decent case

guess who’s got two thumbs and a raise (kinda)

@finn-bigdeal-skywalker‘s post about it looking like Finn is holding something in his hand that has subsequently been edited out in the TLJ poster made me go look at the posters again to have a clearer picture, so to speak, and I noticed something interesting. Not only does it look like @finn-bigdeal-skywalker is right, but there’s something very interesting in relation to this in Rey’s and Luke’s posters.

Here’s Rey’s.

She’s holding Anakin’s lightsaber. Which makes sense since she was the one who had it at the end of TFA and she’s obviously on the path to become a Jedi. Not to mention there’s a good chance she’s a Skywalker so there’s that.

And here is Luke’s.

Notice how he’s also holding Anakin’s lightsaber. Okay, he’s his son, makes a bit of sense. But it begs one very interesting question.

Why isn’t he holding his own lightsaber?

This one. It would make infinitely more sense.

Maybe this is where it went?

Immediately when you look at Finn’s poster it doesn’t look like there’s enough space in the blurred out part in front of Finn’s hand for it to be a lightsaber, the “hilt” sticks out much further in Rey’s and Luke’s posters after all. But looking at how the three of the holds a lightsaber and wields it in battle might explain it.

Now Luke holds his lightsabers - both Anakin’s in ESB and his own it RotJ - in a very distinct fashion. Like Finn and Anakin he favors a two handed grip, right hand over left. But he holds the handle so that his left is almost at the bottom, leaving plenty of space for the hilt to stick out.

Finn on the other hand puts his right hand right at the top, leaving the end of the handle to stick out beneath his left.

Rey doesn’t really display a preference in TFA, but in the poster she seems to be emulating Luke’s way of holding/wielding it. Which makes sense if Luke’s the one who trains her.

I thought that Finn’s way of wielding it might have to do with him having learned to fight with a stun baton/mace and that is why he grips it this way. And it still might be.

But it’s not wrong. Anakin himself holds the lightsaber in the same way Finn does, hand all the way up at the hilt, leaving the handle stick out beneath his left.

(Using a promotional still because George did not favor lingering shots and the boy never stands still long enough to get a decent cap.)

In both cases - his own and the borrowed one in the arena - Anakin holds his hands high on it.

So clearly the “correct” way to hold and wield a lightsaber is a matter of preference. One where Finn follows Anakin’s while Rey follows Luke’s. And with Finn’s preferences in holding and wielding a lightsaber in mind - high on the hilt - there is more than enough room in the blurred out part for the top steely, metal part of Luke’s lightsaber to be there. The rest would be sticking out the back where there’s just blank, grayish-white space.

Tell me why Claymore isn’t touted as one of the best manga series like Berserk or Vagabond. 

Like you have a bomb-ass female cast, a really interesting and compelling story, good antagonists, great action sequences, etc etc, it has everything a really good shounen manga needs, so I’m really confused as to why it doesn’t get way more attention.

they say, a writer should keep her feet planted on the floor. the soles of her shoes should not leave the linoleum tile. she must hold onto something to keep herself grounded, grip onto the bathroom counter hard enough to see her knuckles turn white. or else she will float away, she’ll float right up into the clouds. before you know it she’ll be living in her daydreams, so far into her head she won’t be able to hear a word that you say to her no matter how loud you scream, no matter how many times you snap your fingers in front of her face, no matter how many times you tell her to stop being so delusional. she’ll marry these delusions, wear a dress whiter than the wisps of clouds she uses as a throne, and you won’t be invited to the wedding. no, they say, a writer needs to look into her own eyes at least once a day. she needs to see herself standing in the mirror, it will help her feel real, it will help her stay grounded.
a writer tends to focus too much on the little things, they say. to a writer, the tiniest things are the larger-than-life things, she will craft entire worlds out of empty mailboxes and gravel driveways, she will get lost in the cornmazes of her own metaphors. remind her that dreams don’t always come true. like she hasn’t heard it a million times before, like the weekly lesson in her creative writing class wasn’t always how you can’t just scribble “writer” on your tax forms, like they don’t always want to know what she’ll do if she isn’t good enough, how will she support herself writing stanzas with strict rhyme schemes. remind her that sestinas won’t satiate her hunger and that sonnets won’t pay the bills, remind her that every novel can’t be number one, that not every writer will succeed.
writers, they say, need a reminder sometime. make sure her feet stay planted on the floor. make sure she stays grounded.
—  things they say about a writer.

Okay now I’ve calmed down a bit I’ll give the short version in more articulate terms. And probably delete the rant since A. I’ll have a better version of what I was trying to say, and B. Anger tends to breed anger so I probably should have kept my rant more subdued in the first place. C. Like… 2 people have reblogged it and I’m keeping a copy so… If you think I’m doing that to make it disappear it still exists some places and I’ll keep a copy in case anyone insists on seeing the original outrage.

Basically a few chapters ago this took place.

The conversation where Touka was basically expressing her interest in Kaneki and the subject came up of Kaneki being okay with going of and dying. Touka tells him the only one okay with that is him and she uses the term leaving. And then says basically says she’d be his first.

