#and doesn't understand

[hannahbarberra162]

Long Forgotten Fairytale, Chapter 2 (Shamrock x reader, soft yandere)

18+ MDNI | on Ao3

The other chapter

TW: canon typical violence, slavery. Here Sham and reader are literal children. There will be NSFW elements later on when they are older.

With every day that passed Shamrock was increasingly pleased and more certain in his decision to not kill his slave girl. It had been about six months and Shamrock had come to expect your presence during his daily life, not remembering what it had been like before there was always someone waiting to fulfill his every whim. He couldn’t believe he had killed so many servants before you when having someone who knew his daily routines was much more convenient. It didn’t hurt that you were a little bit pretty as well - in that raw, unpolished way that slaves sometimes were. You weren’t much to look at but you were better looking than the male slaves he had before, he supposed. 

Wherever he went, you trailed along behind him like a dog and adjusted the smaller matters to his liking. But more than just anticipating his needs, you observed as he excelled in everything he set his mind to. He had even told you which window to watch out of as he sparred his opponents so you’d be able to have the best view of him when he was outside the castle. Shamrock always felt he performed better while he was sure you were watching, something in him desiring you to see him at his best. Your presence in his daily routines was irreplaceable, Shamrock decided. He liked your fastidiousness and attention to detail as you polished his armor, made his bed, and brought him refreshments, but the task he enjoyed you completing most was brushing his long hair.

He enjoyed feeling your fingers in his hair as your soft voice told him about his own exploits. One time as he watched you gently brush his red hair, his mind wandered to thoughts of his mother doing the same while he sat on her lap many years prior. He must have been much younger since he couldn’t really remember his mother’s face any longer, just the feel of her long fingers roaming through his hair, wavy like her own… Shamrock abruptly stood up and quickly shoved that memory to the back of his mind. Shamrock saw the minute flinch of your shoulders, nearly undetectable to the untrained eye, and frowned. Over the months you’d spent in his service, he had picked up on a few of your mannerisms.

“Perhaps I should cut off my hair like my br- like others do,” Shamrock said by means of apology. He wouldn’t apologize - that would be unthinkable - but he meant to show you he wasn’t upset with your actions. As he spoke, Shamrock looked over his image in the mirror. Everyone told him that he made a fine young man but whenever he saw himself he could only see his father. 

“As you wish, Young Master,” was your reply. Shamrock had grown adept in understanding the true meanings behind your words in addition to your non verbal communication. “As you wish” was your method of disagreeing with him while not suggesting your real opinion. 

“Speak true,” Shamrock demanded, already annoyed at the extra time it would take to get the truth out of you. He had been trying to get you to tell him your thoughts and opinions over the course of months but you were reluctant to ever speak your mind. Since the math incident and consequent tutoring, he knew you were smart and could think for yourself so it bothered him that he had to constantly dig for your opinions. 

“Your hair is beyond compare, Young Master,” you said, looking at its length in the mirror while running your fingers through the section you’d just tenderly brushed. His overgrown bangs hung in his eyes, obscuring his vision, while the longer sections in the back hung in loose waves. He was the only remaining member of his family with long, wavy hair and something in his heart wanted to keep it that way.

“These front bits irritate me during battle, they fly into my eyes,” Shamrock griped, pushing his bangs back from his face. He wished you would resume your brushing but felt pathetic asking you for it directly.

“Perhaps I could style it for you, Young Master? Would you allow me the honor?” you asked in a hushed whisper. You were so fearful that someone would overhear you and slay you on the spot, Shamrock thought, as if he’d allow such a thing. No, it would be too time consuming to train another how he liked his tea, when he liked to read in the East library and where in the West, and how he liked his armor polished. It was better that you were kept alive, even if only for his own convenience. 

Shamrock settled back down in the chair in front of the mirror and watched as your deft fingers braided the front section back, tying his hair into a half ponytail. His face was framed by some of the longer sections but overall the results were pleasing to the eye. He considered himself in the mirror and turned his head to the side to view the results. He shook his head vigorously but not a hair fell out of place. 

“Is it to your liking, Young Master?” you asked, still hovering behind him. Shamrock noted your lips pressed together as your hands gripped the hairbrush tightly. He hadn’t struck you since the first days of your time together so he didn’t understand why you cowered so much around him. 

