#spectre caught on camera

[hauntingofthelamb]

blurry bites ୨୧

[calaisreno]

The Client

936 words / Prompt: Secret

Mary looks at the chair. John can’t be serious. “Why?”

The look he gives her is terrible. She knows his temper, but this is the first time she’s seen Captain Watson, who could shoot a man and have no trouble sleeping afterwards. 

“Because that’s where they sit,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re a client now, Mary. That’s all you are. That’s where you sit and talk, and we listen and decide if we want you or not.”

Sherlock is looking sort of grey. She wonders how he managed to sneak out of the hospital and set this up. Was it really necessary? Did he not think that John would believe him?

Her husband—well, the marriage probably isn’t legal, and now that he knows he’s married to a woman who’s been lying since the day they met, he’s obviously not going to stay. Right now, he can’t even look at her. 

Sherlock nods at her. She’s not sure why he’s trying to help her. Or why she didn’t kill him when she had a chance. She was rattled, or she would have done it properly, and this conversation wouldn’t be happening. 

She thought she was finally safe. John is exactly the kind of man she would marry. If Sherlock hadn’t come back, they could have been happy. John is angry now, and it’s not all about her. He’s in love with Sherlock, and it’s something he can’t admit, even to himself. 

Maybe she should have simply disappeared. 

She still could.

“You know what?” She stands in front of John’s chair, glaring down at him. “Forget this bullshit. Open your eyes, John. This—” She pats her belly. “It isn’t real. There’s no baby.” 

He sits up, wide-eyed now.

She smirks. “Don’t pretend you didn’t suspect. You didn’t want to believe it, so you stopped paying attention.”

John’s speechless for a moment, then stammers. “But… why would you do that?”

“Without the baby, I would have lost you.” She turns to Sherlock. “Thanks, but I’ll handle Magnussen on my own.” 

Picking up her handbag, she walks towards the door. On the threshold she turns and gives her parting shot. “Pull your heads out of your arses, boys. See ya.”

John stares after her until they hear the door downstairs slam. He turns to Sherlock. “What the hell just happened?”

Sherlock tries to push himself up from his chair. “John… I think…”

Heavy feet are clattering up the stairs. John looks towards the door, where the paramedics have appeared. 

“Did somebody call an ambulance?”

Sherlock gasps. “Did you bring any morphine?”

A week later…

BBC News. According to Detective Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, the investigation into the death of media mogul Charles Augustus Magnussen has turned up no clues to the identity of his killer, or how they came to Appledore, his residence. Security footage is being examined, but the killer obviously knew their target and took care not to be caught on camera. All leads will be pursued, he says, but it appears to be a professional job.

Months later…

“You know, Sherlock, we didn’t need to have such a big wedding.”

“Don’t say that to Mummy. It’s always been her ambition to plan one. And I’m finding I don’t mind it so much.”

“I don’t even know half of these people. Other than Harry, I assume they’re all your relatives.”

“Most are. And acquaintances. My parents have a lot of friends.”

“Mycroft looks… well, less dyspeptic than usual.”

“Every feast needs a spectre, John.”

“Oh, look, he’s talking with Greg. And he’s actually smiling.”

“Who?”

“Oh, give it up, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes. They do seem rather… friendly. Interesting…”

“Who’s the woman with the hair?”

“All the women have hair, John. Not a single bald woman in the hall. Oh, I see. Looks like a wig. Probably some mystery relative. She’s talking with my cousin Pansy. Mummy will know.”

“Not important. Just… she seems familiar. Look, here’s Harry. Glad she made it this time.”

“Harry! Come here—I need to dance with my sister-in-law.”

“All right, Sherlock—does this mean Johnny gets to dance with Mycroft?”

“Absolutely not! I’m not dancing with Mycroft, even if he’s secretly running the country.”

“Well, your loss. Come on, Sherlock. John says you’re a good dancer. Let me see you get your boogie on.”

“My what?”

“Mrs Holmes! This is all lovely. Thank you so much.”

“Of course, John! And please, you must call me Viola. Where’s your husband?”

“He’s dancing with Harry. Say, who’s that woman over there with the dark hair and large glasses? She was just talking with Pansy.”

“Oh… I don’t know, John. I thought she was one of yours.”

“No, she’s not. Oh, look, she’s leaving.”

“Honestly, who leaves a wedding early? Sherlock, do come here!”

“Yes, Mummy?”

“It’s your wedding! Dance with your husband, dear! I’m going to look for mine.”

