#teach yourself graphic design

[rimouskis]

one of the greatest compliments of my life is when I post a silly little photo to instagram or my stories and either (or in this case, both) the videographer or the photographer at my previous job likes it. in another life where I wasn't too afraid of making my creative skills my income stream I'd be such a good graphic designer/photographer/etc

[ayeforscotland]

What's the best way to fight fascism as a disabled person? I can't walk well but I desperately want to protest those bigots. Is there any way I can show support or support the victims in any way?

Good question, there are loads of ways that you can help beyond being on frontline protests against fascism. I won't be able to cover them all here because there's so many but just off the top of my head:

Educate yourself and pass that knowledge to others - This can be as simple as teaching people what to bring to protests (and what not to!) through to teaching people their rights if they interact with the police

Provide digital support - Help coordinate protests and get the messages and alerts out.

Volunteer - Graphic Design is always high in demand, and each local group will probably have some form of work that they need help with

I'm not disabled so I've probably not scratched the surface with all the different ways that you could help. I daresay I have a few followers who'll add to this.

[creamecafe]

━ 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐇𝐂𝐬

𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Tangerine x GN!Reader (No pronouns used)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none just fluff. Mentions of love making but nothing graphic. Skip ahead if your not comfortable 🩷

He's the definition of 'I hate everyone except you'

Acts so tough with everyone expect you

Lemon loves to tease him about it

Spoils you a lot

A lot of his gifts are jewelery or trinkets he steals when killing his targets

"Found this beautiful necklace on one of the targets, thought it would look better on you darling"

Spending a lot of time with Lemon, and Tangerine gets annoyed at this

But he can't be truly annoyed at you or even a little bit mad because he's completely head over heels for you

Would kill anyone if they dare to touch in an inappropriate way or threatened you

Teaches you how to use a gun

Is terrified for anything to happen to you or maybe one of his enemies might find you and use you for bait

But you assure him that you know how to protect yourself and he doesn't need to worry

He knows he can tie his own tie, but he love it when you do it for him. He loves your touch; helping him fix his hair, prep his mustache, fixing his collar, etc.

Won't let you pay for your stuff. It can literally be just a water bottle on a Japanese Bullet Train but he refuses to let you spend a quarter of your money

Has your name imprinted on his card and all his bank account on his phone

Showering together is just a must have for him

You help him clean his wounds when he gets seriously injured coming home

Knows how to do hair. Will braid your hair (if you have medium-long hair) or help trim up your hair to your liking (if you have a pixie cut or just short hair)

Loves to keep himself well groomed. He has a drawer of Japanese skincare products that keeps his face baby smooth. Trims his nails every three weeks (Just so he could please you 🤫)

Doesn't want to admit it but he loves doing face masks with you. Pretends to hate it but we all know he'd be into that

Would get matching nails with you (You with colored acrylic nails/colored nail polish with designs and him with nail polish with designs on them as well)

Is a OCD coded mess. This man wants everything tidy; his work, his home, his bedroom.

"Darling, you know I love you. But you make too much of a mess."

• Loves taking care of you after you guys are done making love. Puts your favorite bath bomb in, rose petals,

Thanks for reading! Don't forget to heart, reblog, share, comment on what you think, and follow for more work! You can also find me on Wattpad and my other socials in my bio. Feedback is always much appreciated!

Have a great day/night or wherever you live around the world!

𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐓𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐓𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 | 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑

[intuitively-her]

What career fits you best?

Pile 1-(6 of wands, The Star, The Moon, The Magician, 6 of swords rx, 6 of cups rx, 8 of cups, 2 of wands, The Devil rx, 5 of wands rx, Knight of wands, King of pentacles, 10 of cups)

You need to be in the spotlight!📸 Someone here wants to be an actor/actress. Or maybe you like to perform in theatre? Burlesque dancer? For someone specific, this is something you wanted to do since you were a kid. Your confidence is out of this world! It needs to be showcased on a stage somewhere.🤩 More people should know your name. Get into some acting classes if you can. For someone specific, you should get into a dance class. Someone here needs to take an etiquette class. Or something related to speech and communication. For some of you, this will require you to move somewhere new. Atlanta, Texas, or California could be significant.🌍 Something about this career could be unconventional. Performing naked/half dressed? Idk I keep getting a sexual theme here. This career will bring in endless abundance for you.📈 You possess many skills. It's like one day you're playing an extra in some movie, and then the next you're doing a big show on Broadway. You shouldn't limit yourself with your creativity in your line of work. There's nothing you can't do pile 1!🌠

🎶channeled songs: R.I.P by playboi carti & Cameras by drake

Pile 2-(4 of swords, The Hermit, Knight of swords, Page of cups, The Moon rx, Death, The World, Wheel of fortune, 9 of pentacles)

This is my artistic pile.🎨 Someone here could be into graphic design? Or clothing design. Your style of art is unpredictable. You set the trends. Realism art? Someone here could be into mural art. Your art could have a morbid nature to it. If so, people love this. You might primarily work from home. In your own little sanctuary.🏡 You could like to create art that "speaks" to people. Or you like to create art that evokes emotion from the audience. Someone here likes to draw cartoons? Reflect on your childhood for better inspiration. Maybe something you used to draw as a kid? A childhood t.v. show? You wanna contribute to the public and give back to people through "art". You're a very down to earth person in general and can get along with just about anyone. Use that skill to network with others in your field. It would be very beneficial for you.

