all the feels for this trailer




When imagining a story: rich backgrounds with a meaningful, poignant history , ambient noise, dramatic angles at important moments, the kind of dialogue people put on black and white pictures, several complicated emotions expressed in perfect sync, characters dressed in clothing that subtly reflects their complex inner lives, looks like the trailer for the best movie ever.

Actual writing: Vague human shapes only distinguishable by hair/eye color  @ a room and someone is having A Feeling™ and maybe they have a shirt????? Seventeen different words for blue have already been used. Someone is raising their eyebrows at A Dialogue™(x32). There are too many adverbs, excessive comma usage to hide your sins 

– you are crying, you’ve eaten all the food and something may be on fire 

i remember the first time i saw a trailer for Split in the movie theaters. i was with family and the theater was full and i’d been mildly enjoying the trailers and perked up a bit when the tell-tale ominous music of a horror movie trailer started, because i love good thrillers.

except then it was frame after frame after frame of a person with dissociative identity disorder being portrayed as everyone’s boogey man, the shrieks of the little girl protagonists as he appeared wearing different clothes and a different voice, people in the theater jumping and giggling every time they showed the man doing something horrific. and i felt frozen in my seat.

my sister leaned over to me when it was finished and said “i want to see that” with a look on her face like it was the greatest trailer she’d ever seen.

like it wasn’t a punch to my gut everytime i heard someone whisper “psycho” or “crazy” and other terrible things. like in that moment i didn’t feel like running away from all these people, like i didn’t feel unsafe and filthy. because these people getting their thrills from a demonizing potrayal of a mental illness.

and the thing is, it matters.

because if i bring it up people will say “oh but it’s not really mental illness, like depression or something. he was just fucking crazy which is totally scary haha”. yeah well, not haha. not haha because DID is a real mental illness but that’s not what it looks like. people with DID aren’t murderers or dangerous. but now, because movies like Split are all people have seen of illnesses like DID, that’s their frame of reference.

the media does it with DID, with schizophrenia, with every single personality disorder, with bipolar, with everything else that is “scary”. raising awareness for depression and anxiety is important, they’re valid and serious illnesses. but hardly anyone tries to protect people with “scary” disorders. this halloween when costumes of the main character crop up, people will giggle and buy it because it’s so creepy and cool.

i’m reminded that, although i don’t have DID, much of my mental illness is defined by symptoms that are used in other horror movies. that people who have “scary” disorders are the entertainment in everyone else’s world. and for people who do have DID, that movie is absolutely devastating.

so if you buy a ticket to see Split, please know that’s it’s not harmless entertainment or a good thrill. it’s fucking ableism and you’re being ableist if you go see it.

(please reblog, neurotypical or not)

The Last Of Us Part II Panel

For anyone who can’t or doesn’t want to watch the panel, here’s the stuff they talk about:

  • Neil says the theme of the game is hate
  • We’re playing as Ellie in the game
  • Ashley says she missed playing Ellie but didn’t realize just how much until they started shooting the trailer
  • Troy and Ashley say they’ve had to lie so much the past two years
  • Ellie is 19 now
  • Neil says that he knows people are worried about this spoiling the first game and all that and says they all feel the same but that nobody loves the characters more than they do and that they wouldn’t do it unless they felt the idea was right
  • Neil says he played with the idea of new characters but it never felt right because TLOU is about Joel and Ellie
  • Asks fans to put their trust in them because “we’re gonna do right by you”
  • Troy says Joel is the character he misses the most and finds himself thinking about the most. He also talks about how he almost didn’t audition for Joel.
  • Neil sent Ashley the trailer scene two years ago and the actual trailer was shot a year and a half ago
  • They’re gonna hold off on giving a release date until they’re certain about it
  • Gustavo Santaolalla is returning!!
  • Neil says that Joel and Ellie are the heart of TLOU and he can’t see it without them

hey guys, I want to talk about an upcoming movie called Split.

it’s not coming out until 2017, but I feel it’s important to discuss it anyway, because its first trailer just came out…and frankly, I’m horrified.

here’s the synopsis of the movie: “When a young man with 23 different personalities is compelled to abduct three young girls, he strives to survive as the final and most dangerous one of all tries to take full control.”

