multifandomfix

[multifandomfix]

June Movie Wrap Up

A Matter Of Time: 3/10. The first half hour could have been about 10 minutes and we would’ve gotten more out of it. Basically nothing happened. Then it just got weird. Hard to follow how all this happens to her out of nowhere. Costumes were quite beautiful though. That’s about all I can say for this one.

Bad Boy Bubby: 5/10. Starts off disturbing as all fuck. Middle kind of gets boring. End was still incredibly weird, but also kind of sweet. So yeah, it’s a wild ride. Strap in if you feel like giving this one a chance.

Bel Ami: 7/10. Plot was good, but would have been far more compelling if the lead had not been Robert Pattinson. I don’t think he really did a bad job of it, but I just find him generally off putting. Christina Ricci was lovely in it though.

Dorothy Mills: 7/10. I’m not sure I was really in the mood to watch a movie when I decided to watch this one, so I was a bit checked out. Still got the point of it, and probably would have enjoyed it a bit more had I been more engaged with it. It’s a little trippy, but in a good way. Also kind of intense in places, but overall, pretty good.

Marrowbone: 8/10. Listen, I didn’t think I was going to enjoy this one too much, but I was pleasantly surprised. The story, the twists, it was quite good, actually. I’m still shocked that it was so good.

Much Ado About Nothing: 7/10. The only time I will ever tolerate Shakespeare is when it’s David Tennant and Catherine Tate. Did I entirely follow the plot? No. But those two were a joy in every scene they were in, and I enjoyed watching them both.

Murder On The Orient Express: 6/10. Look, I’m really not a mystery girl. Detective stories just don’t do it for me, pretty much ever. I gave this one a chance for the sheer amount of the cast I was a fan of, and it wasn’t bad, but I didn’t find myself really caring about the plot.

Shutter Island: 9/10. With a rewatch to catch some details I missed, this could easily become a favorite of mine. Such a mind fuck in the best way possible. If you haven’t seen this, please watch it. It’ll blow your mind.

Songcatcher: 6/10. The plot wasn’t bad, but it didn’t fully grab me either. Definitely has some sad parts. Mostly watched it for the historical lesbians. Doesn’t end too well for them.

The Handmaid’s Tale: 6/10. Basically just the first season of Hulu’s Handmaid’s Tale in an hour and forty minutes. Also has Natasha Richardson and Elizabeth McGovern so points for that.

[multifandomfix]

Imagine helping Gemma cover up a crime.

The shovel felt too heavy in your hands for something so thin and splintered. Mud caked your boots. The night was damp, heavy with fog, and the pine needles stuck to your jacket.

Gemma didn’t say a word at first. Just dug. There was blood on her jeans, dried, crusted in a splash across the thigh, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care. You had questions, of course. Who, what, why. But her voice on the phone had been sharp as a blade.

“I need you. Now. No questions.”

So you came. Because it was Gemma. Because it’s what you always did when she called.

“How deep does it need to be?” you asked finally, when your arms started to shake.

“Deep enough they don’t come sniffin’ with dogs,” she muttered. Her cigarette bobbed in her mouth, glowing in the dark like a warning.

You swallowed hard. “Who was he?”

“Nobody.” She said it too fast. “Someone who got in the way.”

You knew better than to push. But still— “He hurt someone?”

Gemma stopped digging. Looked at you hard. “He was gonna hurt my family. That enough for you?”

You didn’t need more than that. Not with her.

The tarp at your feet shifted, and you flinched. It was just a job. A favor. One night. One secret. But once you put him in the ground, there’d be no turning back.

She caught your hesitation. “Hey,” she said, softer now. “You do this for me, and it’s done. I’ll carry it. Not you.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true. You nodded anyway. Grabbed the other end of the tarp and helped her roll the body in. The earth gave way as he fell into his makeshift grave.

By the time the hole was filled, your hands were raw and your stomach turned. She touched your shoulder, lingering.

“You never saw anything,” she said. “And if anyone asks…”

“They won’t.” You looked her in the eye. “I was never here.”

She smiled then. Tight lipped. Tired. “You always were my favorite.”

And just like that, you were back in her pocket. Though really, you’d never left.

For @yellowbird-flying

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

Imagine getting caught in Arthur’s room after a night of drinks at the tavern.

You squint against the morning sun as it pours in through the tall windows of Prince Arthur’s chambers. Your head is resting on something warm and bare. His shoulder, apparently. Arthur’s arm is draped over your waist like it belongs there. There’s a boot in the middle of the floor, a goblet tipped sideways on the table, and your cloak crumpled suspiciously near the bed.

“Arthur,” you whisper urgently, nudging him. “Wake up. Wake up.”

He groans, still mostly asleep. “M’tired.”

“I’m serious.” You sit up, clutching the blanket to your chest just in case. “Last night got…a little out of hand. We were supposed to come back to the castle quietly.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “We did come back quietly. You practically fell asleep on the stairs.”

“You carried me?”

“You’re welcome.”

Before you can retort, the heavy doors swing open with a bang.

Uther Pendragon steps into the room, regal and furious, eyes immediately taking in the scene, the disheveled bed, his half naked son, you in the prince’s bedclothes. His jaw clenches. “Arthur.”

Arthur bolts upright. “Father—”

“Explain yourself.” Uther’s voice is cold steel. “This—tryst—in your chambers, without decency or permission—”

Arthur throws a protective arm out in front of you, like Uther might draw his sword on the spot. “It’s not what it looks like.” You were pretty sure it was, but you weren’t about to contradict him now.

Uther’s glare darkens. “It looks like you’ve disgraced your station, and this court, with your indulgences.”

Arthur straightens. “She’s not an indulgence.”

“Then what is she?”