Pile 3-(The Empress, The Hierophant, 4 of wands, 10 of cups, 5 of pentacles, Knight of swords, 3 of pentacles rx, Ace of cups, Wheel of fortune)

You would make an amazing teacher!🏫 For someone specific, you should look into spiritual teaching. Or maybe working in the church? You could be in the middle of a career change right now. Someone here wants to run a daycare? Or teach small children. You make others feel comfortable. People love how you're easily vulnerable with them.🫶🏽 You're an open book to most. Someone here would make a great therapist. People might've seen you cry before. Or you're often a shoulder to cry on for others. You're very good at consoling others. It pretty much comes natural to you. You're the type of mother that others wish they had growing up. Someone here could be newly pregnant or nursing.🤱🏽 For someone specific, your cooking is the best! There's no one that compares to you in the kitchen.🤣 Someone here could be in a feminist organization? Or you should try one. Many would describe you as a "godsend". You make others feel at home, always. You always know what to say at the right time. Your advice makes people see the bigger picture. It makes everyone around you want to be a better person.💫

[gl1tchr]

Your art is amazing and so cute! Do you have any drawing/anatomy tips you’re willing to share?

Oh man I don't know if I'm in any position to give ANATOMY tips specifically hgfdkh I feel I still have a LOT to learn in that regard!! I have a degree in Graphic Design but tbh a lot of those classes were based in - well graphic design and didn't cover a ton of drawing/illustration stuff, so much of what I know is self-taught!

I'd say just in general, draw as much as possible. Even if it didn't turn out exactly the way you want. I'm gonna post some Cringe Art of mine to show some examples

I Did not like how these turned out in the end. BUT they were requests from my Strawpage and this was super early on in me posting on twitter n gaining a little following, so I just pushed on, finished them, and posted them. Not letting myself get Obsessed with one drawing and making sure it turned out "perfect" helped me to just KEEP drawing, which sharpened my skills and gave me WAY more muscle memory! I used to have to check other drawings of Arkham Ed to make sure I was drawing him right, but now I could pop out an Origins, City, or Knight Riddler with one hand behind my back because I've drawn him. So many times now ghksfh

and I think this general advice applies to technical skills like anatomy, lighting, etc. too! The more you just force yourself to draw that janky hand and keep it moving, you'll learn what you DON'T want things to look like, and eventually you'll kind of Teach Yourself the way it's supposed to look. At least for you in your art style!!

AND OFC THANK YOU SM FOR THE COMPLIMENT YOU ARE TOO SWEET

[devsgames]

On Scoping And Idea Management for Games

I started my teaching gig (which is incredibly chaotic but I'm very much enjoying it despite that) and I noticed a really consistent theme with some student project pitches around the idea of planning and scoping projects. Some advice that I gave them that I think is worth repeating and reinforcing here:

You are not a AAA studio. Do not plan to make games like a AAA studio.

If your concept, premise, pitch or idea of a game that you actually want to finish contains elements, mechanics or concepts that is predominantly executed by AAA studios, please for the love of god don't expect to be able to execute them without brutally interrogating them first.

Things like: Soulslike game balance, 'open world', heavily systemic design, online multiplayer, complex mechanics, etc. You know, things you largely only see AAA studios (or very experienced dev teams) complete with any semblance of success. There's a reason many of these are only executed by large teams.

This isn't to say it's impossible to execute on these ideas or that it's not worthwhile experimenting with it a little, but if you're going into it with little previous development experience and expect to come out the other end with a 'finished' thing, you're overscoping and setting yourself up for failure.

Ever notice how AAA studios even struggle to execute complex concepts like that? It's not (always) because of mismanagement, but also because it's often overscoped for them too and they are incredibly hard to execute. AAA studios often work on concepts and premises which require a lot of resources to do so effectively. Indie studios don't often make these kinds of games for the same reasons, because conceptually it will easily explode your scope out of the water. Some try, and you can often feel how stretched thin they were.

The point is, you (assuming as a reader that you're an individual with no 'fully' shipped titles) are equivalent to...basically 1/2 a person at an average indie startup. If you have a team, then you're basically the size and scale of a small indie team. Realistically, in all likelihood, you do not have the knowledge, experience or time to do it anywhere nearly as well as a full-time studio production.

And I get why people fall into this trap!

We draw inspiration from what we see most and what we like, and don't often challenge our assumptions about them - it's why we see something like a Batman Arkham Asylum combat system or Photorealistic graphics and say "yeah I could do that easy" without realizing it's actually really really hard to do in the first place, let alone really get right. Studios are notoriously secretive about process, and the reality is there's months and months of unseen work behind pretty much everything.