Kaneki later asks her if the conversation was her way of getting him to stay, (With her… from going and dying.) She just laughs and pretends she doesn’t know what he means. That implication bothered me a little at the time but they nothing. Now they’ve done something…

There’s also this, I was personally against the idea of Hide coming back before Kaneki could get to a place where he wasn’t dependent on his friend to have a reason to live. Because having a person be the one attachment that keeps you in the world is very unhealthy.

I was hoping Kaneki would find a good healthy reason to live but the way him connecting with Touka seems to play out is he might have just formed a different attachment than Hide.

I understood Kaneki’s dependency on Hide as the thing that helped him through a very difficult point in his life and was necessary at the time. But really it needed to evolve past that to be healthy as any form of relationship whether that be friendship or not. But with Touka the narrative seems to just want to repeat the attachment instead of evolving to a healthier place.

Even if it evolves to a better the place it’s started from is screwed up.  

Also the fact that chapter 125 has a reverse 16 (The Tower) 

Upright and in the past the tower was used to describe Kaneki’s Which was physically used as a symbol of Kaneki’s decent (or in this case climb) into the realization he was deeply depressed and didn’t want to live. (at least that’s the short version)

Reverse however means rescue or the avoiding of a disaster. Suggesting Kaneki was pulled out of that state by them having sex or forming a relationship.

And that disturbs me. The whole narrative that  “If I form a relationship with someone I can save them” is so deeply flawed and toxic. I’ve been in the place of the person opposite the person with suicidal tendency the thing standing in the way and in reality is it’s terrifying and unhealthy, 

Seeing it used as a positive trope or romanticized really bothers me.

anonymous asked:

Jamilton 92?

There was a party at the dead of winter at 1780 Albany Road, where one of the largest houses on the street was emptied of adults and filled with college students raging over cheap booze and loud music. “Daddy said not to have people over while he’s out of town.” Peggy screamed over the music as Angelica and Eliza stared down at the hundreds of people gathered for their end of the fall term party. 

“Daddy doesn’t need to know.” Angelica purred, deciding to join the crowd when Maria Cosway walked across the living room to the kitchen. Angelica found her chance to ask out the pretty art student.

“Daddy said no boys are allowed!” She urged as Eliza shook her head and booped Peggy’s nose lovingly. 

“Like I said you’re free to go to your room and hide out for the rest of the night.” The middle sister said to her youngest sister who was a freshman in college. “If you do join, you best not touch the alcohol.” 

“Then whats the point of me even being part of this.” Peggy rolled her eyes and grumpily took off to her room. Peggy didn’t need to be part of the party anyway. She sat up in her room for sometime, hearing the rumble of feet coming up and down the stairs. Peggy had opened up youtube and started looking over make up gurus when her door opened and a very pale and dazed looking man with large, mane like hair hiccuped. 

“Where is your bathroom?” 

“Two doors down.” She motioned and without a thanks he left in a hurry. After five minutes her door opened again, this time to a familiar face. “Alleeex, tell me you brought me some beer.” 

“Pegleg I love you, but you’re under age.” Not that had stopped Alex when he was eighteen. “Also Angelica is in the kitchen, I don’t want to give her a reason to slaughter me with a meat caviler.”

“Ugh, fine, what do you need.” 

“Need to whizz, where is the bathroom again?” 

“Two doors down but–” She was too late, Alex disappeared down the hall closing the door behind him. “…someone is already in there I think…” Oh well, she turned back to her video and thought nothing of it

Alexander was buzzed and in need to empty his bladder he was about to unbuckle his pants as he opened the door when he screeched at the side of a black mass of hair hunched over the toilet bowl. It took him a good five minutes to realize there was a body that belonged to that hair and another minute to register who that body was. “Ugh.” Of course it was Jefferson. Of course he was invited to the party because the spoiled, popular shit stain from his Political Science AND Creative Writing class was literally everywhere. It was bad enough he tainted Hamilton’s two favorite classes. “Assferson what are you–” 


Alex took a step back and scrunched up his face. “Are you drunk?” 

“N-No” Thomas whimpered into the toilet bowl. “J-Just go…B-bleh!” He dry heaved into the toilet, his face practically inside of the bowl at this point. Alexander had have the mind to go. His body turned as if to leave when he heard Thomas groan. Pathetic. Where were his friends? The smooth talking, somewhat intelligent man had always one or two lackeys with him. Now alone? 

If it were him he’d have his friends with him right now. If this were him he wouldn’t have wanted to be alone. “Fffff” it would be nice for the rich guy to owe him one…it would be real nice actually… 

Thomas felt his whole world spin, his hair full and coiled was sticking dangerously close to his clammy face and the toilet water. He felt another wave of nauseous hit him just in time as two hands carefully pulled back his forest of hair from his face and allowed him a little more room to up chuck the contents of his stomach. 

“I never thought I’d see the day, Thomas Jefferson gets ‘white girl wasted’“ 


Hamilton laughed bitterly at him, but he stood there, back hunched over uncomfortably as he held Thomas’s hair in a ponytail with his hands. His hair felt amazing, he didn’t think such a coiled and wired textured curl could feel so soft at the same time. He tried not to think of Thomas’s great hair mainly because Thomas had too many ‘great’ things about him that made it hard for Alex to form a decent case against him most days. 