The silence is immediate and terrible. Arthur glances at you. Then he squares his shoulders and says, steady, “Someone I care very deeply about.”

Your breath catches.

Uther’s eyes flick between the two of you. “Care will not protect you from consequences,” he snaps. “See that this never happens again. Either conduct yourself with propriety, or make your intentions known publicly. There will be no more secrets.”

He turns and sweeps from the room, leaving silence and the weight of his implication in his wake.

You exhale shakily. “So. That went well.”

Arthur groans and flops backward onto the mattress. “Next time, we stay in the tavern.”

You grin. “Next time?”

He smirks up at you, eyes bright. “You think I’m letting you escape now?”

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Arthur Pendragon: @retvenkos, @dancingwith-sunflowers, @randomfandomimagine, @locke-writes, @emma-everlast, @living-for-romance, @chaotic-mushroomz, @fxnfandxmmp4, @itsezekielbabe, @strawberrycakeblog, @geekyandgay98, @yetanotherattemptatanaccount

[multifandomfix]

Imagine Loki time slipping and accidentally catching you while you’re changing.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. You were halfway through changing into pajamas when a hum of unstable energy buzzed through the air, like static. Before you could reach for your shirt, reality glitched, and there he was.

Loki. In your bedroom. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.

“Gods—! This isn’t— I didn’t—”

You shrieked and lunged for the closest thing with sleeves, a fluffy robe crumpled at the foot of your bed. Wrapping yourself like a burrito, you turned on him with fire in your eyes.

“Loki what the hell?!”

“I—time slipped,” he barked, as though that explained everything. “I didn’t mean to land here, I was in the TVA—”

“Oh, so you accidentally appeared in my bedroom at the exact moment I was half naked,” you snapped. It wasn’t like you were new to his tricks.

His face was turning red. Loki. God of Mischief. Blushing.

“I didn’t choose this, I promise,” he protested, voice climbing an octave. “One second I was arguing with Mobius, the next I blink and—” he gestured wildly, “—you’re undressed and looking at me like I kicked your puppy!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You did kick my privacy in the teeth.”

“I would never— okay, I would, but not this time.” Loki looked genuinely horrified, then seemed to realize how ridiculous the whole thing was. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a nightmare.”

You blinked. He wasn’t leering. He wasn’t smirking. He looked mortified.

Somewhere between your racing heartbeat and the absurdity of the situation, you softened.

“You didn’t see anything, right?”

“I saw—” he paused. “—skin. Some. It’s a blur now.” Loki looked away, jaw tight. “My time slipping seems to be tied to emotional anchors. At least, I think.”

You crossed your arms under the robe, eyeing him. “So I’m an emotional anchor?”

He looked at you then, his green eyes soft, lips parted just slightly. “Apparently.”

The silence stretched until you cracked a grin. “You know, if you wanted to see me undressed, you could’ve just asked like a normal person.”

“You cheeky—”

There it was, that grin you’d grown so fond of. He was coming out of whatever embarrassment he’d endured on your behalf. He actually came toward you now, and you found yourself ready to embrace him.

Then the hun started up again.

“No, no, no, no—” Loki groaned. “Not again—”

With a flash, he was gone.

You exhaled slowly, then flopped backward onto the bed with a groan.

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Loki Laufeyson: @marril96, @unexpected-character, @lilyontheloose, @puppy-coded, @possessedxparrot, @marinarashakeyobooty, @becomingthedreamversionofme, @music-bird, @chaotic-mushroomz, @mbruben-stein, @sunflowergurlsposts, @danimorgan1708, @onlykeres, @asocialrandom, @floresferae, @multifandomlover01, @jukebox-opossum1313, @tokyo-liv, @geekyandgay98, @sweetyprincesschaos, @yetanotherattemptatanaccount, @eleniblue, @lady-darkswan3, @postcardgirl425, @garlicbreadrry, @foxherder, @buttercupcookies-blog, @alexthen3rd

[multifandomfix]

Imagine being Lydia’s friend and having a crush on Delia.

The attic was unusually quiet, just you and Lydia, sprawled on the dusty floor, sharing the kind of comfortable silence only the weirdos at school could appreciate.

“So…” you started, tracing a lazy circle in the dust with your fingertip. “I need to tell you something. And you can’t laugh. Or maim me. Or kill me.”

Lydia turned to you, eyes narrowed behind her dark bangs. “That’s a lot of rules for one confession.”

You hesitated, then blew out a breath. “I think I’m in love with your stepmother.”

She blinked. “Delia?”

You nodded, bracing for the inevitable horror. But Lydia just stared at you. Then tilted her head. Then grinned.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” she said. “But not…horrifying.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Lydia shrugged. “Look, Delia’s kind of ridiculous. But I think you’d keep her grounded. And she’d make sure you never lived another boring day again.”

Your heart thudded. “Wait. You’re not…mad?”

“Mad?” Lydia leaned back on her palms, letting out a dry chuckle. “You’re one of my only friends. I think the idea of you turning Thanksgiving dinner into a soap opera sounds amazing. Plus, I always knew you were into women, just not ones who wear capes indoors.”

You covered your face. “She only wore the cape once.”

“She said it was her ‘energy shield.’” Lydia smirked. “You swooned. I saw it.”

You groaned, but couldn’t help laughing. “You’re taking this really well.”

“I mean, it’s weird,” Lydia admitted. “But this whole house is weird. Delia and my father are barely compatible, let’s be real. And you, well, you always bring out the best in people. Even Delia. I saw how she smiled at you last week when you asked about her wire installation.”

“She said it represented ‘the cage of societal repression.’”

“And you said it looked like a sad chandelier,” Lydia said, deadpan. “She loved it.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. “So…you’d be okay if I…maybe told her someday?”

