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[themostevilofpeenar]

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[catbayunthestoryteller]

Truce

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader (Modern AU)

Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.

a/n: In honor of Daemon's comeback in ep2. He's so maniacal but he made me laugh so many times.

The first time you mentioned divorce, Daemon had laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more like the sound someone makes when a child insists they’re running away to join the circus. Dismissive. Almost fond. He’d kissed your forehead and told you to spend the weekend at the spa, his treat, and the next day a black card arrived by courier with a note in his sharp, slashing handwriting: For whatever you need. —D

That had been four months ago. The card was still in your wallet. You’d used it exactly once, to pay the retainer for a divorce attorney.

Now you stood on the balcony of the hotel suite in Pentos, watching the Narrow Sea churn itself into a gray-green froth as a storm rolled in from the west. Behind you, through the open doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of your sons arguing over a video game and the lower, smoother cadence of Daemon’s voice as he settled whatever dispute had arisen. Aegon, at six, was already developing his father’s talent for theatrical indignation. Viserys, barely four, just wanted to be included.

The Targaryen family vacation. Two weeks in a luxury resort that Daemon’s brother Viserys, the elder Viserys, had booked for the entire clan. A chance to “reconnect,” Viserys had said in that ponderous way of his, as if family bonds were something you could schedule into a Google Calendar and tick off like a board meeting.

You’d tried to get out of it. You’d tried to tell Daemon that going on a family holiday while you were actively meeting with lawyers was absurd, farcical, the kind of thing that would make you the villain in a made-for-TV movie. He’d listened with that infuriating half-smile of his, the one that said you’re adorable when you’re worked up, and then he’d informed you that the flights were booked, the boys were excited, and he’d already told Viserys you’d be there.

“I’m not discussing this with you,” you’d said, standing in the kitchen of your King's Landing townhouse, hands braced against the marble island. “I’m telling you. I’m filing for divorce.”

“You’re not.”

“Daemon...”

“You’re not filing for anything.” He’d crossed the kitchen with that predatory grace he’d never lost, even in a cashmere sweater and trousers. His hands had settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back in a way that made your body betray you with a shiver. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been dealing with my brother’s wife and her...” He’d paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t quite cross the line into outright insult. “Her ambitions. Let me handle it.”

“You can’t handle this, Daemon. You can’t throw money at me until I forget I’m unhappy.”

Something had flickered in his eyes then, a flash of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, before it was swallowed by that practiced Targaryen hauteur. “Unhappy,” he’d repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. “I’ve given you everything.”

“You’ve given me things. There’s a difference.”

He hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d done what he always did when a conversation veered into territory he didn’t want to explore: he’d withdrawn, not physically but emotionally, the drawbridge coming up behind his eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. The boys need to be put to bed.”

And that had been that. The next morning, suitcases had appeared in the foyer, and Daemon had been all brisk efficiency and paternal warmth, directing the children, consulting with the nanny, and you’d found yourself swept along in the current of his will, as you always did, as you had been since the day you met him at an event ten years ago.

The storm was moving faster now. Lightning split the sky to the west, a jagged white scar that illuminated the darkening sea. You started counting automatically, a habit from childhood: one, two, three, four, five, and the thunder rolled across the water, a deep, bone-rattling growl. Five seconds. About a mile away.

“Storm’s getting closer.”

You didn’t turn. You’d felt him before you’d heard him, that particular awareness you’d never been able to shake, the way your body seemed to know when Daemon Targaryen was in a room. He stepped onto the balcony beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you saw that he was holding two glasses of wine.

“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”

“Of course he did.”

Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.

You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”

“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”

“Daemon.”

“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.

Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.

It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.

“I’m thinking about divorce.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”

“Daemon.”

“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”

“Daemon, I want a divorce.”

This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”

“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”

He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.

Dinner was excruciating.

The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.

Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.

“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”

“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.

“Did he.”

“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”

Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.

“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”

“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”

You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”

Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.

It made you nervous.

“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”

Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”

“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”

Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”

“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.

But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”

“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”

“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”

“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”

“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”

“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”

Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.

“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”

“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”

Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”

“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”

“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”

“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”

The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.

You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.

“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”

Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.

“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”

Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”

“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.

The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.

You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.

But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.

The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.

And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.

You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.

They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.

But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.

Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.

“They’re asleep,” you said.

“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”

You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.

“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”

“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”

“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”

“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”

“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”

He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”

“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”

“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”

“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”

“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”

“You arrogant...”

“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”

His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.

“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”

“They’re asleep.”

“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”

You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.

The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.

In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.

When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.

“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”

You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.

You’d been right.

“That was a long time ago,” you said.

“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”

“It feels like a lifetime.”

He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.

“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”

“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”

“I know.”

“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”

“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”

“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”

“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”

“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”

Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.

