Vermithor: I Value Bravery And Courage In The Face Of Danger

House of the Dragon Incorrect Quotes

Aemond: If we don’t get out of this alive… If we’re both about to die… I love you, y/n! *Neither of you die* You: … Aemond: … You: So do you wanna talk about somethi- Aemond: No thank you.

Aegon: Why should I make my bed, when I'm just gonna unmake it to sleep in it anyways? Alicent: Why should I feed you if you're just gonna die anyways? Aegon: Aegon: I'll go make my bed-

You: Aegon won’t wake up, what do I do? Aemond: Did you try kicking him? You: Yes. Aemond: I’m out of ideas.

You: Your Honor, I hereby submit the following to the court: You: Aegon, what the actual FUCK?

Aemond: Y/n, I am nothing if not a man of principle. Aemond: Now let’s break into this apartment.

Daemon: I'm a reverse necromancer. You: Isn't that just killing people? Daemon: Ah, technicality.

Aegon: I was arrested for being too cool. Aemond: The charges were dropped due to a lack of supporting evidence.

You: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives Aemond: I wake up at 4:30 AM You: You: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives

Aegon: Change is inedible. Aemond: Don't you mean inevitable? Aegon, spitting out coins: No, I did not.

Aemond: What the fuck is wrong with you?! Aegon: Wow, you could start with a 'good morning'. Aemond: Good morning. What the fuck is wrong with you?!

You: We’re getting married, bitches! Daemon: And we're about to make it everybody else's problem.

Aegon, struggling to keep upright in his 1 inch heels: Yeah, I-I don’t really think heels are for me Rhaenyra, pointing at them and walking flawlessly in sparkly golden 6 inch heels: WEAK.

au in which robert, the starks and the lannisters play monopoly instead of going hunting and pushing each other‘s kids from towers.

tyrion implements a tax system to make things more interesting and fights cersei over the cat for a solid ten minutes.

around thirty minutes into the game, catelyn realizes that she has free will and stops paying taxes.

arya and sansa haggle over new york avenue, which ends up being bought by theon. this causes the two to completely cast aside their differences, ally and subsequently start doing everything in their power to make theon‘s life hell.

theon himself is quite severely stoned the entire time throughout.

ned enters horrendous debt pretty much immediately and, after two hours of being financially sucked dry by both cersei and his tax evader of a wife, decides to just place his figurine in jail and never leave.

jon, playing the dog, controls the railroads and makes jaime, playing the ship, go completely broke within minutes. being beaten by a bastard and officially the first to lose the game makes jaime so mad he spends the rest of the evening perched on the family‘s ancestral armchair eating flaming hot cheetos and stifling sobs.

cersei is holding onto her last two dollars and her one house in atlantic avenue like a maniac and evades taxes like it‘s an olympic sport. she claims ownership of kentucky avenue on the grounds that red is her house‘s color at least twice. after three hours, she‘s consumed enough vintage red to kill a large mammal and keeps quoting the art of war. fascinatingly enough, she never goes completely broke.

robert, just as broke and drunk as his wife but not nearly as ferocious, proposes marriage for tax advantages to bran, who is in possession of the boardwalk and lets him dangle on his proposition for two rounds before accepting and feeling like a benevolent god.

sansa sees this and immediately proposes to arya, who accepts, only for them to be sued by their mother for public indecency („you‘re siblings, jesus christ!“). arya argues that this is just a game and that one could argue that robert‘s and bran‘s marital alliance is just as if not even more inappropriate, considering that bran is seven and robert thirtyseven. sansa countersues her mother for tax evasion, who promises she‘ll drop her lawsuit if her daughters let her keep hoarding perverse amounts of wealth. „love wins!“ arya says, which causes jaime, still perched on the armchair but now eating old nan‘s home made whiskey truffles, to hysterically sob. cersei stares him down.

robb, in a rare moment of almost prophetic foresight, excuses himself one hour in and goes on a very, VERY long walk with grey wind.

tyrion, whose tax system has spectacularly backfired in his face, proposes marriage to catelyn, jon and cersei in rapid succession, who all turn him down. „i wish i was the monster you think i am. i wish i had enough poison for the whole pack of you. i would gladly give my life to watch you all swallow it.“ he screams before he leaves the table.

at that, joffrey, who has refused to participate and instead sits on the couch playing doom on his nintendo ds, starts hysterically laughing. tyrion turns on his heel and awards his nephew with the bitchslap of the century. this causes cersei to completely abandon the game and chase after him with a broom. catelyn makes sure that everyone is distracted by the lannister antics and then reaches across the table and bags cersei‘s money and properties.

