A/N: Follow up to 4.02 because I’M NOT OKAY.
She looks adorable all layered up with blankets – her hands outstretched as she takes the mug of hot chocolate from her son, her smile wide when Henry mentions something about extra cinnamon – the colour having returned to her cheeks and lips, her hair once again soft beneath his fingers.
Relief at her wellbeing anchors deep in his chest and he can’t seem to drag his eyes from her, much less his touch, tracing patterns onto her shoulder with the pads of fingers, contentment humming beneath his skin at the way she does the same; her fingers shifting so they can lace properly through his, caressing his wrist as she talks to Elsa.
She has a spot of whipped cream clinging to her upper lip after she takes a sip from her mug and he grins, swiping his thumb over it and licking it off. He hums at the taste and swipes more cream from the top of her mug. He chuckles at the look she gives him – borderline indignant – smile lingering as she arches her neck to call over to the kitchen.
“Henry, can you make Killian one? He’s stealing mine.”
I don’t know if anyone has ever done this before but, here ya go… The Different Types of Fanfiction!
I probably left a few out, but these are the most common, compared to their base fiction’s canon plot. Enjoy! XD
The crack fic is enough for a reblog.
If It’s Dark Outside (You Light the Fire Yourself)
Will wonders if they should start keeping chairs in this hallway. It already feels enough like waiting to be called into the principal’s office for interrogation, it might as well look the part. It would be harder to doze off in a chair than propped up against the wall. Not that he’s in danger of falling asleep at the moment, since it’s 2 o’clock on a Saturday, but being off the ground while Rebecca and her legal team prep Mac for her deposition with Dantana’s lawyers on Monday would be nice.
Considering that he has no idea what state Mac is going to walk out of the room in.
Maggie was reduced to tears and soaked through the shoulder of his sweater before she could calm down, Jim looked like he was going to put his fist through something until Mac took him for a walk through Bryant Park and the two of them returned forty minutes later suspiciously quiet. Sloan hung out in his office, manic and talkative, and he himself had to be dragged down to Hang Chews for an emergency three fingers (and then other three, and another) of Jameson.
It’s another forty minutes before the door to the executive conference room opens. Becca’s legal team sweeps through first, in coats and scarves and hats, muttering about a Starbucks run. MacKenzie tentatively steps out next, her coat folded over her arm as she finishes up her conversation with Becca, who brushes a hand down her arm with a curt nod before disappearing back into the conference room.
Before she notices the expression on her face is one of pure anxiety; whatever she’s been feeling for the past few hours has been systematically shoved down and now she’s having trouble holding it there. The line of her mouth tightens, her shoulders curving in, her eyes taking on the glassy countenance that means that she is desperately trying to hold on.
Until she spots him and pastes a smile on her face.
“You could have waited in your office.”
Standing, he rolls his eyes instead of saying Not really, or So you could wait until you stopped crying to come find me? or half a dozen other things that would just result in the mask of forced calm clamping down so hard that even he can’t pry it off.
“Could have,” he says, gently lifting her coat out of her grasp, unfolding it, and holding it open for her to put it on. “But I elected not to.”
Sighing, Mac protests. “I need to finish going through the reports on the attack in Aleppo.” But she lets him help her put on her coat anyway, and then wrap her scarf around her neck, which he takes as a good sign. “We should stay a few more hours.”
“It can wait until Monday,” he says, shrugging on his own coat, patting down the pockets for his gloves when Mac finds her own, sliding them onto her hands.
She sighs again, the smile faltering. “The deposition is Monday, I won’t have any time before the first rundown.”
“Then we’ll staff it out,” he assures her, reaching for her hand. “There is no reason Jim or Kendra can’t do it.”
MacKenzie laces their fingers together, adjusting her purse over her shoulder while narrowing her eyes. “You are infuriatingly calm.”
“I stopped being nervous about trials in the eighties,” Will says with a shrug. “When it comes time to worry, I’ll worry, and doubtlessly you’ll be the first to know.”
“Wonderful,” she deadpans, forehead creasing with unease.
He does his best to get her out of the building as quickly as possible. Mac is nearly vibrating next to him by the time the elevator opens out onto the lobby. And of course she is—Jerry and his lawyers have pegged her as the weakest link. Which is by turns enraging and hilarious, that Jerry’s lawsuit hinges on the accusation that since Maggie wasn’t fired for botching the editing of the Zimmerman tape, then he should still be employed after purposely and maliciously editing words into a three-star general’s mouth, and since Mac did the firing in Jerry’s case—
Will thinks that Jerry should just consider himself lucky that Mac didn’t see it fit to bring him around his office before kicking his ass to the curb.
But he knows.
Mac hasn’t fully come back from where having to retract Genoa sent her. And he knows, he knows, that he’s partially responsible for how close to a breakdown she came, and that the following months of having her personal life dragged into the tabloids and the continuous heckling from every corner of professional journalism and meetings with legal where Rebecca dutifully tears her to shreds in preparation for Jerry’s team undoubtedly doing the same—
It was only a few weeks ago that Mac stopped regretting that she didn’t resign.