“You’re right,” he said finally.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”

“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.

“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”

“You...how?”

“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”

“Daemon…”

“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”

“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”

“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”

Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.

“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.

Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.

“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”

You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.

“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”

“I know. You should be.”

“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”

“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”

The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.

Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.

When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.

“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”

“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”

“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”

As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.

“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”

“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”

“You’re wrong.”

“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”

“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”

“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me anyway.”

You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.

The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.

“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.

“Daemon.”

“Hmm?”

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“For now.”

His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.

You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.

But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.

“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.

You went.

His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.

“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”

Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.

“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.

“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”

“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”

“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.

a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Do you have any fic recs of Erwin being absolutely smitten with Levi?

Like when he saw Levi for the first time in the underground and he has that crazy look in his eyes, that kind of vibe. Thank you!🖤🖤

You mean like this?

Would you be surprised if I told you that I already have a rec list of smitten Erwin fics? 😅 Here you go. Enjoy!

Irascible by bigasstrees and revai-lution

Thicker than Water by @ladymacbethsspot

Cardamom by @lostcauses-noregrets

Different Stars by @thefangirlingdead 

Lucid Dreams by @francisthegreat​

Four Years Later by @everythingshiny​

Datura by @ellabesmirched​

HMS Maria by @lostcauses-noregrets

Gilded by Night by rivai-lution

Spellbound by @ladymacbethsspot

What Lies Unseen by aelandair

call it dreaming by theorchidinthecanyon

Corps-à-Corps by onthearrow

[fir890]

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

But Im A Preachers Son

by blu3b3rry But I’m a Cheerleader - But make it gay Superbat. Clark Kent is a devout Christian man. He goes to church, prays, everything he should. And he likes women he has a girlfriend. But he doesn’t like women and now he doesn’t have a girlfriend because he’s now enlisted in a gay reform school for six months and Bruce Wayne could not be happier. Or gay Bruce Wayne fucks Clark so well he cusses for the first time. Words: 4577, Chapters: 2/2, Language: English Fandoms: Superman - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Clark Kent, Jonathan "Pa" Kent, Martha Kent, Bruce Wayne Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Internalized Homophobia, Internal Conflict, Electricity, Tasers, But Small & Harmless, Slight Pain Kink, Clark Kent has powers, Clark Kent Has a Praise Kink, Power Bottom Bruce Wayne, slight degradation, Christianity, Author Is Not Religious, Religious Guilt, Prayer, during sex, super strength, Laser eyes, Reform School, Hand Jobs, Grinding, Coming Inside Someone, Begging, Desperation, Verbal Humiliation, Gay Bruce Wayne, Homophobic Clark Kent, Gay Clark Kent, Clark Kent is Not Superman, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Stuttering, Self-Indulgent, The Glasses Stay On via https://ift.tt/mI0wj6K

[bombadilberry]

Thorfinn & Einar in their Barn (full view below cut)

[4drian321]

cant believe I forgot to reblog this cus this is my fav Eitoru art of all time. I always come back to look at it

Thank u bombadilberry

[themostevilofpeenar]

Happy new year! Here’s a little new years hamster to start 2026 off right

I hope all of your new year’s wishes come true!

[themostevilofpeenar]

Happy holidays!

This hamster is for all the people who love eggnog because why not?

Avatar hamsters coming soon

[darlinglovedoe]

Superbat Mafia AU

Blood was difficult to get out of clothing. It splotched the fabric erratically, causing a mess of tarnished material. Bruce scrubbed at his shirt, trying to get the splatters off the collar before Clark got home.

It’d been a while since he’d gone out on the hunt, searching for trouble. Clark kept him hidden away, “safe”. So he did it under an alias that his dear husband would never figure out.

Batman.

“Bruce?” Clark’s voice came from downstairs, the heavy doors of the manor shutting loudly before footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. Bruce cursed under his breath, using some of the cold water to wash off some of the blood that had gotten on his cheek before quickly putting the now wet shirt back on.

He walked out of the bathroom as soon as Clark walked in. His face softened from its usually sternness as soon as his eyes landed on his dear husband.

Without noticing, he wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling his flush against his large chest. Bruce stiffened for a second before melting into his warm touch, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, burrowing his face in his neck.

"I missed you." Clark sighed, making Bruce chuckle. "We saw each other this morning." Clark, in all his stoicism, pouted. A face only his husband was lucky enough to see. "Too long considering all the idiots I had to deal with today." His jaw clenched as he remembered everything that had happened today.

Bruce's eyes and touch were soft as he rubbed Clark's arms soothingly. "Well, it's over now. Wanna talk about it?" Clark opened his mouth, about to go on a tangent about a new vigilante that had taken residence in one of their cities, but his eyes instead caught on something smudged on his innocent husband's cheek.