“Gladly. Come here, John.”

“Sherlock, that woman—”

“Yes, John. I know.”

“Does Mycroft know?”

“He told me she was dead. But he’s been wrong about dead people before.”

“Why do you think she came here?”

“You mean, why did she crash our wedding? I think she just wanted to make sure you’re fine. That we’re fine.”

“Is this what she meant by ‘get your heads out of your arses’?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s not vengeful.”

“No, I don’t believe she is. And I don’t bear her any ill-will.”

“No? Hm. I do, just a bit. But tonight, I only want to think about you.”

“Do you? Then I’ll just have to keep your attention, won’t I?”

“You always do, love.”

--

All my May Prompts 2024 can be read on AO3 here.

[adh-d2]

It's not so much that I needed Tech to be alive.

I wanted Tech to live, but I grieved his character when he died.

Then the hints started coming. The narrative focus shifted to this mysterious new character and signaled that he was important somehow. The theories started spreading. Week after week the 'camera' lingered on long, slow shots of a helmet that wouldn't come off.

So yeah, I stopped grieving. The longer it went on the more convinced I became that this must be Tech, because clearly it was someone important. Otherwise it would just be poor writing. This show isn't written poorly.

Case-in-point, what a beautiful finale. My heart was in my throat the entire time. I cried. I loved it. Taken on its own, I'd go so far as to say it was perfect.

-

Except for the fact that the CX plotline came to nothing. Seriously. We've followed it all season, and it came to nothing? I'm not even clear on what happened. There were more of them. They were kind of an anti-Bad-Batch? Except not really? There was a big one that pulled Wrecker's signature move. There was one with knives. They were regs? I think? One lost its helmet in a background shot so I guess we can conclude they were all regs. With different builds. And different accents. I suppose it doesn't matter, since they all died after a few minutes of screentime having meant nothing to the protagonists. They were a boss fight. The plot marches on.

-

It's entirely possible I got too caught up in the speculation. Maybe when I look back on all the posts I wrote and liked and reblogged it will be obvious that we were reaching. But right now from here in the thick of it, I swear there's so much to see! Do you mean to tell me they really didn't notice it in the writers room? That it was all a complete coincidence?

Would it have been better if someone on the creative team had just come out and confirmed that Tech wasn't coming back? I don't know. I don't think they were obligated to. But when a good 50% of the discourse about your show ending is speculation on this particular CX character, and the answer isn't even a different plot twist, but that the character means nothing at all...well, you can see how the team could have avoided some disappointment.

Maybe this is a bad take. I don't know how I feel. I wish I could have enjoyed the finale without having to grieve again for a character we'd already lost.

For now I'll end by saying that I loved this show and I can't wait to rewatch it someday on its own merit, without the spectre of 'is-it-could-it-be-no-please-let-it-be' clouding my judgement.

[sazeracs]

Adding onto this, I personally ran Salamander Dagger head on Acidic Crystal Spear handle for some poking (the City Longspear has a longer reach but is slower in a way that’s unhelpful for this fight), fully upgraded Puppet String, and the Friendship Wishstone.

The Spectre is unfortunately hit or miss in boss fights wrt actually helping, but can be useful to draw aggro and let you get some attacks in, as @venigni said, or even give you a second to breathe, and that’s definitely true here. (There’s a specific Wishstone for it but imo you don’t even need to buy it because it happens naturally lol. Caveat: This works better in some fights than others because of tracking — not recommended for Black Rabbit Brotherhood gank.) If you’re using the Friendship Wishstone, pop ✨the Cube✨ when Giangio Romeo you from the future, stronger and cooler the Spectre has about half of his health left for maximum effect.

Use Puppet String to build up stagger while he’s on all fours. He’s fairly susceptible to it; I think it was about three times I had to use it before that health bar went white. (It’s also just goated.)

For his actual attacks, although his second phase is a spicier version of the Scrapped Watchman, try approaching him like Archbishop Andreus instead. That is, stay in his face and dodge INTO him. This sounds counterintuitive and in most other fights you’ll have a bad time, but for whatever reason he’s similarly less able to hit you at that close range, and he’s more manageable if you don’t give him an opportunity to ever use his ranged attacks. Ideally, roll into him at an angle (left) so you end up on his right side (many bosses are weak here it seems), or end up going right through his legs, because most of his attack AoE is directly right in front of him — and because just like Andreus you wanna target his ass. Just completely go to town on him back there, especially if the Spectre has his attention.