A pause, then Lydia added, “Just don’t do it in front of my dad. He’ll have an aneurysm.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

Lydia nudged you with her boot. “You know, if this actually works, I get to say I set up my best friend with my stepmom. That’s peak weird girl anecdote stuff right there. I’m thrilled.”

You beamed at her, heart suddenly a little lighter.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

Imagine being held hostage, but only worrying about Oliver and not yourself.

The duct tape tugged at your skin every time you shifted, but it wasn’t the zip ties around your wrists or the deranged monologue of the killer that had your heart pounding.

It was Oliver. All you could think about was him.

Not the cold floor beneath you, not the sharp edge of danger in the air. Just Oliver. His heart. His poor, overworked heart.

“You’re really quiet for someone who’s been kidnapped,” the killer sneered, pacing.

You didn’t answer. Not because you were scared—though you probably should’ve been—but because you were too busy mentally screaming at Oliver not to follow you here.

Please, please don’t barge in here with that dramatist’s flair. Don’t try to play hero. Don’t strain yourself. Not for me.

He’d had two heart attacks already. Two. And now this? If you knew him—and you did—he was halfway to bursting through the door to save you. It was noble, it was sweet, but it was also foolhardy.

The killer crouched in front of you, waving their knife to get your attention. “You’re not gonna beg? Cry a little? Maybe ask to live?”

You met their eyes evenly. “I just want to know, did you lock the door?”

“What?”

“Because if Oliver gets in here, he’s liable to throw himself into cardiac arrest from the adrenaline alone.”

The killer blinked. “Are you serious right now?”

“I am so serious,” you said, deadpan. “His heart can’t take this. He’s already had two attacks and I swear to God, if you’re the reason he ends up in a third, I’ll haunt you so hard.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then—bang! The door slammed open.

Oliver burst in, puffing, wild eyed, one arm flung forward like he was about to deliver an opening night monologue. “Unhand them, you fiend!”

Your heart dropped. “Oliver!”

He froze, panting. “I—whew—was worried—” He braced himself against the wall. “—about you!”

“No! I was worried about you,” you shouted as the killer backed away, momentarily stunned at the scene unfolding before them.

“You nearly died, Oliver! Why are you here?”

“To save you! You think I was going to let them get away with killing you?”

You flung your arms around him the moment your ties were off. “Next time, let Mabel or Charles do the rescuing. You’re too precious to lose.”

He exhaled shakily into your hair. “You’re pretty damn precious yourself, y’know.”

The sirens started wailing outside.

“Tell me the EMTs are here for you,” you murmured.

He gave a sheepish smile. “They’re here for both of us, if it’ll make you feel better.”

You groaned, clutching the scarf at his throat. “God help me, I love you so much it’s stupid.”

“Mutual.”

For @anmactireaonair

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

Imagine getting drunk with Father Mulcahy.

It starts innocently enough, just the two of you sitting on a crate outside the mess tent, watching stars blink into existence over the 4077th. The bottle between you was a gift from Klinger, who swore it was “liberated” from a general’s private stash. You raise your brow. Father Mulcahy hesitates.

“For morale,” you say with a grin.

“For morale,” he agrees, uncertain, but smiling.

The first sip burns. So does the second. By the third, the gentle priest is already buzzed. And he giggles. Giggles, at nothing at all. It’s a charming sound, you think.

You nearly drop the bottle. “Are you already drunk, Father?”

“I believe I may be…lightly anointed,” he says with a hiccup and a proud nod. “Divinely spirited.”

“A lightweight,” you corrected. He nods.

You’re both in stitches after that, laughing harder than you have in weeks. He starts humming a hymn, then pauses halfway through and sings the last verse like it’s a bar tune. You join in, slurring the words as if you knew them anyhow.

“Is it wrong to feel happy,” he asks suddenly, voice quieter. “In a place like this?”

You glance at him. His smile is softer now. “No,” you say. “It means you’re still alive.”

He nods, looking up at the sky, stars blurring just a little in his watery eyes. “You know,” he whispers, “I love them all. Even Frank Burns. God help me.”

You toast to that.

And he downs it like a champ.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Francis Mulcahy: @callsigncrash, @dictatorwholock, @edgessunflower, @neapolitantoebeans, @mramirez1222, @multifandomlover01, @i-your-friendly-neighborhood-emo, @locke-writes, @magpie6322, @lemonflavoredsock, @booksabound1991

[multifandomfix]

Imagine Trent Crimm letting you play with his hair.

Trent Crimm doesn’t let people touch his hair. It’s an unspoken rule. But tonight, as the two of you sit cross legged on his sofa, sipping red wine and listening to the rain patter against the windows, something shifts.

He’s uncharacteristically relaxed, cardigan sleeves pushed up, hair tousled from running a hand through it one too many times while reading articles on his laptop. You eye the soft waves falling over his forehead, and without thinking, murmur, “Can I?”

Trent glances at you over the rim of his glass, one brow arching. “You want to what? Touch my hair?”

You nod, sheepish. “It just looks soft. And…perfect.”

His mouth twitches into the faintest of smirks. “I assure you, it’s nothing all that special.”

“Please?” When he doesn’t say no, you take it as a yes. Gently, you shift closer, fingertips brushing the edge of his hairline. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he closes his eyes like he’s bracing for impact, or maybe surrendering to it.

You start slow, combing your fingers through the dark strands, marveling at how silky it feels. “God, it’s like the softest thing I’ve ever felt. Do you deep condition?”

“Twice a week,” he admits, deadpan.

You both laugh, and the sound is soft and easy. Your hands move to the back of his head, scratching lightly at his scalp. He actually sighs.

“Nice,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“What is?”

“You. Doing this. I might expect it again.”