….because there weren’t enough movies/shows out there demonizing people with DID as it is, of course.

a brief explanation of what dissociative identity disorder, or DID, is: it’s multiple personalities, formed by trauma, sharing one body.

very, very few of those personalities are aggressive, and I’ve never actually encountered any that were outright dangerous–and yet every movie and show that involves us makes us out to be killers and kidnappers.

Criminal Minds has had two episodes involving people with DID, and in one the man with DID kidnapped a federal agent and tortured him, on top of being a serial killer; the other man with DID was just a regular old serial killer. even a show that’s usually quite good about not demonizing mentally ill people demonizes us.

and now there’s this. a horror film about a person with DID, who presumably went through some serious trauma to get it, and how he’s a kidnapper and probably also a killer.

here’s the thing, though: we aren’t dangerous. we aren’t bad people. we aren’t killers and kidnappers fighting to stop our alters/systemmates from acting out. people with dissociative identity disorder are just typical groups of people who happen to all share a body! we aren’t dangerous to anyone; if anything, most of us tend to be more dangerous to ourselves than anyone else, thanks to self-destructive systemmates who want to hurt the body or other system members. but the bottom line is: we aren’t out to hurt anyone and we aren’t dangerous. the fact that every single movie and episode about us makes us out to be violent killers and kidnappers is appalling and horrendous and screams stigma.

DID has a serious stigma around it. and movies like this are only serving to add to that stigma, to demonize us more, to make more people afraid of us.

I refuse to stand for it.

please, if you can–boycott this movie. tell them you won’t stand for the demonization of your fellow mentally ill people anymore. tell them that we are not their props or toys to play with and create stigma against. tell them that just because it doesn’t affect them doesn’t mean it’s all right to hurt others with their bullshit. listen to systems and people with DID and OSDD who talk about this movie and how it’s bad, and don’t speak over them, but work with us to try and change things so this sort of thing is frowned upon and doesn’t happen so much. please.


my sons all aged up… theyre in their late 20s/early 30s here i guess?? and i feel like jonas would be a marine biologist when he’s older maybe… and mitch is like…in and out of trouble doing stupid illegal shit to make money without jo finding out about it. he’s a keeper

My Eurus/Sherrinford Theory

Eurus begins to show all the signs of a psychopath/serial killer as a child.

Sherlock finds her torturing his dog, Redbeard, who dies from his injuries.

Sherlock is so upset that he runs to Mycroft, who tells their parents.

They have Eurus committed to a mental health facility called Sherrinford.

Mycroft feels responsible for her since he told and he takes over checking on her over the years.

Mycroft makes reminders to check in with Sherrinford because Eurus has tried to escape repeatedly and he is afraid she will seek revenge.

Eurus has been in Sherrinford since she was a child so Sherlock doesn’t recognize her in TLD.

Eurus is why Sherlock is so insistent he is a high-functioning sociopath and not a psychopath.

Eurus is why Sherlock freaks out about serial killers. 

Sherlock is so destroyed by his own sister killing his best friend that he swears off all emotional attachment from that point on.


The burning house in The Final Problem trailer is the Holmes’ family home which Eurus set on fire. 

Moriarty’s “posthumous game” plan was helping Eurus escape Sherrinford.

All the people demonising Malec for fighting.. Umm.. Are you crazy?

Couples fight. Magnus is trying to protect Alec from being reckless and putting his life in danger. Alec isn’t thinking straight, his parabatai is in trouble. He is frustrated cause he feels helpless. Also this is literally 30 seconds of one single episode and you know nothing about the whole scene. So calm down ok?

How boring and unrealistic would a couple be if they don’t argue? Haven’t you ever argued with your boyfriends/girlfriends/relatives? 