"What's that?" His hand dislodged from where it held Bruce's waist, thumb wiping off some blood from his cheekbone. Bruce swallowed, eyes shifting between Clark's dark blue before he schooled his features. "Nothing," He grasped his wrist, pulling his hand back. "Probably just knicked myself while shaving earlier and didn't notice." Clark seemed to buy it, fingers moving downwards as they touched along the wet collar of Bruce's shirt.

"Is that why your collar is wet and pink too?" Clark had always been skeptical, even before they had dated. Bruce was a doctor when they met, thinking of changing careers to be a detective. When he found out Clark was no better than a criminal, running the dirty underground of both Gotham and Metropolis. Clark caught everything---saw everything.

Especially when it came to his husband, the sweetest, kindest man he'd ever met.

The man he thought he knew everything about. Someone he thought didn't hold secrets from him.

Look! I finally started it!!

[themostevilofpeenar]

Oh this is yummy

[themostevilofpeenar]

Who pays their taxes…NOT BATMAN

[themostevilofpeenar]

I can’t wait to sleep school is kicking my ass

[jewelweedss]

Fic Recs: SuperBat Pt 1

A Rose by Any Other Name

Save the Honeymoon for Last

The Ideal Man

In my youth...

Back to Square One

Fears Unfounded

Padam Padam

said i would never break this promise

Betrayal and Buttered Noodles

The things I could never say

Heart's Desire

Embarrassing to Say

Interview with a Batman

ship-to-ship combat

prodigal son

The Joy of Mekhzh

#Superbat

Till Sunbeams Find You

wildest dreams (burn it down)

World's Finest: Idiots Edition

Building Healthy Relationships: A Guide by Hal Jordan

(Credit to @angelgemy for the beautiful fanart)

[nigaki]

Superbat with Morticia and Gomez Addams type of relationship. They're utterly obsessed with tiniest things about each other.

The way Clark holds the tip of his glasses between his teeth in concentration? Bruce needs to kiss him right here and there or he'll explode, because he can't stand those stupid glasses being anywhere near Clark's mouth instead of him.

The way Bruce twirls a pen between his fingers to keep his hands busy while working on a case? Clark quickly finds a better way to occupy Bruce's hands by kissing them while kneeling on the floor next to him. Bruce doesn't even pause his work.

They’re so devoted to each other that a magic spell or a potion aimed to make them fall in love in someone else would only make them love each other harder. Zatanna and Ivy both tried that once(out of curiosity and out of personal gain) and it didn’t work.

They're both freaks and they can't always hide it in front of others. Clark already asked Diana once if they can borrow her lasso. She was open to say yes until she realized it wasn't for an investigation.

The subject of batarangs, taser or grappling gun being used in the bedroom was brought up as a joke more than once and everyone in the League knows it wasn't really a joke.

Barry once saw Bruce tinkering with a red sun light and asked if it was for his contingency plan against Superman. Bruce deadpan said it was for their bedroom for when Clark feels like being more fragile. Barry never bothered Bruce in his workshop ever again.

They often make out after a hard battle because they still run on adrenaline and they find each other fighting hot as hell. It doesn't matter if they're both exhausted and bloodied, they jump each other anyway. The taste of blood makes it better.

Clark could and did wrote poetry about Bruce and every inch of his perfect body. He has some explicit version too and he read them all to Bruce.

Bruce plays piano for Clark regularly.

9 out of 10 times they end up having sex on that piano because Clark can't stand how elegant those fingers are when moving smoothly over they keys.

They have plans to be buried in one casket.

They already picked it.

Anyway, madly in love Superbat is my weakness.

[themostevilofpeenar]

HELLO?

[themostevilofpeenar]

Happy Thanksgiving!

Here’s a thanksgiving hamster I hope everyone has a good day

[darlinglovedoe]

I LOVE your aus sooo much!!!❤️❤️❤️ They're beautiful ❤️!

I'm not sure if you take requests or not? But I desperately want a mafia superbat au, whenever you're free!!!🥺

Like with mafia Clark (he was orphaned at a young age,and was found by zor,who was the biggest Mafia syndicate's leader)and became his heir,and like he's ruthless, he's famous for his torture methods,and the fact that he's inherently kind to innocent people,never ever harming any innocent soul,a man of few word,and that he's obsessed with his wife(Bruce) and he is completely opposite of Clark, almost like sunshine in human form, always smiling, knowing all of Clark's people by name, always kind,and a soft hearted soft spoken person,and he's Clark's world,the whole underground world knows better to ever mess with him(or make Bruce sad/cry,he last person that did that was tortured for 6 months),but despite all this Bruce is the brain of the syndicate,he knows everything that's going on,one word from him and Clark's destroying anything, he's the reason that they're at the top

I was thinking of This because I really love and idea of morally grey Clark x sunshine in human form Bruce!! And I know it's ooc but I love it soo much 😭 and like I was thinking corensupes x battinson for this(with Clark being built like a giant ass tree and Bruce smaller and leaner)

Ahhhh thank you so much!! ❤️❤️ I do take requests!! I always love bringing other ppls ideas to life! I really like this idea as well, kind of like a “what if” x “personality swap” AU!!

