your phone?”
You stop breathing.
The garage stops breathing. A mechanic physically turns away as if witnessing a crime scene.
Toto, absolute traitor that he is, looks delighted. “Is that so?” he asks.
“No,” you say quickly.
“Yes,” Greta says at the same time. “She says, Toto is impossible, but then she smiles. It is confusing.”
Toto tilts his head. “Impossible?”
You glare at him. “Leadership-wise.”
“Ah.”
“Strategically.”
“Of course.”
“Professionally.”
His mouth twitches. “Naturally.”
Greta frowns. “No, I think she means romantically.”
You make a sound that should never come from a grown woman in a Formula 1 garage.
“Greta, look! A front wing!”
She turns immediately. “Where?”
You point somewhere vague and pray for divine mercy.
Toto leans slightly closer to you, voice low. “Romantically impossible?”
You stare at him. “Do not start.”
“I didn’t start anything.”
“You are smiling.”
“I am enjoying new data.”
“You are enjoying my public execution.”
“Also true.”
Before you can respond with something career-ending, Greta tugs your hand. “Mummy, can I see the car?”
You are about to say no because race weekends are controlled chaos wrapped in carbon fibre, but Toto speaks first. “I can show her.”
You blink. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You have meetings.”
“I own the meetings. They can wait three minutes.”
“They cannot.”
“They can fear me for three minutes.”
Greta looks up at him with pure admiration. “That is a good leadership style.”
“Thank you.”
You stare at both of them.
This is already going badly. Very badly.
And yet, ten minutes later, Toto Wolff is crouched beside your daughter near the back of the garage, explaining the car to her with the patience of a man teaching a tiny genius the laws of physics.
Greta listens with intense focus. “So the airflow must behave?” she asks.
“In a perfect world, yes.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then your mother gets angry.”
Greta nods. “She gets quiet first. That is worse.”
Toto looks over his shoulder at you. You are standing with your arms crossed, pretending to review data on your tablet while absolutely watching them.
“She does that here too,” Toto says.
Greta sighs. “Yes. It means someone is about to have a bad day.”
Toto’s eyes sparkle. “You are very observant.”
“I know. Mummy says it is a blessing and a threat.”
“That sounds accurate.”
Then Greta lowers her voice, though not enough. “Do you like my mummy?”
Your soul leaves your body.
Toto does not answer immediately. That is the worst part.
He looks at Greta, then at you. Something soft passes through his expression, quick but unmistakable.
“I respect your mummy very much,” he says.
Greta narrows her eyes. “That is not what I asked.”
A nearby engineer makes a noise into his sleeve. Toto presses his lips together.
You march over. “Okay, interrogation finished. Greta, snack time.”
“But he didn’t answer.”
“Exactly. Snack time.”
Toto rises slowly, still amused. “I was under pressure.”
“You run a Formula 1 team.”
“She is more intimidating than the FIA.”
Greta beams. “Thank you.”
By lunch, Greta has become part of Mercedes operations.
You do not know how.
You looked away for five minutes to discuss tyre degradation and somehow your daughter is sitting at a hospitality table with George, explaining to him that his hair looks “very neat, like a prince who owns too many sweaters.”
George looks touched and confused. Kimi is laughing so hard into his pasta that he nearly chokes.
Toto sits across from Greta, drinking coffee, entirely too pleased with the situation.
You approach with suspicion. “What is happening?”
Greta looks up. “I am making friends.”
“You are ranking drivers based on hair.”
“That is friendship.”
George points at her. “She gave me nine out of ten.”
“Why not ten?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Greta shrugs. “Nobody gets ten. They stop trying.”
Toto leans back. “Wise.”
You look at him. “Do not encourage her.”
“I am learning.”
“From a seven-year-old?”
“She has strong management potential.”
Greta brightens. “Can I manage something?”
“No,” you say.
Toto says, “Maybe.”
“Toto.”
“What? Talent development is important.”