You smile and press a quick kiss to his temple. “I’d be okay with that.”

So would he.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

They Find Out They’re Your First (RHOBH Preference)

Adrienne Maloof: She’d pause, not expecting the revelation, and immediately switch into nurturing mode. “Okay, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” She’d ask thoughtful, grounded questions — “Are you nervous? Do you want to talk about it?” — and approach the moment with care and respect.

Camille Grammer: Camille would be surprisingly tender. Her flirtatious exterior would melt away into something warmer. “So I’m your first,” she’d ask with a soft smile, touching your hand. She’d take it slow, prioritizing intimacy over the physical, and reassure you with gentle affection. “We’ll just go at your pace, no pressure.”

Denise Richards: Denise might blink in surprise, but only for a second. “Oh, okay. That’s cool.” She’d keep it casual and kind, instantly dropping any assumptions. You wouldn’t feel judged, if anything, she’d feel honored by your trust. She’d let you know she’s got you, fully.

Eileen Davidson: Eileen would take it seriously. She’s grounded and emotionally intelligent, so she’d listen closely, maybe sit with the moment a while before responding. “Thank you for trusting me with that,” she’d say sincerely. She’d be calm and patient, open to a heart to heart, and would want everything to be easy for you with no rushing and no expectations.

Erika Jayne: Erika would go still for a second, processing, then raise a brow, not in judgment, but intrigue. “Well damn,” she’d say slowly, her tone unreadable for a beat before breaking into a genuine smile. “You tell me what you need and I’ll take care of you.” And she would, in every sense.

Kim Richards: Kim would be touched that you chose her to be your first. She’d whisper her love, cupping your face gently. She’d be delicate, and sweet, very attuned to your emotional state. “Don’t be afraid to stop me if you want to.” There’d be a sense of softness around the moment, and she’d want to create something meaningful and safe for you as well as for herself.

Kyle Richards: Kyle might stumble over her reaction at first, unsure of how to respond without saying the wrong thing. But once she settled, she’d be deeply affirming. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think it’s…kind of incredible.” She’d let her warmth shine through, staying close, probably brushing your hair back and holding your hand as she asked what you wanted, what you needed.

Lisa Rinna: “Oh wow. Okay. That’s — wow.” Lisa would be startled at first, maybe fill the silence with a quip. “So you picked me, huh? I feel special!” But it wouldn’t take long for her to settle down and respond with honesty. She’d get real with you, dropping the sass for sincerity.

Lisa Vanderpump: She’d stop, her eyes searching yours with surprising softness. “Darling, you have nothing to fear from me.” Lisa would slow everything down and treat you like absolute royalty. She’d be romantic, soothing, and gently commanding, guiding you through anything you’re insecure about. The experience would feel almost sacred.

Sutton Stracke: Sutton would get adorably flustered. “Okay…okay,” she’d stammer, processing out loud. But after a beat, she’d soften, revealing some insecurities of her own. “Are you sure you trust me to be your first? I don’t want to disappoint,” she’d say earnestly. But she’d be gentle, emotionally present, and very respectful, wanting to make sure you felt totally safe and cherished. Expect nervous giggles and some reassuring hand squeezing.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

Imagine Sister Jude helping you wash your hair while your arm heals.

The air in Briarcliff was always cold. Even in the tiled bathing room, steam couldn’t quite settle. You sat hunched on the bench by the basin, your injured arm in a sling, awkward and useless. The sharp sting in your arm now pulsed dully as you stared into the chipped porcelain.

Sister Jude stood behind you, sleeves rolled past her elbows, towel draped over one shoulder. Her habit remained immaculate despite the thin veil of steam curling around her.

“Lean back,” she instructed gently, not the voice she used when commanding silence in the common room or punishing misbehavior. This one was…softer.

You obeyed. Lukewarm water saturated your hair. Her fingers followed, firm but careful, nails short but nice on your scalp. They moved in slow circles, working lather through your tangled hair. It shouldn’t have felt so intimate, so grounding. But no one had touched you kindly in weeks. Maybe longer.

“You’ve been through worse, haven’t you,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Broken bones heal.”

You opened your eyes halfway. Her face was focused, intent, and something like sympathy flickered behind her stern mask. You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing. Just let her fingers trace your scalp, let the suds run down the sides of your face and neck.

She cupped water over your head to rinse. You blinked back unexpected tears. Her touch slowed, resting briefly on your crown. A blessing in disguise.

When she finally wrapped a towel around your shoulders, her hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Next time you need help,” she said, “you ask. You don’t wait until it hurts too much.”

You nodded, throat thick.

“Yes, Sister.”

But what you meant was thank you.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Jude Martin: @brienneseveruscalaway, @derry-n, @peggycarter-steverogers, @mars-rivers, @gothtrash6969, @callsigncrash, @somelonelywriter, @babygirlscout

[multifandomfix]

A Necessary Secret — Susie Myerson

Summary: Though you’re married, you carry on a relationship with Susie in secret. She wants you to leave him, but staying with your husband is the one thing that’s protecting her.

Word Count: 1,204

Tags: Angst, some fluff

Susie always leaves her boots by the door like she lives here. You’ve told her not to, your husband notices these things, the mud left behind, even if he acts like he doesn’t care what goes on in your world. But she still does it. It’s her quiet way of saying: I was here. I matter. Whether your husband sees it or not.

You stand at the window as dusk falls over the city, the lights blinking on in windows both near and far. Behind you, you can hear her shuffling around your living room, one of her nervous tics, not wanting to sit still. She doesn’t like your place, but she comes anyway, because it’s the only place you’ll let her have you.

And she does have you. In every way that matters. Except the one she wants most.

“You could leave him,” Susie says. Her voice is sharp, but not unkind. She never manages to be unkind with you, even when she tries.

