a ghost at noon]

[i do not /own you— /but your heart /is my heart, /my story isn’t /yours, your words /are your ghost; /your thoughts

burden you, /each explanation /is a train, /you are white /noon, a rumor, /candlelit tears, /the fallen /diamond chandelier]

Why no Ghost?? Some speculations....

Budget problems aside (imo wasted on one too many dragon shots but ok) having Ghost at Winterfell with Sansa would  perhaps create a few problems…narrative wise for D&D and the plots they love…

1. They apparently deleted a scene in which Jon tells Ghost to look out for Sansa. It would be extremely sweet but also kind of telling to have Sansa swagger around Winterfell with literally Jon’s “ghost” by her side. If they were trying to “tone down” on the Jonsa vibes and force make people “see” Jonerys then even a single Ghost(Jon)xSansa scene would nicely crap all over that plan. It’s already very telling to show Jon assaulting Ramsay like a mad wolf and snapping and snarling at LF as if he actually ‘were’ Ghost…

2. Arya couldn’t get within a mile of Sansa with her current attitude. Whether Arya is only pretending to threaten Sansa to trick LF or serious about it, Ghost would bite her on the arse if she came at Sansa with a dagger, casually bragging that she could cut her face off. If Nymeria did not follow the NoOne!Arya then Ghost would certainly not like her spewing threats and shit at the woman he was ordered to protect for his master. The entire Sansa-is-surrounded-by-enemies- now-that-Brienne-has-left plot element would not work (not that it makes particular sense to begin with) because Ghost would rip anyones throat out if they came near her (again, just like Jon himself)

3. Jon’s identity as King in the North is somehow tied to Ghost. When one of the Lord’s declared “He is the White Wolf. The King in the North.” that was Jon’s being accepted as a Stark, a “Wolf” and the leader of all the Northern Houses. Ghost symbolises this moment. He symbolises Jon’s “Starkness” (what made him ‘equal’ to all the other Starklings despite being a bastard) and also his being “snow” white, his being a bastard, which is also part of his identity. One reason why Ghost is absent — and even if not shown (bc budget for dragons), never even talked about – is that Jon is heading for a major identity crisis (all the living Starks are, but that’s another post) and the “loss” of Ghost that we viewers perceive is also somehow mirroring the loss of Jon’s identity as a Stark, a Snow, a Northerner and KitN. Ghost’s master is Jon Snow, the King in the North. Jon (or Aegon, if the rumours are true) Targaryen doesn’t have a direwolf, he probably has a pet dragon named Rhaegal…*rolls eyes* 

Guess we’ll see. But with all the dragon overload I just want one scene at least with this beautiful creature…


The moment an unknown voice echoed through the dark, a glowing aura wrapped itself around the shadow, pulling it away from the two unconscious pokemon. Covered in a similar aura herself, a strange guardevoir became visible. With one arm streched out towards the shadow, her strange formed pupils locked on them with a dead-serious stare. The few words that left her mouth seemed simple and calm, yet full of strength and mordlust.

“I finally found you…”

“Nuhehehehehehehehehe still alive!? Gooooooood!! You want your revenge riiiight?!? Come and kill me if you caaaan!!!”




“…?!? Tara!! What happened?!”

As the Feraligatr pened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was his wounded Umbreon friend, just lying on the ground without moving. Her body was covered in dirt, wounds blood; just what had happened?? The last thing he could remember was..

“N-No..!! It can’t be! Please tell me this is not true…” Frightened, Imgars’ gaze moved around, just to see the so familiar glowing red eyes of that shadow glaring at him.

“Oooohhhh you woke up my dear puppet? Uhehehehe well then~ join me in this battle!”


…Don’t drag them into this.


And with this the Guardevoir made a swift movement with her arm, the aura around her hand drew a glowing line in the air.


And before the shadow could reach Imgars body, both the purple feraligatr and his friend Tara disappeared from the scene - leaving the shadows dirty laughter echo through the tower as the fight went on.