Thomas turned his head, his eyes were like two black holes, sucking up all the light in the world. Holes that could end worlds, swallow galaxies and beings whole. He felt them suck him in, suck in all the light in his life so all he was staring at were two ,watery blacken pits that led no where…mysteriously…but had so much depth Alexander’s curiosity almost begged him to dive in and find where blackholes led. “Thank you” he spoke softly, his sweat drenched face was so soft and unhinged he seemed so …feeble. 

For a moment Alexander felt the urge to pee and the buzz of booze leave him. He was wide awake and somewhat at a loss for words. “Uh…your welcome…Lemme…get …uh Madison or something.” 

“No…just….stay here for a minute, I’ll be fine…” 

So he stayed. 

Peggy peeked into the bathroom and chuckled to herself, snapping a picture for her snapchat. “I smell a love story~ or a really shitty night.” 

Cinderella (Sherlock Imagine)

Title: Cinderella

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 2250

Request: @supers16 Would you be open to writing an Sherlock x reader? I was toying around with a Cinderella type thing where John drags Sherlock to a masked ball and a Cinderella plot plays out?

A/N: This is the first of 2 parts so let me know if you want me to add you to the tag list so you’ll be notified when it comes out! (Update: Part 2 can be found here!) 


(Shameless plug for my fic Hello Detective, but here’s a link to Chapter 1 if you haven’t started it yet!)

Enjoy! Requests are open but they will take time!

“Lestrade! Where is it?” Sherlock yelled, approaching Lestrade at the home of the latest crime scene.

“I haven’t had a decent case in a month, I hope this is a good one.” He said, walking beside him up the stairs to where he presumed the body was.

“Well, about that…” Lestrade began, cautiously.

“What?” Sherlock stopped, a serious tone to his voice.

“Well, we’ve already solved it…” Lestrade said and Sherlock laughed, then he realized Lestrade was being serious.

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. How the hell could you have solved it? Your text said you’ve never seen anything like this.” Sherlock argued in disbelief.

“Yes, well we hadn’t but I just hired this new detective from Sheffield and they solved it.” He explained as they arrived at the scene of the crime, detectives and forensics milling around.

“Well who the hell is he?” Sherlock asked rudely.

“She.” You corrected, now standing in front of the two. Looking the man up and down, your hands resting on your hips.

“Sherlock Holmes, this is our newest Sergeant, (Y/N) (L/N).” You shook his hand but you could tell he was angry and maybe slightly jealous.

“Nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you. Sorry to have wasted your time, I don’t think you’ll be needed here.” You explained, he looked nothing like you pictured him. He was taller, and thinner, with better hair and brighter eyes. Actually he was pretty attractive.

“Is that so? And you’re confident that your conclusion is correct?” He questioned. Ok, attractive, and an asshole.

“Always.” You answered back with the same snap he had given you.

“I see, then you wouldn’t mind walking me through it, just to make sure?” He spoke as if he couldn’t wait to prove you wrong.

“Not at all. Tim Leng, yoga teacher, was found by his flatmate Scott Bevan in the bath, though he didn’t drown.” You pointed to the bath as you walked into the small room, Sherlock following you.

“No? Then what was the cause of death?” Sherlock asked, squinting around the scene.

“Asphyxiation, and the door was locked. He enjoyed long baths, and lighting a few dozen tealights. When we arrived there a damp patch here in front of the door to the balcony. Out there there were a few towels hanging on the dryer.” You explained, pointing to different objects around the room as you talked. You turned and found Sherlock to be much closer to you than you expected.

“Your conclusion?” He asked, as if he was testing you. You gulped nervously before continuing in the most confident voice you could muster.

“It’s a small bathroom with no ventilation. Wet towels are taped around the door frame from the outside - there’s a tiny bit of tape still here. The flames from the candles use up all the air and he slowly suffocates. Just like falling asleep. The wet towels are removed and the murderer contacts the police because he thinks he’s cleverer than us and wants to show off a bit. Which I’m sure you can understand.” You stated, adding what you thought was a clever quip at the end.

“So it was the flatmate, Bevan.” He asked and you nodded, he turned around and puffed angrily.

“Well?” Lestrade asked, waiting to see if his new Sergeant really was as clever as Sherlock.

“She’s right.” Sherlock said, disappointed.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t need your approval.” You smiled, a confident air about you now.

“You’re very sure of yourself, some might call it arrogant.” Sherlock turned back to you, stepping towards you.

“A term you’re used to hearing I’m sure.” You retorted, stepping towards him, ready to go.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, offended.

“You heard me.” You stood your ground.

“You think because you’ve solved one murder, suddenly you’re as good as me?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer, trying to intimidate you.

“This isn’t my first murder and I’ve always been as good as you. You’re just threatened because suddenly you’re not the only logical one in the room. I hope it doesn’t bruise your ego too much.” You spoke walking past him, and he nearly growled.

“I don’t like her.” Sherlock muttered after you had left.

“You sure that feeling isn’t admiration?” Lestrade smirked.

“I think loathing is more like it.” Sherlock said.

“Jealousy maybe?” Lestrade laughed. “Sherlock’s finally met his match.”

“Stop.” Sherlock urged.

“But seriously Sherlock, she’s good and fits in here. We need her, please don’t scare her off.” Lestrade said, a serious tone returning to his voice.

