#stop motion bts

[captain-crowfish]

N e c c

[laikaspotlight]

Incredibly rare Coraline behind-the-scenes videos!

Here's another And another!

[phenomenal-savage]

LOOK WHAT JESUS DID!!!

LOOK WHAT JESUS DID!!!

LOOK WHAT JESUS DID!!!

LOOK WHAT JESUS DID!!!

LOOK WHAT JESUS DID!!!

🤩😍🤩😍🤩

[aroacenezhaanddainsleif]

my brain 95% of the time:

[ayaitch]

These expressions from Lumpy Space Princess are so incredible. I can't decide which is my favorite. She was gold the whole episode.

[itstimpson]

This remastered Coraline rerelease really reminds me how gorgeous this film is. The world and animation were just magical. Seeing the behind the scenes bits after the credits was delightful.

[pupuseriazag]

Watching a video of an animation student in other country made me realize how fucking deficient my university is, por la gran puta...

[thetreaclepeople]

Frame by frame, in the caverns beneath LWT, The Treacle People are brought to life...

[stephanidftba]

Coraline's jumpers were hand knitted with sewing pins iirc

WEEK O' HALLOWEEN 2024 (7/7): — 🦇🕯️🎃 — Coraline + IMDB trivia

[kyuponstories]

221 words added to my draft of BBA ep. 2! 🎉It's funny how removing or changing up some lines that feel weird can help words flow out better. I was worried that Taehyung was coming of as too dramatic, and therefore, unrealistic. Bro's silly, but I didn't wanna force it.

Failed at sewing some doll pants outta ripped jeans, but at least I got some writing in this morning! 🤪🎊

[ninjadeathmedia]

The Making Of The Nightmare Before Christmas

[gh0stchip]

Just released a new art process video!

[cat-lline]

Shrek Vape

[shhportfolio]

The creative process of Options Hotel for Earthgang’s “OPTIONS” : 

To view final results: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEyG7fpJcR0

For more Behind the Scenes content: https://shhportfolio.tumblr.com/tagged/options-bts

[sincerelybubbles]

spencer reid x bubbly!reader || everywhere you touch

in a quiet moment during a case, Spencer helps you relax with a shoulder rub and conversation about your sub-par sleeping habits.

warnings: none; fluff.

||

"You're staring again." The words roll off of your tongue in a whisper, barely above the rustling of papers, but you know Spencer hears you. You don’t even have to look up from the mess of journal entries spread across the table to see the way his eyes widen, the way his hands hesitate mid-movement, betraying him before he even speaks.

"I'm not!" Spencer insists, too quick, too defensive—so, so predictable. An evil grin pulls at your lips, the anticipation of his reaction almost as satisfying as the reaction itself. You finally glance up at him, resting your cheek against your fist, tilting your head in mock thoughtfulness.

"It's okay," you say, voice soft, teasing, pulling at a thread he won’t acknowledge. You lean forward in your chair, just enough that the space between you shrinks, just enough that your presence wraps around him like warmth. "I like the attention."

Spencer scoffs, shaking his head as his hands return to the pages in front of him. He won't engage, but you know him too well. You've got him rattled, at least a little, and that's enough for now.

You enjoy this with him: the push and pull. Spencer is your favorite person, the teasing some as naturally as breathing. You catch yourself feeling the truth behind a lot of the show you put on for him, belly warm with the implications of melting fully into the jokes you put on for him.

The precinct is quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of exhausted officers or the hum of printers churning out reports. It's a dead hour of the steel day where exhaustion weighs heavy, settling deep in your bones. Dusty sunlight sprays across the room, catching dirt in its eternal dance. It makes everything hazy, dreamy, and you catch yourself staring off into the distance, caught in the mist of it all. It’s been over 24 hours since anyone has properly slept, and you're toeing the line between restless and delirious, stomach clenched with the unsatisfied need to move, to be anywhere but here, hunched over these haphazardly assembled journals.

A bed would be nice. Sunlight, unfiltered by unwashed police station windows, even better.

You roll your shoulders back and stretch, arms reaching high over your head, joints cracking in protest. Then, with practiced ease, you tilt your head left, then right, seeking relief from the tension coiled tight in your neck. You're about to cross your arms out in front of you, ready to push the last bit of stiffness from your shoulders, when Spencer exhales sharply through his nose.