The air outside was cold as it had already gotten night. Near the forrests Tara came from this day, a flash of light appeared. As it vanished, two silhouettes were left on the ground. The Guardevoid obviously used some kind of Teleport to get these two outside.

As Imgar looked around in shock he then caught a glimpse of Tara and rushed towards her body. Hugging her carefully, tears formed in his eyes.

“Tara…Tara answer me!! Please, open your eyes!!”

“Don’t do this to me…”

Tara and Imgar survived what happened in the Lavandia Tower and are now somewhere outside near Lavandia? Tara seems to be in a bad shape, covered in wounds and still unconscious, as the unharmed Feraligatr holds her in her arms.

Tara and Imgar are now open for asks (again).

The mysterious Guardevoir belongs to @pokemon-graveyard and was borrowerd for this update ;)

I just reached 7.5k a few days ago and am still shocked that so many amazing people follow me, and I am extremely grateful and I really need some new blogs to follow!


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It’s been a week full of researching and multiple calls to and from the Winchester boys. I was more than happy to call Sam’s call at almost noon saying that they had finally ganked the ghosted that was killing people in a small town right outside of Los Alamos, Nevada. Sam and Dean had been gone for almost 2 weeks and I was more than thankful for them to be finally coming home. I do have to admit, it has been a bit lonely in the bunker.

I planned to stay up and welcome them home and knew there was some time before they got back so I decided to go into town and get a few cases of beer for them and a few other things that we needed. When I got back I put everything away and once everything was put where they needed to be it was only 9 o’clock. I knew that there was a few more hours until Sam and Dean got back. Last time I talked to Dean he said it would be around midnight before they ever reached town. So knowing that I went to take a quick shower.

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Title: Midas

Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice

Pairing: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Words: 1060

Tags: Psychological Trauma, Blood and Gore, Alternate universe - Mafia, nothing makes sense, somebody once said: kill your darlings, I kinda did

Rated: Mature

Also on AO3!

Song inspiration here.

Viktor Nikiforov confronts a ghost in a graveyard he created.

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Water Stains

Requested by @potter-at-the-disco

Based on the phrase “She’s everywhere”

[She’s nowhere]

They’re second years when it happens:

A girl dies in the second floor bathroom, locks eyes with the basilisk and only has time to manage a bloodcurdling scream – She isn’t saved and she isn’t mourned, but black is draped throughout the castle and knots of teary eyed girls who’d said maybe a word to her in passing hold tissues to their noses in class and a funeral is held beneath the weighty boughs of the trees on a sweltering summer day.

The world doesn’t change. There is no grand reconfiguration of the star’s alignment or the tilt of the axis or the bones of their skeletons and Draco –

Draco forgets.


It’s noon, and ghosts are swarming in the autumn damp walls of the castle, all voices and no bodies, all clinging to Draco’s skin.

And he’s running. Down the hallway and towards the bathroom, tugging at the tie tight like a noose around his neck because he’s shot down an albatross and nothing has seemed to go right since.

There’s a mark on his arm. A task on his shoulders. A reflection in the mirror that he can’t quite bear to look at, not when there’s blood on his hands that no one else can see yet – a prophecy and a foretelling and a waking nightmare.

He stops in the second floor bathroom, shoes sloshing against puddles mottling the tile floor. A faucet is leaking in time to his heartbeats. Thump. Drip. Thump. Drip. Sobs that are torn at the edges and hanging in tatters around Draco’s ribs. He’s sixteen and he’s a ghost that can’t quite escape the things that are haunting him.

“Are you all right?” a voice – honeyed and soft – echoes against the chipped wall tiles.

Draco whirls around. Claps an instinctive hand over his forearm and stares at the girl, at the voice, at the ghost.

She doesn’t look twelve, no, not at all like the last time he’d seen her; all gap toothed smiles and bouncing pigtails. He’d never said a word to her. She’s sixteen, now, wide bright eyes and an inquisitive smile and hands that fluttered like wings as she stepped closer. She’s insubstantial, wispy, a pearlescent memory that’s managed to make itself real.