I’m currently working on a civilian AU fic so once I finish writing that I can definitely get my grubby little hands on this one hehe

[darlinglovedoe]

Reblogging this so I don’t lose it again for when I start writing this mafia au 🙂‍↕️

[themostevilofpeenar]

[v00do-d0ll]

I love the idea that Bruce has really bad insomnia. I see it as he can’t and is slightly afraid to sleep because of his nightmares. So he’s just constantly awake and everybody in his life tries to get him to sleep. But it’s never consistent.

But I like Bruce and Clark dating without anybody knowing. People just know that they’re really close. But with the kids being the detectives he raised them to be, they noticed that they’re closer than just friends. And they’re trying to see what Bruce sees in this big ass country bumpkin. So they start to watch their interactions. And they see that Bruce relaxes once Clark comes around. And they see how attentive Clark is towards Bruce. How gentle and loving, caring and understanding he is even when Bruce is being difficult.

But where they really see it is when Bruce has had a really bad day. He’s exhausted, he’s been in meeting after meeting at Wayne Enterprises, and then on patrol for hours after. He’s beaten and bruised. And all he wants to do is go to sleep. But he can’t. His brain won’t shut off. The kids try to help him unwind a little bit. Nothing seems to help. But Clark comes in randomly just to check in on Bruce. And he sees how wound up he is.

So he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his shoulders, just to get him to stop moving for a moment. and starts running his fingers through his hair, and tells him to breathe. He’s humming something in his ears that the kids can’t hear but it’s something that Martha would hum to Clark when he got overwhelmed and needed to be grounded.

And slowly, but surely they watch their father fall asleep in Clark’s arms. Clark picks him up and takes him to his room. All the kids following completely baffled that Bruce Wayne, Batman, a man who stayed awake for over 72 hours because he was too stubborn to just lay down for a moment, allowed himself to be vulnerable with someone enough to fall asleep in their arms. And they’re watching as Clark slowly undresses Bruce out of the bat suit. No sexual intent behind it.. Just love and care. A genuine want to just help.

And that’s the moment that they understand what Bruce sees in Clark. Clark’s looking at him like a man in love. Like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than Bruce. He tucked him in completely and is now sitting on the edge of the bed still running his fingers through his hair; gently so he doesn’t wake him up.

The kids decide to leave Clark alone with Bruce. Because they’ve never seen anyone love and care about someone the way that Clark does. The only person that’s cared for Bruce like that is Alfred. But even this is different. And they know that their father is in good hands.

And they walk away hoping that this is a forever kind of thing.

[darkknight-hero]

Thinking about Bruce dying and Clark losing his fucking mind over it because as much as he rationally knows that Bruce is human, there’s always been something about him that made him seem bigger, brighter, untouchable

Bruce has done so much, fought against and for so much, and he’s always come out of it. Not always fine, but alive, and there’s no one else who can do that, not the way Bruce can

But finally, it’s as though Bruce’s luck has finally run out and Clark is holding the body of a man he never thought he’d see die. He’s so light despite the armor, so cool to the touch despite the warm blood soaking into Clark‘s suit

What happens after that is a blur. There’s reports of a gut-wrenching scream that radiates for miles, a loud boom that goes off and destroys city blocks, bursts lights, and shatters windows and glass

Clark’s not sure how he gets there, but it doesn’t matter. The smell is nearly nauseating–sickly sweet and bitter in the back of his throat. But the waters are warm and inviting. Bruce slips beneath the green like it’s welcoming him home, gently lapping around him before he’s fully submerged. And Clark sits there at the edge, on his knees, waiting

Time ticks by, simultaneously stretching seconds into hours as well as hours into seconds. Clark isn’t sure how long it takes, but eventually, a hand reaches out from the green waters. Without an ounce of hesitation, Clark reaches back, pulling Bruce from the grasp of the pit. It doesn’t fight against him, releasing Bruce into his hold

He’s so…hot. His body feels overheated, permeating warmth that soaks into Clark (just like all that blood did). Warmth and a steady pulse. A chest that rises and falls against Clark’s

Oh, he’ll hate him. Bruce will despise Clark and his very existence. He will curse his name with every fiber of his being, down to his bones, to his blood. The anger will burn so bright, so hot, it will tear Clark apart. But there’s nothing that will ever make him regret his decision because a Bruce who hates Clark is a Bruce who is alive to do so

[themostevilofpeenar]