#Muse: Dead Master

[shxxtteredfantasy]

I'm a little early on this, but I made this for my gf @shootingxstardust for her birthday. Based on a private rp we've done (It's actually Rock and Dead in Mato and Yomi's bodies) Dead just wanted to enjoy a nice romantic film with her gf, and she's just there chompin' away at popcorn.

Wish I could say this is my first 2025 art, but i technically start this when it was still 2024 so *shrugs*

[shxxtereddesires]

@shootingxxxstardust

Dead was a little surprised to see little to no objection from Rock. She seemed to let Dead Master do as she pleased, but she wondered what would be going on in Rock's head. She'd rub at her nipples, pressing her body closer to hers. Just looking into her blue hues. "Hmm... I expected at least one objection from you. A complaint, but yet... You say nothing. What could you be thinking, dear Rock?"

[shxxtteredfantasy]

No response? No reaction? That was... Interesting. Maybe this was Rock being stubborn again, Dead would just smirk. "You're not going to push me off?" She'd ask simply, she'd straddle the girl as she held her wrists firmly. She'd just go for a teasing sensation by kissing and nibbling at Rock's neck, wondering if she'd get a response out of her.

Send me an “Oof!” To pin my Muse to the bed.

@shxxtteredfantasy​

“…” Black Rock Shooter didn’t say a word as she was pinned.  Her face was calm, though there was a very small hint of  a  blush on her cheeks, but besides that, nothing. She was calm.. Quiet. She didn’t even try to push the reaper off her.

[thatsrightice]

wHEN WERE Y'ALL GOING TO TELL ME ABOUT CROSBY WAVING TO BUBBLES AT THE START OF THE PRE-FLIGHT BRIEF???

[deathxproof-archive]

St-St-Starter Call for The Master et al !! Like and/or Interact with this post for a Master starter !! Multis specify muse probably, and also probably specify your Master flavor(Rory!Master, Simm!, Dhawan!, or a Koschei) unless you truly don’t care. Length will vary, && if you wanna message me to plot feel free <33 !!!

[hopeful-hugz]

"Weeeeeeell, HELLO THERE and welcome to another hair-raising and thrilling episode of Real-Time Races!"

It's a voice, carrying an announcer's tone of voice, that jolts Melody out of her rather short sleep mode. Scrambling to her feet and glancing around. That hadn't been a voice she knew. Not in the slightest, nor was it a face she knew that popped into reality right next to her.

Donning a skirt and the colorful coat of a gameshow host, he seems to pay her startled yelp no mind whatsoever

"I'm your ever vigilant host, L! Here to bring you only the most adrenaline-pumping of challenges from our lovely contestants!" The microphone he holds is shifted to his other hand, his now-free one pulling Melody in. The FLINCH is wholly disregarded as he continues. "This episode we have a lovely teenager by the name of DLN-000; Melody Raydeo! Recently having been stranded in a barren, frosty wasteland and left to fend for herself, I know she is bound to have the determination to pull through today's challenge!"

The being's three tails sprawl out from behind him, already giving himself away as a Nagete. Much to Melody's clear horror, evidently. She's not able to say much before the host snaps his fingers, teleporting them out to a random part of the planet. "We now come to you from about a forty-eight hours' trek from this lovely lass' camp!" Leah grins, turning to Melody and placing a hand on her shoulder. "My dear, your challenge is simple! Locate and return to your camp within the next thirty-two hours, with just the things in the bag on your shoulder, and I will give you something that will help your chances here GREATLY!"

"N- now wait just a minute-" The android finally gets a word in, moving the microphone put in her face to the side. "I never signed up for any challenge or chose to participate in such a thing! Nor would I; that would pose an unnecessary danger to myself and my mission!"

The protest gets a laugh from the show host, floating into the air as her does so. "OH MY DEAR! Look around you! We're already out here and I am certainly not taking you back, now that you've been chosen!"

He leans in, grinning.

"Sweet, Sweet Melody: You don't have a choice!"

Then he backs back up. "Then again, when have you had any choices on this life-forsaken planet? In the palm of everyone's hands and claws you are!"

"Good luck, my dear~! Try not to become a drone's next little snack; because the challenge ends the moment your ghost leaves that adorable little body of yours!" With an announcement of "CHALLENGE BEGIN" announced through the air, Leah vanishes after saying an outro to no one she can see and the robot master is left out on her own.