Requested by @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​: A Misha x reader x Jensen in which the reader is Misha’s girlfriend, but has a thing for Jensen. Jensen returns the feelings, and they surprise the reader by telling her they’ve shared before.

Word Count: 2100ish

Warning: smut, threesome

A/N: Hope y’all enjoy! XOXO

Misha knows.

You tried to ignore it, and since you realized that wasn’t going to help, you’ve just been trying to hide it. But he knows.

You’ve been caught staring at Jensen one too many times, have laughed too loudly at his jokes, have let yourself text him about silly things in the middle of the night, and now Misha knows.

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honestly gotta say that the build up to series 4 in terms of promo pictures and trailers COMBINED with all the tjlc analysis is causing me to literally like. suffocate with anticipation. something huge is coming and we know it and the cast and writers said they’re making history and. i have never been so excited for anything in my life. this is what we’ve been waiting for.

Things I lived for in the sense8 trailer
  • the cluster getting to grips with eachother, interacting more, growing to learn from eachother, depend on eachother and LOVE eachother
  • the dramatic storyline Will is obviously gonna go through
  • when he falls after hearing Whispers *audible gasp*
  • various sensates hugging other various sensates 
  • lots o’ hugs 
  • THEM ALL doing tai-chi 
  • Riley smiling
  • Kala being a total sweetheart
  • Hernando in a turtleneck sweater (he looks FOINE)
  • Lito saying “I’m sorry” but who to?
  • The church scene whihc looks like it’s going to be amazing
  • The last scene in the trailer of them all helping Wolfie
  • just seeing their faces again <3

all of us: we need new content, our crops are dying or are already dead, our bodies are ready for season 4 no matter who the main is, we’re saying that we’ve got the feeling that the trailer comes out tomorrow on a daily basis and are making up whole new storylines for characters we’ve got like one photo of

julie: seen at 21:21


@hi-im-secretly-satan aaaand here you go. I‘m back to slowly catching up with my request pile :)  the last few days were mostly filled with being tired n achy n nothing good came out of that. But I’ve a good feeling about today~

I know that Noct is technically like 3cm taller than Prompto but while playing the game I always had the feeling that Noct was the smallest of them all n that even prompto was taller than him. so this reflects in this pic as well. Fight me for it! :/

also, for some reason, whenever I think of dark!noct n MT!Prompto I cannot NOT show prompto being ;^;  .  as much I love this alternative path idea, I am convinced to my core that in a scneario where both are dark (n not just prompto) prompto would always have this tiny core of light within him. n while he remains at noctis’ side n follows his biddings, he’d have theses quite frequent sad expressions that reflect his burried old self that continues to mourn Noctis’ destiny n what he was forced to become. 

it’s quite tragic really when you think about it, being sad despite having noct all to himself for pretty much (dark) eternity

anonymous asked:

Aliens arriving on earth and everyone just taking out their smartphones, one group commenting the awesome cosplay and at least a dozen being absolutely certain they 've seen the trailer for that movie already....

This sounds like a great movie. It takes place at at a big comic convention. There is a subplot where one of the aliens feels compelled to seek out every single person with a FREE HUGS sign. A different alien will develop a crush on all thirty-five Deadpool cosplayers and assume they are different physical aspects of one being.

driving all nature

for my bae @totheverybestoftimesjohn <3 (also, sorry)

The moon shines like a spotlight on the ripples. The end of the game. The final act.

John knows what’s coming. He’s already shivering.

He clutches at the jagged rock wall. He knows it’s useless. It’s fifty feet high, and his hands scrabble at the sharp pebbles, slashing feeling into his frozen skin. The water’s up to his waist, and only rising.

John looks up, but the moonlight blinds him. He thinks he hears a shout, maybe a gunshot, but the well makes sound echo into something indiscriminate. Sherlock’s up there somewhere, but he can’t see him.

He can hear him though.

He can still hear him.

“I love you.”