“Yes, very good. I shall keep it this way for the time being. See to it that you style it this way for me daily,” Shamrock declared, crossing his legs. You didn’t smile at him but your face relaxed, which Shamrock supposed was good enough. Maybe one day he’d see a smile - not that he cared, he was simply tired of seeing your fear on your face. You nodded and Shamrock had worn his hair in that style since that day. 

Despite the overwhelming success of his idea to keep you alive, there were some bumps in the road. At first you were living - well, he wasn’t sure exactly - but he moved you to the empty closet adjacent to his room. You had gone off to fetch him a snack one night and had taken a few minutes too long for his liking. Sighing, he left his room as a strange feeling settled over his chest. Grabbing his sword, he set off in the general direction he watched you sometimes take as you carried away his meal trays.

Walking down the shadowy hallway, Shamrock heard the tinkling of small bells. No, that wasn’t quite right, it wasn’t bells, it was something lighter - some sound Shamrock was sure he hadn’t heard before. Coming up to a turn in the hall, Shamrock peered around the corner to see what was making the happy noise. It was you, laughing into your hand as a boy slave near your own age said something close to your ear. You were carrying his food on a tray with your hands while the slave continued to sully your hearing with his words. Even though his gut burned with hatred, Shamrock made no move. He wanted to hear the sound again, the kind of sound he’d never heard you make in his presence. 

The slave said something else to you, making you gasp in false outrage while a smile flitted across your face. You slapped the boy’s chest with one hand and pushed him away lightly, taking the tray in both hands once more as you moved down the hall closer to Shamrock. The boy watched you leave as his eyes looked you up and down. Shamrock made a note of his characteristic features - a missing pinky on the left hand, a birthmark on the neck - for justice to be meted out later. Shamrock stepped back into the shadows where the light of the lamps did not reach and awaited your approach. Shamrock’s frown deepened the longer he had to wait for you to pass as he replayed you touching the other slave over and over in his mind, the sound of your laugh mocking him in his memory. 

You hurried along but as you passed, Shamrock’s arm shot out and grabbed your elbow, his grip unrelenting as he spun you to face him. The silver tray dropped to the stone floor with as clatter as you sucked in a breath, not calling out like he had expected you to. Your body was chilled through your thin dress, goosebumps lining your skin as Shamrock gave you an assessing look. He didn’t have to say anything as you withered beneath his gaze, pressing your hands and lips together, your body shaking with anticipation of his next actions. The silence grew heavy as Shamrock refused to speak to you while the laws dictated you could not address him. He saw beads of sweat lining your brow as you worried over the consequences of your actions. 

“I should kill you both,” Shamrock hissed at you, making your shoulders visibly shake. Shamrock knew he should kill you for wasting his time, for leaving him waiting while you had fun with another slave. You didn’t answer but ducked your head, awaiting the blow that would end your life. You didn’t beg or plead, just waited until Shamrock passed his judgement over you. And yet his hand rested on the pommel of his sword rather than gripping it as displeasure washed over him. He turned on his heel and you followed, the silence between you deafening. You were safe, he wasn't going to kill you. The boy, on the other hand, Shamrock would have to think of a suitable punishment for touching what was his. 

After that night Shamrock had changed your living situation. He didn’t want other slaves near you when he wasn’t witness to the interaction, pulling sounds from you he’d never heard and could not get you to replicate. It was preposterous to think that you’d have  any kind of relationship with anyone else when the only person you needed to care about or for was himself. It almost felt like when one of his favored horses accepted another rider but worse, like the horse itself had selected another rider. It wasn’t a feeling Shamrock was used to and he certainly didn’t want to be accustomed to it either.

When he had told you that you’d be moving closer to his room, you had brought your meager belongings - another dress and a thin blanket - with you one morning after he’d commanded you to relocate. You stood in the middle of his empty closet, shifting your weight on your feet on the carpeting. Your face wasn't displaying any kind of emotion other than the general fear he'd long come to expect when you were faced with new situations. 

“Well? Is it not enough?” Shamrock scoffed. Yes, it was a closet but it had windows and a door and even a small half bath. Surely that would be good enough for someone like you.