You don’t answer. You just look down at the sidewalk below, watch the suits and skirts rush home to their families, or to their own secrets perhaps.

“I’m serious,” Susie reiterated, her footsteps coming closer. “You could. You should.”

You turn slowly, arms folded across your chest. She’s in her usual uniform of slacks, suspenders, cap currently half tucked into her back pocket. You in your nice, expensive dress. She looks like she’s ready to run the moment someone tries to tell her she doesn’t belong. But she does belong. With you. In this home. Even if it’s on borrowed time, even if it’s half a lie.

“I can’t,” you say. “Not now.”

Susie scoffs, bitter, low. “It’s always not now. You know how long I’ve been hearing that? Two years. Two whole damn years.”

Your jaw tightens, but you say nothing. What is there to say that she doesn’t already know?

“You love me,” she says. It isn’t a question.

You nod.

“Then why not leave him?”

You sit down on the couch, new as of last week, a luxury afforded to you by part of the life you lead. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s not that hard,” Susie shot back.

You look over at her, really look. Her hair’s a mess, wild from the wind from before she got here, her eyes bright with pain and something else. Hope, maybe. How she still clung onto that, you didn’t know. If you were the one in her place, you would have given up long ago.

“Susie, you think it’s just about me being scared? That I’m some coward who can’t admit what she wants?”

“If the shoe fits—”

“I’m not scared,” you practically shouted. “Not for me.” You add, quiet this time. “I’m scared for you.”

That silences her.

“I’m his wife, not his girlfriend, not some fling. Everything I am, everything I have belongs to him. He allows me my dalliances because that’s what we agreed. But for this to happen,” you tell her, waving your hand between the two of you, “I have to stay his wife. If I left, he’d find me, find you, and I don’t know what would happen.”

She swallows hard, shifting her weight like she wants to punch a wall, or maybe herself.

“That’s bullshit,” she spits.

“I know. But it’s safe.”

She walks away, then paces back, the movement frantic like she’s trying to outpace her heartbreak. “You think I care about safe?”

“You should.”

“No. No, I care about you. About waking up next to you in the morning without having to check a clock. About taking you to some shitty club and holding your hand in the dark listening to horrible comics, before you finally get to see Miriam in action. I want all that, but we’re confined to these rooms like animals at a fucking zoo. I don’t want to live in a zoo, I belong out in the wild.”

You close your eyes. You think about making a crack about how the metaphor got away from her, but you don’t. You want all those things too.

You look at her again. She’s breathing hard, like all of this has been trapped in her chest too long.

You wished you could just drop everything and take off with her, really you do. It’s not like your husband knew her. There’d only been one close call in him catching her here, but he had his ways. He could be a dangerous man if he had reason to.

Susie drops onto the arm of the chair, not quite sitting. Just slumping. A half defeated motion, one you’ve only seen a few times. Once after Midge bombed at a showcase and she blamed herself. Once when her rent check bounced. And now.

The silence between you is heavy, full of too many words neither of you want to say aloud.

“I’m not asking you to blow up your life,” she says eventually. “But I am asking you to let me be part of it. Really part of it.”

“You are.”

“Am I? Because I feel like I’m nothing more than some uppity housewife’s dirty little secret.”

Her words stung, but she was essentially right. You rub your thumb over your wedding ring. The gold feels cold tonight.

“I want it too,” you say. “All of it.”

She looks up. “Then fucking come with me. Damn the consequences! If your husband wants to kill me, let him try. I’m as stubborn as a goddamn cockroach. And I’ve got guys for that.”

You snorted a laugh. “Of course you do,” you said, and Susie smiled too. She meant this. She wanted you to come with her, and you were closed to convinced that you should. Uprooting your life though was no small task. You couldn’t take off right now, but you could formulate a plan.

She presses her forehead to your knee, and you comb your fingers through her hair. You stay like that for a while. Until—

“Okay.” The word hit Susie like a heart attack. Were you really saying the one thing she wanted to hear?

You spoke again. “It won’t be today. I need time to plan. But I want to come with you. I want to be your wife, not his. At least, as much as I can be. But we need a plan. A real one, not just a fly by the seat of our pants thing. I’ll get some things together, stash them with my family, and I’ll leave him. My father is a divorce lawyer, a good one, and if anyone can stop my husband from coming after me, after us, it’ll be him. I’m just sorry I never had the courage to do this before.”

Eventually, she pulls away, nods, stands and puts her coat back on.

“You’ll call me,” she asks, not quite looking back. She wasn’t sure she could believe you, even now, even with all your promises.

“I always do.” Whatever Susie believed, you meant it. You’d wasted too much time already, and you would be blowing up your life, but if it was for the sake of your happiness, maybe the comfortable life you were used to needed blowing up.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

How They Ask You Out (RHOBH Preference)

Adrienne Maloof: She invites you to dinner under the guise of “discussing business” or “catching up,” but when the setting turns out to be a candlelit rooftop restaurant with a private table and impeccable wine, it’s clear there’s more to it. She leans in with a small smile and says, “What do you say we make this official?”

Camille Grammer: She invites you to Malibu for a weekend at the beach house, then casually mentions how nice it would be to have a date to her next charity gala. “Unless…you’d want to go with me,” she’ll ask, batting her eyes at you. As if you’d even consider saying no.

Denise Richards: Denise keeps it casual, but the way she looks at you when you say yes to her invitation, like she’s been wanting this for a while, makes it feel like the start of something serious.

Eileen Davidson: She invites you to a quiet dinner at her favorite Italian spot, where she takes your hand across the table and says, “I don’t usually do this, but I really like being around you. Would you want to go out—on a real date—with me?”