Those three words. That’s it. Three words, not even spoken to him but to his reflection, though there was no doubt in John’s mind who they were for. Three words he’d spent days and nights imagining in that voice, and still been unprepared. Still couldn’t have imagined how he would breathe them out like the most blessed of prayers and the most sacred of confessions.

“I love you.”

Everything after that had been a blur – a gunshot, a shattering of glass, a frantic attempt at escape scrambling over the rocks, and before he knew it a searing blow to the back of his skull, then darkness. Then the water, and the moon.

It’s up to his chest now, sparkling silver, and John can feel his breath coming in deep sharp blasts, trying to push out his stone-cold lungs.

“Oh God,” escapes from his lips of its own free will. “Oh God, oh God oh God oh God…”

His hand shakes on the rock.

He’s going to die here.

The realization doesn’t make his heart pound, or scream at him out of his rattling mind. It just makes the water cut deeper under his skin, a tiny little knives of ice burrowing into his every pore and all remaining air squeezing itself from him.


He’d tried to shout, but the stone barely echoes back the whisper that comes out of him. His face is wet now too – warmer though, tears – and his throat is closing up.

The patterns of moonlight on the water flicker and waver as they rise up to his shoulders. John hates the way his eyes are drawn to them, the way they morph themselves into hearth fires and gentle warmth, the way the ripples pattern out the familiar walls of Baker Street, the way the swish and slosh of the rising tide creeps into John’s ears as soft violin strings and a low, reverent whisper, three words, over and over and over again…

An ear-splitting crack shoots its way down the well, and John raises his eyes to the heavens.


He’s not even sure if he makes any sound.

The water’s up to his neck.

Two cups of tea melt away from the sitting room table.

Up to his chin.

The sun streaming in through the windows switches off.

John takes a deep breath.

The smiling blue eyes vanish into the darkness.

The water paralyzes John. It’s so cold. His skin sings with a thousand needles of pain but he has to fight through it, he has to try, he has to stay afloat ….

“I love you.”

He pushes himself off the ground, arms flailing for air.

He can’t reach it.

“I love you.”

Panic seizes him at last, making him scream.

“I love you.”

John’s lungs fill with water.

Sherlock drops his gun and his breath explodes out of him.

That’s it. It’s over. Moriarty’s body tumbled off the cliff, the ghost of a laugh still on his upturned lips. Again. Sherlock didn’t stay to see it fall.

Moriarty gone, Smith gone, the woman known as Mary Morstan gone. Sherlock spares no thought for any of them


They’d hit him over the head, one of his men, the burly one, and Sherlock only just had time to see him fall before he was wrenched back to Moriarty, hadn’t seen what they’d done with him –

“John!” He screams again into the dark. He climbs over the rocks, and the moon answers only with a sickening white light.

Sherlock’s eyes dart over the landscape, shadows, all shadows, no light, no sound, just the dim ripple of waves reflecting the silence –

Ripples. Moonlight. The well.


He stumbles on his way to the edge of it, tearing the knees of his trousers and letting the rocks bite into his palms as he clutches the edge, and he can barely see past the blinding mirror of moonlight but the water is spilling calmly over the sides and there’s a shock of ghostly pale among the blackness that no waves could ever obscure.

Oh God, no.

In an instant Sherlock is tearing off his coat and jacket and diving in headfirst.

The cold knocks all sense of direction from him for a moment and his mind whirls to remember which way John was – he can’t see anything, can’t hear, can only feel, and that’s fading fast. His heart is still in his chest. Maybe its stopped. Sherlock doesn’t care. He tears and claws at the water until his hands land on fabric, on skin, and then he’s wrapping his arms around a strong chest and hauling up, up, up.

He’s heavy. Waterlogged. Limp. Sherlock is dimly surprised at his own strength for a split second. His head breaks the surface and he sucks in air and with every ounce of anything left in him he pushes John up onto the rocks and crawls up after him.


He cups John’s face in his hand. Skin too cold.


Lips blue. Not breathing.


And now Sherlock’s heart explodes in panic.