“Trust me, I’ll be avoiding her as much as possible.” He said, following Lestrade back down the stairs of the flat.

“Don’t speak too soon, you two would make a great team. If your true goal is helping people and not showing off, that is.” Lestrade said, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Once in the cab Sherlock texted John, letting him know that his plans had changed and now he could in fact babysit Rosie for the night while John and Mary have dinner.

“Thanks for taking care of Rosie, mate. Sorry about your case.” John said when he came to pick up Rosie around 11:00.

“Ugh, there will be other cases, I’ll just have to beat her to it.” Sherlock sunk into his chair, steepling his fingers and resting them on his lips.

“So she’s good? Like you?” Mary asked, his eyes were closed but he knew she donned a smirk.

“No one’s like me… but yes she’s good. Annoyingly so.” John laughed and shared a look with Mary.

“What’s this?” Mary asked, picking up a fancy looking invitation from his desk. Sherlock’s eyes popped open to see what she was inquiring about.

“Nothing. Mycroft has to attend one of those gala events and wants me to suffer as his plus one.” Sherlock waved it off.

“You’re going right?” John asked, authoritatively.  

“Absolutely not! Why would I, there will be people there.” Sherlock whinned.

“You should go! Get out of the house, you need it.” Mary urged him.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

“Because then you can embarrass Mycroft in front of all his colleagues or whatever you two do to get ahead in your little childish feud. I don’t know mate, but you need to get out of the house. Before you resort to old habits.” John scolded.

“Who knows, you might even meet someone.” Mary added, trying to be positive.

“Oh, Christ. If I go will you two stop!” Sherlock shouted, oh how he craved a cigarette right now.

“Yes.” They both agreed.

“Fine! Now go, go.” He shooed them out the door.

“Bye, Sherlock!” Mary said gleefully, waving with one hand, Rosie in the other.

Standing in front a mirror in Mycroft’s study Sherlock straightened the bow tie he was made to wear. He picked up his porcelain mask that covered half of his face, and was surprisingly light weight.

“Now remember tonight I need you to be civil, dance with everyone, don’t embarrass me.” Mycroft instructed once they had arrived at Buckingham Palace. Sherlock rolled his eyes and left to circle the room.

His eyes landed on you almost immediately. You were smiling and chatting with Prince Harry as he handed you a drink. You were beautiful and excited him, a mysterious air about you. He saw Harry laughing and you smirked. You patted his arm gently as you left him to speak to someone else. It was like his attention was dragged to you and he couldn’t pull it away.

Sherlock tried to listen to Mycroft and mindlessly danced with women he had no intention of knowing, his eyes still focused on you. Trying to form an opinion of you. He couldn’t tell if you were a golddigger, genuine, or a complete fraud. He was curious and had to know.

“Care to dance.” He approached you, his request coming off very placid and stiff.

“Don’t you seem enthused.” You said sarcastically, smirking, accepting anyway and taking his hand.

“Apparently it’s my duty to dance with everyone here tonight.” Sherlock informed you, you could feel his eyes rolling.

“Says who?” You asked, genuinely.

“My brother.” He answered and you laughed.

“Screw him. Do what you want.” You told him, and he was taken aback.

“Well you’re proving to be a much more interesting partner than I anticipated.” He let slip.

“I think there was a compliment in there somewhere.” You smirked.

“You know, you’re actually not a bad dancer.” He observed, glancing down at your feet.

“I’d say the same, but…” You joked and he looked offended.

“I’m kidding!” You patted his chest playfully, “Seriously though, I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

“Well don’t tell anyone but I actually do love to dance.” He confessed.  

“Your secrets safe with me.” You smiled earnestly.

“You look familiar, have we met?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

”I’m not sure you’re supposed to ask that at a masked gala.” You smiled sincerely, the air of mystery around you growing thicker and exciting your partner more. “I love your mask by the way, it’s very Phantom of the Opera.”

“Well it wasn’t my pick but thank you, your’s is quite nice as well.” He smiled, admiring it.

“Thank you, though it wasn’t my pick either.” You smiled.

“No? Then who’s?” He asked curiously.

“That would be His Royal Highness.” You rolled your eyes.

“You seem to have made quite an impression on Prince Harry, how do you two know each other?” He asked, being nosy.

“We met at school, I used to tutor him. Just between us two, he might not have graduated with the honors he did without my help and his last name.” You said, he laughed.

“Care for a drink?” You asked as the song ended.

“I just hate coming to these things, don’t you?” You asked the man who had followed you to the bar.

“And why’s that?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. He had been eyeing you all night, not knowing who you were but assuming you were the same as everyone else in the room. He was sorely mistaken.

“Spending the whole evening rubbing elbows with the rich and well educated, when in reality they’re probably the daftest people you’ll ever meet.” She smirked to him and he laughed.

“They can’t all be daft, can they?” He returned the smirk.

“Oh they are, would you like me to prove it?” You asked confidently.

“Be my guest.” He motioned forward to the room.

“See the woman dancing with the Prime Minister over there?” You pointed with you finger around your drink. He nodded.