with a heavy heart, myrcella trades arya and sansa one of her limited edition bayala schleich unicorns for park place.

at this point, the game is between the tycoons that are catelyn and jon, the bran-robert alliance, the arya-sansa-alliance, and ned, who is still in jail and watching ice hockey on his phone under the table. that is when catelyn hears rickon gagging and discovers that he, in the absence of tyrion, the self declared bank manager, has managed to eat all bank notes from the box.

rickon gets his stomach pumped, cersei and tyrion have both been arrested, theon is still stoned, arya, sansa and myrcella have wandered off to go play schleich horses, and jon remains at the table, alone, content, and quietly considering himself the winner.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 2.06

find a man who cherishes you enough to cut off the dick of the man who has scorned you in order to use it to tenderly make love to you after proposing with a peach ring so that you do not have to die a virgin and can instead live on forever with him while he regularly brings flowers to your gravesite and tends to your undead body's electrocution wounds as he reads percy bysshe shelley's poetry to you. do NOT settle for less.

Imagine being in a dimly lit room, the only light coming from a flickering fireplace. You're sitting on the edge of a plush sofa, and he's kneeling in front of you, his strong hands tracing the curves of your calves. His gaze is intense, as if he's drinking in every detail of your face. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, as his lips brush ever so softly against your ankle. There's a vulnerability in his eyes, a silent plea for love. You can feel the tension in the air, the unspoken desire, as his hands slide higher, fingers grazing the back of your knees. His touch is both gentle and possessive, making your heart race. In that moment, you feel like the center of his universe, the only thing that matters.

hello! I was just wondering if there would be more of the platonic yandere bat family? I loved it :)

I probably will write more platonic yan batfam, but I have no Idea what to write as of now for them. So, please send in requests if you have any ideas💗

Hi! Your writing is truly awesome and you are very well-spoken. It's a pleasure to see your works. I was wondering if you would be up to writing a piece about Tom helping a gender-neutral reader after someone poisoned their dinner on purpose? If not then maybe Tom showing affection to a touch-starved gender-neutral reader? Thank you in advance!

A Lot at Steak

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Warnings: nausea, vomiting

A/N: thank you anon !!!!

The flickering radiance of a thousand candles floating overhead is a welcome sight after a particularly bad day of rigorous classwork. You take in the astounding view of the Enchanted Ceiling with its starry expanse of black skies and pale moon beaming through wisps of white clouds. Settling into your regular seat next to your housemate Alistair, you eye the heaps of food on your table with a content sigh.

With no time to waste, you dig in. 

"Alistair, this steak is weird.”

You cut off another piece and chew at it thoughtfully. Every bite elicits a rancid taste and while it's subtle enough to not be horrible, you're a little disappointed. This isn't quite up to par with the usually unrivaled, top-notch Hogwarts cooking.

He swivels in his seat to look at you. "Mine is delectable. I don't suppose you got on the house elves' nerves lately?" You shake your head.

He frowns, worry finding its way into the creases of his brow. "Maybe you should put the fork down."

"But I'm hungry," you protest, grinning at the unamused look on his face. "Hey, food is food. It's not like something's going to happen to me, right?"

Alistair relents with a sigh. "Yeah."

━━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━━

No.

You’re hunched over a toilet in the lavatory, head reeling and stomach lurching with every new surge of nausea. The overbearing taste of salt coats your tongue and you’re praying to whatever higher being is above to please end your misery for fear that you’ll spill all your guts out. 

Or whatever remains of it.

Someone must have heard you because you’re flushing the toilet a few minutes later feeling slightly less disoriented, though still very much like you just took a Bludger to the stomach.

You wash up at the basin. 

Who would do this to you? 

Immediately a few names pop up off the top of your head. You scold yourself for being so stupid. Really, that first bite should have been a tell-tale sign that something was amiss.

Curse you and your insatiable hunger.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolts you from your thoughts. You realize with a twinge of panic that if someone spots you, you’re going to have to give a thorough explanation as to why you’re in the lavatory looking like a sad mess while everyone else is savoring their (perfectly safe to consume) dinner. You can wave your pride goodbye at that point. 

You barely have time to brace yourself before a familiar voice pierces the air.

"It isn't like you to run out so suddenly." Tom says as he comes into sight.

This is bad. Really bad. 

All at once your head feels heavy, as if a bowling ball has somehow replaced your brains. It isn't like you can even focus on feeling humiliated right now, but did he really have to be the one to find you in such a state?

"Well? What's wrong?"

Maybe it’s the burning shame, or the aftermath of the poison, or both, but suddenly your lips are sewed shut and talking seems a near impossible thing. You stare at the faucet, hands gripping either side of the sink as if it’s your lifeline, your only means of stability.