He strips John’s jacket open and presses down on his chest, hard.

“Come on, John…”

He counts the compressions with each of his own gasping breaths. One, two, three, up to thirty, and John’s still not breathing.

“No, no, John, no no no no no no…”

Sherlock touches his lips to John’s for the first time.

“Please, John, please…” he whimpers.

Chest compressions again, thirty beats, with steady hands, and another breath into his lungs that feels like a dagger in Sherlock’s heart because this is all wrong, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it was supposed when they were safe, when they were finally home, when they were warm and together and John had had a chance to say it back…

“John, John, no, don’t do this, please don’t do this, please please oh God please…”

He can’t feel the crack in his voice or the tears dripping down onto John’s already-soaked skin, but he can feel the chill creeping up in his throat, ready to strangle him.

“Don’t go,” he whispers between John’s lips. “Please, don’t go, don’t leave me here.” His hands pound frantically on John’s chest. He can’t feel his heartbeat. “Please don’t die, please please don’t die, I love you, I love you, John, I love you, I love you, don’t go, please don’t go, I love you…”

Sherlock’s hands cradle John’s face, and he bends to kiss him properly.

“I love you.”

Three words, bursting in a sob from his frail lungs into John’s.

Suddenly he seizes under Sherlock’s hands. Spine arching. Pale skin stretching and furrowing.

Water splashes Sherlock’s lips.

John coughs and shudders, and Sherlock breaks himself out of his frozen shock and pulls him to roll over. He gasps and moans, nearly retches, empties his lungs, and breathes.

Tears spill afresh from Sherlock’s eyes.

“John?” he barely gasps, a hand on his shaking shoulders.

John convulses once more, then steadies, pulling in deep, uneven breaths.

“This isn’t…” John wheezes, and his hands are still trembling, but his eyes find Sherlock’s in the darkness, and somehow they still manage to shine. “This isn’t how I imagined you kissing me.”

And there’s a joy in his half-drowned face that makes Sherlock stop shivering as a half-laugh, half-sob bursts from his throat.

He can’t tell who moves first, because all that matters is that the next moment he’s holding John against his chest, gripping desperately at his soaked jacket as John buries his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers again, because he’s said it now and he’s said it finally and he never wants to stop. “I’ve always loved you.”

It’s all he can hear, whispered back to him against his trembling lips, a chorus of I love you I love you I love you as John kisses him like he was always meant to.  

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Hey Kylux (and other ships) peeps

I know a couple of blogs are busy trying to make you feel bad these days.

If you receive intimidating asks or posts are made about you and/or the things you like (vaguely or not), trying to guilt you into not creating anymore, don’t forget there are people who will be there for you and support you.

I’m tired of hate being sent or directed to bottom/top blogs, tired of hate sent to AU makers, to NSFW blogs, to specific kinks events etc…

I’m actually extremely proud to see that the fandom is still thriving almost a year on, that despite our different interests we manage to cohabit and create together. Imagine where we will be by this time next year, when ep.8 is about to drop and we will have gone crazy over the trailers all summer.

So, if you want to talk, if you feel like someone is trying to silence you, if you’re afraid to post your creations, I’m here. I’m also reactivating anon asks @susuej if you’re more comfortable taking about something on anon. Or if you just need to get something off your chest and see it published on that blog and in the ship tag without commentary. 

And I’m pretty sure the people in the notes or comments of this post will be here for you too.

So the Doctor Strange trailer is out.

I’ve been having a lot of conflicted feelings.  It’s definitely one of those situations where, yes, the original Strange was white!  But to think about what they could have done with this character…

So imagine.  An Asian med student. A Chinese guy getting mocked for being one of a thousand Chinese students, for thinking he’s going to be special. A Filipino guy getting laughed at and told to scrub the floors because that’s all he’s good for, doesn’t he know that he’d have to struggle to make nurse?  An Indian guy, keeping his head down and getting the work done while people make Apu accents at him. Imagine the work he puts into forcing his ethnicity behind him.  He stops speaking Mandarin at home. He starts throwing his mama’s pancit in the trash when she makes him take leftovers, instead of saving it for later.  He learns to love hamburgers, ignoring his great-grandma’s ghost in the back of his head and her horror at him consuming beef.

