Dandadandandadan

sorry that you think my fictional ship is illegal. I actually consulted a fictional lawyer about it and he had a talk with a fictional cop about the fictional laws and then they both looked at me, and very seriously said "we'll allow it because it's hot."

demon slayer spoilers ahead but:

we know that after Muzan’s defeat, Sanemi gifts Kaburamaru to Kanao, but only when he “visits” the Butterfly Mansion (sometime after Tanjiro awakens, which is approximately 2-3 months after Muzan’s defeat).

So, my question is: do we think Sanemi carried Kaburamaru around on his shoulders just like Obanai? I’m inclined to say yes, if only because I don’t think Kaburamaru gave him an option. He was too used to being carried 🥺

All her life Viserys had told her she was a princess, but not until she rode her silver had Daenerys Targaryen ever felt like one.

Being Daemon's Daughter Would Include (Part I)

a/n: I just can't get the idea out of my head that Daemon is an incredibly sweet & loving father & honestly really needed to write this for comfort. when I started I thought it would be a little oneshot/imagine, but I ended up having a lot more to say than I anticipated so this is going to be multiple parts! if you, like me, are in need of wholesome soft! daemon who would do anything for you & be an amazing father, I hope this helps 💕

summary: a recounting of the day you were born & daemon's first moments with you

cw: difficult birth (but it all ends happily!), fem reader, mostly comfort & fluff

~~~~~~~

The Day You Were Born

-The day you were born was one of the happiest days of Daemon Targaryen's life.

-He didn't know quite what to expect of fatherhood and in truth, there was more than a small part of him that dreaded the idea, even feared it. He didn't think himself terribly well-suited to a life of domesticity, seemingly so tedious and dull. Of course, everything changed the moment he saw you.

-It was a difficult birth, but not once did he leave your mother's side. His hands would be covered in bruises for days to come from the way she squeezed, but every single patch of blue and purple was worth it.

-You weren't ready to leave your mother's womb just yet, and after much struggle, one of the Maesters pulled your father aside and told him another method may be required to successfully deliver you. But when informed of the sacrifice it would require, Daemon gave the old man such a glower that the midwives thought the Prince would slay him where he stood.

-Daemon composed himself and simply said that both you and your mother would be happy and healthy by the end of the day. The threat was clear as the summer skies and from that moment forward, though one hand continued to be squeezed by your mother's, the other rested firmly on the hilt of Dark Sister. Daemon would do anything to protect his family.

-He was never a man of the Faith, but in those trying hours he prayed to the Old Gods and the New. He prayed to the Many Faced God and the Lord of Light. He prayed to anything and everything that might be listening, that might possibly hold some power. He didn't think he deserved to be spared pain or loss, but he knew for a fact that you and your mother deserved all the goodness this life had to offer.

-When your mother began to lose hope and panic started to set in, he wiped her brow and kissed her forehead, whispering, "This world is not yet done with you, my darling."

-He likes to think you heard his voice, for despite the hours spent by the Maesters and midwives doing everything they could, it was only after he spoke those words that you decided you were ready to join the world.

-Of course, he let your mother hold you first, and though she desperately wanted to spend the rest of the day with you in her arms, she needed her rest. After a few minutes and many more assurances that you were healthy as could be, you were passed to a midwife and then, for the first time, to your father.

-You had come into this world screaming and crying, and even in your mother's arms, you wouldn't quite settle. But the moment you found yourself in Daemon's embrace, the whole world turned soft and warm. Everything was kind and good. Everything was love.

-And he was in love from the moment he held you in his arms, the moment you looked in his eyes. He saw so much of your mother in those eyes, but what surprised him was how much he saw of himself. You were the most gentle mirror, only reflecting the good. You were half of him, but you had his whole heart.

-He pressed his lips softly against the center of your forehead. "Tala," he murmured, tears in his eyes. Daughter.

-As soon as he uttered the word, he knew you would be one of the few people in his life to speak High Valyrian. He would teach you the language of your ancestors and delight in every word you spoke. No victory would be small. Everything would be celebrated.

-He imagined who you might be and what he might pass onto you. He wondered if you'd be a dragonrider. He hoped you would like Caraxes (he knew Caraxes would love you). He secretly dreamt of teaching you how to fight and, when you were old enough, letting you hold Dark Sister. Maybe even wield her. He was incredibly possessive over his Valyrian steel sword, and rightfully so. Very few were worthy of her. But he knew that even fewer would be worthy of you, and at the thought of you wielding her, his heart swelled with pride.

-But he knew he would love you just as much if you preferred the graces and arts to battles. Perhaps you would have a voice to enchant the realm, or a sharp wit to rival any Maester.

-Anyone else might have worried. So many parents expected their child to be the best they could possibly be, but that wasn't Daemon. He loved you as you were. No matter who you would become, no matter your accomplishments, you would always be his world. You would always have his heart. He would always be proud to be your Kepa.

-He smiled as you wrapped your hand around his finger, cooing as you looked up in awe. Daemon Targaryen was many things. He was the unruly, chaotic brother of the King. He was the second son, former heir to the Iron Throne. He was the Prince of the City, Lord Flea Bottom, King of the Narrow Sea, and, first and foremost, the Rogue Prince. But he never expected that his favourite title would be born of love instead of war. He never expected a title so gentle, so beautiful.

-He never expected it, but he was so grateful to be your father.

-Your Kepa.

RHAENYRA & DAENERYS House of the Dragon (2022-) | Game of Thrones (2011-2019)

versus

Giyuu: *smiles brightly*