I can work 5 and 15 in here! 17 will have to be separate ;)
A sneeze echoed throughout the semi-empty apartment, followed by an irritated groan. “Why couldn’t she be the Sun Queen or something like that?” Emma muttered while pulling a blanket around herself. A few wheezy coughs left her as she did so.
your real otp is the one you immediately think of when you see those au posts
At twilight on August the 25th 1999, one week before classes were to begin, Hermione Granger Apparated into Hogsmeade, a wand box clutched under her arm.
Headmistress McGonagall was waiting for her outside the Three Broomsticks. The two women greeted each other warmly, and then set off towards the castle. Or rather, towards the grounds outside the castle.
They chatted amiably as they strolled towards the groundskeeper’s hut. Hagrid, sitting outside and darning a pair of enormous socks, looked up as they approached.
“Good evenin’ Headmistress, Hermione,” he said with some gruff surprise.
“Good evening, Hagrid,” replied McGonagall. “May we go inside? I believe Hermione has a proposition to discuss with you.”
If you had stood outside the hut as the evening darkened and the stars rose into the sky, you’d have heard the rumblings of an argument coming from inside the hut. You’d have heard Hagrid’s gruff refusals, Hermione’s calm (and then not so calm) rebuttals, and the very occasional interjection of the Headmistress.
Hermione did not emerge until the moon had fully risen and darkness enveloped the grounds. But in the light of the nearly full moon, you could see a smile on her face.
The Shrieking Shack was no longer widely believed to be haunted, now that the story of Remus Lupin was fully known. Still, the residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts avoided it out of a mixture of respect and residual fear.
This suited Hermione perfectly. The interior of the Shack was now stacked with books and bottles of potion ingredients. A cauldron sat in the corner, a telescope pointed out a cracked window, and cushions lined one wall. A table was covered in parchment, broken quills, ink pots and stains. Once a week, Hermione would apparate into the Shack and go over her notes from the previous session while she awaited her student’s arrival.
Sometimes he was late without explanation. Sometimes he would bring a wounded bowtruckle he wasn’t comfortable leaving on its own. Sometimes Fang would follow him and sit in the corner whining while his master sweated and cursed over a cauldron. Hermione was calm but firm, making adjustments as needed and letting Hagrid’s frustrated words roll off her back like water droplets.
The Hogsmeade residents may have turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the Shrieking Shack, but that didn’t mean they weren’t relieved as time went on and there were fewer and fewer roars of anger echoing through the village.
The OWL testers had been warned in advance that they would have an unusual student that year. That didn’t mean they weren’t taken aback when Rubeus Hagrid appeared on their testing scrolls. They all knew of him of course, knew the role he played in the Second War and of the false accusations leveled against him.
They were worried they would have to be kind.
They needn’t have. No one could have Hermione Granger teach them personally for a year and not improve in all aspects. His potions may not have been textbook perfection, he may not have fully transfigured his toad, but Hagrid had clearly worked hard to master his long dormant abilities.
Rubeus Hagrid may not have followed the traditional path to wisdom. But he had a new wand, the (sometimes grudging) respect of his peers, classes to teach and 6 OWLs.
Including the highest score ever recorded on Care of Magical Creatures.
(written and submitted by ppyajunebug; please excuse me, because I have something in my eye. Oh yes, it is my joyful tears. ppyajunebug has a way of bringing those out of me, you see. Their submissions tackle some of the saddest moments in canon, turning them around and making something beautiful out of them.)
THIS WAS SO STINKIN CUTE EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND READ THIS
They’re on the moon.
It’s not hers — several lightyears away in fact — but it may as well be, what with the way its chalky silt settles underfoot, cementing the prints of their trainers for centuries to come.
There’s no atmosphere so they can’t stray far from the TARDIS and its protective shield. Rose smirks at him as she tests the boundaries, seeing how far she can venture before floating out to space.
He follows behind her and laughs, calls her reckless, but he knows it’s trust. She walks with her hands stretched out in front of her and, eventually, the string bracelet he’d tied loosely on her wrist slips off, floating toward the stars.
Rose squeals runs back to him, wrapping her arms around his waist as they watch it drift away.
The TARDIS shield encompasses a crater and she slides down the side, translucent silt clinging to her pajamas. She ducks behind a bit of rock at the bottom and emerges minutes later with a cheeky grin and a soot-caked finger. It takes her three tries to run up the crater’s steep wall.
"What’d you get up to down there?"
He rests an arm around her shoulder as they walk back to the ship.
"I’ll show you later."
Later never comes.
He doesn’t get up the nerve to go back for decades, and when he does he’s brought to his knees.
Somewhere, lightyears away from Earth, there are three short words traced in moondust at the bottom of a crater, with two sets of knee-prints side by side.
When the Doctor returns to the TARDIS his index finger is covered in dust.
It’s as close as he’ll come to telling her.
when you’re so thirsty for new fic of your OTP that you can physically feel your standards dropping
when you ship a ship so hard you don’t even care about the smut; you just want a billion page book about their entire lives beginning to end and how their lives are intertwined with one another’s and how beautiful their love is