Greta gasps. “Can I manage Mummy?”
“No,” you say again.
Toto’s smile turns dangerous. “That position is highly competitive.”
Your cheeks heat immediately. George suddenly becomes extremely interested in his pasta.
Kimi whispers, “Oh my God.”
Greta looks between you and Toto again. There it is. The puzzle face.
“You both act strange,” she says.
“We do not,” you say.
“You do,” George mutters.
You glare at him. He raises both hands. “I mean, strategically.”
The afternoon becomes worse. Or better. You are not sure anymore.
Greta sits beside you during a quiet moment in the engineering office, coloring in a notebook while you work through telemetry. She hums to herself, occasionally asking questions that are far too intelligent for your peace of mind.
“Why is that line lower than the other one?”
“Because we’re losing performance in that sector.”
“Can you fix it?”
“We’re trying.”
“Does Toto know?”
You pause.
“Yes.”
“Then why isn’t he standing behind you looking intense?”
You blink at her. As if summoned by a curse, Toto appears in the doorway.
Greta points at him. “There.”
He looks from her to you. “Should I ask?”
“No,” you say.
He enters anyway. He comes to stand beside your chair, leaning slightly over your shoulder to look at the screen. He is close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne. Expensive and annoyingly good.
Your brain loses twenty percent operational capacity.
Greta watches you. You know she does. You can feel it.
Toto points at the data. “Sector two?”
“Yes,” you say, proud that your voice works. “Rear instability mid-corner. We can adjust mapping, but it’ll compromise exit.”
He hums, focused now. This is the dangerous version of him. Calm, sharp, entirely present. The version that reminds you why you respect him so much. And why you are in trouble.
Greta suddenly says, “When you stand close to Mummy, she forgets how to breathe.”
Your hand slips on the mouse. Toto goes very still. Then, slowly, he looks down at you.
You stare at the screen like it contains the secrets of the universe. “Greta,” you say weakly.
She looks innocent. “What? You do.”
Toto’s voice is quiet, amused. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Your ears are red.”
“They are warm.”
“The room is cold.”
“I hate both of you.”
Greta smiles. “You don’t hate him.”
Toto’s expression softens. Something in your chest squeezes. For one second, the noise of the paddock feels far away. Then Bradley appears in the doorway, sees Toto standing too close, Greta looking smug, and you looking like you want to crawl under the desk.
He pauses.
“I’ll come back.”
“Good choice,” Toto says.
Bradley vanishes.
Greta whispers, “He is scared of you.”
Toto says, “Only when necessary.”
*
That evening, after qualifying, the garage finally exhales.
Greta has survived her first full paddock day with fewer disasters than expected, though she has somehow acquired a Mercedes lanyard, a signed cap, two cookies from hospitality, and what appears to be a sticker from George’s personal supply.
You sit outside the motorhome with her curled against your side, sleepy now, her earlier confidence softened by exhaustion.
Toto finds you there.
The sky is turning gold, the paddock buzzing around you, but for once the moment feels quiet.
“She did well today,” he says.
You smile, brushing hair from Greta’s forehead. “She did. Better than some adults.”
“That is not difficult.”
You laugh softly.
Greta opens one eye. “I heard that.”
Toto sits opposite you, still in team kit, sleeves pushed up, looking unfairly relaxed for a man who has spent the day running an empire.
Greta studies him sleepily. “You should come for pancakes,” she says.
You freeze. “Greta.”
Toto raises an eyebrow. “Pancakes?”
“Mummy makes them on Sundays when she is not pretending she doesn’t like people.”
“I do not pretend that.”
Greta ignores you. “You can come. But if you hurt her feelings, I will not give you syrup.”
Toto’s amusement fades gently. He looks at your daughter with unexpected seriousness. “That would be a fair punishment.”
Greta nods, satisfied. Then she adds, “Also I have a glitter pen.”
Toto looks grave. “I understand the threat.”
“You should.”