“Her husband is the Minister for Trade,” you pointed to the other side of the room where he stood,”In fact, before marrying him, she dated four different members of Parliament. At the same time. Though not a one found out about the others. And they’re all here tonight. Smart woman? Daft men? You choose, but I favor the latter, I mean just look at her. Now that takes care of six of them in the room, shall I continue? Let’s move to this side of the room. Ah, the Harrison brothers. The youngest is embezzling millions from the family business, but the eldest is sleeping with the youngests wife, so all’s square I suppose. No one else in the family knows about either account, nor suspects a thing. Fifteen people here tonight related to the family: oblivious. And it’s clear as day. I guess you just never know what’s going on right under your nose, do you? Well that takes care of half the room. Believe me yet?”

“Oh, I never doubted you. Actually I feel quite the same. You know a lot of people here.” He observed.

“Everyone knows a lot of people here, their names are in the paper nearly everyday, but they don’t matter.” You said.

“They don’t?” He asked, suspiciously.

“No, you see it’s the ones that you don’t know in the room that really hold the power. Like him,” you pointed to a man near the dessert table, “Whoever he is, he must be important. Not only due to the fact that he’s here, but that he’s not wasting his time kissing ass and sucking up. See the way everyone’s glancing at him, they’re terrified. Isn’t fear the newest form of power?”

“What makes him so vapid?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Hmm, let me go ask. I need to do some research before confirming my hypothesis.” You began to walk away towards the man you were speaking about.

“Which is?” He asked, and you spun as you walked away from him, a smirk on your face, you winked, spun forward and continued walked towards your target.

“Hello.” You greeted with a fake smile.

“Ah, good evening. I don’t believe we’ve met.” He smiled, being fake polite.

“No, I don’t think we have.” You shook his hand.

“Mycroft Holmes, pleased to meet you. I see you’ve met my brother.” He nodded towards your companion at the bar.

“Your brother?” You asked, surprised, turning back to glance at him with a shocked face. That would mean he’s…

“Sherlock Holmes–” He said, and must have continued speaking but you had tuned him out. Your sworn enemy had been the one you’d been eyeing all night, the one you’d danced with and spoken with. The one you’d flirted with and he’d flirted back. You dare say you’ve even started to fall for him.

Part 2

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Quick Review of the True Crime Books I read in 2016 (Part 2)

(Part 1) (Review of books in 2015)

Invisible Darkness by Stephen Williams: This is one of the most unsettling books I’ve read, and I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. Starting with the good, it’s a very complete and detailed account of the relationship between Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka and their crimes. It also offers a good insight into the very controversial legal agreement between Karla and the prosecution, that ended with her serving only ten years despite being an active and willing participant in the rape and murder of three girls. The third act of the book, dealing with this, was one of the better things in the novel, although I wish the actual trial had been covered more in depth. As for the bad… I thought the rape scenes were excessively and unnecesarily detailed, and I felt like the author enjoyed writing those disturbing passages a little too much. His narration is also very uneven, especially in the first part; while I liked his subtle sarcasm while describing the legal proceedings and Karla’s life, he also made some strange time jumps that made it a bit confusing to know when things are happening. There are so many private scenes that he couldn’t have possibly witnessed that he must have made them up, which made me question a little the credibility of the whole book. Finally, his obsession with Karla turns her into a fleshed out, complex character, but the opposite happens with Bernardo, who seems almost a caricature with no real insight. I still feel like I don’t know much about him other than he’s a narcissistic, sociopathic idiot. Bottomline: A good introduction to this case, if you have the stomach for it, but you’ll probably need to complement with other books later (Thank you @adeadlyinnocence for recommending me this book).

Conviction by Juan Martinez: Last year I read Picture Perfect, which is the better book to learn about Jodi Arias and Travis Alexander and how their story ended with her murdering him. This book was an interesting complement because I enjoy the details of trials and this one in particular was a very intense and eventful one. Juan Martinez, the man who prosecuted Arias, describes in detail his investigation and strategy to get a conviction, and he certainly doesn’t pretend to be humble when detailing his role in putting her behind bars. There’s no new information or revelations that I hadn’t seen everywhere else. He’s also extremely biased and portrays her as the worst of the worst, he even talks of her “dark soul” at some point. I have to say, I personally didn’t mind that because I can’t stand Jodi Arias, but if you’re looking for a more objective look into her, you should stay away from this.

True Crime Addict by James Renner: I already wrote about how bad this book about the disappearance of Maura Murray is here, but to summarize: don’t waste your time with this narcissistic, self infolved piece of sleazy reporting disguised as “journalism”. The author is insufferable and seems to think we care about his life while offering nothing new to the actual case of Maura.

Bringing Adam Home by Les Standiford: I can only describe this book as “correct” but is not really very engaging nor memorable, despite covering a very famous and horrible case. The kidnapping and murder of Adam Walsh in 1981 and the many years it took to be solved was one that shook the United States and started many changes. I feel like this book doesn’t quite manage to portray those changes, mostly because it decides to look away from Adam’s parents and their struggle and instead it focus on the story of the detective that eventually gave sufficient evidence for police to close the case naming Ottis Toole as the killer. Toole’s story is also described in some chapters but again, it seems to only give a superficial portrayal of him.