And it actually hits her that she's alone, completely and fully. "Oh sweet Asimov, no..."

Nothing left to do but bring up her phone tracker on her hud and follow the signal of the device still at camp. Hopefully this wouldn't be too hard...

[lonelyassassin96]

I like to believe sometimes that a person just has that one tool or instrument that was fated to be with them from the moment it was made. Things that become so much a part of that person's work that if it were to be destroyed, they would be as well. There is no more famous example that I can think of than Willie Nelson and his guitar, but I know that feeling on a deep, instinctual level. The feeling of "THIS is mine." The feeling of knowing that newer and better has come along ages ago, but it's just not the same. Musicians and artists are not the only people this can apply to, of course. It can apply to mechanics, carpenters, anyone, really. And as an artist, I long for the day when I find my fated instrument. The one I will either haunt forever until it's crumbled to dust, or will be buried with.

[shxxtteredfantasy]

"Hey, are you okay? Your face is red." Rock to Dead

"M-My face isn't red...." It totally was. Sometimes just looking at Rock got her red in the face. She couldn't help it.

[shootingxstardust]

Okay guys it's later. Imma do more Aigis Stuff and maybe Marion stuff tomorrow.. Actually it is tomorrow. I mean uh later today! Good night!

[thatsrightice]

What if Rosie rescues our POW boys and brings them back to Thorpe Abbott, but Crosby is more excited to see him than all the other flyboys. And they’re all offended like “wtf?? what about us D:< “ and Croz is just like “you were basically dead for two years you can be dead for a couple more minutes while I kiss my man”

[solartomes]

general character tag dump part 8/idk man

naruse ryou ⚖️ ic. naruse ryou ⚖️ musings. naruse ryou ⚖️ visage. naruse ryou ⚖️ wardrobe. naruse ryou ⚖️ mannerisms. naruse ryou ⚖️ aesthetics. herrscher ( ainchase ishmael ) 👁️ ic. herrscher ( ainchase ishmael ) 👁️ musings. herrscher ( ainchase ishmael ) 👁️ visage. herrscher ( ainchase ishmael ) 👁️ wardrobe. herrscher ( ainchase ishmael ) 👁️ mannerisms. herrscher ( ainchase ishmael ) 👁️ aesthetics. richter ( ainchase ishmael ) ☄️ ic. richter ( ainchase ishmael ) ☄️ musings. richter ( ainchase ishmael ) ☄️ visage. richter ( ainchase ishmael ) ☄️ wardrobe. richter ( ainchase ishmael ) ☄️ mannerisms. richter ( ainchase ishmael ) ☄️ aesthetics. dead master 💀 ic. dead master 💀 musings. dead master 💀 visage. dead master 💀 wardrobe. dead master 💀 mannerisms. dead master 💀 aesthetics.

[ataraxiaspainting]

Stuck Replaying the Memory.

Yan Aventurine x GN (Avgin) Reader.

Synopsis: Life exists with the support of the Aeons, but malice is something humanity has reigned over for thousands of years.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, human trafficking, the reader is described having blonde hair and Avgin eyes, descriptions of past abuse (not from Aventurine), and major spoilers for Aventurine's backstory.

Word Count: 700.

a big thanks to my friends @harmonysanreads and @mochinon-yah for proofreading some of it!!

*~*~*~*

You were taught to keep your head down and your hopes just as low – hell seems like heaven this far beneath dead soil and skeletons of the past’s nameless victims.

Your new god makes no critique of your stance that is akin to a prayer’s and not a slave. Despite your posture being near perfect from the eleven or so past lords and ladies that would burn your skin and tongue with hot iron if you had done otherwise, you still find your posture imperfect. Impolite. There were screams and fires just moments before – your master and his new wife fleeing with guards, pleading for mercy that they had never granted to you – and then silence from outside your chamber.

*~*~*~*

“Hair like honey,” The man’s fingers brushing through your locks are cold and have long nails; the same ones that the woman caresses your scarred back with. “Eyes like jewels. Pretty rare little thing; there aren’t many of you left… If you misbehave, perhaps that number will decline even further.”