You cover your face with one hand. “I am so sorry.”
Toto’s gaze shifts to you. “No,” he says softly. “Don’t be.”
You lower your hand. There is something different in his eyes now. Less teasing, more truth.
Greta yawns dramatically, then snuggles deeper into your side. “She likes you,” she murmurs to Toto.
You close your eyes. “Greta.”
“She does,” your daughter insists, already half-asleep. “She smiles when you text. And she wears the nice perfume when she knows you’ll be here.”
Silence. Absolute silence. Then Toto says, very softly, “Does she?”
You want the ground to swallow you whole.
Instead, you look at him. And maybe you are too tired to pretend. Maybe the day has been too long. Maybe watching him with your daughter has cracked something open in you, something careful and guarded and bruised from years of doing everything alone.
“Yes,” you say quietly. “She does.”
Toto’s expression changes. The teasing disappears completely. For a moment, he just looks at you like you have handed him something fragile. Something he intends to protect.
Greta, apparently done with emotional warfare, falls asleep against you.
Toto notices immediately. “Let me help.”
“I can carry her.”
“I know you can.”
His voice is gentle. A hand offered without taking anything from you.
Your throat tightens. You nod.
He stands and carefully lifts Greta into his arms. She barely stirs, only mumbles something about syrup and “tall boss man.”
Toto glances at you. “Tall boss man?”
You sigh. “Apparently.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
He carries her as if she is made of glass.
And your heart, already foolish, already inconvenient, does something truly reckless. It trusts him a little more.
At the car park, he settles Greta carefully into the back seat, making sure her head is supported, her cap tucked beside her. Then he closes the door softly and turns to you.
The paddock lights shine behind him.
You suddenly feel very tired. And very seen.
“I’m sorry about today,” you say. “Her father was supposed to have her this weekend, but apparently his business trip was more important than remembering I also have a job.”
Toto’s face hardens. Just slightly. “He sounds like an idiot.”
You laugh, surprised. “Very diplomatic.”
“I am off duty.”
“No, you’re not.”
“For this conversation, I am.”
Your smile fades a little. “She’s used to it,” you admit. “Me figuring things out. Making it work.”
Toto steps closer. “You shouldn’t always have to.”
You look away because that lands somewhere dangerous. Soft places. Tired places. Places you do not usually let anyone touch.
“Toto…”
“I know,” he says. “You are independent. Capable. Terrifying when tired.”
You huff a laugh.
“But,” he continues, voice lower, “being strong does not mean doing everything alone.”
Your eyes sting. Annoying. Highly unprofessional. “Are you giving me a leadership speech in a car park?”
“Yes.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
“With my daughter asleep in the back seat?”
“She would approve.”
“She would ask if this is romantic.”
His mouth curves. “Is it?”
Your breath catches. There it is. The first step. Finally.
After months of almosts. Almost touching. Almost saying. Almost admitting.
You look at him. “I think,” you say slowly, “Greta would say yes.”
“And you?”
You smile, small but real. “I might agree with my strategist.”
Toto’s gaze softens. Then he reaches out, slow enough for you to stop him, and brushes his thumb gently over your cheek.
It is barely a touch. Still, your whole world seems to pause.
“I would like to take you to dinner,” he says. “Properly. No meetings. No data. No hiding behind sector times.”
You swallow. “And Greta?”
His smile returns, warm and amused. “Pancakes first, apparently. I have been invited.”
“You are aware she will interrogate you.”
“I look forward to negotiating syrup rights.”
You laugh, and it feels easy. It feels possible.
Behind you, Greta suddenly mumbles from inside the car, “I heard that.”
Both of you freeze. Her eyes remain closed. “Also,” she adds sleepily, “he can come for pancakes.”
Toto looks at you. You look at Toto. Then Greta whispers, “But no kissing before breakfast. That’s weird.”
Toto presses his lips together. You nearly lose it.
“I will respect the rules,” he says solemnly.
Greta sighs. “Good.”