“It is magnificent, Young Master,” you said, clutching your things to your chest tighter.

“Have the rest of your belongings brought up by evening, I don’t want you sleeping out elsewhere again.”

“You have blessed me, thank you Young Master,” you said, moving towards him and sinking to your knees. You bowed your head to him with tears running down your face, shaking slightly with the effort to keep yourself from crying aloud. Shamrock’s face was impassive but in truth, he was confused. He closed the distance between you and extended his hand, not exactly sure what he was going to do. Perhaps pat your head like a favored dog? He’d never comforted anyone but he didn’t like the tears on your face - though he couldn’t place why. It didn’t bother him when the slaves he fought on the battlefield cried for mercy, it only annoyed him further.

You reached out with your own smaller hands and fervently kissed the back of his gloved hand, causing Shamrock to snatch it back out of shock. He had seen favored female slaves do such things before, it wasn’t completely out of the question, but he hadn’t expected the gesture from you. His heart pricked with a small pang of regret as you rocked back on your heels and hung your head. He almost extended his hand again to see if you would repeat your action but he decided against it. 

The next morning, you awoke him as you normally did by opening the shades to his room. After getting him ready for the day and strapping him into his armor for his battle practice, Shamrock poked his head into the closet and was surprised to see it still empty. Turning on his heel towards you, you took a step back away from him as you avoided eye contact. He grabbed you by the upper arm but kept his fingers light to prevent further bruising. He saw bruises where he gripped you roughly the night before and he found it gauche, as if it said he ruled you by force.

“I ordered you to have the rest of your belongings brought up. Where is your bed? Your pillows and blankets? Did you defy me and sleep in the slave quarters once more?” Your eyes were wide and you shook your head furiously as Shamrock waited for your answer. 

“I have no other belongings, Young Master. I stayed in the room as you commanded, I would never defy you.” Shamrock’s ire was sated but he looked at the empty closet. The thin blanket you’d brought with you was folded neatly on the floor and your change of clothing was placed next to it. Even though the floor was carpeted in the finest, plushest, ruchest carpet available in the world, you would be able to perform your duties better if you slept well. It wasn't that Shamrock cared about your needs, he only cared about how  diligently you were able to work for him. 

“Have a cot brought up. Pillow and thick blanket too. I shall be locking you in at night,” he decided, turning away from the closet.

Though Shamrock tolerated your presence at all times, he enjoyed most when you spoke to him in soft tones at night before he went to sleep. You told him about all the amazing things he’d done during the day, never failing to highlight the incredible way he fought or how he’d gotten difficult math problems correct after you’d explained them to him once or twice. But sometimes conversation shifted to other topics. At times you told him some mild gossip about the servants but the best was when he convinced you to share some of the fantastical stories the slaves told among themselves. He couldn’t outright demand them from you, you denied that the slaves spoke to one another at all. Instead he asked you for a story, something to relieve his mind of its burdens and after a few moments you would always acquiesce, unable to deny his requests. He wasn’t sure if they were all from other slaves or if you made up some of them yourself but he heartily enjoyed them all either way. The stories soothed him until he was able to calm his own mind, after which he locked you in your closet and fell fast asleep with the knowledge that you’d be waiting for him the following morning.

Under the glow of the candle, you sat at the end of his bed and told him story after story, each more marvelous than the last. There were bold, brave knights who fought to save beautiful maidens, dashing sword fights, self driving horse carriages, lands with no water at all, treasures, fairies, evil Kings and Queens, and monsters beyond his wildest imagination. Yes, he liked them all, but the one he favored the most was one about a cursed prince who had been turned into a hideous beast. The Beast locked away a beautiful maiden in his castle, keeping her as prisoner with him in his loneliness. In order to break the curse, the Beast had to get the maiden to fall in love with him, meanwhile the Beast’s estranged brother was planning on slaying the beast, unaware that the Beast was the transformed Prince. The two fought to the death but the maiden’s love for the Beast saved him in the end and they lived happily ever after. Shamrock had made you tell it so many times he practically knew it by heart himself, though he enjoyed it when you told him the story time and time again.