*~*~*~*

The divine starts to kneel before you – one of his hands caressing the tattoo on the side of your neck. 

It’s an odd sight; so odd that you have the urge to look up.

You don’t though, because you have been taught how not to get hurt when great beings bless you with their presence.

You hear him read your new name aloud. “Sun…”

You wince from the past memories of it being called in the places where dinner guests would populate the most on the estate. The gardens and the banquet table especially. They would gawk at you and give you all their unwanted attention. Your behavior would be evaluated and you would either be rewarded with gifts befitting that of a royal or chains befitting that of a dog.

“That isn’t your real name, right?”

 The question is raised with a tone that is often paired with your wrist, or worse your hair or ear, being tugged until you confess an answer to the presumption or question. Suspicion of treason leads to you getting charged for the crimes you did to help yourself – a small tunnel being dug with a spoon, a lockpick made from a bobby pin one of the maids put in your hair, bleeding feet from running as fast as they could carry you – most of the time you get hurt or put in a small room by yourself until you beg to be released from it.

*~*~*~*

“But if you listen, the promise to love you will never be broken.” His wife adds.

*~*~*~*

This god looks like you.

Eyes akin to a galaxy that has lost its stars. Flowing hair that reminds you of your lord’s treasure trove locked down below. There is a tattoo on his neck similar to yours, but has some imperfections that only you would notice. It says ‘Slave’ but the outline of the word seems a bit rough. The artist had an uncooperative muse it would seem.

“Do you remember me?” He asks. His tone is sweeter now – possibly from how he had taken note of the trembling you were trying so hard to hide. Your ears register his voice and your brain compares the many screaming, yelling, heinous voices from the past. The memory starts to play in your brain like an electrical shock one of the maids would give to you whenever you would do so much as to look past the doorway to the outside world.

“Kakavasha?”

“It’s Aventurine now,” Your old friend stands up holding the chain attached to your handcuffs. Something tells you they won’t come off any time soon. “We have a lot to discuss, [First].”

He swings the key in his other hand and puts it in his pocket.

“I’m not letting you go again.”

[vixstarria]

Gentle Warding Bond 

Astarion was lost in thought, staring off into space with an open journal on one knee, absentmindedly fiddling with two rings in his hand. He was always picking up diaries and journals wherever he went, with an almost morbid curiosity about the lives of their dead authors.  

“Find something interesting?” you asked. 

“These rings we found at the House of Healing...” he answered, still in deep thought. “They appear to be counterparts. The wearer of one of them can cast a blessing on the other. That person gains a boon that protects them from harm. But any wound or injury that does reach them will be shared by the caster.” 

“How quaint” you said, sitting down next to him. 

“This journal belonged to the last wearer of the ‘giving’ ring. The poor sop died from injuries sustained by their lover.” Astarion tossed the journal off to the side.  

“What a stupid way to die” you commented after a moment of silent contemplation.  

“A bond that will drag you to your grave after your lover, should they fall. Or if you fail to protect them. Together as one against all others... Even in death.” he mused. 

“This is the kind of bullshit that breeds romance novels” you added. 

“Yes, it’s so nauseatingly sentimental I might actually be sick” laughed Astarion.  

“So saccharine” you scoffed. 

“Revoltingly sappy” agreed Astarion. 

“And absurdly foolish.” 

“Imbecilic!” 

“Simply mad.” 

You’d been looking into each other’s eyes for the latter portion of this exchange. 

“It sounds more like a curse than a boon, really” said Astarion, still looking into your eyes and reaching out to take your hand. 

“What idiot would do such a thing?” you managed, hoarsely.  

Astarion slipped one of the rings onto your finger, following suit with the other for himself. He uttered an incantation, and a warm feeling spread over your body. You felt stronger, safer, more assured. And you experienced a sensation that you could only describe as a feeling of his presence, wrapping you in an unseen embrace.  

Astarion leaned in to place a soft, lingering kiss on your lips.  

"You’re a good actor, but I can hear your heart racing, darling” he whispered once you broke the kiss. You just bit his lip in response, eliciting a soft growl from him.  