You open the driver’s door, cheeks warm, heart lighter than it has been in months.
Before you get in, Toto leans slightly closer. There is no kiss, not yet. Just close enough to promise that eventually, when breakfast rules no longer apply, he absolutely intends to.
“Drive safe,” he says.
“I will.”
“And text me when you get back.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bossy.”
“Concerned.”
“Same thing with you.”
He smiles. “Goodnight.”
You get into the car. As you pull away, Greta opens one eye in the rear-view mirror.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, sweatheart?”
“I like him.”
You glance at the mirror, where Toto is still standing beneath the paddock lights, watching your car leave.
Your heart does that foolish thing again. “I know.”
Greta yawns. “He looks at you like you are the best strategy.”
You blink fast, smiling despite yourself. “Go to sleep, Greta.”
She closes her eyes. But not before whispering, “You’re welcome.”
*
Morning arrives with sunlight sneaking through the curtains and Greta standing beside your bed like a tiny tax inspector.
“Mummy.”
You open one eye. “Why are you vertical?”
“Because it is pancake day.”
“It is race weekend.”
“It is pancake day with racing.”
You groan into your pillow. “That sounds illegal.”
Greta ignores this. She already has your phone.
Your soul wakes up before the rest of you. “Greta.”
Too late. She taps the screen with terrifying confidence, puts the phone on speaker, and waits.
One ring. Two. Three.
Then Toto’s voice comes through, low, rough, and very much still half-asleep.
“Yes?”
Greta beams. “Good morning, tall boss man. Are you coming for pancakes?”
You sit up so fast you nearly pull something.
“Greta!”
There is a pause. Then Toto laughs softly on the other end.
“Good morning, Greta.”
“You did not answer.”
“I am coming.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“With appetite?”
“With appetite.”
“And good intentions?”
You cover your face.
Toto sounds far too amused. “Those as well.”
Greta nods, satisfied. “Good. Mummy is making coffee. She looks like she needs it.”
“Tell Mummy I will be there soon.”
Greta looks at you. “He says he’ll be here soon.”
“I heard.”
She lowers her voice, though Toto is still on speaker. “She heard.”
“I know,” Toto says.
You take the phone and end the call before your seven-year-old can negotiate marriage terms before breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, there is a knock on the hotel apartment door.
Greta sprints.
You follow, wiping flour from your fingers, hair still slightly messy, wearing soft trousers and an oversized jumper because dignity clearly left with yesterday’s paddock pass.
Greta opens the door.
Toto stands there in a plain T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, hair slightly tousled, looking unfairly handsome and a little sleepy. It should be illegal. Honestly, there should be FIA regulations.
Greta studies him. “You look less scary in normal clothes.”
Toto steps inside, smiling. “Thank you. I think.”
“You may enter.”
“Very generous.”
You stand in the kitchen doorway, trying very hard not to stare at the way his T-shirt fits his shoulders. You fail.
Toto catches you failing. His smile softens. “Good morning.”
You clear your throat. “Morning.”
Greta looks between you. “No kissing before breakfast.”
Toto lifts both hands. “I remember the rule.”
“Good. Sit. We have questions.”
“We?” you ask.
“Yes,” Greta says. “I represent the family.”
“You represent chaos.”
“Same thing.”
Breakfast is warm, messy, and far too cozy for your poor heart.
Greta sits across from Toto with pancakes stacked in front of her, syrup bottle guarded like a national treasure. Toto drinks coffee beside you, his knee almost brushing yours under the table.
The man is a menace with excellent manners.
Greta points her fork at him. “Do you have children?”
“Yes,” Toto says easily. “I have older children Rosie and Ben, and I have a younger son, Jack, around your age.”
Greta perks up. “Does he like pancakes?”
“He does.”
“Good. That is important.”
“Very.”
“Are you married?”
You nearly inhale your coffee. “Greta.”
She looks at you seriously. “I need to know.”