“I’m-” he shakes his head, is unsure of just what to say.

“Not fine, clearly,” the girl informs him. Folds her fingers over her hips. She’s still wearing the school uniform. “I know you,” she says, then steps closer. Till he can see the flickering film of her body and – oh why do people insist on breathing life into dead things?

And Draco does the only thing he can think to do –

Draco runs.


Some facts:

1.      Draco Malfoy is a ghost town

2.      It’s a coin to pass the river Styx

3.      They can’t quite see through the stones on their eyes

It’s a week before Draco goes back again, before he’s mustered up enough courage to do precisely what he wants to. And what he wants

Blood simmers beneath his fingerprints. Secrets lurk in his eyes. There are so many things he wants to say only his molars are super glued together and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

And he’s not quite sure why he feels the need to return to that bathroom and talk to that girl – ghost – only knows that she’s lurked in the fuzzy corners of his dreams and coiled herself tight around his lungs.

It’s nearly midnight the next time he goes back to the bathroom. Shadows are dancing against the walls and gossamer has festooned itself across the window panes. The skin around Draco’s bones is inordinately tight as he peers into the dim puddles and empty stalls, calls out, tentatively and wavering, “Hello? Anybody there?”

There’s a moment of static silence. A dripping faucet. Winds that shudder as they grip the stall doors.

And then –

“You’re back,” she says, curling in like a summer wind. Strawberry stains like blood oaths against her fingers and vines tangling around her ankles. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Draco smiles. Takes a moment to scrutinize the way that he can almost ache her into realism, forget for a moment that she’s dead. “I should really be the one saying that, don’t you think?”

She giggles. A wind chime sound that echoes in his ears and plucks at his heart strings. He doesn’t remember her giggling while alive, doesn’t remember much, actually. “It’s not as though ghosts are unusual around here.” He thinks he can detect the peach ripe tinge of an accent. “And besides, you’re the one who ran away the other day.”

“I know,” he says, collar brushing against his jaw, starch stiff.

“You’re the one who was in here crying the other day,” she says, softer this time.

He thinks he might have taken offense, had it been anyone else. But it’s her and for some reason – one he can’t quite dig up out of his gut – she’s a better option than sullen Blaise and smothering Pansy, indifferent Theo and dull Crabbe. And the word stuffed parchments that he quietly rips up and tosses into the fire don’t seem to help, anymore.

“Which, of course begs the question, why are you here?”

He doesn’t know quite how to answer.


[She’s everywhere]

It becomes a habit. The nicotine stab of addiction in his lungs and the alcohol swirl of need against his teeth.

He visits the bathroom numerous times a week, sneaks out of the common room when the grandfather clock has struck midnight or in the suffocating haze of late afternoon, finds himself telling her things he’d resolved to keep under lock and key.

He rolls up his sleeve the day before term ends, feels guilt pool bitter sweet/ bitter sour in his mouth as he thinks about Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley and the list of victims that was supposed to have been only one.

And Y/N only blinks at him. Crosses her legs and offers a smile that wilts at the corners.

Her toenails are still painted a shimmering green.

“We all make mistakes,” she says, soft as a lullaby. Draco’s never been more awake. “It’s never too late to make things better.”

He wishes that he could hold her hand.


He reads Hamlet over Christmas break in the damask curtained dark of the library and traces his fingers over the wailing hymn, rosary clutched words of Ophelia; thinks about ghosts and haunted houses and things that can never quite be bleached out of your bones.


She tells him who killed her the day he comes back to school. Light is popping like soap bubbles against the wall as he watches lazy wisps of light imbue the end of his wand, murmurs incantations while trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his ears.

Because Tom Riddle had set the basilisk on her, was the beginning and the end of everything.

Because he can’t quite untangle himself from the spider web stick of the mess that he’s made.

“I think I made a mistake,” he tells her. Hands shaking and jaw aching and magic trembling in his bloodstream.

Her fingers linger over his. “I can help you,” she says.


She’s the one that he doesn’t have to die for.