“Come on, love” he purred, getting up. “Let’s go kill something.” 

~~~~~

Next in series - Admit that you love me

Series master list

AO3

[6saints]

Aemond Targaryen x Artist! Reader

Part one? Maybe a smutty part two

Synopsis: Aemond is embarrassed by Aegon. His brother laughing at him for continuing his intimacies with Sylvi. He finds comfort in a little corner of the brothel, where a girl and her drawings seem to capture his affections.

Warnings/tags: Not much to say ngl, sexual themes, suggestive, dude is naked the whole time, it's a brothel yall, Aemond is kind of a jerk at first, soft Aemond at the end tho hehehe, reader is a cutie patootie, cursing and mature language

___

Paper, much less sketchbooks, were difficult to come by through the smallfolk of Westeros. A luxury; coveted by skillful artisans and noble families emptying their pockets for masterful art to be made of their loved ones. You were unfortunately deprived of those luxuries, being born a common girl with no household to claim. Therefore you learned to steal and barter; a skill that has served you faithfully into your adulthood.

It was not an honorable hobby of yours, you could admit, stealing low quality paper from struggling vendors. But when you would return home (and by home you really meant a small room in the back of a brothel. Paid for by your labor in cleaning, cooking, and fetching for the women and mistress) and look at the beige, tawny sheets on your walls, you were proud.

The city was overpopulated, and the people that spent their time out and about at night tended to be delinquents or drunkards. Occasionally, you could swear some of the sleeping drunks were dead. Though you would never check. Lest you wanted an angry fellow to attack you for your coin and body. The moon at its fullest always seemed to cast an odd glow on the faces of these men. You had often wished to recreate it in a drawing if only you could kneel next to them and do so.

It was always easy to slip through the walls, the darkness cloaking you from the wandering eyes of people and into the shacks that held the art materials. And once you would return to the brothel you would have an abundance of not only new supplies, but new muses to illustrate.

Brothels were a goldmine for artists who, like you, enjoy drawing the human body. The anatomy of a man and woman, the way their bodies contort and the plushness of their skin, the markings and scars that often littered their body, disheveled hair and drunken smiles; it was all so beautifully human to you. You had been invited on a number of occasions to join, perhaps earn a little more than just a small space that could barely fit yourself. But you would refuse.

You had kept your maidenhood, if not for anything else but the romanticism that artists always seem to cling faithfully to.

You wanted a lover, not a visitor.

So, you would sit hidden in the corner of the brothel, watching and sketching beneath your cloak merrily. A contentment that only a poor girl in a brothel could enjoy.

"My prince," Sylvi greeted, a smile dancing across her lips as she took the young prince's hand.

Following behind the brothel owner was Aemond Targaryen, a man who by all rights demanded power and authority. Zealous in his endeavors to usurp the throne from his brother Aegon. You knew of the gossip, the smallfolk regurgitating rumors heard through the grapevine and around some.

You had always, always, wanted to draw him properly.

But Sylvi accommodated the prince's needs impartially. Reserving a grander room covered in silks and fabrics befitting the district was her way of comforting him, you had noticed. He only ever came to see the older woman, clad in darkened clothes and hidden away from the other whores, as patrons liked to call them.

Once had you caught a view of his face, proper and thorough. It was just long enough to engrave his features in your memory; though like wood, chips away as time passes. Two attempts were made to sketch him from memory, both looking rather peculiar, different and not at all how your brain wished to remember him so. You hung the sketches up as a way of keeping his face in your memory. He was beautiful, that was all you could remember properly.

You flinched at the sound of bellowing laughs erupting from the pretty room of silk, a small group of men encircling the entrance. A tuft of messy white hair was all you saw before the men obscured your vision momentarily. He seemed to cradle himself, arms crossed overtop his knees as he looked away from his elder brother, shame rising within himself.

WOOF WOOF WOOF

Was one of them... barking?

You could not hear with the sounds of men and women moaning, skin slapping and idle chatter. But suddenly the young prince revealed himself, no cloak to hide his features nor his nude body. Despite the open wound on his face, his body was barren of any imperfection. Milky skin adorning broad shoulders and a lean figure. Aemond carried himself as a ruler, his strides confident and unwilling to cower despite the situation.

