omg I watched it and it’s terrible but he’s trying SO HARD to be David Bowie, I can’t.

Forgetting || Drabble


Fitz Kreiner sat alone in his kitchen at a battered yellow formica table. Ahead of him, the tiny kitchen window above the sink showed the sun beginning to rise. Rays of light filtered gently through the thin cotton curtains but they didn’t reach him. The room was cold. Clutched in his fingers was one of numerous cups of tea he’d downed that night whilst sitting alone in a rickety aluminum chair. The refrigerator was humming quietly nearby and it was the only noise present in the tiny fifth story apartment save for his own shaky breath.

He didn’t want to die.

On the calendar next to the range was the month of November with a picture of a Gibson guitar. The box for the 14th was circled in blue ink. Fitz hadn’t needed to circle it. There was no possible way he could forget that day. He didn’t know why he had in the first place. A ragged sigh left him and a rough palm rubbed over the thick stubble on his chin. Most people only had to live the most horrible day of their lives once and there he was, sitting in clothes from yesterday waiting to live it for the second time.

Two days before, he’d dragged the Doctor out of the TARDIS and they’d spent the time together doing silly things. Fun things. It was sheer luck that Fitz was able to keep up enough of a front to assuage any potential suspicion on his… the Doctor’s part.  The distraction of his own jangling nerves had been nearly impossible to avoid, but there were still small memories he latched onto to cherish while he still could. Seconds of I love yous - minutes of holding hands - hours of smiling and just being together. Time was so very important to him now.

A faint noise down the hall brought Fitz out of the nearly peaceful daze he’d settled into and like lightning, his heart jolted to life. Hands began to shake as footsteps drew near, huge eyes pinned in growing terror upon the door, knowing exactly how long it took to get to his apartment. As the knob turned, he forgot about the tea and he forgot about how light the chair was as he leapt out of it, flimsy aluminum toppling to the side with a loud clatter. Gut roiled heavily with tea and bile and something dreadful and he took several stumbling steps back as the door opened.

Fitz knew the man who strode into his kitchen. He remembered picking his tool of choice up in a nearby alleyway and he could still feel the splinters that bit the skin of his hands all those years ago. Fitz watched the look of pallid determination on his face and listened as he began almost immediately to babble. Felt tears slide down both their faces as he stood in the doorway holding a bat and next to the refrigerator begging. Both of them were haggard. Both of them were beaten.

"Please-" He cried as he took another step away and sturdied his grip on the weapon. Fitz could barely speak for the tears and Fitz couldn’t speak at all, struck silent with the horror of what he was about to do to himself and what he would have to endure.

"We can- please don’t do this! Please, I can’t forget! There’s so… so much of it! Please don’t make me.. I-I can’t lose it!” Fitz quavered desperately to himself as he lifted up the bat. “We can figure something out! There has to be another way!” The scene played out like the re-run of a TV show where he’d memorized all the lines but all of the perspectives were skewed and wrong. Now he got to watch the other side - to see his own expression as it crumpled helplessly with sorrow. Got to hear his own voice crackle out brokenly just like it had.

I’m sorry.”

The bat swung out fast and cruel. No time to dodge. He remembered doing it intentionally so that it would be harder to avoid. Figured he might try to avoid it when the time came. Knew in that moment that he was going to try and avoid it. There was no time. A sharp “NO!” left him reflexively and turned into a shocked cry as the bat collided hard with his head. Ripples of aftershock went up Fitz’s thin arms as Fitz toppled to the floor in a lifeless heap. 

The tall, skinny man stood there with the bat in his hand for several moments, breathing like he’d run a marathon. Eventually, he pulled himself together long enough to bend to a knee and look for breathing. Once satisfied that he hadn’t killed himself, he straightened back up and violently flung the bat away from himself with a choked noise. Hands rose up and gripped into his hair, tugging it hard as he finally allowed days worth of walled up tears to release - knew he’d have to do it again in sixty some odd years.

After some time, a familiar wheezing noise wafted up through the open window from the street and into the quiet apartment where Fitz stood sobbing openly into his arms. It was simultaneously the best and worst sound he’d ever heard and his heart stuttered so violently for a moment that he thought he might die. Rubbing roughly once at his face to clear his vision, Fitz glanced one last time at himself before looking down to the pilfered Vortex Manipulator on his wrist. Tremblingly, he plugged in coordinates.