His burrowing attack can be avoided by running around, but if you learn the timing to dodge or even block/parry it it’s super punishable. He telegraphs pretty obviously: hit him with a charged heavy attack when he stands up on two legs, but watch out for whenever he shakes his head in particular.

If you’re trying to hone your parrying skills, my general advice is that it’s more practical to pick one or two specific attacks and focus on mastering perfect guarding those, rather than trying to do so with everything. His Scrapped Watchman punch with the windup is a good one to learn, for instance. Remember, too, that if you’ve played other Souls games before (Sekiro especially), you may actually need to unlearn some muscle memory, because Lies of P is the opposite and the window for a successful parry is based on you, not the enemy. Generally, you want to press the block button as soon as you see an attack start to connect (i.e. a limb moving toward you) and HOLD, not tap it — if you’re early, you still get a block and can regain health by attacking.

ok i tried everything. i just can't beat him. fuck the green monster. Got the scrapped watchmen first try but this thing? even with an specter? idk. king of puppets was somehow fun and even victor was "easy" after i knew his moves. but the monster seems to have no window for a attack? he's constantly moving and I can't land a punch. for the first time i really don't enjoy this game ffs.

[sarahmadisonxoxo]

An idea that  @spectrum-spectre had inspired a scene in the dark pits of my mind.  Soulmate  AU’s in which people see color at the sight of their soulmate. The rules aren’t specific on whether that is only true if the meeting is in person, or if looking at photographs or videos brings on the same effect.  Soulmates AU Part 2 ---------------------------- Steve returns from the kitchen holding a large bowl of popcorn and two cans of coke from the fridge. Dustin’s been staying with him for a while, and as usual their afternoon consisted of watching television until their bodies screamed for sleep.  This particular afternoon Steve let Dustin choose what they’d watch. Dustin was usually left to make the choice simply because Steve wanted him to be comfortable, but it wasn’t something they mentioned. He’d so far been enjoying Dustin’s pick, the MTV music awards. There had been several artist that Steve adored. Tears for Fears. Madonna.  Dustin however was watching for Corroded Coffin, his newest favorite band that he listened to seemingly nonstop these days. The kid was obsessed, but again Steve didn’t complain because his home was Dustin’s home if he accepted it. It was nice to have someone around to liven up the overwhelming emptiness of the Harrington estate.  Steve set the popcorn down on the coffee table, dropping down next to Dustin on the couch, when his eyes came up to see the television screen color burst from the center of his gaze flooding out to adjust his vision until everything settled and grey was changed with vivid colors he’d only heard about in books.  His soulmate... the only issue was the angle of the camera was showing dozen’s of faces. He’d never be able to tell which one of them sparked the change. It was the whole point of it, making finding soulmates easier. Of course Steve would find a way to fuck his up.... he’d never find them. That show was several states away, the likelyhood of ending up in a room with one of them was nearly impossible. Even if he did, now he wouldn’t have a way to tell him who it was.  “ I think I am going to go to bed..” Steve hums.  “ Bed? Steve it’s eight thirty? “  “ Yeah... Work was just a lot today and I guess it’s just hitting me how tired I am” Steve explained.  Dustin didn’t seem to buy it, but he didn’t argue.  “ Okay.. Goodnight man. “  “ Night”  Steve cried his eyes out that night... over someone he didn’t even know.  ----------- “ thanks for driving me Steve.. I can’t believe they are coming Chicago on a day I can actually attend the convention. “ Dustin stood next to him in the line to get in to meet one of the guy’s from Corroded Coffin.. Steve planned on leaving the line before Dustin went behind the curtain, but he didn’t feel like being alone in here. Everyone seemed chill.. He was just feeling overwhelmed.  “ No problem Dustin.”  Slowly the line progressed foward, Steve eventually dropping out to go stand at the edge of the booth to wait. Letting himself get distracted by the excitement of those leaving the booth. Smiling at them as they ran out with their autographed pictures. He caught sight of Eddie.. or at least that’s who he assumed it was with the sign. The guy was pretty. His smile was bright and filled his face, dimples standing out to soften the rest of the edge his clothing might lead you to think he had.  When he heard Dustin’s voice Steve could only smile at the pure joy and excitement of the kid meeting one of his favorite people. He couldn’t remember hearing him so happy about anything other than when he’d finished building his Cerebro last summer.  The curtain opened, Steve’s eyes met Eddie’s for the first time that day as the man was telling Dustin goodbye.  They didn’t make it far from the booth before he heard someone calling Dustin’s name.. them both turning around to find Eddie running toward them.  “ Sorry I didn’t know your name...” Eddie apologized, taking Steve’s hands in his own. A small crowd forming around them with people muttering how Steve was living everyone's dream right now.  “ Steve? Is everything okay man? “ Steve questioned, Eddie’s face falling as he noticed the utter confusion written over Steve’s features.  “ you didn’t see it” Eddie questioned. “ See what?  “ The color? You didn’t. Oh shit. “  “ The color?..” Steve started, his eyes looking off in thought “ Oh... it was you. On the tv.. I must have seen you. “  “ TV? “  “ The MTV Awards...”  “ Steve that was nearly a year ago... you’ve had color for? “  “ Nearly a year yeah...”  “ Oh shit..” Eddie thought allowed, processing that the confusion was because Steve had been seeing color the whole time. “ Can I take you out sometime? You know if you want. I don’t know if you do this whole thing, but I think it would be pretty cool”  “ Eddie”  “ Yeah”  “ I’d love to go out with you sometime”  “ Great” Eddie cheered, a small smile pulling at his lips, offering his sharpie over to Steve. “ just write your number on my arm”  Eddie tugged his sleeve up to give Steve space in a place that could be hidden on his arm. Both of them smiling like fools the entire time.  “ You should get back to your fans.. “  “ Yeah.. I will call you tonight. “  “ I can’t wait” 

