dw was that inspiring


|10-10-15| “Don’t give up. Not ever. Not for one single day. Be safe, if you can be. But always be amazing.” ~Clara Oswald

Might as well include a Doctor who quote since my screensaver is the Tardis. However, here are my revised Biology notes. I quite like to make my notes kinda like a comic book, it makes studying easier for me.  


If Rose can be selfish, then her finest moments will come when she’s selfless. If Martha keeps quiet, then her moments of revelation – like her goodbye to the Doctor in Last of the Time Lords, or stuck with Milo and Cheen in Gridlock – make her fly. Donna is magnificently self-centred – not selfish, but she pivots everything around herself, as we all do – so when she opens up and hears the Ood song, or begs for Caecilius’ family to be saved, then she’s wonderful. 

Russell T. Davies

  • me: man i really need to study for my exams
  • me: *cleans room*
  • me: *takes three hour long shower*
  • me: *re-reads game of thrones*
  • me: *rearranges bookshelf*
  • me: *starts watching three new tv shows*
  • me: *spents five hours on tumblr*
  • me: *writes novel*
  • me: *starts rewatching the three tv shows*
  • me: well it's a bit late now, isn't it

Do you know like we were saying, about the Earth revolving? It’s like when you’re a kid, the first time they tell you that the world is turning and you just can’t quite believe it ‘cause everything looks like it’s standing still. I can feel it… the turn of the Earth. 

In Bloom

 Ichiruki. Fluff. Post TYBW; a lighter note. 282 words.


One day, he makes Rukia Kuchiki laugh.

Not that suppressed kind of noise that the nobles teach her to make - but a proper, snorting laugh that hitches, and raises, and starts something singing inside his chest.

It’s the kind of laugh that leaves her breathless, her hair splayed over his chest, and the tickle of craving something more underneath his skin.

It’s the kind of laugh that leaves him breathless, his hands curled under the soft skin of her biceps, and the rumble of a smile underneath her skin.

“What—“ He starts, and kisses her cheek, “—What did I say? What did I say?” He can’t keep a straight face, not when she takes one more look at him and bursts into fits, her small fists balling her dress as she wheezes, and a happy tear drops from her eye,

        “Jesus— I don’t know, I don’t know.”

And neither does he. He says a lot of stupid things, really, according to how many times he has memorised the way her face draws into a splash of annoyance mid-conversation, playful, and jeering. He just tries everything. Tries to remember what they were talking about, where they had reached in a conversation, but finds it was the kind of senseless nonsense that flows between two people too open-chested for each other; the kind that has no pause, and no end. He doesn’t think the sun from his window has ever felt warmer.

        It ends with a low breath, and a chuckle.

“I loved that.” He says, shifting so that her shoulders knock his chest and her legs hitch over his hips.

      She turns, and with the light cascading over her side, smiles:

                 I know.

the story of james and lily potter

He drank until he could feel no bone in his body. He drank until he could see the stars and every last fibre of pain had disappeared. He drank until the streams of tears no longer clouded his vision and the night fell into darkness once more.

The letter sat on the dusty chest of drawers. The envelope was torn, and the paper was soiled in his tears.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years, and still the pain was as raw as it had been that night. That fucking fateful night.

Dear Padfoot,

If you’re reading this, then I’m sorry. I’m truly, truly sorry.

He’d gone to Peter’s. Of course he’d gone to Peter’s. And Peter wasn’t there.

He ran, he ran for his life to that small cottage, but he already knew. He already knew.

James and I are dead. I’ve charmed this letter so you’ll only receive it if we die.

He screamed until his voice was raw, and his cursed that fucking rat to hell and back.

And now he was here, wasted in a room he’d thought he’d never step a foot into again, in a house he’d hoped he’d never have to set eyes on again.

Know that we were brave, right until the end. Know that we never stopped loving you, and we never ever will.

Fuck Dumbledore. Fuck the Order. Fuck Snape. Fuck the world. Fuck them all. He’d rather stay in this drunken consciousness for the rest of his life.

Please Sirius, take care of my son.

Harry. The only person aside from Remus he still truly loved. His godson. His nephew. Both of them broken by the same tragedy. Both of them still apart. What had he promised him? A home? A loving family? He’d failed him. Just like he’d failed James and Lily. Instead of providing Harry with the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world, he was lying on a bed drinking his sorrows away. Drinking his thoughts of Harry away.

What kind of Godfather was he?

Love him. Teach him. Tell him of us.

He’d lost them. He’d lost them all. James. Lily. Harry. The Peter he once knew. Marlene. Dorcas. Mary. Even Regulus. Even his stupid, idiot brother.

He wished for more than anything in the world that he could go back. Go back to the beginning and restart this life again.

Tell him this is the story of James and Lily Potter.

There was no life here. Not anymore. Just days. Just endless days of nothing.
What a stupid story. What a fucking, stupid story.

And this is how it ends.

River with a puppy  ヽ( ╹ヮ╹)ノ

For @riversdamsel who has been in my art tag reblogging old things and inspired me to draw this