By the time the Doctor came into the apartment, he was still in a stunned sprawl with blood coursing from his head onto the cream tile. He was also and light years away, walking onto the TARDIS.

Fitz Kreiner looked up hazily, roused by the unfamiliar older man who knelt hurriedly next to him with a cry. A brief moment of worry flashed through his tattered mind that the blood would soil the man’s knees and he really couldn’t afford a dry-clean bill… whatever that was. Fitz’s head head lolled towards the strangely cool touch of a hand as the man began to chatter frantically and he managed to utter softly, “Who are you…?" before he couldn’t remain present any longer. A strange wailing replaced the hum of the refrigerator and he felt himself drifting away, eyes shutting as a last flash of something - something important - hit the back of his eyelids and was gone.

Sixty years ago, Fitz walked into the TARDIS library and promptly lost himself for two days in the Classical Section. He was different when his Doctor found him again.


Based on this


"tired" isn’t even a temporary state for me anymore it’s just an inherent part of my personality at this point

I have fibromyalgia. I’d be shocked if someone told me I look awake.

"I feel," said Blind Io, "that if we wanted people to fly, we would have given them wings."
“We allow broomthtickth and magic carpeth,” said Offler.
“Ah, but they’re magical. Magic… religion… there is a certain association. This is an attempt to subvert the natural order. Just anyone could float around the place in one of these things.” He shuddered. “Men could look down upon the gods!”
He looked down upon Leonard of Quirm.
“Why did you do it?” he said.
“You gave me wings when you showed me birds,” said Leonard of Quirm. —

That last line is so powerful.

Terry Pratchett, The Last Hero

(via randombrethren)



Fun fact: This is Orlando’s legit impression of Johnny; it wasn’t originally scripted.

Was there even a script for this film. Every time I see a post about PotC they are like ‘this wasn’t scripted’

Have you seen the outtakes? I’m pretty sure everyone on these films were just going slowly bonkers stuck on fake ships all day with Johnny Depp.

Louisa May Alcott wrote Little Women for the money. And it made her miserable.

As a young writer, Alcott concentrated on lurid pulp stories of revenge, murder, and adultery–“blood and thunder” literature, as she called i–and enjoyed writing very much. She was in her mid 30s when an editor suggested she try writing a book for girls. Alcott wasn’t very interested, but her father was a complete moron with money and had left the family in terrible financial trouble. Alcott wrote Little Women in hopes of some decent sales and a little breathing room and got way more than she asked for. The money in sequels was too good to turn down (and her father didn’t get any smarter with a dime), but Alcott hated writing what she called “moral pap for the young” and longed to return to the smut and violence of her early endeavors. —Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Books and Authors You Had to Read in High School (via roksana-branches)



In addition to the five static schools of witchcraft and wizardry on the North American continent, there is another school which has catered to students for thousands of years. It has no name and no location: some years the patchwork band of longhouses, teepees, and kivas appears in the Pacific Northwest; other years it sits on the tear-stained earth of Oklahoma; some years it resides in Canada or the upper reaches of  Alaska (a bit of a challenge for students from arid desert regions). The teachers come from the Salish, the Cherokee, the Navajo, the Iroquois, the Chippewa, and hundreds of other indigenous tribes. Rather than separate into houses, the students maintain their tribal ties: there’s no small amount of friction between different nations with historic feuds. The school has a legendary reputation for record-keeping and cultural preservation; students are also at the forefront of magical innovation, constantly searching for new answers to age-old questions (such as magic use in major urban areas). Wandless magic is common, but even more common is the process of creating one’s own wand: an elaborate ceremony that varies depending on tribal origin. It is considered a great privilege to collect a wand core from a mythical beast.Every summer there are huge celebrations combining dance and magic: families travel from all over the world to join their children at the school.



If you don’t like the European identity and the “cis-centric” ways of Asatruar, good. This means the religion truly isn’t yours to mess with.

Please, tell me more about the “‘cis-centric’ ways of Asatruar




Thor isn’t even a priority for the MCU when the movies are literally being released that week so I don’t know why anyone thinks there are accurate rumours around before the next movie’s even been written.

- 23:14
The thing about Henry V that distinguishes him from contemporary leaders is the men and women in the highest positions of power were also the men and women physically leading their armies into battle. So Henry V is able to give that speech and hop on a horse and ride into battle himself. So, in a way, there’s an authenticity to that kind of rhetoric. —

Tom Hiddleston (x)