You hear Tom sigh impatiently from where he’s standing outside. A few quiet seconds pass, and you think you’ve turned him away with your lack of response until he strides in to close the distance. 

His thumb and forefinger brush against your chin and he lifts your face up to meet his gaze. You watch his piercing eyes flit to the sweat on your brow and then the heaving of your shoulders paired with your heavy, shuddering breaths.

You can practically see the moment his composure crumbles. 

"Who hurt you?"

Your eyes widen in alarm and you shake your head quickly in an attempt to dispel whatever assumptions he could’ve thought up in those two seconds.

A mistake. You clamp a shaky hand over your mouth. Vomit inches up your throat, this time the situation more unpleasant, dire. You see an inkling of realization dawn on his face. 

In an instant your mind is swimming and your knees are buckling and you’re stumbling to make it in time despite the fact that the world has dwindled to a dizzying blur. 

Tom wrenches the stall door open and you rush in, missing the concern that has snuck into his frown.

Maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear you feel a light hand rubbing circles on your back as you hurl into the toilet. Again.

Whatever did they put in your food?

By the time you leave the lavatory, you feel...drained. Fatigue has possessed your every muscle, and every burdened step feels like a descent into hell. You’re a ragdoll; pathetic and limp and seconds away from crumbling.

But when you do crumble it's in the comfort of his arms, and maybe that’s not so bad after all. Your head subconsciously droops onto his shoulder, body molding to fit his.

“Aguamenti,” you hear him murmur. You lift your head to see a jet of water filling up a conjured glass in his hand. He brings it to your parched lips. "Drink." 

You down it ravenously, the coolness of it soothing your lungs, revitalizing your bones. Whoever executed the whole plan sure did one heck of a job, because that was just about the most horrid experience of your life.

As if reading your thoughts, you feel Tom tense against you. 

“It's dragon poison,” he says, voice dangerously low, “in a water-downed form.”

You blink in surprise, but not because he knows about something like this. That part is nothing new. But the process to attain the substance is an arduous one, so to think that someone has enough of a vendetta against you to somehow acquire it—?

“Tell me who did it,” Tom demands. “I’ll make them pay.”

“I’m not sure,” you reply meekly. Irked as you are, you can’t pinpoint the blame on anyone just yet.

You know under any other circumstance Tom would goad you into giving him more information, but for now he lets you rest there against him under the dim light of the corridor. 

“Tom?” You shift on your feet. “That must have been pretty revolting. Sorry for—”

“You’re a fool,” Tom interrupts briskly. “A moron. Surely you should have been able to deduce that that was no ordinary steak.”

You know he doesn’t mean it, you know it’s his way of telling you that you ought to be more careful, but the remark still stings. You loosen your grip on his robes.

Tom sighs again. Then, much gentler, in a voice you know is reserved for you and you only, he whispers, “Never mind that. I’m still going to have to take you to the infirmary. Just to make sure that you’re— that you don’t throw up again.”

“Okay,” you mumble, warmth spreading where the emptiness was seconds ago. As long as you can be with him a little longer.

And yet, you can’t help but wonder if this incident has changed his view of you. You wonder if he thinks you’re pathetic for that pitiful display back there.

Perhaps you get your answer when he cups your face and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. You break into a smile. 

He doesn’t stop there, though—he kisses you a little more, kisses all the embarrassment away, the qualmishness and the apprehension until by the end of it all the remain in your stomach are butterflies.

And you think maybe that’s not so bad after all.

House of the Dragon Incorrect Quotes

You: Are we fighting or flirting? Aemond: I'm pinning you against a wall with my hand around your neck- You: Your point?

You: I feel like doing something stupid. Aegon: I’m stupid, do me.

You: Crushes are the worst. Whenever I’m near mine, I start acting stupid. Aemond: You always act stupid. Aemond: Aemond: Wait...

Alicent: Did you wash the dishes? Aegon: I thought you wanted to do that... Alicent: *chuckles* You were WRONG.

Aemond: People tell me I have a unique way of lighting up a room. You: It’s called arson and those people are called witnesses.

You: Are you ever going to listen to me? Daemon: Yes. Absolutely. You: When? Daemon: When you're right.

Aegon: We have a problem. Aemond: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

You: I still have no idea how I’m attracted to you... Daemon: Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me, and no take backs, honey.

Aegon: I committed all 7 deadly sins in 30 minutes. You: Wow, I've gotta hear this. Aegon: I was angry and envious of my neighbor so I lazily seduced his wife and ate all his groceries and didn't share. You: You forgot pride. Aegon: No, I'm pretty proud of this.