We also tend to use blanket terms we're familiar with to define our works, as opposed to more fitting terms. For example, some people might call something like Journey an "open world" game, despite the fact it's not strictly an "open world" but rather a linear one with a non-linear presentation.

As a solo developer I too constantly make this mistake of over-scoping or underestimating just how hard it can be to execute on certain concepts or ideas.

Avoiding It

So how do you get around accidentally writing cheques only well-equipped studios can cash? You need to interrogate your ideas a lot more.

Okay, now ask yourself: Is it mostly a premise that is done by people operating at around your level of resources, or by dedicated groups with tons and tons of employees? Has anyone done your mechanic at a small, simple scale? How many studios have done it? What size were they? How many resources do they have? If anyone has executed a similar idea, how many resources did they seem to have to do it? What corners did it seem like they need to cut to get there? Ask yourself how often you see concepts like yours, executed at scale like yours. Ask yourself why that might be.

A generic example to run with: "I am going to make an open world exploration game where you can climb anywhere, with tons of content and things to do".

Ask yourself some of the above questions, and also interrogate all your definitions. What do you define as "open world"? "exploration"? "tons"? "anywhere"? "Climb"? What do these words, specifically, mean to you? Are these reasonable and realistic expectation for the amount of time you have for this project? Have you already executed on any of these before, and how many are unknown to you?

"But Devon, my idea is unique and no one has done it before! I have nothing I can compare it to!"

Nope. Sorry, just no - you're wrong. Maybe they've not done it exactly like you envision it, but I promise you that at this point in time someone has done virtually everything in games before, you've just not heard of it yet. I have yet to hear someone describe a game that didn't do anything I hadn't heard of before to some degree or another. Ask some friends for references and take more time to do research - you'll find parallels if you dig enough.

Execution

If by now you've realized you might be in over your head, you might still be able to do it if you plan very smartly around it and accept scoping down.

I could talk forever about how to break down your scope into something that is more manageable (and probably will in the future), but I'll keep it focused on this idea of interrogating definitions for now.

Running with the "open world exploration game where you can climb anywhere, with tons of content and things to do" example.

Plan to do only one of the verbs in your game really well.

"Climbing" - you could spend forever building a game just around that verb, and people have! Getting Over It With Bennet Foddy. Doodle Jump. Grow Home. People have done this, and even those games tow the line of being complex to make.

"Open world" - this one is very heavy, but make it just about walking around. Challenge the assumption that an open world isn't enough and that it needs 'content' - just make walking around the world really fun. Dear Esther, Proteus, Passage, Beginner's Guide.

"Exploration" - this verb is vague and takes many forms, and while it can easily be dangerous if it gets too big, it can still be small and engaging. A Short Hike, Umurangi Generation, Hidden Folks. You don't need mechanical complexity or depth to make something fun.

Start from that and then expand. Maybe you get to a point where your climbing is really fun and good and you don't even need to add tons of things to do, or open-world mechanics. Maybe your open world is so easy to do that climbing becomes the thing you spend your time on.

---

Essentially the point here is to not assume that because you've seen something done before it's easy to execute on, nor that you should simply run with concepts without fully understanding what you mean when you come up with them first. It's going to not only save you a lot of time and stress, but also more likely to put you in a position where you'll be able to actually finish what you started.

This is also only the tiniest portion of my thoughts on scoping here, so I'm sure I'll add more to this down the road. :)

[carlyraejepsans]

i feel like uty improves on things undertale did but it doesnt have the same strong foundation as the original. like all the qol tweaks and secret shit and meta flowey are all super impressive but as a whole i agree i didnt find it cohesive or consistent

eh, sorry but i don't really think UTY "improves" much of... anything from Undertale? you can make an argument for the visuals, which are more detailed and certainly better animated, but i would argue right back that undertale's rougher, retro, "kinda ugly" graphics are a deliberate design choice on Toby's part that he stuck to for a reason. not to mention, even in their ugliness, the original main cast managed to display more variety in shape language and size than the entire UTY one, which seemed unable to break past the "tall, skinny, anime proportioned humanoid" figure for anyone beyond the occasional side NPC (which, credit where it is due, DID have some really creative designs).

the secret shit is part of my critiques, actually! while conceptually cool, i don't think they appropriately distributed their story and lore at all. i feel like if we got to the end of the pacifist run and were wholly confused as to why dalv was even a character in the story, the whole "human attack" backstory was... not delivered properly. now, there's no problem with having secret lore, gaster is right there. but if you DO have it then it shouldn't be... yknow... tied to the main backstory conflict that literally set the story in motion? lol? it felt like a game with dataminers in mind, rather than players. which was unavoidably detrimental to its storytelling.