He finishes med school, gets his residencies behind him, and he was right all along– he is astoundingly skilled. A marvel.  Hopeless patients thrive under his hands.  But is he going to be recognized for that? Well, I mean, he’s Asian. He’s not special, they’re just meticulous like that. So the recognition comes, sure, but people make jokes, even his friends, about Surgeon Level: Asian.  And the ego and the anger build up, like nacre on a pearl, layer after layer of contempt as he gets better and better at his skills.  Contempt for the people around him. Contempt for the people who made him. Contempt for the people he saves. Contempt, all of it, for himself, for that nineteen-year-old pitching his mama’s pancit in the garbage before going to bed.

And then the accident happens.  And he’s an out-of-work Asian dude. No more the protection of his title, and everyday shit–people pulling their eyes at him or making small dick jokes, people doing racist accents and calling him any of a thousand slurs–hurt a lot more when he can’t say I’m a doctor. I’m above them. Because all the work he did, he’s never going to escape the color of his skin.

And a relative, his mom, his auntie, seeing the darkness growing deeper and deeper in him, says “Stephen. You need to go home for a while and get away from this. Rest.”  And he thinks about “home.”  He’s second or third generation American, this is his home, but the children of immigrants all know the longing for a place where we fit. Where our eyes aren’t out of place and our skin isn’t remarked upon, where we never have to hear “Where are you from?”  He thinks about being five years old, his hand–broken now, aching–small in his mother’s as she walked him down a bright street.   He smells adobo at random, out of nowhere, another ghost calling to him. He thinks about when things were simpler, and despite his contempt for himself, for his mother’s people and his roots, he books a plane ticket.

And the plane is full of people speaking the language he’s stopped speaking to his mother, the language he was never really steady in anyway.  And something about it is comforting, and that scares him.  Everything he worked so  hard to be, all in threads at the sound of the young mother five rows ahead of him singing softly in Tagalog to her little boy.

He’s been so angry and so sick  in himself for the months since the accident that relaxing feels wrong. But the air here smells right–the second he steps off the plane it’s like he fills up a pair of lungs that have been gasping for a decade. How stressful it is, to feel better and hate yourself for feeling better.  

He walks the roads his mama took him on thirty years ago, and they’re busier than they were, the cars are louder, but the sameness of it all is dizzying. He checks the paper his mother gave him, the names and the addresses, and loathing himself he goes to an acupuncturist, to a reiki master, to practitioner after practitioner, and he hates them. I’m a doctor,  I’m a doctor, these people are all quacks and fucking idiots. he thinks, but his heart is in rags and his hands are twisted on each other like the nightmares of an arthritic, and so he goes.

Imagine, when he finally finds the Ancient One. Imagine that the Ancient One has his great-grandmother’s eyes, that the language the Ancient One speaks is the one Strange learned at his mama’s knee and threw away.  Imagine that the Ancient One–female or male–is dark of skin, wears their traditional clothing as casually as Strange wears a T-shirt, offers Strange a bowl of adobo and the steam rising off of it it smells just like it always did…

Imagine Strange coming full circle, back to his roots, back to the place in himself that he’s ignored and beaten down for all these years. Imagine him looking at the history that belongs to him and claiming it. Imagine him being still, yes, American. But honest to himself. No longer fighting to be white, no longer fighting to play by the rules of white people, recognizing that there’s power where he came from and it belongs to him. Imagine what it it feels like, to have that sudden knowledge opening inside your chest, to have the shame over your dark skin and your narrow wrists and your almond eyes washed away by certainty and confidence and a clean pride that bears no resemblance to the ego of the master surgeon.

But no.  We’re getting fucking Cumberbatch.

And don’t even get me started on Tilda Swinton…