"...There are plenty of other whores," was all that escaped the man's lips audibly before he turned the corner towards your little nook in the hall.

Panicked, you backed into your small room, tripping over the sheets on the floor (which was your bed if you were to be specific). Only a few candles lit your room, an easy to miss area that if you continued walking straight would almost look like a compact storage space. It was a generous space for the work you offered, and often times you found yourself rather grateful. Most smallfolk without a bloodline to care for them slept on the streets, or in the beds of men and their sexual whims. This nook of old wood and even older fabrics was entirely yours.

Unfortunately for you, however, it seems the prince might have found comfort in the small space, deciding to turn towards it; only to be met with a girl on the floor, a sketchbook in hand and jostled (h/c) hair covering her, clothed he noted, body.

You were pretty, he pondered for only a moment. Your (s/c) skin was glowing against the wax candles’ light, the flames and brown of the wood around you seeming to cast a glow atop your cheeks and shoulders. You were certainly a stark difference to the white haired and unenchantingly pale family members of the Red Keep. Your clothes were hidden beneath a tattered cloak, small as the fabric seemed to dwindle against your head from what is likely to be many years of use.

And that was when he took notice of the walls, shrouded in ornate and tawny scraps of paper. Charcoals and ink covered them beautifully. The curves and figures replicated on the pages as though he were staring at real people, if not for the lack of color confirming otherwise. His eyes scrutinized every single piece before falling upon the two stuck to the wall beside you, low enough that he could not see the intricacies.

They were of him, he was certain. The familiar scar on full display; and you had decided to depict such in your work as though it were not a foul thing. As if he were not crippled and unworthy of being made into art.

Immediately you moved onto your knees, arms stretching to cover the drawings of him. "My prince, please don't look!" You whisper-shouted, rather embarrassed.

He's gonna behead me for drawing him! He's gonna be so offended, they're such horrible depictions of him! This is the end-

Your thoughts were cut off by his movement towards you, almost saccharine despite the threatening layer he carried in his being. He plucked the pages off your wall easily, the dried sap you had used to place it leaving a residue behind. He was knelt beside you now as his breathing was ragged and heavy, yet his eye softer. It was clear he was still angry so you stayed immobile, opting to quietly allow the prince the respite of looking at your, as you believed to be, shitty drawings.

"How did a lowborn whore get access to all this?" Aemond questioned, almost accusatory though not quite as menacing.

"I'm not a whore, my prince," you corrected rather brashly, "And I bought it."

"You bought it?" He repeated, turning to you.

Gods, that face of his was truly a work of art. You had never seen something sculpted so faire and enchanting. "Yes, I work here. As a cleaner and cook. Among other things." You muttered the last bit. Perhaps being titled ‘thief’ would not sit well with the prince, or any noble for that matter.

"Do you think me stupid? The most fucked whores here could not nearly afford this much paper." He eyed you up and down, causing insecurity to slowly creep up your spine. "Yet the cook can?"

You gulped, fingers shaking as you set the sketchbook down and began kneeling entirely, head pointed downward. "Please, my prince," you begged, "It is something I enjoy."

For some strange, insignificant reason, Aemond found himself enjoying this power he held over you. He could take away this passion of yours, take his frustrations of what had occurred only moments ago out on you; the helpless little brothel servant. He and Sylvi had a certain dynamic that bordered on motherly in its own twisted way. She had taken his virginity at the age of 13, she being well and along into her adult years and well past the taking of her own maidenhood.

And his brother, politically speaking, was mightier and thus rendered Aemond helpless against him. He could saunter into the brothel and laugh at him as he pleased. Even his own mother did not truly care for him as she did his siblings, and his father's weak resolutions were only fitted towards his bastard carrying half-sister. And yet you looked up at him from your knelt position, eyes big and (e/c) and watery. Your dress was ragged but not entirely ugly, or perhaps it was your face; flushed and puffed out that compensated. There was fear present, but not entirely of Aemond himself.

Certainly not of his eye, the disgusting scar that was on full display due to his elder brother's and cousin’s cruelty had not made you avert your gaze entirely. You did not even seem to notice it, staring impartially at the prince as though the ugly thing were not present.