[writtenjewels]

Terrible Dancing

Kaidan and Ashley exchanged curious looks with each other as they followed Shepard along the path that would take them to the lower wards. They hadn't been back to the Citadel since Shepard became a Spectre. With good reason: they found themselves unexpectedly busy, answering one distress call after another or stumbling upon space pirates or any number of things. And on top of all that, they recently encountered the Thorian.

Shepard hadn't said a lot about the Cipher, but Kaidan could tell it was weighing on him. This visit to the Citadel might have just been an excuse to get off the ship without stumbling upon another part of space that needed Shepard's help.

Kaidan was starting to recognize their surroundings. His steps slowed a little the closer they got to Flux. What was an attractive environment for most people meant a lot of stimulation for him. He hoped that it wouldn't trigger a migraine. He followed Shepard and Ashley to a table, eventually relaxing enough to join the two in a drink.

“Great way to blow off steam, right, Kaidan?” Shepard said with a smile.

“Right,” he agreed. And so far the lights and noise weren't too bad.

“Are you going to spot us credits for Quasar, skipper?” Ashley teased.

“No way. I've seen you play, Chief.” The two laughed, Kaidan smiling politely. He was happy to be here, but knew he wasn't a social butterfly like Shepard or Ashley. He tried chiming in when they started chatting, but he mostly stayed quiet and listened.

Eventually Shepard got up and moved to the dance floor. Kaidan watched him with amusement. He wasn't much of an expert, but the bobbing and arm wiggles didn't look like they counted as dancing. He caught Ashley's eye and saw she was trying not to laugh.

“At least now we know he's not good at everything,” Kaidan remarked to her.

“I know! God, I wish I had a camera!” She was still grinning when she nudged him. “You should go up there!”

“Come on, Ash. He's bad, but he's having fun.”

“I meant,” she clarified, rolling her eyes, “you should go up and join him.”

“What, dancing?” He couldn't tell if she was joking. “I'm not that much better than him.” Ashley raised an eyebrow, as if to say, So?<?i>

“Go have fun, LT. Seriously.”

Why not? He got to his feet and headed over to the dance floor. Shepard stopped his bob and wiggle moves when Kaidan got close enough. The commander's cheeks were a little flushed, his eyes bright when they focused on Kaidan. Without a word, he grabbed Kaidan's wrist and pulled him fully onto the floor.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said.

“Ashley insisted.”

“Really?” Shepard glanced over to their table. “Then I owe her another drink.” Kaidan didn't know what the commander meant by that, but it made him a little nervous. “You like dancing, Kaidan?” Shepard asked, resuming his bob along to the music.

“I don't know. I don't dance a lot.”

“Me neither.”

“No kidding.” Kaidan couldn't help giving him a teasing smirk.

“All right, Lieutenant, let's see your moves, then,” Shepard retorted with a gentle nudge. Kaidan chuckled and started moving along to the music. It was unintentional, but he was starting to bob in a similar way as Shepard. “There you go,” Shepard encouraged, now doing his arm wiggle. “You're about as good as me.”