Imperfect Justice by Jeff Ashton: This book was written by one of the prosecutors in the Casey Anthony trial, so it’s important to keep in mind we are seeing only one side of the story, and he certainly doesn’t hold back in showing her as the most manipulative and lying person on Earth. That being said, it’s really hard to see how this woman was found not guilty. Ashton explains all the evidence they had in detail and it’s very compelling, and tells about all the things going on behind the scenes. He also can’t hide his contempt for the defense lawyer (he openly admits he dislikes him) and for the jury too, whom he clearly blames for the ultimate decision of the trial. My only issue with this book is that I didn’t see much introspection or real analysis into why they lost the case.

Perfect Murder, Perfect Town by Lawrence Schiller: It’s so hard to find an unbiased analysis of JonBenet Ramsey’s murder, because so many people who’ve written about it have been “part of the investigation”, which makes it a big no no for me because we know that investigation was far from stellar, for many reasons that aren’t just the fault of the police. This book is hardly perfect (see what I did there?) but it’s a decent start to the case, because it details the investigation and the many inside shenanigans, the Ramsey’s version, the complicated dealings with the prosecution’s office and why they refused to charge the Ramsey’s, and also how the press covered the case. It doesn’t really give much perspective on other potential suspects and the title is misleading, since it suggests it will explore more the context of Boulder, the town where the murder happened, but I didn’t see much of that. I’d say this is an okay book to understand why this case went so wrong, but I don’t think it gives one convincing theory about what really happened.

Devil in the Darkness by JT Hunter: Israel Keyes is one of the most chilling and intriguing serial killers in recent times, not to mention there’s still a lot of mystery around him, so it’s a bit surprising he hasn’t been more deeply covered by other authors. This book is a decent attempt at it, and gives a good introduction into what kind of person he was before he started his crimes; not so much after. Because there are a lot of unconfirmed things in his story, including his victims, the book mostly dedicates time to his most infamous murder, the one of Samantha Koenig. The narration jumps back and forth between the time around that crime and Keyes’ past, with a lot of attention put into his relationship with the mother of his daughter, probably because she seemed to be one of the few people involved willing to talk to the author. I found this book a bit hard to follow at times, but I’d still recommend it if you’re interested in true crime.

The Cases that Haunt Us by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker: As you probably know, John Douglas is the guy that pretty much built the department of behavior analysis in the FBI and is one of the pioneers in profiling criminals. He makes sure to tell you that a hundred times in this book, because he can never flatter himself enough, although I get that the talk of his past experiences is important here to validate his opinions. This book covers famous unsolved or solved but controversial cases through America’s history (plus Jack the Ripper because who can resist) and in each one Douglas gives his point of view of the profile of the suspects, and whether or not they fit with the actual murderer. Lizzie Borden, the kidnapping of the Lindberg Baby, the Boston Strangler and the Black Dahlia are among the cases covered. I found his views in the JonBenet’s case particularly interesting because he got to be involved personally in it, and he got a lot of criticisim because he thought the Ramseys were innocent (and I have to say, strictly from a profiling point of view, I agree with his assessment). The book can get exhausting because the writing is very academical and not very fluid, but it’s also a good learning experience if you like investigations.

So this beautiful thing arrived this morning and I still can’t quite believe I found it online for ten euros because DO YOU KNOW RARE IT IS 😻

anonymous asked:

So Color Justice is interesting to read, but I'm sometimes confused by the terms of the role-playing--on stuff like credit auctions I can believe Liani is advocating the same things Kelsey would endorse for Amenta, but I doubt the same is true about the attitude towards reds. How do you decide when to keep your Earth values and when to adopt Amentan ones, since Liani is already a progressive Amentan rather than a typical one?

So, to the extent Liani is a self-insert, she’s ‘what if someone with my general intuitions and strengths and shortcomings was raised in this context’ rather than ‘what if actual Earth-raised me was transplanted there’. And, sure, it’s flattering to think I’d figure out all of ethics on my own, but I wouldn’t (she’s also wrong about cause prioritization, and there’s a decent case she’s wrong to oppose treating financial crimes as seriously as murder) and I try to have her get things wrong in directions I think I’m susceptible to getting things wrong (the opposition to violent direct action sure doesn’t look as compelling with a literal genocide impending, does it? and I can tell myself that obviously I’d support it when it was actually helpful, but at least in this context I think it’s more useful to ask ‘what would it look like to believe violent direct action was bad for the reasons I really do believe it, and be wrong?”)

The other thing is that I’m not actually aiming for a perfect representation of who I think I’d be in Amenta, so much as someone who is a fully-realized product of Amenta and interacts usefully with the rest of the Amenta activist community, and the rest of the Amenta activist community is pro-red to a degree that is absurd for the setting - not that I blame them, “totally indifferent about ongoing atrocities” is anywhere between ‘depressing’ and ‘psychologically untenable’ for most people to portray - so I’m choosing some opinions and stances to balance people out and create debate.

(I don’t, in the absence of data, have much idea which kind of coercive population controls are the least horrible; the only Liani-opinions I endorse without reservations are that hereditary ruling classes with hella incentive to steal money from the countries they run are bad.)



anonymous asked:

Coriander1975, I wish you would write a fic where gaster absolutely smothers the reader in affection. Like the reader is sick and not admitting it but gaster completely sees through the bullshit and babies them mercilessly. Like the most tooth rottingly fluffy sickfic fluff you can think of

Luckily for you, revoltingly sweet fluff is my specialty! But since you know my ao3 name you probably knew that already


It started with a headache. Nothing awful, just a bit of tension in your skull that served as a minor distraction from your work. You brushed it off, even when it began to worsen into a dull, steady throbbing that made your vision go blurry. Soon enough you found yourself borrowing some advil from the lab medicine cabinet. Next came the fatigue, body aches, and telltale wheezing that all pointed to one terrible outcome: you were getting sick.