"Please, stop," he says, setting his papers down with a finality that makes your hands freeze mid-motion.

Your first instinct is panic. You don’t flinch—Spencer doesn’t snap, not really—but you can’t help but wonder if this is it, if you’ve finally worn him thin. It’s always been a fear, even if you’d never admit it aloud. You’re a lot, and Spencer has more patience than anyone, but patience isn’t infinite.

You're afraid for a moment you've found a habit of yours that sets him off - a task you've apparently been unsuccessful in over the past two years. You're well aware that you can be a lot; you're high energy and excitable to a fault. You never have trouble keeping friends but keeping friends who are never exasperated with you? Well, you would have said it was impossible before Spencer. 

He doesn’t give you time to overthink it—a habit you have bt pretend you don't. If questioned, you'd insist it's only the sign of a good profiler. Instead of walking away or rubbing at his temples like he’s fighting off a migraine, Spencer stands and moves behind you.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course!" you answer instantly, too fast, without question. You’d let Spencer do anything to you.

It's only when his hands press into your shoulders that you realize what he meant.

The first touch is firm, hesitant, as though he's waiting for you to pull away. You don't. You wouldn't dream of it. Instead, your head drops forward, a sigh spilling from your lips before you can even think to stop it. His fingers are long, deliberate, pressing slow, rhythmic circles into the muscle, and you swear you can feel the tension unraveling beneath his palms.

“Wow, love, you’re a pro,” you mumble, voice crumbling as your facade fades.

The nickname earns the same response as always—a subtle stiffening of his hands, a sharp inhale, the unmistakable warmth creeping up his neck. You think it’s funny, the way Spencer, who can talk for hours uninterrupted about quantum theory, short-circuits over one little word. You said it absentmindedly once, ages ago, and it stuck.

Now, though, you don't say it to witness the exciting rush of blood under his skin or the way he rolls his eyes, pretending to hate it. Instead, you say it fondly, melting like putty under his hands. 

Spencer doesn’t acknowledge it, but his hands keep working, traveling up the length of your neck, fingertips pressing carefully into the space where your skull meets your spine.

"You haven't slept, have you?" he murmurs in lieu of a reply, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head once. "Too restless."

He makes a noise, something soft and knowing, something that says I see right through you. You fidget under the weight of it, suddenly needing to justify yourself.

Spencer caught you, more than a handful of months ago, awake one night while away on a case. It was usual for you to not sleep while away, too pumped from the adrenaline from the day. It's a habit you've always intended to keep for yourself - you get awfully melancholic when awake late at night and really, you don't mind the hours alone to think. Since then, though, he's looked at you with those worried puppy eyes when you emerge from your hotel room, voice probably a little too loud for the morning.

"Plus, nobody else has either," you add, as if that changes anything.

Spencer hums, unconvinced. "We've all napped here and there," he counters. His thumbs find a knot between your shoulder blades, and you gasp when he presses into it, hard enough to send a dull ache radiating through your spine.

"I'll be okay," you say, but the words lack conviction. of course. Your body betrays you—sinking, pliant, as if you could just let go, just for a moment, just for tonight.

"You always say that," Spencer murmurs. His hands slow, broad palms sweeping a path down your upper back, methodical, grounding.

"And I always mean it," you try, but your voice is softer now, words slurring at the edges, betraying you in ways Spencer doesn’t miss. "Ow, Spencer," you groan after a few silent moments, biting down on your lip, pain lancing through your entire back. Probably a necessary evil but damn that hurts.

"Sorry," he says, though he doesn’t sound very sorry. He kneads the muscle again, gentler this time, and you can’t even bring yourself to care that you must look ridiculous, half-melted into your chair.

Your breath hitches when his fingertips graze the base of your neck, feather-light, a touch so gentle you could almost believe you imagined it. The room is warm, humming with something unspoken, and you could swear Spencer’s hands linger just a moment longer than necessary.

The exhaustion presses in, heavy, relentless. Your eyelids droop, your breathing evens out, and you think, just before your mind slips under—

This is nice.

Too nice.

Don’t get used to it.

But as you drift off, lulled by the steady press of his hands, the warmth of his presence, the quiet affection he gives without saying a word—

You wonder if maybe, just maybe, Spencer is thinking the same thing.