the bullet patterns and attack designs were very visually creative but what they improved from the original in their cleverness they tanked with their execution. WAYYY too unfair, counting too much on memorization and giving you no time to accustom yourself to the mechanics (shout-out to the gun tutorial that... didn't teach us how to shoot. at all. we figured it out on our own in the axis fight LMFAO)

the meta flowey stuff was a fun idea that only really delivered in the neutral run and didn't amount to enough anywhere else to justify his presence in the game imo. like, i lost my shit during his fight too, don't get me wrong, i like when fan stories let him be a little FREAK. but everything else was just so... wasted? i almost didn't see the neutral ending at all because the way pacifist handled flowey disappointed me so much.

uhhhhh running was a good addition and the music fucked hard. can't say anything against those two, nossir. not sure it'd go so far as to call them improvements tho, just nice touches

[azureashes]

Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

MDNI 18 +

TW: Religious Trauma, Religious Themes, Heavy Fingering, Throat fingering, Priest!Sukuna, gullible Reader, religious manipulation, internalized misogyny, CULTS, oh and cheating! (I forgot about the cheating cuz dude doesn't even get an honorable mention)

This is probably going to be a multichap, as a lot of things have yet to be addressed in this first chapter. Also Sukuna is potentially TOO soft in this first chapter, but he's luring her in first so you know... something, something, honey, vinegar.

Inspired by THIS artwork and THIS playlist.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” 

Rain pelted the glass window panes of the gray buildings with their colored awnings that blurred at the edges of your vision as you swept down the cobblestone street. Lights were blinking out on both sides of the road as the quaint little shops closed up for the night, leaving you increasingly shrouded in darkness. 

Gasping for breath, you turned where you stood, taking in your surroundings with a mounting sense of despair. At the end of the road, your eyes caught on a proud building that towered above all others in the square. 

A towering edifice of gothic elegance, the church stood with its grand arch soaring into a pointed dome, its dark stone facade gleaming in the rain. Round windows adorned with intricate lattice designs glowed with an ethereal light. Nearby, ivy and dark, lush foliage clung to the walls, and twisted trees framed the entrance, their leaves glistening with raindrops. An ancient oak door stood ajar, warm candlelight flickering from within, casting a golden glow that beckoned you inside, both inviting and ominous, as if whispering secrets of the human soul to those who dared to approach.

You swallowed thickly, craving the warmth you hoped to find within. Your feet moved as if compelled by some unnatural force, and before you could consciously make the decision, you found yourself stepping over the threshold of the ancient building. You stepped into the narthex, where maroon carpeting and gleaming mahogany furniture greeted her. 

Catching your breath, you took in the long crimson aisle runner that ran along the length of the nave, leading up to the altar. The altar itself was dominated by a crucifix in such a deep shade of mahogany it seems to waver between red and black. In fact, most of the ornamentation of the sacred area reflected scenes of biblical tales so gruesome and violent that the excessive scenes of bloodshed left an almost pulsing, ethereal red dominating your vision. 

There was the reredos, adorned with haunting imagery of saintly martyrdom. You recognized each of them with practiced ease. The central panel depicted Saint Agatha with her severed breasts on a platter, her serene face juxtaposed against the brutality of her martyrdom. To either side, scenes of Saint Lucy with her eyes on a plate and Saint Philomen, with arrows piercing her body and chains constricting her limbs. 

There was no romanticization of their scenes of martyrdom in the manner you were accustomed to. Their sacrifices were made apparent in graphic detail and their blood seemed to glow almost hauntingly. Saint Lucy’s eyeless face was turned towards the viewer, as were the other two saints, almost in judgment. Almost as if they were saying something. Reminding you of something. 

With a shiver, you turned from the gruesome imagery towards the font of holy water. Swallowing thickly and struggling to regulate your breathing, you dipped your fingers into the water - shuddering inexplicably as you did so - and made the sign of the cross on yourself with a practiced hand. 

Then you made your way down the aisle, your black, court heels muffled against the plush runner as you approached, your eyes taking in the black candelabras, the gory visions of Ezekiel depicted on the stained glass windows, the many candles glowing ethereally in impossibly tall candlesticks, many adorned with reliefs of further scenes of martyrdom, depicted once more in such graphic detail that you could not help but stare. You were taken aback that the many relics and artworks depicted mainly women. Female saints and martyrs. Women in worship. You were hard-pressed to find even one man depicted within the church, but could oddly find none. 

In addition to the strange adornment, the ominous silence of the church set the hairs at the nape of your neck on end. It was not the usual, hallowed calm you were accustomed to, but the tense silence that followed a gunshot, or the suffocating stillness after the last gasp of death. 

You considered turning around and walking right back out, but hesitated. You wanted something different. A new light shed on old beliefs. Some way out of the impossible cage you had been born into. You could not always run from things that varied from the norm that oppressed you. 

With a grim expression, you made your way further into the church. Dim candlelight flickered at the edge of your vision and you made towards it, relieved to have found the confessional. It, too, was constructed of the deepest shade of ebony, and stood invitingly in a corner of the area, just before the sacristy beyond which priests prepared for services or otherwise spent their time. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the small chamber door that led to the penitent’s side of the confessional and stepped inside. The overpowering smell of incense surrounded you as soon as you let the door fall shut behind you. It smelled strongly of roses, with a sweetness that could make one sick, but beneath that floral scent, something acrid, almost sulfuric, burned your nostrils. 