But you couldn’t acknowledge this, because then you’d get sent home early, and then Gaster would know. And if Gaster knew, you wouldn’t get anything done for days. Maybe even weeks. The last time you caught a cold, he nearly rushed you to the emergency room out of fear for your life. It’d taken three Wikipedia articles and a call from your doctor to convince him that no, the common cold was not fatal to humans in all but the most extreme cases. This felt like a different illness, though, possibly the flu. He wouldn’t let that one slide so easily.

So you toughed it out, ignoring your shaky hands and dizzy spells, as well as your coworkers’ concerned- and in some cases, disgusted- glances. The latter was likely because your nose had started dripping, and of course the lab didn’t have any tissues on hand. Grimacing, you used your sleeve as a temporary handkerchief, resolving to throw the shirt in the wash the moment you got home.

The thought totally slipped your mind when you finally stumbled through your front door. The house was large, maybe too large for two people and their cats, yet cozy. It smelled of lavender air freshener, dusty old books, and the cologne Gaster wore on special occasions.

This is something you recalled from memory alone, as your head and sinuses felt like they were stuffed with cotton. The congestion forced you to take shallow breaths while you trudged to the kitchen for a glass of water. In a daze, it took you a solid ten seconds to notice that eight feet of lanky, flour stained monster was now blocking your path. His hands fluttered anxiously about your shoulders, not quite touching but ready to offer support as wide, violet eyes fixed themselves on your [e/c] ones. “_____? Sweetheart, what happened? You don’t look well.“

“’M fine,” you muttered, shoving past him towards the sink. You pulled a glass down from the cupboard only to drop it on the floor. “Shit.”

Gaster stilled your hand before it could touch the broken glass. His fingers kept a tight, yet not crushing, hold on your wrist, keeping you a safe distance away while his summoned hands picked up the mess. He mumbled your name again, sounding so frazzled and afraid that you couldn’t help but give him your full attention. “You’ve taken ill, haven’t you?” he asked mournfully, bending down to press his lips to your forehead. “Goodness, you’re burning up! You must be feeling terrible…”

“I told you, I’m-“ You paused when he tore off his baking apron- a hideously pink, lace trimmed thing embroidered with yellow flowers- and tossed it uncermonsiously on the counter. He then scooped you up effortlessly, pulling your body against his chest before scurrying down the hallway. “Wingdings! I can walk on my own!”

“Hush, love. Save your strength.” A floating hand ghosted cold fingers over your cheek in a gentle, loving gesture before you batted it away.

“I’m sick. Not dying.”

He looked even more stricken at that, if it were possible. “Heavens, I would hope not! You shouldn’t even joke about such morbid things…”

“Sorry. Guess you’d rather be-”

“_____, please do not.”

Dead serious.” You started snickering, which devolved into a coughing fit that left you gasping for breath.

Gaster readjusted his grip to raise your head, trying to keep your airways clear. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and increased his pace. “Not much further now. Just hold on, dearest.”

“Again,” you rasped, “Not dying.”

“You’re certain of that?” He glanced down at you, bundled helplessly in his arms, and his face crumpled into that wide eyed, doleful look that always tugged at your heartstrings. Worry pulled at his lips, deepening the premature wrinkles around his eyes, and suddenly you didn’t have the heart to tease him anymore.

“Okay. Fine. I feel like shit, but it’s nothing serious or damaging. I promise.” When he didn’t look convinced, you let your head flop weakly against his shoulder and sighed. “Please don’t call the hospital this time.”

“Apologies, dear, but I won’t make any promises quite yet.” At last, he reached your shared bedroom. The velvet curtains were drawn, casting the room in a deep burgundy glow and saving you from a light induced headache. More magical hands pulled back the bed’s canopy so Gaster could lay you down and tuck you in snugly. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, hands wringing nervously now that they had nothing to hold. “Should I bring you anything? How do I care for this particular sickness? I-I…I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Your tired brain struggled to juggle all his questions, focusing in on one at a time. “Yes…uh, some water would be nice…and I think I just need to sleep. And yeah, but you’re cute when you ramble.”

Lavender duster his cheeks as he grinned sheepishly in a quick flash of long, sharp fangs, the lopsided lilt of his mouth sending another flutter through your chest that had nothing to do with the sickness. ‘Cute’ didn’t quite cover it. That dorky smile was something you loved and cherished every time you succeeded in bringing it to life. “Ah…I-I will go get you some water,” he stammered, turning on heel and exiting back the way he came. You heard a faint ‘ow’ as he passed through into the hallway. He must have hit his head on the doorframe. Though he had chosen this house specifically for its higher than usual ceilings, the doorways were still built for people of a more human size.