Aegon: What do you call people you go out with but don’t try to sleep with? You: ...People?

Daemon: This is bothering me. You: Well, you are digging up a corpse. Daemon: No, not that. That's, uh, pretty par for the course, actually.

⭑ made with love. draco malfoy x reader

summary. it's winter, you’re sick, and draco is extremely rational a terrible, doting mess about it.

tags. fluff! so much fluff! married couple, gn!reader, lots of banter, post-hogwarts with one fleeting mention of the war, draco's anxiety is whetted by a common cold, he basically treats the reader like they hung the moon in the sky and also have the power to yank it down at any given moment. he's very grumpy. but so so in love.

note. my sweet anons!! i tried on three separate occasions to write the requests in my inbox but sometimes i need to be in the depths of hell (ovulation week) to manage smut. i'm sorry. i've made some progress i swear! but the draco hyperfixation came out of NOWHERE and unfortunately i had to indulge in it. also thank you so much for 200! :’)

word count. 1.6k

You are deplorable.

With a fever temperature of 40° and explicit instructions to stay in bed, you’re discernibly not in bed when he makes it home from the apothecary, a jumbled mess of the blankets he’d swathed you in left in your place. Your slippers are absent. Your slippers — in two feet of snow. Your coat is gone too, at least; ridiculously thick and unnecessarily long, though now he’s thankful for it.

Draco paces. Then he sets the Pepperup Elixir over a flame at his desk to keep warm, pours two drops of Sleeping Draught into a mug for your tea, and paces again.

He should have insisted on binding rings for your wedding, he thinks. Something to trace you in emergencies. There’s little to do without them as you’ve evidently either taken the Floo or Apparated, and, in truth, he can’t remember the last time he’s been this nervous. In school, perhaps? During the war? You have him comparing his nerves over a bad cold to those he felt during war. The insanity of that is actually not lost on him, if that counts for anything.

But you are deplorable, and his. His almost as much as he is maddeningly, irremediably yours.

How he allowed an aliment like this to infect him goes against all evolutionary sense. It’s a fever of its own. Incurable despite knowing its cause, and probably festering worse than yours.

And then the fireplace hisses and out you stumble with soot on one cheek and frost on the other, the neck of your coat zipped up to swallow half of your face. In an arm shoved deep in your pocket, a bag swings from the puffy coat crease of your elbow, and Draco baulks. It’s a muggle grocery bag — translucent enough that he can see the square imprint of your favourite sleepy-time tea, a chocolate bar, cans of what he thinks are soup, and — a lemon? Yes. A big miserable lemon that you’ve deigned was worth almost killing yourself over.

Draco does not hear whatever excuses escape your chattering teeth as he plucks your hand from its pocket, puts the bag down, pulls off your coat while you slap at his hands and insist you can do it yourself, and only because he thinks you’d hex him to oblivion if he tried, leads you with a hand on your back to the bedroom rather than hauling you into his arms and carrying you.

“A lemon,” he says, and is aware by the severity of his tone he might as well be saying a gun, or a missile, or a milk crate of Living Death cartons. “You forayed into a snowstorm for a lemon. Do you think I’m incapable of reading a grocery list? I just Flooed —”

“I got more than a lemon,” you huff in a weak voice.

It is appalling that that’s what you take from his admonishment.

Your snow-soaked slippers are tossed aside as you tumble into bed. Draco bundles you in blankets and holds his wand out to take your vitals. You roll your eyes all the while, but once the cold wears off he’s sure you’ll be burning hotter than you were this morning.

He shakes his head. “Lemons are common stock in apothecaries, you know. The shavings are essential in Weedosoros antidotes.”

“Yes, but they’re always so dry.”

“And chocolate — they sell it at Téa’s across the street for the magizoologists. Did you know that?”

“Hmph. No Cadbury, though.”

“And I’ve already warmed the Pepperup and poured you Sleeping Draught, despite your urgency for this —” He pulls the box of tea from your grocery bag, impressed with an image of a little bear with a red nightcap, a steaming cuppa, and a plate of biscuits — “Inarguably superior muggle panacea —”

“I never claimed it was a panacea —”

“Of which we should have distributed to St. Mungo’s en masse. In fact, I should owl them now so they’re informed the Sleeping Draughts are ineffective by comparison —”

“You’re insufferable —”

“Imagine all the orphans without rest —”

“Actually ridiculous —”

“You’re ridiculous. And I hate this bear. Look at his hat. Bloody Gryffindor.”

“Do you know what the wizarding world is lacking? — If you’re concerned enough to make a donation, Mr Malfoy?”