All you cared about was some low quality paper.

"Why did you choose me? To illustrate, I mean." This time his voice exuded authority, the white strands falling against his face as he stared idly at your sketch. "Speak now."

You had been given the opportunity to admire his features more carefully, focusing on the prominence of his nose and thinness of his lips, his working eye soft and welcoming whilst the other was pointed and jeweled. The scar that aligned his cheek, across the sapphire and ending above his eyebrow was healed enough, a wound forever carved into his features.

"You're beautiful," you mindlessly said, soft enough that Aemond almost had not heard it. You caught yourself almost immediately, straightening your back and creating a distance between you two. "I-I'm so sorry! That was rude of me!"

You weren't sure if drooling over a prince could be considered treason or criminal, and you honestly had no desire to find out.

"You find the cripple beautiful?" He laughed out.

Self deprecation was something he had never truly let anybody see, opting for an authoritative approach. All the people of Westeros saw when looking at him was a crippled boy, one unfit to rule a kingdom despite the training and studying he endured, well beyond the abilities of his brother, who did not even seem to enjoy the thought of ruling. If he pretended to be confident for long enough then surely others would believe it too. Power is power, a loss of an eye nor sleeping with a whore could take that away from him. Aemond was chosen by Vhagar, one of the largest dragons who had only recently lost its companion. He was chosen. A privilege not so easily befitted to others.

And yet here he knelt; naked, angry, and oddly frustrated with the girl in front of him.

"Do you take me for some kind of joke?" He was a looming presence, like a gargoyle. A beautiful statue bearing intricacies and underlying dread.

"I only draw things I find beautiful," your trembling hands reached for your notebook to show him, ripped papers sliding between your fingers as you turned the pages deliberately. "Mostly people, mostly those in the brothel." You admitted.

"And I?"

Aemond sounded almost defeated, like the world was weighing on him and the compliment from a pretty little brothel worker was the final push.

"Yes, and you, my prince."

A silence enveloped you both. The lewd sounds outside of your little nook in the corner of the brothel seemed to wane within your ears, the both of you rather present and yet distant at the same time. You pondered if he needed comfort, the abrupt entrance of his brother weighing heavily within you both. You would have preferred to see him again from a distance and not entangle yourself with the affairs of a highborn who could, by all accounts, harm you. You wondered what led the prince to grow up so ashamed of himself. Aemond who felt frustrated and embarrassed, weak even, and you who felt pity and shyness. A need to comfort the insecure prince overwhelming you.

"If you'd like..." You began unsurely, "I will not lay with you, um, intimately. But if I may offer you comfort?"

The sketchbook in your lap held one of the drawings of Aemond atop the pages. It sat gingerly, the ornate paper crinkled slightly from the prince's touch. You were about to remove it to allow the prince to rest his head atop your lap before he stopped you abruptly, his hand overtop yours and stilled. His thumb brushed over yours for a moment, a ghost of a feeling that you were unsure it had occurred at all.

"Leave it." He commanded.

And so you did.

You lifted your hands while Aemond shifted his body weight, laying on the sheets that were scattered against the floor with his head gingerly placed atop the sketchbook as your hands delicately traced along his hair, neck, and shoulder. His legs found themselves beneath the sheets, his arms curled forward to hold onto your thighs. The feeling of your skin against his hand only served to soothe him, fingers rubbing circles harsh enough that it almost hurt, the fat and muscle in your legs massaged into a redness.

Your fingers were soft to the touch, a chill reverberating against himself as he inhaled the mix of your scent and the paper; wood, sap, and the slight fragrance of the rose oils you bathed with. It was different to the stench of the common areas within the brothel, and the intense perfumes that the castle halls were brimming with. Your maidenhood was intact, you had not lied. His hands trailed upward, speculating your morals as he found himself reaching within your cloak and holding onto the side of your waist.

Although you made no move to stop him, the stiffness in your body and the way your breath hitched in your throat gave him an idea of your discomfort. When his hand returned to its original position atop your thighs your body relaxed and you continued kneading at his skin. He thought of you almost like a kitten; only allowing the touch that you wished to receive whilst being tucked away from the peering eyes of others.