One would think he’d have learned to duck by this point. But Gaster- literal genius, ex-Royal Scientist, brilliant mathematician and inventor- often struggled with simple, mundane issues that involved things like, say, common sense. He could also be forgetful, awkward, and worrisome to a fault. Sometimes he’d accidentally hug you too tightly, squeezing the breath right out of your lungs, or pick you up for impromptu cuddle time like his own personal teddy bear. When denied something he really really wanted, he’d pout like a child, and he’d thrive on sweets and junk food alone if you weren’t around to make him act like a somewhat decent adult. And in cases like these, where you were in some sort of distress, he’d lose all rationale and panic as if the world were coming to a halt.

Because you were his world. You loved him so goddamn much that it hurt.

Within minutes, he returned with not only a glass of water but also an armful of extra blankets from the couch. “Are you cold? You looked cold, so I, ah…” Clearing his throat, he abruptly thrust out and arm to hand you your water. “S-sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” you asked in amusement, accepting the glass and taking a sip. And then many more rapid sips. You were thirstier than you’d thought.

“Just…in general,” Gaster huffed, seemingly frustrated. “I hate when this happens. I never know what to do! Humans are so…fragile.” You shot him a glare and he quickly rephrased, “Er, delicate. Like flowers.”


It was like flipping a switch; you saw his eyes soften as he brought a hand to your cheek. Smooth Gaster Mode had been activated. “And you are the most lovely flower of them all.”

You stared, unconsciously raising an eyebrow. He stared back. His eyes darted away, purple steadily building on his cheeks. The hand at your face curled and started to pull away. “No, no-” You took hold of it and pressed it back into place. “Stay. I just can’t believe you actually say things like that.”

His free hand tugged worriedly at the high collar of his sweater. “It’s, um…that was too ‘corny’, wasn’t it?”

“No, it was just the right amount of corny.” His thumb began brushing softly over your cheek, and you closed your eyes. “You’re cheesy and weird and it’s why I love you.”

He giggled, the sound high and airy compared to his usual rumble of a voice. “Quite a compliment, considering I was a ‘dweeb’ not two days ago.“

“Oh, you’re still a dweeb. A major doofus.” You lightly traced the hole in his palm, delighting in the way his breath hitched and his eyes drifted shut. “My doofus.” Your eyes began to close as well. “My cinnamon roll…”

He let you keep his hand against your face for a while, absently rubbing the dark circles under your eyes as if he could brush them away. It seemed like you’d fallen asleep until out of nowhere, you hissed, releasing him and pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. ”_____? W-what’s wrong?!“

“Headache,” you muttered irritably. “Dunno why, but it just got worse.”

“What should I do? You need medicine, right? I’ll go get you something. And soup! Sick humans need soup.” Frantic, Gaster picked up one of the blanket he’d brought and draped it over you and left once again. You waited until he was out of sight before kicking it off. It had been a sweet gesture, but you were already sweltering. Sweat stained your pillow and turned your hair into a stringy mess. Only a minute later, you were cold again, and begrudgingly tossed the blanket back over your legs.

By the time Gaster returned, holding two mugs and a bottle of pills, the room had started to spin before your eyes. “Might wanna bring a bucket,” you wheezed.

“Whatever for?” he asked, coming to a realization seconds later. “Oh. Ah, I don’t believe we have one. Here-” He gingerly adjusted your pillow to prop you into a sitting position, taking great care not to jostle you too sharply. “You should eat something. And I thought some tea might help.”

You accepted the soup, painkillers, and a few sips of the tea, letting Gaster run his fingers through your damp hair, but the vertigo wouldn’t leave. “Fuck. Everything keeps moving and I’m like 99 percent sure I’m gonna throw up if it doesn’t stop.”

Gaster looked lost. He floundered for a minute until his face lit up in a shy, hesitant smile. “Perhaps if you lie down and, ah…I could…”

“Cuddle me?”

“It m-might not help, b-but I thought- well it seems to make you feel better when- ah-”

You snorted. “C'mere, dork. Actually-” With slow, cautious movements, you lowered yourself onto your side, leaving room in front of you on the mattress. “Okay. Now come here.”

In seconds, he had occupied the vacant space and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin. He blocked out everything, leaving nothing to see but the knitted white threads of his sweater. They were soft beneath your fingers as you traced a pattern down past his throat, over each bony rib and the dip leading down to his abdomen. You focused on the familiar, inhuman shape of his odd body against yours. Rail thin, bony, full of sharp angles and hollows where there should be softness. Your hand reached up to his face and brushed cool, taut skin, the rougher texture of his scars, and you felt more than heard the pleased hum that vibrated through his chest.

The dizziness began to recede; the pain almost entirely gone. “Thanks, Cinny. This is helping.”

Helping both of you, if the enraptured look on his face was anything to go by. He’d needed this as much as you did. “I’m very happy to hear that, my love.”

Growing sleepy, you managed a grunt in reply. He was just warm enough to be comfortable, and his long fingers had started scratching your scalp in that spot he knew you liked. Amethyst eyes remained fixed on your face as you drifted off to sleep. Only once you’d gone still did he exhale from the very bottom of his being, finally relieved. He’d tried his very best not to overreact this time. It had taken immeasurable effort to stay calm, to listen to your directions and trust that you’d be okay.

And you were. Here you lay, cozy and safe, but still pale enough for concern. He was going to pamper the heck out of you in the days to come.

And for the rest of your life, if you’d let him.