 A kneeler awaited you in the center of the small space, covered with cushioned velvet just at the foot of the confessional grate. At two corners of the room you noted an odd gap between the wall and floor. Almost as if they weren’t quite connected. In fact, with every step you took, it seemed the floor moved ever so slightly with your weight. Was the confessional not set directly on the ground?

You frowned and admonished yourself for the way you had been judging the church ever since you had entered it. Who were you to judge over a house of God? What gave you the audacity, or the right?

Ashamed, you moved towards the confessional grate and interlocked your fingers, kneeling with humility and lowering your head as you struggled to sort out your thoughts. You were suddenly acutely aware of the rain dripping down your hair onto the confessional floor and down the back of your neck. The wafting incense made it hard to think straight, bringing deeply buried feelings dangerously close to the surface. 

“Bless me father” you said, your voice demure - if not downright miserable - “for I have sinned.” You got the words out with difficulty, the pain in your heart overpowering you anew, as the warmth of the confessional started to become stifling, the rain on your skin feeling almost sticky. 

“ Welcome , my child,” the answer was a smooth purr, deep and dark and sinfully enticing. You started in surprise. You had never known a priest to sound like that. “What brings you to me today?” The words that followed did nothing to relieve the unholy effect his dark baritone had had on you and you flushed, deeply ashamed. 

Recentering yourself, you focused inward. On your pain, your torment, your sense of estrangement. “I’m struggling with…” what sin was it? What could describe your inability to fall into line? “...pride,” you finished finally. 

“I feel guilty about wanting to be seen,” tears pooled unbidden in your eyes, you tried to blink them away but new ones replaced them faster than you could rid yourself of them. Taking a deep, shuddering breath you lowered your forehead against your clasped hands. The tears dripped slowly down the length of your nose, you were helpless to stop them. You took a deep, tormented breath and continued.  

“I feel guilty about wanting to be loved and cherished.” You choked the words out on a low, hushed sob, “I feel guilty about…” but no more words would come as emotion overwhelmed you. Your family. Their expectations. Drowning beneath them. Always less than, less than, less than… Less than your brothers, less than your father, less than your fiancé. Why could you not be happy with less? Why could you not be like your mother, blank-faced and passive and content? Why did you want to be adulated and adored like your brother? Why were you only loved when you lowered your head, when you made yourself small, when you reduced yourself to nothing? Why could you not be happy that way? 

You thought of your fiancé, of the bruises that ached, still, on your shoulder blade, on your arms, on your thighs… 

Why could you not submit?

The incense was choking you, you couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe. You sucked in one breath after another, but they did not seem to fill your lungs as image after image replayed in your mind. Your fiancé’s leer, your father’s frown of disapproval, your brother’s smirk… Your professor’s effusive disappointment as you dropped out of college, your boss’s concern as you quit your job… the blank face that looked back at you in the mirror every morning when you awoke. 

Why had your obedience not brought your contentment?

You lost sense of your surroundings as you fought for breath, fought to get a handle on your tears. You fell from the kneeler with a clatter as you scrambled backwards, towards the wall as you clutched at your chest, wheezing, trying to get your lungs to take in air - or to expel it. You weren’t sure which they were supposed to be doing. 

The small, cramped confessional seemed to be spinning around you as the incense only further dulled your senses. You were going to faint here. And it was going to end up in the news. And your family would be humiliated. And it would all be your fault.

Everything, everything, everything. You were to blame for all of it. Because you were cursed. You could only be good by fighting every natural instinct you had. By destroying yourself. It was the only way to prevent your existence from tainting your loved ones, from harming them, because you were…

The door to the confessional swung outward and your eyes caught on the man - no, the priest - beyond. He towered over you, his hulking figure filling out the small door frame until he flooded your vision. His body was powerful, well-muscled even through his robes, his eyes were piercing and perceptive, as if they saw right through you - to the very center of your core. He wore a shock of pink hair, black at the roots and there were deep shadows on his face, or were those black markings? You couldn’t tell. He was devastatingly handsome all the same, and seemed far too young to be a priest.

“ Well ,” again, that smooth baritone that made you feel so very small - but in a way that you found yourself liking. A way that made you feel almost safe. “You’re quite a sight.” There was amusement in his eyes as he beheld you, even in your predicament. 

“Now, now…” his voice was distant, but oddly comforting. It had a hypnotic quality to it, a reassuring one. “Breathe.”

“Slowly now,” he admonished gently. And you did as he asked, sucking in one shuddering breath before releasing it shakily. Again. Again. Again. Slowly, sensation returned and your vision cleared along with your awareness that the handsome priest - whose handsome face matched his body in every way - had crossed over to your side of the confessional. It was little wonder, given the way you had nearly collapsed but it was embarrassing nonetheless. 