“You’ve forgotten the part about the maiden falling in love with the Beast,” Shamrock complained one night as you told him the story again at his request. You paused in your telling and looked at him. He’d gotten you to look at him, though not in the eyes of course, since it bothered him when you looked away when you spoke. 

“Young Master does not favor that section of the story, you prefer the sword fights with the Beast’s brother. I do not mean to bore you, Young Master,” you said quietly. Shamrock exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I like all the parts of the story. Yes, I like when the Beast fights his brother and slashes his face with his claws but I also like when the maiden finally falls in love with him while trapped in his castle. She’s weak to his charms, enthralled by his strength and action.”

“She falls in love with his kindness for her,” you replied in a steady voice. “He shows her he isn’t a Beast like she thought, that he has no charms where she is involved. He could be cruel to her, she is at his mercy but instead he helps her. He shows her the library and lets her read at her leisure. He feeds her fine foods and values her intelligence, the feature about herself she likes most. That’s why she loves the Beast, not his battle prowess,” you said, looking back down at the floor. Shamrock was silent as he digested your words. He was almost sure you were saying something else, but the meaning was just beyond his grasp. You sat in silence, waiting for Shamrock’s next command.

“In any case, do not skip any parts of the story. I enjoy them all,” he declared, setting his hands behind his head. 

“Yes, Young Master.”

Yes, Shamrock had made the right decision in not killing you. He began bringing you outside to his fighting lessons and subsequent matches, both to tend to his needs as well as to watch his prowess. The first time he had brought you, it had been a cold and windy day, the breeze nipping at him even through his many layers. The grounds were muddy from the previous day’s rain and the cold wet slop seemed to penetrate every seam and pore. In between bouts, he looked over to ensure you were watching him as he struck down his foes. 

What he saw displeased him immensely -  you were shivering as the wind whipped your hair out of your face, your feet covered nearly to the knee in mud. You were wearing the same thin house clothes you wore every day, and likely the same slippers as well. Your fingers were blue from cold and even though your eyes were trained on the battlefield, they were red rimmed and your cheeks shiny. You must have felt Shamrock looking over at you because you dropped your gaze to your feet.

Shamrock nearly lost his next match.

The next day you dutifully followed Shamrock outside, but this time dressed in a thick wool dress and leather boots, complete with a padded jacket and gloves. No one commented on your change in clothing - who would dare? - and Shamrock was able to concentrate on his opponents now that he didn’t have to hear your sniffling. Shamrock defeated more slaves than ever before, his sword dripping with blood by the time his matches were over.

That night, you once more appeared before Shamrock to tell him a story, but somehow you weren’t with him. You were physically there but the light had gone from your eyes, the deadened state so similar to other slaves he had seen. You told him his exploits as before but usually once you started telling you would add details and use your hands to craft the story into something fantastic that he could picture in his mind's eye. But tonight your hands sat in your lap as your dull voice told him about the slaves he had slain on the training field. After a few moments, Shamrock stopped you with a wave of his hand.

“What is the matter with you?” Shamrock rebuked you, his tone more irritated than he truly felt. He was tired from the day’s training but he couldn’t let you think that your behavior was acceptable.

“I apologize, Young Master. Please let me know the justice -”

“No, no. Speak true,” Shamrock said, wanting to cut to the heart of the matter immediately. You remained silent as you wet your lips with your tongue. 

“Was I not impressive today?” Shamrock prodded. He had been proud of his techniques, it would be a shame if you didn’t think the same.

“You were amazing as always, Young Master,” you stated while picking at your nails. 

“Then why are you so…small?” Shamrock couldn’t think of a word that would describe the way you were folded into yourself. Every Celestial Dragon was loud and big and proud but now you looked like a gentle breeze could carry you off into the night.

“I am a slave, Young Master.” Shamrock scoffed - you were always speaking in circles, your meaning elusive as you tried to avoid his wrath. 

“Of course you are a slave, you are my slave, lest you forget. Now tell me before I anger, what is the matter with you?”

“You fought many slaves this afternoon and defeated them all, Young Master. I…I knew some of them well,” you said in a quiet voice. A single tear ran down your cheek and Shamrock impulsively reached out to touch it. You startled and jerked back, your doleful eyes brimming with tears. Shamrock was unmoved by your tears, he wasn’t upset he had killed the slaves but…

“I am done with you for the night, I am too tired to hear of my exploits. Be gone to your quarters,” Shamrock demanded, turning over to face away from you. The bed dipped as you stood up and hovered near the bed. 