Sanemi from far away: Who the fuck does he think he is… smiling so brightly like that. He’s so beautiful and he doesn’t even know it. What an asshole.

Uzui: You have to be the only man in the world to complain about your boyfriend being attractive.

She was a fairy 🧚🧚‍♀️🧚‍♂️

I love how sabito felt the need to pirouette in the air while beating the hell out of Tanjiro. Like??? How did he even jump like that??? How is he even pirouetting??? Why can he jump so damn high??? And then launched himself off the tree while/by spinning???

"I need Rhaenyra."

"Daemon." His brother's voice is wearied and wrought with frailty. He looks an old man as much as he sounds. The crown weighs heavy atop his head, his silver hair faded to little more than wisps, a faint remembrance of their great ancestry. The sight stirs something of a sympathy, mayhaps a pity within Daemon, as well as the first whispers of grief. Viserys will not long live, and the Prince would weep for that loss were it strong enough to quell his rage.

"I know we've had our differences," his brother says softly, "but let them pass with the years."

What kind words, and so easily spoken by the feeble ghost of the man before him. The King knows his death is nearing, and this is no more than a desperate ploy to earn some forgiveness before he reaches his grave. Daemon isn't of a mind to grant him such peace. Not after the banishments. Not after the offenses. Not after Rhaenyra.

Not after Rhaenyra.

His brother's words are a sharp reminder. Years. Years have passed, though he's hardly to know it. Time has been uncertain for the Rogue Prince, with many a year feeling a month, and the midnight hour often disguising itself as a lifetime. It is only by sparing a glance at the princess, his princess that he can truly be sure.

She is now a queen in her own right. His heart cannot but swell with pride to see her carry herself with such regality, a self-assuredness accompanying her every step and yet not in the slightest diminishing her ferocity. She is the blood of the dragon, the blood of Old Valyria, a goddess reborn to take what is hers. A goddess he would gladly worship.

There was a time he would not wait to be given the chance, but take it, as he did those years ago during their adventures in the heart of King's Landing, but seeing her now, he cannot bring himself to do it. He wonders if her life is better for his absence. He would hope so, if not for his own selfish desires.

His brother's voice pulls him from his thoughts, away from the sight of his niece. "There's a place for you in my court," Viserys says, "if that's something you should need."

Daemon seethes, his lips forming the words before he can think to stop them. "I need Rh..."

He stops.

He shouldn't say it.

To the Seven Hells with shouldn't, he can't say it.

He can't bear to say it. There's too much truth in it. He needs her.

He's always needed her.

"...nothing," he grimaces. Unable to stomach meeting his brother's eyes, he forces his gaze down to the rough cracks in the stone. Nothing.

Nothing. The word tastes a lie, and an unconvincing one, at best. She envelops every thought, fleeting or otherwise, that finds its way through the labyrinth of his mind. His heart is hers, entirely, and it's only now that he understands the emptiness that permeated his life these last ten years.

"I want Rhaenyra," he had told his brother, knife at his throat. He remembers looking at the blade and thinking that death would be preferable to losing her, and yet he still considered it wanting. He had never thought himself naïve, but what other word spoke such truth?

His hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, ever the calming influence, he forces himself away from his brother, refusing to so much as glance at his would-be queen.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my prince." Otto's voice stops him dead in his tracks. Dark Sister calls to him, and though the temptation is difficult to resist, he manages.

"No matter how fat the leech grows," Daemon sneers, "it always wants for another meal."

He wonders, as he walks away, if it was the right course. Any of it. If he should have slain Otto Hightower where he stood. If he should have forced his brother's hand and taken Rhaenyra to wife all those years ago. If he should have done as she asked at her wedding feast and cut through her father's kingsguard.

"Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife," she had said, venom in her words and something else he could not quite place. At the time, he thought she was merely tormenting him, taunting him with all he could not have. Now, he cannot but wonder if she desired him as much as he did her. If it was not a mockery, but a genuine plea, an admission of her deepest desires.

What life might have been had he only obliged.

As he wanders the beach, somewhat melancholy under the light of the emerging moon, he is vaguely aware of gentle footsteps behind him. There's no need to look. He felt Rhaenyra's eyes on him. He felt her yearning. It mirrored his own.

He does not know what this night will bring. But if the Gods are good, they will never again threaten to tear them asunder.

"He Can Keep His Tongue."

Daemon Targaryen's fingers danced upon the hilt of Dark Sister, who all but sang from the violence of her prince, bloodlust temporarily sated. What a pair they made, those brutal rogues, so eager for the slightest taste of war.

He needed no more than a moment to look upon the corpse, savoring in the justice brought by his own hand.

Whore, Vaemond had dared to call his wife. Bastards, his sons. The King had ordered the would-be usurper's tongue for such vile words, but Daemon thought his slanders better deserved to rot with him in an early grave.

"He can keep his tongue," Daemon declared before his brother's court, relishing in the shock and terror echoing throughout the halls of the Red Keep.

They cowered before him, those most noble lords and ladies. Had he still the desire for chaos that ruled him in his youth, he would have brought his blade to their throats and sneered as they soiled their finery. As they begged and bled, he would have forced the truth from their lips.

It was not the witnessing of such violence that distressed them, though they would claim it so. It was not the death, nor the pain, nor the fear of meeting a similar fate.

No. It was the single stroke that silenced their precious gods. It was his own will, agonizingly more powerful than that of the Seven.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, husband to the princess who would soon be queen, and in the sight of men, more powerful than all the gods.