You think it’s hilarious to call him that. He does well not to mention you are, by law, also a Malfoy, and his money is your money to donate as you please.

“What is that?”

“Soup,” you say. “Canned soup — canned with love.”

“We are lacking soup canned with love,” Draco repeats, just to be sure.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be sure to write the Minister.”

“Do.”

“Only if you stay in bed.”

“Hmmm… mmmm… well. Hm.”

“Incorrigible,” he mumbles, brushing the damp from your face before getting up to fix your tea. (He kisses your cheek for good measure, big sop that he is. You do well not to mention it.) “Don’t move or I’ll cast wards on the fireplace.”

“Oh! Cast wards on the doors, too. I might go for a walk.”

He glares at you from the archway. Your answering laugh is broken by a coughing fit, and you look reluctantly glum when he raises a told-you-so brow.

Draco mutters about how ridiculous you are through the kitchen and back, as he steeps your tea, heats your soup, unstoppers the Pepperup Elixir, pours it in an old shot glass from a trip to Italy (you have no graduated plastic cups lying around), squeezes the big stupid lemon in your tea, carries it all to your bed on a tray and realises, still muttering, that these are a lot of steps. But Draco balances the tray without an utterance of magic. It’s rather impressive. You should be sorely sorry.

You are, instead, asleep.

You’re splayed across the bed like something Baroque, limbs fascinatingly posed: half under the blankets and half stubbornly poking out despite his fervent tucking, head nuzzled into the pillow with a slight frown. If Draco were any better with a camera he’d take a picture. Instead he takes careful steps to your bedside, placing the tray on the nightstand and sitting as close as he can manage without disturbing the (once more, revolutionary) arrangement of your legs. It feels criminal to wake you. His fretful anger that you’d gone out in the cold is whittled to a humiliatingly thin and empty husk, and all that remains is mushy adoration. Damn you for that; you look ridiculous anyhow.

Draco kisses your cheek again. Your nose. Your forehead. He traces an invisible portrait of your face with his fingers, as if he’s ever drawn anything better than nasty stick figures on crumpled parchment in school. You, though, he thinks he knows well enough by memory to try.

You stir, not too far from consciousness that it’s a challenge to find it again, but far enough to be audibly vexed by his summons to the surface.

Draco means to berate you in that way he's so good at — chin pointed and scowl permanently etched — but you grumble with a sick, hoarse voice and he falters in a pathetic display. “You forgot your love-suffused muggle soup,” he whispers, one hand cupping your cheek.

“Ugh.”

“Heinous, I know. Sit up for me?”

“Magic word.”

There’s his scowl. “Alohomora.”

“Not that magic word.”

“Imperio.”

“Unforgivables, Draco Malfoy?”

“Hmm, Locomotor Wibbly?”

You sink further into the bed, pulling the uppermost blanket over your head inch by inch. 

“Please,” he says, with profound displeasure.

You sit up and smile.

Draco sighs and lays the legs of the tray out over your lap. You regard his service with sleepy content, one of your hands travelling to his face in what his heart surges to appreciate is an honest thanks after his several near-heart attacks, and then your gaze finds the medically expert Pepperup in an Italian shot glass and it falls.

You groan. “Draco…”

His name says, quite plainly, please don’t make me.

Draco has enough self-respect to at least deny you this. “Wards.”

That says, quite plainly, I was not joking about the fireplace.

You look as though you’re contemplating the severity of two horrors, but it passes fleetingly, with one curse under your breath and a sour expression as you down the shot of Pepperup like… a shot. Burning Ogden’s that scrunches your face up until you shake it away with a blagh noise. 

Come to think of it, Draco's choice of glass is much more appropriate than some medical cup.

“Better?”

You shudder. “I will be.”

“Good. Have your love soup and stupid lemons.”

And then, when he isn’t expecting it, your hot palm finds the place it left off; Draco’s healthily warm, sharp cheek, the soft fuzz of hair beside his ears before your fingers card through the longer strands and you hum like he’s your favourite thing to hold onto.

He melts, eyes fluttering shut. You’re sick, and wholeheartedly deplorable, but you’re safe, and it’ll be alright.

“Draco?”

“Mm.”

“The soup.”

He opens his eyes. “The soup?”

“You know it was canned with love.”

“I trust you wouldn’t have bought it otherwise.”

“And,” you say, thumb flush over his bottom lip as you smile a groggy, self-satisfied smile, “it was made with love, too, right?”

He rolls his eyes, and kisses you nonetheless. “You never cease to ask absurd questions.”

Finally a thousand words into my The Secret History inspired Tom Riddle fic!🤭