“Praised be your name, Young Master,” you said with a deep bow as you padded to the closet. Shamrock stood up to lock you in for the night, following behind you. Shamrock lingered by the doorway and watched you settle onto the small cot on the floor. He was about to shut the door and lock you in when a thought came to him. 

“I am in need of tougher opponents on the battlefield; slaves are below my current level of ability. They are no challenge for me, I slay them too easily. I will have masters in various martial arts brought to train under instead. Tomorrow begins a new style of regimen for me and I expect your presence on the field to observe.” Shamrock did not look at your face as he shut the door and turned the key in the lock. 

Taglist: @mfreedomstuff @rebeccawinters @sanjisleggy @nerium-lil @unwillingstars

[inkskinned]

please i love you i'm begging you bring back suspension of disbelief bring back trusting the audience like. i cannot handle any more dialogue that sounds like a legal document. "hello, i am here to talk to you about the incident from a few minutes ago, because i feel you might be unwell, and i am invested in your personal wellbeing." "thank you, i am unwell because the incident was hurtful to me due to my childhood, which was bad." I CANT!!!!

do you know how many people are mad that authors use "growled" as a word for "said"? it's just poetics! they do not literally mean "growled," it's just a common replacement for "said with force but in a low tone." it's normal! do you hear me!! help me i love you please let me out of here!!!

[prlssprfctn]

I actually need some fanfic, where Bruce and Jason are in the middle of some argument, and a casual (and a well-practiced with Dick before) sentence leaves his mouth, something along the lines "How old do you think you are?!", meaning that he is acting childishly. And because Jason is irritated, and his tongue runs loose in his anger, he screams back that he is nineteen, and Bruce just freezes, because... Oh. Jason is nineteen. He is a fucking kid - his kid - that lost years of his teenhood, and was forced back without anyone giving him a space to catch up, with everyone else already treating him like an adult... When he isn't.

[frownyalfred]

actually the idea that Dick, the eldest, the only one who ever wore the cowl long term, the only one who raised a Robin on his own, is also the only one who can successfully, perfectly replicate that barked ROBIN! in Bruce's voice? the only one who can pull that exact tone from the depths of his soul, to the point where his voice is identical, so identical that old Robins like Jason are obeying before their minds even realize their bodies are moving? that Dick is the only one, has always been the only one, who can channel Bruce's voice? can channel Batman himself? I am going feral

[nataliescatorccio]

"Originally it was not called 'Good Luck, Babe!', it was called 'Good Luck, Jane!", but my co-writer and I kept getting in arguments about it, so it became 'Good Luck, Babe!'." CHAPPELL ROAN on 'Good Luck, Babe!'

[theorphicangel]

sukuna doesn't get anxious. not at all.

but when you haven't come home in hours, long after your friend's dinner was supposed to end that's when he gets a little antsy.

you'd left him to his own devices, a quick kiss on the cheek and you were out of the door in that pretty little dress. you said you'd be back by 11pm the latest.

sukuna stares at the kitchen clock on the wall. it reads 12:44.

but he doesn't get anxiety over you. you were probably chatting away to your friends and getting carried away like you always do with your yapping. but maybe he should have made you share your location with him the other day.

another thirty minutes pass and there's no sign of your return.

he's beginning to get restless. sukuna's already wiped down the counter three times, sorted out the cushions on the couch, watched an episode of whatever on netflix (but he wasn't paying attention to a single word that was said)

instead he keeps looking at his phone, waiting for it to ring - good news or bad news coming his way soon.

his stomach drops at the thought of you in trouble with no one around you to help. what if you did need his help? what if--

his thoughts are interrupted at the sound of the key entering the front door. you enter, soaked top to bottom, evidence that you clearly ignored the weather app before you left.

'where have you been?' his tone is impatient and snappy.

'jeez lemme get through the door first.' you stumble, soaked and uncomfortable as the door shuts behind you with a quiet slam.

'it's late.'

'and you're still up.'

'don't change the subject.'

'I lost track of time, we went back to a friend's house and my phone died.'