You chanced another glance at him, but he continued to observe you silently. It took you a moment to realize that he was waiting for you to continue. To hear what you wished to say. And wanting to be heard was strange and foreign. Your tongue tied itself up in knots as he stood there, looking down on you. There was something different about him, something… if not divine, then certainly supernatural. 

It was not at all the same, making your confession to his face, there was no longer the sense of anonymity that you liked to hide behind. But instead, a sense of connection and vulnerability that grounded you unexpectedly. 

Reflecting on the pain that had driven you to this place, it all seemed to center on one singular axis. Your own inability to comply with the wishes of those who held the reins of your life in their hands. Although you knew that was what your faith asked of you, you found yourself rebelling and resenting your lot in life again and again. And every time, it invited conflict and pain into your world. Every time you ended up hurting those you cared for. 

“Why can I not obey?” the tears streamed down your face. You had only ever wanted to be good. Only ever wanted to do good by those you cared for. Only ever wanted to be loved. “Why can I not submit? Why can’t I be good ?”

The strange priest lowered himself towards you, his wrists resting loosely on his knees as he sat back on his haunches. “Submitting is not so very hard,” he murmured, his voice casting its now-familiar spell on you. “I could teach you.” 

There was a look in his eye that seemed to swallow you up, seemed to burn you alive. This priest knew something. Something that would help you make sense of everything. Maybe he could save you. Maybe he could help you learn to be at peace with yourself. 

He reached out towards you and as his hand drew closer, you realized with a sudden jolt how inappropriate this encounter was. How wrong it was for him to join you on the penitent’s side in this intimate space that barely had room for one. How untoward it was for him to be reaching out to touch you. 

But you had spent your whole life wishing someone would cross beyond your walls, spent all your years wanting to be touched and seen. And with the way he was looking at you, with the utmost confidence, with an overpowering self-assurance, you could not help but want the distance between you to shrink into nothingness. 

“Submitting to someone,” he purred, his outstretched fingers grazing your cheek, sending a thrill through you. “Should come naturally. It shouldn’t have to be forced. Do you understand?” 

You were beginning to. The way his voice washed over you, the way his gaze set you alight with the intoxication of being truly seen, you thought you could vaguely understand what he meant. You nodded, even as the sheen of tears in your eyes reflected the surrounding candlelight, even as your cheeks glistened with their wetness. 

“There now,” his lips curved into a half-smile even as his eyes narrowed, but he did not remove his hand, continuing his gentle caress. “Isn’t that better?”

“I’m cursed,” you choked out in a hushed whisper. “I’m the evil one.”

A spark of something went through his scarlet eyes. As if he had been playing with you up until this point, the way you might play with a stray kitten on the street but now something had shifted. But he recovered, and the fingers that had been trekking lazily up along the side of your face moved to cup your cheek. 

“Is that so?” there was something dark in his voice. Something curious. Something angry. 

“I only bring them grief,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the disinhibiting effects of the overpowering incense. Trying to stop yourself from leaning into his palm. Nuzzling it. Kissing it. 

“I can not contain myself. I can not be humble and obey. I can not be as they want me to be. As our faith requires me to be .” You shuddered at the admission, your internal torment causing your shoulders to hunch over as if you wished to cave in on yourself. “I have prayed every day, wept every night…” 

You lift your tortured gaze, awash anew with fresh tears, to his contemplative crimson irises. Red? His eyes were red? Why had you not noticed before? Or was that merely the glow of the many candles reflecting all the red furnishings in the church?

You suck in a deep breath and despite yourself, you reach out to hold onto his wrist, as if begging him not to remove his hand. “Please…” you plead, your voice wavering, “Can you save me?” 

It was wrong, you knew. For no one person could bring salvation. You would need to find it yourself, through prayer, through the scripture, through acts of penance… But he didn’t seem like a normal priest. You dared to hope.

His hand moved further back, his fingers digging into your wet hair, his hold curving around the back of your neck, lifting your gaze up higher as he kneeled between your legs, crushing the pleats on your long, gray skirt. His eyes skirted over you then and a fire flamed to life on your skin wherever those eyes lingered. On your white blouse buttoned up to the very top, the leather belt with a golden buckle that hugged your waist. The pearls at your ears, the thin chain around your neck. Your gleaming watch, your designer purse, the band on the fourth finger of your left hand. 

“But of course I can,” his breath whispered over your lips as he spoke and a sense of almost crushing relief swept through you, making you shiver. He could save you? You could be saved? There was a way to find peace with your situation without abandoning your faith?

His thumb caressed your cheek, prompting you to open your eyes again and he continued, that dark voice sending low vibrations through you. You knew something was wrong about this scenario, knew that you should not be so close to him, knew that there was nothing priestly about this arrangement. But you could not bring yourself to care, for in mere minutes, he had given you more hope than you had had in decades. 

He was different, but you needed different. You craved different. 

“I can save you,” he repeated, drawing your thoughts back to the present moment. To his face lingering a breath above yours. “But I will need a token of your loyalty.” 

“A token?”