Erika Jayne: She makes it a production in the best way. You get a handwritten invitation on glittery cardstock, complete with a time, location, and a dress code: “Fabulous.” When you show up, she’s waiting in head-to-toe glam. “This is me asking you out, baby,” she purrs, sipping a cocktail. “Let’s make it a night worth remembering.”

Kim Richards: Shy but sincere, Kim stumbles a little over her words. She invites you for a walk in the park with her dog, then pauses halfway through to turn to you and say, “I know I’m kind of a mess, but I really enjoy being around you. Would you maybe want to go on a date with me?” Her vulnerability makes it all the more endearing.

Kyle Richards: Kyle is charming and playful, making it feel like a spontaneous idea that just popped into her head. One night, she gives you a cheeky grin and says, “Okay, so hear me out…what if we just went out, like really went out? You and me, dinner, just us. I think we’d have a lot of fun.”

Lisa Rinna: You’re mid conversation when she just blurts it out: “Screw it—do you want to go out with me or what?” Then she laughs, throwing her hands in the air. “Life’s too short, honey! I think we’d be hot together.”

Lisa Vanderpump: Always elegant, Lisa takes you out for afternoon tea at SUR. She waits until you’re a few sips in, then touches your wrist gently and says, “Darling, I’ve been thinking—would you allow me the pleasure of taking you out properly? Just you and me, no distractions.”

Sutton Stracke: Nervous but determined, Sutton rehearses what she’s going to say in her head all day before finally blurting it out over a glass of wine. “Listen, I know I’m a little much sometimes, but I really like you. Would you let me take you out?” She laughs, cheeks flushed, and waits for your answer with wide, hopeful eyes.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

Imagine Jeannie II choosing a new, symbolic name for you to call her.

The bottle glowed faintly as the desert winds whispered outside the tent. You could feel her before you saw her, sultry, electric, ancient. She materialized in a shimmer of vibrant green colored smoke, arms crossed, gaze sharp as ever.

But something was different. No smirk. No wicked gleam in her eye. Just a quiet intensity.

“I have been thinking,” she said, her voice unusually soft, as if the words cost her something. “About what it means to be…tethered. To someone.” Her gaze flicked toward you, unreadable for a moment. “You summoned me, yes. But I remained. Not out of obligation and not for my own amusement.”

She stepped closer, the coins at her belt jingling with each graceful movement. “I have called myself many things. Trickster. Temptress. Shadow.” Her lips quirked, half wry. “Jeannie’s evil twin, if we’re being dramatic.”

You opened your mouth, but she raised a hand, silencing you gently.

“But you saw past the smoke. Past what I pretended to be. And I…” She hesitated. It felt so unlike her. “I want something new. A name that does not mock who I was, but honors who I choose to become.”

Her fingers brushed your cheek, lingering like a vow. “Call me Yahmi,” she said. “It means ‘guard’ in your tongue. That is what I will be to you. Not a servant, not a danger. A protector. A keeper of your soul.”

The air shifted, warmer now. Heavier with the weight of her promise.

You whispered the name—Yahmi—and her eyes lit up like twin stars.

“Yes,” she said. “That is mine now. Chosen, not given. Just as I choose you.”

And for the first time, she bowed.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Evil!Jeannie: @callsigncrash, @agrabahsheadguard

[multifandomfix]

Intimacy With Jack Frost Would Include

His skin is perpetually cool, but he loves the warmth of your hands or breath against him. The contrast fascinates him.

While he’s flashy and theatrical in public, in private he’s unexpectedly tender. Whispered words and gentle touches leave him flustered and eager for more.

He hums wintry tunes or age old lullabies when holding you close, especially when you’re drifting to sleep.

Peeling back his layers (physically and emotionally) is incredibly intimate to him. The act makes him feel seen.

His kisses leave faint traces of frost on your skin, like glittering snowflakes that melt seconds later.

His temperature drops dramatically when he’s feeling possessive. You might see your breath in the air, but he doesn’t mean to do it.

He showers you with dramatic, poetic praise during intimate moments, calling you things like “my midsummer fire” or “the warmth that thaws my eternal chill.”

Breathing warmly on his neck, chest, or hands sends shivers through him and he’s more sensitive to it than he lets on.

If you’re trembling from pleasure and/or cold, that’s his favorite. He’ll murmur, “You’re shaking for me…how delicious.”

He’s immortal and sees time differently, so intimacy often leads to dreamy musings about “forevers” and how he wants to spend centuries getting to know every inch of your soul.

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Jack Frost: @phantomofclownery, @creativegenius22

[multifandomfix]

Clause And Effect — Jethro Gibbs

Summary: You and Gibbs went undercover as a married couple and when the case wraps, you find there’s one final surprise left in store.

Word Count: 1,096

Tags: Fake marriage, angst, fluff

The wedding band on your finger is heavier than it should be, pressing into your skin with the kind of finality you try not to think about. You stand beside Gibbs in front of a small crowd of low level arms dealers and cartel affiliates, grinning through champagne and false affection.

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says.

Gibbs turns to you, tilting his head with that small, unreadable smile. It’s a kiss meant for the show, just enough to sell it. His lips brush yours, soft and brief, and your stomach drops anyway. Because this isn’t just another op for you. Hasn’t been since you started falling for him a year ago.

You try to remind yourself it’s pretend. But even playing pretend has its consequences.

You don’t find out until a week later, back at NCIS headquarters, that one of the cartel’s tech guys, some sneering brat with an inferiority complex and a grudge, decided to file the marriage certificate for you. As a final screw you gesture when you arrested his friends, he made sure to sneak it through an obscure Virginia loophole.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you mutter, gripping the edge of Vance’s desk like it’s going to keep you from snapping.