'and this friend doesn't have charging cables?'

'I was too deep into the conversation to know it died until I was about to leave.'

sukuna sits in silence, mulling over your words. you don't hear him correctly but if you could guess the words that left his mouth it was the curse of 'you damn women.'

'did you miss me?' you walk over to him and attempt to trap him in a hug. he pulls you off him, disgust at how cold and wet you are.

'go shower, I'll wait for you in bed.'

your face lights up, ready to make fun of him before his palm opens up to you.

'phone.'

you pass over your dead phone for him to charge.

'and i'm making you share your location with me.'

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

Mel's protection should have saved Viktor too, and she's trying to figure out why it didn't

(Editing to add: see this post for details on the Mel's armor/shield theory)

S2 ep1 shows a circle of protected stone where Mel and Jayce were during the explosion. My theory is that Mel's magic armor activated and saved them both. It seems like it casts a sphere of protection around wherever Mel is.

The center of this circle is not Mel's seat - it's Jayce's. She ran to Jayce to save him.

No other Councilors were in range of Mel's protection, so they all got hurt or killed.

But Viktor was, in Jayce's words, "right next to" him. He was easily within Mel's circle of protection.

1) Viktor tried to run and mistakenly left the circle of protection. But are we meant to believe that Viktor, close to dying already and using a crutch, would have outrun Mel?

2) Viktor's augmented body clashes with Mel's

Why does Mel try to touch Viktor in episode 1? It seems like a throwaway moment, but not even Jayce touches him in this scene. So why Mel?

She's curious. And possibly, feeling responsible. She's wondering why her protection didn't work.

Is this Hexcore brand of the Arcane trying to reach out to Mel? Or trying to defend itself from her?

Mel was trying to protect both Jayce and Viktor, which is reflected in how she holds Jayce as well as Viktor's cane when she promises to protect Hextech:

But if, for example, Mel's magic is Solari in origin, and Viktor's is from the Void - or the Arcane equivalent of similar opposing forces - then it's possible that their magic rejects or hurts one another. So Mel's circle of protection either rejected Viktor, or was what hurt Viktor, and not the explosion.

[anarchopuppy]

I, a hearing person who likes subtitles just as a preference, shouldn't have to read a subtitle that's obvious nonsense, go back a couple seconds, and listen again in order to figure out what's going on. An accessibility feature should not be the most half-assed part of a professionally made production. Scripted media has absolutely no excuse for not having subtitles or having subtitles that aren't perfectly verbatim. Professional captioning services should be ashamed of the shoddy work that they put out. Captions should be treated as a part of the production, just like filming, editing, audio balancing, etc - and anything that releases with missing or bad captions should be seen as unfinished

[effiecalvin]

The Baby Is Fine

For sale baby shoes never worn. Oh he's not dead or anything he's just massive and they don't fit

For sale baby shoes never worn. They're Gucci, my sister got them for me and I'm not putting $600 shoes on a newborn Why the hell would anyone buy these? She's an idiot.

For sale baby shoes never worn. At least I don't think so. I found them in the eggs at the grocery store and they look pretty clean $20 obo

For sale baby shoes never worn. She doesn't have any feet but it's hardly slowing her down, honestly. I guess you can't miss what you never had.

For sale baby shoes never worn. Bought them and forgot about them for like six months, never even took them out of the box and now they're way too small. My brain is fried.

For sale baby shoes never worn. Fair warning though, they've got fucking minions on them.

For sale They were a gift from my great aunt and I don't want anything from that wretched harpy.

baby shoes I thought I could put them on my dog so he doesn't slip all over the kitchen floor but yeah it didn't work

never worn. I don't know. They're just ugly. Do I need a reason?

[technically-human]

YAAAAY U REPLIED TO MY ASK! 1!!! 1! 1! 1!! (also can we have some more shadow hating Robotnik for existing and loving stone for... Also existing)

They're all adapting

[penn-dragon]

I have a headcanon that Sanji struggles with wanting/asking for non-sexual intimacy from Zoro. So if he's having a rough day or just wants to be held by the man he loves he'll initiate sex in order to feel that connection, regardless of whether he's actually in the mood. But Zoro's gotten unnervingly good at telling when he's doing this and redirecting to give him what he actually needs in that moment.