Perhaps you should have known then, that priests did not operate with tokens. That they did not strike deals. That there was, in fact, a very different manner of creature that promised impossible things and demanded exorbitant payment. 

But there was nothing you would not give in that moment. “What? What can I…” the incense in the chamber with you was heady, perhaps even intoxicating. The pink mist wafting between your faces made it impossible to consider what the right course of action was. 

The priest glanced at your hand, resting on the floor beside you and you turned to look at it as well. “My ring…?” you stammered, and lifted your hand without a second thought to remove the ring. You could claim to have lost it, your family could easily afford another. Your fiancé would be angry, but it would not be worth breaking up with you over. 

“Not the ring,” Sukuna dismissed with a click of his tongue. “Your request is quite unique, I’m sure you know. The manner of service you require is not something an ordinary priest could offer you, yes?”

Eyes wide, you nodded in understanding. Of course a ring could not pay for your salvation. “Then what…?”

The thumb that had been grazing over your cheek now moved towards your lips, brushing along the length of your lower lip once, twice, in slow, languorous motions as if feeling every groove and every inch of skin. 

“Give me your time.” There was a sense of finality within the demand, a sense of foreboding. But it only served to heighten your delirious sense of hope. After all, a payment made brought you that much closer to the end you hoped to achieve, didn’t it?

“H- how much?” you wondered, not sure at all how you would be able to give him your time. Would he ask for years? The rest of your life? Would you wake up from a coma when he had taken the time he asked of you? 

“Ten minutes,” was the cool answer, his eyes still wandering over you, taking in the sight of you like a project in the making. 

“Ten minutes?” you repeated dumbly. Well, that was nothing. That was neither years, nor a lifetime, nor anything of consequence. 

“Consider it a down payment,” he smiled at you again, that strange, self-assured smile that felt like a sticky trap you did not mind wandering into.

“Yes!” you replied breathlessly, not even waiting to think about it. Ten minutes of your life to be at peace, to be loved, to stop being the evil that brought anger and resentment wherever you went? You would have given him ten years if he had asked for them.

Somewhere in the distance, a thud sounded as the church doors slammed shut and locked themselves from within. A grin split the priest’s lips, revealing sharp canines. “Very well then,” he said smoothly, a self-satisfied expression on his features. “These next ten minutes,” the thumb that had been tracing your lips stiled suddenly, before moving between them and entering your mouth without warning. “Belong to me. ”

You choked on a gasp as his thumb idled past your teeth briefly and then pressed down on your tongue. Wide eyes flew towards his own, but his eyes were hooded, his face impassive as he observed you. 

“Ten minutes,” he reminded you. 

So that was what he had meant. Why had you thought he meant some sort of fairytale exchange of life forces and power? Why had you assumed your interaction had had some touch of the supernatural? 

Perhaps you had better run. Maybe you had gotten yourself wrapped up in something way out of your depth. 

“You will need to learn ,” he intoned, as his other hand moved towards your collar. “To obey.” The first button of your blouse popped open beneath his fingers, as ready and willing as you had been when swearing your time to him. 

“To submit.” 

Your own words came back to you, and with them, the sense of hysteria that had accompanied them. You despised the words. Obedience and submission. They filled you with a blinding rage, a murderous fury. And to hear them repeated back to you now reminded you of how impossible they were. How hateful.

As his left hand continued its journey down the front of your blouse, each button falling open at his touch with practiced ease, you blinked away tears and tried to swallow the saliva that was pooling in your mouth but found that you could not. 

“Mm-mm-mm,” he shook his head, “that will not do.” He moved in closer, his thumb shifting in your mouth as he did so, almost massaging your tongue. 

When his lips were right at your ear, he spoke again, “submission is the easiest thing, little one.” 

You wanted to believe him, but conflicting emotions rioted in your stomach. Your fiancé, your angry family, your misery - and the hope that he could change everything. In exchange for these ten minutes. 

His left hand cupped your breast and your eyes fell shut at the touch as a gasp escaped your throat. The sensation was intoxicating. Nerve endings sang with pleasure. His hands were so big and warm, his touch addictive. You found yourself arching your back despite yourself as you allowed the sea of sensation to sweep you away. 

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” Then his teeth were on the curve of your ear nipping at them with surprising tenderness, his tongue following all the way down to your earlobe before his mouth ventured further, his teeth finding the vein that pulsed at the side of your neck. His tongue marked the length of it before his mouth closed in on it, teeth biting into your skin as he sucked at the soft and supple flesh. 

What was he…? You couldn’t think. You didn’t want to. 

His other hand had shifted to your right breast now, repeating its ministrations, sending shivers through your body. An index finger journeyed lazily between the two mounds, hooking into the front of your bra and tugging it down until your breasts sprang free. The sudden rush of cold air made your nipples perk up, as if begging his attention and he complied, first kneading your breasts with increased force, always pushing just an inch past what you were willing to accept at that moment. Enough to keep you on edge, not enough to make you push him away. He pinched your nipples and toyed with them until helpless mewls escaped your mouth, muffled by his thumb. You could feel him smile against your neck.