“I wish I were,” he says, sighing. “Because of Gibbs’ previous divorces, the state’s laws require a cohabitation period of six months before the court will consider dissolving the marriage. It’s a remnant of a post divorce fraud prevention bill.”

Your stomach flips. “So, we’re legally married? For six months.”

Gibbs leans against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. “Guess it’s not the strangest thing I’ve done.”

You want to scream. Not at him. At fate. At bureaucracy. At yourself, mostly, for letting yourself love someone who’ll never love you back.

Moving into Gibbs’ house is awkward at first. It smells like sawdust and coffee and far too much like him. You set your overnight bag on the bed in the guest room, forcing a smile when he looks in.

“Settling in?”

“Suppose so.” You hesitate to say the next part. “But shouldn’t I be in your bedroom, you know, in case our caseworker comes to check?”

He doesn’t argue, just nods and walks away. That’s Gibbs for you. Direct. Decisive. Distant.

You take your bag to the master bedroom and start unpacking. You hate how much you love him.

The days blur. You work your cases, file your reports, play house at night. Sometimes he cooks. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you both sit in silence, eating takeout and watching whatever game’s on.

Sometimes, late at night, you hear him moving around in the basement, sanding or carving, shaping something with his hands. You wish you could ask about it, help him even. Wish you had the right to do any of it. But you’re not his wife, not really.

You’re just the woman the law says has to share his roof and his name with for six months.

You try not to let it show. You really do. But it’s hard, loving someone who doesn’t look at you that way. Harder still when he’s so kind in the quiet moments. When he brings you coffee just the way you like it. When he remembers your birthday without being reminded. When he sits a little closer than he needs to on the couch.

It drives you mad. All these almosts. All these little things that make you think maybe—but no. He’s been married three times. Burned three times. He won’t make that mistake again. Especially not with someone on his team. You’re just temporary. Convenient. A walking clause in a law neither of you asked for.

One night, it all comes to a head. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, trying to read through a case file. Gibbs pours you a second glass of wine without asking. You offer him a tired smile. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He pauses. “Do what?”

“This.” You motion between the two of you. “Playing house. Pretending this is normal.”

His brows draw together. “You want to move out?”

“No,” you say, your voice cracking. “Yes. I don’t know. I just—I can’t keep living like this, wanting something I can’t have.”

Silence. You hate it. You hate that you’re always the one who cracks first. The one who cares more.

You rise from the table, heart pounding. “I’ll talk to Vance. Maybe I can stay with Abby for a while—arrange something so I can be here only if I need—”

“You think I don’t want this too?”

His voice is quiet. Rough. It stops you mid step.

You turn slowly, disbelieving. “What?”

He runs a hand through his silver hair. “You think I’ve spent the last few months pretending? That bringing you coffee or learning your favorite show was just out of obligation?”

“I—” You blink, trying to process.

“You’re not one of my ex wives,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re not Shannon. Or Diane. Or Rebecca. You’re you. And I didn’t want to screw it up.”

Your heart’s pounding now, louder than ever.

“So you thought…waiting would protect us,” you ask.

He nods once. “Didn’t want to make a move unless I knew you felt the same.”

You laugh, startled and soft. “Jethro, I’ve been in love with you for over a year.”

He closes the distance in three strides, pulling you in with a gentleness that nearly shatters you. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there.

His mouth finds yours, no longer tentative. Not for show. This time it’s real, and it tells you everything he hasn’t said until now.

Later, curled into his side in bed you whisper, “What happens when the six months are up?”

He’s quiet for a moment, then brushes his thumb over your hand.

“Well, that depends,” he says. “You planning on sticking around?”

You look up at him, hope blooming warm and wild in your chest. “That depends. You planning on making this marriage real?”

His smile is slow and rare, and it makes you feel like the only woman on Earth.

“Already has been,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Besides, it’s save a lot of paperwork.”

You laughed but swatted lightly at his chest. It was true, it would save you a lot of hassle, but you didn’t care about any of that. This, right here, right now, was the thing that truly counted.

For @lemmons1998

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Jethro Gibbs: @esposamultifandom, @cheekygirl2309, @iciclesandsnow, @floresferae, @melliemat3416, @abitchnamedtia, @k-slater, @marit332

[multifandomfix]

Jill Zarin Fluff Alphabet

A = Affection (Are they physically affectionate in public or just in private?)

Jill is physically affectionate, especially when she’s proud of you or wants to show you’re hers. Expect hand holding, kisses on the cheek, a hand on your knee during dinner. But true intimacy, tender, forehead-pressed-to-yours stuff, comes in private.

B = Babe (What would they use as pet names? Do they use them a lot?)

She’s pretty classic with her pet names. She uses them constantly, but especially when she wants something. You’ve learned the tone that comes along with “Baby” when she’s angling for something.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Jill likes cuddling more than she lets on. She’s the kind of woman who starts off stiff, pretending she’s too busy, and ten minutes later she’s curled up against you under a cashmere throw blanket, half asleep.

D = Domestic (What’s it like living with them? Do they do their share of chores?)

Living with Jill means a beautifully decorated space, impeccable taste, and a few piles of her stuff here and there, especially Zarin Fabrics samples. She’ll outsource the heavy duty chores, but she’s an excellent planner, hostess, and organizer.

E = Easy (What is the easiest way to win their heart?)

The easiest way to win Jill’s heart? Make her laugh. Be loyal. Compliment her mother, and have your life relatively together, though she’s more than willing to help with that. Jewelry doesn’t hurt either.

F = Fun (Where do they take you for fun?)

She’ll take you to charity galas, events, shopping on Madison Ave, and lunches. But for real fun? A girls’ weekend in the Hamptons, dancing in the kitchen with wine, or staying in bed with you and Ginger all day.

G = Gifts (Are they a gift giver? What kind of gifts do they give?)