"I will return," he spoke matter of factly, "And you will accept me."

"Yes, my prince."

"Aemond," he corrected. "When we are here, you will address me as Aemond."

"Yes, Aemond."

This was a little nook in the corner of the world, untouched by sex and politics.

Just a pretty little girl and her drawings, taking care of the insecure prince who reveled in her touch, art and soft manner of speech.

[hopeful-hugz]

Heavily obsessed with this scene from the chase thread with Melody and N, so of course I'm in the process of drawing it.

It's testing the limits of my anatomy and art skills.

Feat. @disassnbler

[sodamnradd]

“Uh… Pans?” Harry pinches the air, missing his moving target. “Why’s there a branch floating above my head?”

“It’s mistletoe for the party.” She admires her charm work. “It wilts for some, blooms for others, and for the right kiss—” she kisses him, and the plant vanishes, “—it disappears, fulfilled.”

An hour later, Hermione enters the party with Roger Davies. Their mistletoe is black and crunchy, deader than dead. Only two other guests sport a dead mistletoe—Malfoy and his date, a witch Harry has never seen before. Malfoy swats the crispy plant like a pesky pixie, but it dodges him and snaps right back into place.

“Pans,” Harry corners her in the corridor, “should we scrap the mistletoes?”

She arches a bejewelled brow. “For giving Draco and Granger the wake-up call they so desperately deserve?”

He glances in Hermione’s direction with a bad feeling in his gut. “She hasn’t had the easiest go of things—”

“And Draco has?” Pansy rebuts. “Granger broke up with him.”

“Because he refused to admit he was dating her.”

“To save her from public scrutiny.”

Harry shakes his head vehemently. “He was ashamed.”

“He wasn’t.” Pansy’s eyes narrow. It’s an argument they have had countless times. “He’s pathetic without her.”

“He should’ve realised that before acting like a total di—”

“Look.” Pansy yanks him to the side, hiding behind one of the dozen Christmas trees erected around the house.

Hermione and Malfoy stand a few feet away. Pansy gives Harry a pointed look as the mistletoe above their friends blooms with the plumpest berries Harry has seen all night. He gulps, not liking it.

Hermione points to the mistletoe. “Did you do this?”

Malfoy’s gaze lifts and his brow furrows, noticing their rejuvenated stalker. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re angry I dumped you.”

Harry bites his lip to keep from laughing at Malfoy's outraged expression.

“If anything, this is the sort of manipulative spellwork you would conjure to drive a point,” Malfoy drawls, a razor-sharp edge in his voice. “If you wanted a kiss, Granger, all you had to do was ask.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice goes up an octave. “I have a date.”

“So do I.”

“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “You hired an escort.”

Pansy snorts, and Harry claps a hand over her mouth.

Malfoy goes beet red. A vindictive snarl curls his lips. “And Davies has been staring at her tits the entire time.”

Hermione stiffens. She begins to walk around him, but Malfoy blocks her path. “Kiss me.”

“Sod off.” She tries to side-step him again, but he follows.

“Kiss me and the enchantment will go away,” he says, staring at her with some other emotion in his eyes. “Or are you worried Davies will start a fight?”

Hermione shakes her head, trying to skirt him, but Malfoy doesn’t let up. 

Pansy’s nails pierce Harry’s arm, warning him not to interfere.

“You’ve broken my nose once,” muses Malfoy as if it’s a fond memory. “At least this will be for a worthy cause.”

Some of the fight leaves Hermione’s body.

“Kiss me,” he inches forward, “and I’ll broadcast my feelings to the whole of the Wizarding World to make you believe me. I’ll put a ring on your finger and give you my name.”

She retreats a step, voice small. “You’re just saying that.”

“Kiss me,” urges Malfoy, closing in on her. The mistletoe follows diligently. “Find out for yourself.”

Fascinated and dubious of this version of Malfoy, Harry wonders whether Pansy has been right all along or if Malfoy is a master manipulator. Both are viable options. But if the mistletoe enchantment is as accurate as Pansy claims…

Harry watches, scandalised, as Hermione fists the front of Malfoy’s shirt and kisses him with shocking verve. The wall thumps as they land next to the tree. An ornament shatters on the floor, knocked by Malfoy’s elbow as he ensnares Hermione between his arms, sighing, “Fucking missed you.”

Smiling smugly, Pansy mouths, “Told you.” Flitting off to rejoin the festivities without being seen. Harry slips out after her, groaning when another meddlesome branch appears. This one targets Ron and a newly betrothed Daphne Greengrass. 

Across the room, Pansy sends Harry a devilish wink.

(708 words, prompt from the blue november prompt creator i made, cross-posted from bsky)