“I certainly can't get worse,” Kaidan joked. Shepard laughed, and the two danced together through two more songs.

As they made their way back to the ship, Kaidan couldn't help notice the way Ashley was smirking at him. Like she knew some big secret. When he raised an eyebrow at her, the smile grew and her eyes darted briefly in Shepard's direction. Kaidan felt his face get hot, and Ashley's smirk grew even more.

Kaidan did end up getting a migraine later, but it almost felt worth it for those moments of terrible dancing.

[cemetery-irises]

HE'S SO OLD

Also for headcanons: he's a shapeshifter! After an accident with his own soul-meddling camera, so many reflections of the souls that he'd photographed collided into his that it killed him nearly instantly, but gave his ghost the side effect of being able to replicate anyone caught in his images.

I adore his beta design so he's got that now, and can generally be pretty terrifying if he's intentionally not keeping up a form. However, before the manor, this is just what he always looked like.

He likes to haunt people and see what they're doing, which is what led him to occasionally visit white sand street asylum as a spectre, and also what led him to Oletus Manor.

He did not expect for his form to be clear and perfect and unmarred again. It's based on a photo of him with Claude, where they were both playing dress-up in fancy clothing and his father's wig. Joseph quite likes the white hair this form gives him, and the gleam of his eyes turning into a solid blue is a pretty touch, at least to him. He doesn't intend on changing this form anytime soon.

waah this old ass man i hate him

[ghostlytales]

Drowned ghost

The ghost of a drowned man has been caught on camera wandering through a tunnel while traffic drives through him. At least that’s according to long distance lorry driver George Furst, whose colleague Stephen Smyth took the snap as they drove into the tunnel in Cork, Ireland. When the pair checked the photo, the spotted what they believe could be a Downton Abbey period spectre, who met his end in the area.

[merge-conflict]

2000 Word Blowjob 😳 and if that one was already asked, Toolin'

I did sort of, but I am happy to talk about more!

This was the '2000 word character focused blowjob challenge' that mostly lives in my head and I haven't been able to capture correctly with words yet. The idea of a smut fic also showing more about a character isn't exactly groundbreaking– sex is by nature intimate and you can explore a lot about a character by what they decide to do and how much of themselves they choose to reveal or make vulnerable, BUT I want to make it exactly 2000 words, and once I've got a draft down I want to make sure I'm hammering certain character quirks and revelations down. Until I've done that I've sort of just got a grab bag of ideas:

The plan is a FFOR-universe set Valentine/Kerry scene where they've finally gotten past some of their rocky start (the aforementioned knife to the throat, among other things). Kerry's been playing to the cameras, or will be playing to the cameras, and he's in a Bad Mood because Johnny has been jealous about the attention he's getting and handling it in the usual way (badly) and Rogue is just generally unimpressed with his who celebrity rockerboy thing so he's feeling a little emasculated– and Valentine is in That Mood where she wants to help so badly she's given herself jobs to do like a neurotic dog.

There's that spectre in the air of neither of them knowing how much of their attraction is or isn't because of how caught up they are with Johnny, but quickly establish their own dynamic (Kerry's in charge) and are enjoying themselves without interference. They're relaxed, bantering, fooling around in the huge walk-in closet with all the mirrors... Johnny interrupts, of course, (haven't decided when) but then when they're both sort of exasperated it's more like a bonding moment than destabilization. They both recontextualize something things about each other. Idk. Valentine and Johnny are always sort of offhandedly implying they're extensions of each other's identity but Kerry looks at Valentine and sees himself... Idk. Messy as fuck!

If that sounds like a lot for 2000 words well. I might break a few promises there, but eventually I'm going to set this down to paper. Eventually!

[clericofshadows]

Regis: LOTSB & Nyx: kaidan and hackett in an elevator 👀👀

LOTSB... my beloathed DLC that I'm rewriting drastically in more ways than one. I'm probably going to cut out like all the drawn out Vasir stuff and have Wren sniff her out early. or something. anything to get it over with faster lmao.