[oriondotrose]

I stumbled across @arythusa’s The Glass Scientists webcomic early this year and fell in love, so I animated a little scene for fun 🧪

I built a Front and 3/4 Front Jekyll and Hyde rig (fun fact, they’re one rig!) and animated them in Toon Boom Harmony, HalluciLanyon spawning and getting harpooned is a tweaked version of that rig, and him getting bodied was drawn in Procreate.  The layout was also made in Harmony. The audio is from the movie Drop Dead Fred.

I used the comic itself as the ‘model sheet’ to build the rig off of- used various panels for their heights and body parts in place of character, hand, mouth, etc sheets, so many pieces are pulled right from the pages. I also got to experiment with compositing, which was fun!

The art and story of this comic hooked me and I’m so excited to see where it goes! ❣️

[mythicalcoolkid]

You don't wish your disability was worse or more visible, you wish your disability was taken seriously. Please stop confusing the two, I guarantee you would not get the support you need JUST by being more severe or more visible. Please listen to visibly disabled people when we tell you it isn't better on our side

[prlssprfctn]

Batboys, who finally got Jason to agree to join them in their Farm Weekends at Kents, and who beforehand warned Kon and Jon that, well, Jason can be a little flippant, but it nothing personal, only to find out that Jason has an awful, tooth-rotting soft spot for Supers.

Kon, sighing: Okay, Jon, remember, this guy is probably like Damian but older and worse... On the other side, you probably would like that, but just in case if he makes you cry, call me. I'll deal with him. Jon, giggling: Don't worry, Kon. Jason, appearing on the doorsteps: Hey, little ones. I wasn't sure what people usually bring as a gift when they are staying at someone, so I bought the bunch of sweets for ya. You don't mind, do you? Kon: L-little ones? Jon: SWEETS!

Batboys are flabbergasted. Jason never acts like this with them, so what the actual fuck. Tim checks on Jason's temperature, like, three times in the row, and gets his hand smacked. Damian stares at Jason, trying to figure out if the Pit madness had returned in a different light. They have no explanation for this.

Kon: Dude, you said that he was meanie. Tim: He IS. Usually. Kon: I don't know, man... He lets Jon sit on his shoulders and piggybacked me this morning. That's not really mean to me. Tim: WELL. HE NEVER DOES THIS WITH US. Kon: Maybe he just doesn't like you that much. Tim: SHUT UP.

Jason, helping to Lois with some chores: So, I need some help in stalls. Pretty boy, come and help me. Kon: (keeps standing cluelessly) Jason: (glares at him, confused) Kon: Oh! I am pretty boy? Jason: Yeah? Chop-chop, come on. Tim, muttering: All I get is Timbers. And Timberline. And Timmers.

Jason, cooing on Jon: Aw-w, here goes my itty bitty tiny- Damian: (growls) Tim: Somebody sedate me. Kon, twirling around in new leather jacket that he stole from Jason: Yeah, we are his new siblings at this point.

Dick: I am. SO. Happy. That. Little. Wing. Finally. Can. Unleash his. True. Cringey brother. Personality. Tim, concerned: Is that kryptonite in your hands? Dick: No. No. Don't get me wrong. I am very happy. I had waited for this day for years, even. Well. I expected ME to be his itty bitty tiny weenie. But. That's fine. I am fine. Damian: I'll fetch father... Tim: Yeah. Please.

[analligatorr]

i liked so much the nuances the anime gave to maomao so that she had similarities with her biological parents

[boasamishipper]

chewing glass about innie!dylan this episode. all this time he's spent imagining the life his outie must live - gaining confidence from the idea that his outie lives a life full of adventure and excitement, all the perks he could possibly hope to gain in the palms of his hands, with the ultimate perk being his family, his wife and children - and now he has to sit across from the woman his outie married and listen to her tell him that his outie in fact is not this incredibly successful fantasy of a man that he's clung to all this time. the quiet shock and devastation in his voice when he asks "so he's actually kind of a fuck up?" and the look on his face when his outie's wife doesn't deny it. and then him being blindsided again when he pledges to make her and the kids proud and she tells him sincerely that she is always proud of him. even imperfect, he is loved. what can he even do with that