Yes, she’s a gift giver. A silk robe, custom stationery, a bracelet with your initials, or something she saw on vacation and “just had to get for you.” Everything she gives has a story behind it.

H = History (What’s their relationship history like? Do they have any plans on settling down?)

Jill’s been in love before, and deeply. Her past includes Bobby, who she’ll always speak fondly of. She’s not frivolous with love, but she does believe in second chances. She wants real partnership again, not just a fling.

I = I Love You (Who says I love you first?)

She’ll want you to say it first. Doesn’t matter if she feels it first, she has to know you’re at that point before she’ll let herself say it back.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Jill gets jealous, no question. Not in a controlling way, but in a “Who’s that texting you at 11pm?” way. She’ll be a little icy until you reassure her, but she won’t be quiet about it.

K = Kids (How are they around children? Would they want some of their own?)

She adores kids, especially because of her daughter Ally. She’s warm, maternal, and full of advice (solicited or not). She probably wouldn’t want more children herself at this stage of her life though.

L = Love Language (How do they show their love to you?)

Her main love language is acts of service. She’ll manage your calendar, organize your life, recommend a better doctor. But she also thrives on words of affirmation. She needs to hear she’s loved and appreciated.

M = Meet (How did they meet you?)

You met through a mutual friend at an event, maybe something charity adjacent. Jill sized you up in about ten seconds, decided she liked your shoes, then made you laugh and introduced you to everyone she knew.

N = Nurture (Are they good at taking care of you if you’re hurt/sick?)

If you’re sick, Jill is on it. She’ll bring soup, fluff your pillows, call a doctor, and check in obsessively. She’s bossy, but she just wants you feeling better. Expect a lot of “Have you taken your meds?”

O = Options (What are some things they would like in a partner?)

She wants someone smart, stylish, and emotionally available. She appreciates ambition but loves kindness more. Bonus points if you can handle her strong personality and make her feel safe without dimming her shine. Of course, she doesn’t mind a work in progress either. She’ll happily put in the work to get you where she wants you to be.

P = Protective (How protective are they? How would they protect you?)

Very protective. She will go to bat for you without hesitation, against friends, press, social climbers, you name it. If someone tries to embarrass you or cross you, Jill will make a phone call and fix it.

Q = Quirk (What small habit/feature/quirk do they have that you find especially endearing?)

She talks to herself while getting ready, especially when deciding what to wear. It’s endearing, those little muttered debates with herself in the mirror like, “No, not the green one—what am I thinking?”

R = Realization (When and what makes them realize they’re in love?)

She realizes she’s in love when she stops needing to be “on” around you. When she can sit in silence next to you, no performance, no agenda, and she doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

S = Sentimental (Are they the sentimental type? What things hold sentimentality for them?)

Very. She saves little notes, texts, photos. She might tuck something of yours into her purse just to carry it with her. And she definitely keeps old voicemails if they made her smile.

T = Try (In what ways do they support or help you?)

She’ll help you network, cheer you on, and promote your achievements with gusto. Jill’s a connector, and if she loves you, she wants the whole world to love you, too. She’s your loudest cheerleader.

U = Unique (What’s something they’d only do for you?)

She’d get her team to design a fabric line inspired by you. And gift it to you at a big debut party with a grin and a kiss.

V = Vacation (Where would they take you on vacation? What would you do?)

She’d take you to Boca Raton, Palm Beach, or Turks & Caicos. She loves warm weather, poolside lounging, boutique shopping, and leisurely dinners with wine and gossip.

W = Wardrobe (What would they wear to impress you?)

She’ll wear something flattering but just glam enough, possibly a designer dress in bold color, hair freshly blown out, a touch of sparkle in her jewelry. She knows what you like to see her in, even if you don’t say it.

X = XOXO (How do they kiss?)

Jill’s kisses are surprisingly soft and warm. She’ll cup your cheek, linger longer than expected, and maybe whisper something teasing in your ear. Public pecks, private passion.

Y = Yes (How do you/they propose?)

It’s her idea, but with her dropping hints, you’re the one who has to pop the question while still maintaining a bit of surprise. She’d say yes to your proposal with joyful tears and a comment about how her nails weren’t done for this.

Z = Zzz (What are their sleep habits?)

She’s a talker before bed (duh), debriefing the day, talking about future ideas. She needs her pillows a certain way, and she sleeps best cuddled close but not too hot. Satin sheets, lavender spray, and a little TV to fall asleep to.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-ivy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

[multifandomfix]

They’re Drunk (Hannibal Preference)

Bedelia Du Maurier: When Bedelia is drunk she doesn’t stumble or slur, rather, her words take on a languid, theatrical quality. Even in intoxication, her poise remains immaculate, until a single, unguarded truth escapes her lips like a crack in fine china. When the edges of her restraint begin to curl, she becomes oddly magnetic, as if you’re watching someone fall apart in the most graceful way imaginable.

Frederick Chilton: Claims he has a “high tolerance,” but after two drinks he’s already slurring and over sharing. Has a self pitying edge to him that’s even more prevalent when drunk. And he needs constant validation, gets wounded easily if you laugh at him instead of with him.

Hannibal Lecter: Would only ever drink to a subtle buzz, never true inebriation. A calculated softening of the senses. Leans even further into poeticism and elegance, his vocabulary grows florid. Might “accidentally” let a terrifying truth slip, but dresses it so well in metaphor that no one’s quite sure what they just heard.

Margot Verger: Margot drinks not to forget, but to endure. She doesn’t get messy, she gets colder, calmer, like ice forming over a deep well of fury. With someone she trusts, drunk Margot softens almost imperceptibly. She might speak of things she’s never voiced sober, as if she keeps only you in her strictest confidence.

For anon

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