“No, I’m divorced,” Toto says, calm and honest.
Greta considers this. “Was it sad?”
Toto’s face changes just a little. You feel your chest tighten.
“Yes,” he says gently. “Sometimes. But adults can care about each other and still not be right together anymore.”
Greta nods as if filing this under useful adult nonsense. “Do you shout?”
Toto blinks. “At work?”
“At people you love.”
The room quiets. You look at your daughter.
Toto’s voice turns softer. “No,” he says. “Not like that.”
Greta watches him for another second, then finally pushes the syrup toward him. “You may have some.”
Toto accepts it like he has just been granted knighthood. “I’m honored.”
“You should be.”
You stand, because suddenly you need a napkin from the counter and also two seconds to breathe.
As you step away, Greta’s voice drops. You still hear her.
“My dad does not really look after me,” she says quietly. “He forgets things. Mummy says he is busy, but I think he just does not want to.”
Your hand stills on the napkin drawer.
Toto says nothing. Greta continues, smaller now. “Mummy cried a lot because of him. Now she cries less.”
Your throat burns. Then Toto answers, low and steady. “Your mummy deserves to cry less.”
“She does.”
“And you deserve people who show up.”
A pause.
“Will you?” Greta asks.
You close your eyes.
Toto’s answer comes without hesitation. “Yes.”
You turn back before your emotions can fully betray you. Greta is pretending to focus on her pancake. Toto is looking at her with a kind of careful tenderness that makes something inside you ache.
Then Greta brightens suddenly. “Good. Because Mummy makes better pancakes when she is happy.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Excuse me?”
“She does,” Greta insists. “Sad pancakes are flatter.”
Toto looks at his plate with deep seriousness. “These are excellent pancakes.”
“Exactly,” Greta says.
You sit back down, cheeks warm, heart exposed in the middle of a hotel breakfast table like some kind of emotional croissant.
Toto’s hand finds yours under the table. Slowly. Quietly. He does not make a show of it. He just laces his fingers with yours, warm and steady.
Greta sees anyway, because of course she does. She smiles into her orange juice. “Acceptable,” she says.
You shake your head. “Thank you, your majesty.”
After breakfast, Greta curls on the sofa with her stuffed animals and cartoons, officially “not watching you,” which means watching you with full intelligence agency focus.
Toto helps you carry plates to the sink.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say.
“I know.”
“You run Mercedes.”
“I can survive a dishwasher.”
“That remains unproven.”
He laughs, and the sound fills the little kitchen like morning sun. Then he sets the plates down and turns to you. Closer now. Still careful, sitill waiting.
“I meant what I said last night,” he says.
Your breath catches. “About dinner?”
“About you.”
Your smile fades into something softer.
Toto reaches for your hand again. “I care about you,” he says, voice low. “More than I should have allowed myself to at first. More than is convenient. But I do.”
You look up at him. “And Greta?”
His expression warms. “She is terrifying.”
You laugh.
“And wonderful,” he adds. “And I understand that you come together. I would never ask you to separate those parts of your life.”
Your eyes sting. “You say very dangerous things before nine in the morning.”
“I had pancakes. I’m brave now.”
You laugh again, quieter this time. From the sofa, Greta calls, “No kissing!”
Toto does not look away from you. “After breakfast,” he says.
Greta gasps. “I said before breakfast!”
You bite your lip, fighting a smile.
Toto leans closer, his eyes warm and wicked. “Breakfast is finished.”
Greta screams into a cushion.
You laugh just as Toto kisses your cheek. Soft and warm. It's a promise, more than a claim.
Greta peeks over the cushion. “That was acceptable,” she announces. “Barely.”
Toto nods solemnly. “I will work to improve my score.”
“You better.”
You lean against the counter, his hand still holding yours, your daughter giggling on the sofa, sunlight across the room, pancakes on the table, coffee growing cold.
For the first time in a long time, morning does not feel like something you have to survive.
It feels like something is beginning.
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