I'll put both your snippets under the cut :)

Regis made his way through T'Soni's apartment, trying to figure out what had happened beyond what the Spectre had claimed: an assassination attempt. He was only partially sorry that it had failed, but the whole situation intrigued him too damn much to let Wren handle it on her own, coming on her advisement after her surveillance picked up on it. She was currently talking to the Spectre, finding out as much information as she can about the case, both for his sake's and the Alliance's investigation into T'Soni. The apartment was clean, despite the attempt, having good enough protections to prevent the worst of the attack from doing major damage. Signs of her prothean archeologist past littered the apartment, and Regis wished she stuck to that instead of the shit she got herself into, if only because he was tired of her meddling into his life and death. A glass case caught his attention, housing something beat up, charred and damaged, out of place in the admittedly elegant home. He approached it, and immediately felt sick, his gaze first landing on a piece of scorched, frayed cloth, a scrap of black and red fabric that mirrored the one around his neck. The sound of glass shattering filled the air, the once pristine display case reduced to nothing more than a pile of shards. He reached out for the battered torso of his armor, taking it apart, piece by piece, ignoring Samara's and Zaeed's noises of concern. Where is it, where are his dog tags, where is his father's goddamn ring?

you're in luck because I posted an earlier snippet of Kaidan and Hackett in an elevator so you get another one too :)

“You got that right.”  Hackett glanced around.  “Are there–?” He made a motion with his hand, gesturing around. Kaidan did a quick scan with his omnitool and nodded.  “Won’t take me but a second to throw up a privacy field.” “They know there’s a Spectre and an Alliance stuck in here, I doubt it’ll raise too much suspicion.” “I don’t know,” Kaidan couldn’t help but grin.  “The wrong officer sees it and starts spinning all kinds of tales.” “One superior officer is not enough for you?” He teased back, and Kaidan laughed as he activated the privacy field, scrambling the camera feed and muting the audio.  He was a bit surprised Hackett played along.  “Maybe not. The perks are just so good,” Kaidan said, focusing his gaze on Hackett, a smirk tugging at his lips. “The benefits alone make it worth it.” And he couldn't deny that Hackett was quite the handsome man.  The same things that drew him to Nyx drew him to Hackett.  Scars, voices, the way they held themselves… and he knew damn well his tastes often went to older men in his fantasies. Hackett crossed his arms against his chest, raising an eyebrow.  “Didn’t expect this from you.” “I don’t see you complaining,” Kaidan said, keeping his tone neutral.  “Allow me to be serious for a moment?” “Thought you already were,” he challenged. Kaidan nodded, leaning back against the elevator wall.  “Part of me was.  Nyx never stopped having feelings for you, you know.”

[saikourobyn]

Japan 2020 - Day 1

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Arriving in Tokyo and running away to Hakone, hot springs really help with jet lag.

If you haven't seen the previous post check out the Prelude.

Monday 24th February 2020

Tokyo

Our flight arrived at 6:50 AM, our first sign of coronavirus prevention was a man standing behind an infrared camera to check people's temperature as they went through to get their passports checked.

Oli’s friend Hiroshi met with us at the airport to give us a lift to his place where we would be staying that week, again to save a bit of cash, but it was a brief stop after a catch up we would be off travelling immediately.

We had originally planned to go to Hakone with Hiroshi but he had to get ready for his upcoming wedding so instead he took us to lunch at Tokyo Station our first proper meal in Japan was Ramen! Which it turns out is good for any meal, breakfast/lunch/dinner/after drinks before stumbling home.

Hiroshi pointed us in the right direction and we caught a train to Hakone where we would spend our first night.

Hakone

A running theme in this trip is not doing much in the way of research before going to places, partly due to not wanting to plan too much in advance and experience things as they come and also being free to do things that looked interesting when we found them.

It was this that brought our first surprise of Hakone, there’s a famous anime set here, Evangelion. The only trouble was neither I nor Oli have seen it so the map of the local area with screenshots from the show were lost on us, but all that means is we get to see the real life version before watching the show and say “I recognise that, I’ve been there.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough we committed our next sin of not having change for the coin lockers to store our luggage, fresh off the plane with our currency we had nothing but notes and no easy way to change them we found a nearby vending machine which refused to take our money, we struggled for a minute before a helpful Japanese lady came and pointed out that the machine wasn’t able to give change, presumably because everyone else had been doing the same thing.

We got our drinks, stashed our luggage and proceeded to explore the local town as we couldn’t check in to our ryokan (traditional Japanese hotel) yet. It appears to be a popular destination for tourists, I was worried that as it wasn’t a major city the folks there wouldn’t understand our lacklustre Japanese and the inevitable reverting to English and pointing at things but we had no issues.

We spent about 40 minutes walking around Hakone then when we were ready to check in we retrieved our luggage and trundled up the hill. We discovered a spoopy tunnel, which may have been our first encounter with the spectre thief, is it a ghost who steals things or someone who steals ghosts or it could be someone who steals ghosts who steal things like some sort of ghost police.

The area is known for its onsen (natural hot springs) and the ryokan we are staying in has its own onsen but not only that some of the rooms have private onsen… for couples, we have booked just such a room. This allows us to practise before embarrassing ourselves in front of any Japanese folk that may be using the public onsen.

The ryokan has tatami (Mats made of straw although modern mats have woodchip or polystyrene at their core) on the floor and futons to sleep on, so your living room doubles as a bedroom, there’s no kotatsu sadly but it has air conditioning which was greatly appreciated as it was still quite chilly outside, the weather in the UK had been getting milder but in Japan were thrown back in to winter somewhat.

After trying out our private onsen we decided to also try out the futons and had a nap, this seemed to work out well as we woke up in time for a late dinner and were still tired enough to get to sleep later.

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[hauntingofthelamb]

໒꒰ྀི˶ . ˕ . ˶ྀི꒱১

[scott1984fp2]

Photographer captures ghostly shadow in the mist https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cn4vy7nqd90o

[theharpermovieblog]

#HARPERSMOVIECOLLECTION

2023

I re-watched Lost Highway (1997)

This is the hardest movie I've had to talk about since there is just so much to get into and it's impossible to do that here. So I'm sorry if this is jumbled and poorly written. In 10 years I'll rewrite this and disagree with everything I've said here. Lol

A musician murders his wife and after being sentenced to death transforms into a young man who gets caught between a woman and a Mob Boss.

Lost Highway is about a man's feelings of sexual inadequacy and the lies he tells himself. At least for the most part.

Bill Pullman's character of Fred, at one point says he doesn't like video cameras because "I like to remember things my own way....not necessarily the way they happened." For Fred, this escapism is a need. It is a coping mechanism that will lead him to do horrible things and change the very fabric of who he is. Fred's need to escape and "remember things his own way" leads him to unknowingly kill his wife and even physically transform himself into someone else.

Robert Blake's pale faced spectre is what Fred is trying to escape. The spectre is Fred's sense of reality. Through videotapes the spectre shows Fred how "Things really happened". The Spectre shows Fred that he is a murderer who has killed his own wife. He knows Fred even after Fred transforms and becomes another person because, try as Fred might, reality is inescapable.

The person Fred Becomes is Balthazar Getty's character Pete. He's young and self confident. He's a new start for Fred, but Patricia Arquette as both characters Renee and Alice is another part of life that Fred cannot escape. At first Fred kills Renee and after he's charged for her murder he becomes Pete, but Pete can't help but fall for Renee's doppelganger, Alice, leading him back to being Fred, who then goes on to make a full circle bringing us back to the beginning of the film.

It's all very complicated and confusing on the surface. Dig a little deeper and it's still complicated and confusing, but it begins to take shape. This is what David Lynch is best at. He makes films that seem like nonsense to many, but in reality are full of meaning and feel no obligation to work within the parameters of logic outside the film's universe.

Im sure I'm right about a decent amount of this and wrong about a decent amount too. Lost Highway is, like many of Lynch's films, full of dream logic and is anything but spoon fed to the audience. It changes in narrative and yet remains the same throughout. It's a puzzle, but one I enjoy trying to solve piece by piece.

It's been said that Lost Highway takes place in the same universe as Lynch's Twin Peaks series, which is totally possible if not 100% true. The style, music, character interactions.....it's all very "Twin Peaks" in tone. And, like Twin Peaks, there is so much to challenge yourself with.

What I really love about this movie, technically, is the use of Darkness and the use of hollow, drafty sound. Two things Lynch uses often and well, but here they seem incredibly noticeable. It adds to the dreaminess and to the feeling of everything happening in the void of this world. It also helps the sound and music have a bigger impact.

Lost Highway is a noir horror through the mind of David Lynch and, despite it's difficulty, it's absolutely mesmerizing in many moments.

There are gorgeous shots in this film, a solid cast, puzzles to be solved, and a lot more.

Is it the best Lynch film out there? No. But it's one that every person wanting to understand David Lynch as a filmmaker should watch. If you don't like it, you won't like his other work.

[anderwhohn]

Smiling with fond exasperation, she shakes her head before taking another sip of her drink, only to pause when his hand begins sliding over her hip. Breath catching as it comes to rest on her thigh, she looks from his hand back to him, her gaze darkened, but with undeniable lust as she subconsciously leans a little closer to him.

"Well," she starts, her smile turning more coy as she allows his hand to remain where it is as she takes another drink. "You found me. I just... needed off that ship for a bit..." All the security cameras and the ever present AI certainly don't make it easy for her to relax on the Normandy. Especially with so few people that she feels she can trust onboard. It says a lot when she feels safer being alone on Omega than she does on the ship.

Not to mention the unnerving feeling that she's wrong in a way that few other things in the galaxy is, when people keep getting startled simply by her presence once they realise who she is. For now, aside from Aria and some of her lieutenants, few people pay much attention to who she might be beyond a human clearly more comfortable around other species than many of her own. Unlike on the ship, where she's even caught Chakwas and Joker seeming to have to remind themselves that she's really alive again...

It's overwhelming, to say the least, especially when, for her, it had only been days since she was laying under the mako with Garrus, pulling out geth pieces from the undercarriage, trying not to grin at his clearly exasperated grumbling at the damage done to the vehicle because she'd decided to simply run over the geth when the main gun overheated while chasing after Saren on Ilos.

Strange to think how those had been simpler times, facing down galactic extinction at the hands of an indoctrinated Spectre hellbent on opening a relay to dark space for the Reapers. Only now, a few weeks later from her perspective, the galaxy is at risk again with the Collectors getting increasingly bold and entire human colonies disappearing.

"Sorry if I worried you," she offers softly, one hand coming to rest on his, though doing so only seems to bring her own attention to just how high on her thigh it rests and she squirms a little in her seat at the thought. "I... I didn't want to bother you, when you were finally getting some rest..."

@smokedanced asked: [ possessive ] your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other . / garrus for izzy

While she would never admit to it aloud, there is one thing that Isabela was in complete agreement with Miranda Lawson on: Omega is a piss hole…

And yet, she herself finds some comfort in the strange familiarity of the place after the few years she spent on the streets of Earth, running with gangs that wouldn't put too much thought to her oddly alien behaviour as she adjusted to being human again before approaching the next phase of her assigned mission in her youth. Though it's probably that comfort, even among criminals, murderers, and thieves, that draws more than a little of the attention that she's gained to her, even as all she's done is to take a seat at the bar after putting her drink order in with the turian bartender.

While never fully taking her eyes off the turian handling her drink, she does spare enough of her attention to her surroundings, taking note of the piqued interest a number of the other patrons have taken in her. It's flattering, in a way, particularly when she knows how many of the other species view humans, and yet a wasted endeavour for anyone who decides to try their luck with her.

Emerald eyes focus back on the bartender as she nods in thanks when her drink is placed on the bar in front of her, taking it in hand to sip at. At least until a familiar weight and warmth of a three-fingered hand comes to rest on the small of her back as a different turian invites himself to the stool next to hers.

A wry smirk tugs at her lips as she looks up at Garrus, a single brow raised in silent question at the way his talons curl slightly into the material of the jacket she wears, though there's a hint of uncertainty that lingers in her gaze as she's still clearly thrown by the lack of the auditory implants that once allowed her to fully hear subvocalisations. Between her missing implants and his claim on her as bondmates, she is certainly finding herself at odds with this strange new galaxy two years past what she last remembers…

Another sleepless night had led her to leaving the docked ship to venture alone into Afterlife, but she hadn't expected any of the crew to follow her. Though, in hindsight, she should have known her mate would track her down as soon as he realised she was no longer on the Normandy…

"Hey, you," she murmurs in quiet greeting, head tilting to the side slightly in curious interest as she eyes him while taking another sip of her drink. "Everything okay on the ship?"

[needleanddead]

remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah. 

knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k

trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab. 

cross-posted to ao3

You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.

Well.

That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.

Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--

Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.

You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.

You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.

What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.

It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.

Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.

“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--

You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.

The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;

“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”

You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.

His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--

“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”

(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).

“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”

He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.

You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.

It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--

You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.

(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.

It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.

When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)

You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--

It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.

You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.

“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.

It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.

A chuckle.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”

The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.

He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.

The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.

He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;

“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”

Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).

He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.

You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.

Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.

You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.

You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.

You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.

Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.

Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.

“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.

(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)

“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.

You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.

But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;

“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”

Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.

“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”

You don’t think you do.

You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.

So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;

“Pl-please—”

It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;

“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”

[german translation dictionary;  schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure mäuschen - little mouse sehr süß - very sweet/very cute so hübsch - so pretty idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]