How much time was left? You didn’t know. You weren’t sure what you were hoping for… a swift end to this encounter or that time would somehow stretch out for you, extending this moment eternally. 

He drew back slightly and you opened your eyes as if summoned by him. 

“Open your mouth,” there was none of the coaxing tenderness he had shown you earlier. This was a command, unyielding and expectant. 

You obeyed unthinkingly and watched as he cocked his head to the side, his gaze fixed on the inside of your mouth. It was so odd, and you felt terribly self-conscious, but you could not bring yourself to think too clearly while his other hand was still working its magic on you. 

Instead of his thumb, he now inserted two fingers into your mouth. His left hand paused briefly, to smooth your blouse from your shoulders, and the touch of his hand running along your upper arm, though chaste, sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Suck.” A simple, unmistakable order.

Your cheeks burned in humiliation, your mind clearing a bit now that his left hand had busied itself with your clothing. You wanted to say something, to push him off and pull on your clothing and storm out of the so-called church. But on the other hand… you wanted to know what would happen if you did as he asked. You wanted to know what was waiting for you at the end of this encounter. 

You wanted his eyes to light up with approval when you pushed past your own inhibitions. 

So you closed your lips around his thick fingers, and you sucked. They tasted of salt, of the incense that surrounded you, and they tasted of sin. You closed your eyes, relishing the taste of him, even as his fingers inched towards the back of your throat. 

His left hand, meanwhile, meandered down the length of your leg reaching for the hem of your skirt, but you hardly took notice until it had slipped underneath it and smoothed its way up your inner thigh. 

Then your eyes shot open in shock and dread. You gave him a pleading look but he only shook his head with a small smirk. “Ten minutes, we agreed.” Clicking his tongue as if disappointed, he added, “Or are you calling off our deal?”

Before you could answer his fingers inched further towards the back of your throat, and tears burned at the edges of your vision as you tried not to gag. He grinned down at you, positively relishing your conflicted expression and the satisfaction on his face made you forget all about your own discomfort. You licked at his fingers, sucking them in deeper, trying to prove to him how compliant you could be – and then his left hand found the juncture of your thighs. 

A thick, lazy finger idled up your slit through your damp underwear and you shivered. Saliva spilled from the sides of your mouth as your jaw went slack at the sensation. Fuck ten minutes. You wanted everything. 

As if hearing your thoughts, he pulled your panties to the side and buried his fingers into your hot, wet folds. Slicking up and down along your slit.

“My,” he chuckled, “isn’t this easy?”

You could only whimper in response, as the fingers of his right hand teased down your throat, backing off ever so slightly, only to plunge back down again. You gagged, despite yourself, and your body shivered in response. He allowed you to recover momentarily, only to then continue his ministrations undisturbed. 

His fingers found your clitoris, tracing lazy circles around it, stoking a fire of sensation until you wanted to weep with need. Your hands reached out unthinkingly, to hold him, to feel him and they came to rest on his shoulders. Ten minutes, he had said. Surely, that time was almost up. He wasn’t going to leave you hanging, was he? You focused on his fingers again, on sucking on them the way he had told you to. If you did what he said, he would reward you, wouldn’t he?

Sure enough, as soon as you redoubled your efforts, he plunged the fingers of his left hand into your warm cavern. It was a tight fit. Your fiancé had only ever entered you the one time you wanted desperately to forget. But this was nothing like that. There was no painful friction, no panic. You were positively boneless. Pudding in his hands. He slipped in and out of you easily, as if your core welcomed him. As if he were quite at home. Even as his thick fingers stretched you out, you cherished the discomfort. The feeling of your walls stretching for him, accommodating him. His practiced fingers slid against your inner walls, exploring you thoroughly until they found a spongy patch of flesh that had you moaning against the fingers that were now knuckle deep in your throat. 

He turned his head to the side, again, as if looking at a clock somewhere you couldn’t see. And in that brief moment, completely at the mercy of his hands, all pride and dignity forgotten - time stood still for one brief moment as you took in his side profile, illuminated by distant candlelight. His sharp nose, his bold jawline, his expressive, powerful eyes. And then the moment passed and his gaze returned to you, and again, you felt like a morsel in the jaws of a powerful predator. The sensation was positively thrilling. 

All idleness and teasing forgotten, he doubled his pace. His fingers slamming in and out of you with something bordering on cruelty – or it would have bordered on cruelty, if it wasn’t making you see stars. You wanted to say something, to moan, to scream, but his right hand fucked your throat at an identical pace and you felt entirely like an animal spitroasted over a fire. 

“There now,” he hummed, breathless, eyes gleaming at the sight of you so undone, “you’re almost there.” 

Your body felt rattled with the force of his thrusts and you pulled up your knees without quite knowing why, wanting to feel him more deeply. Your eyes shut as the feeling he had been weaving over you intensified to the point of being painful. Something powerful was building up, ready to engulf you, ready to destroy you. 

And you would so love to be destroyed by his hands. 

“ Good girl ,” he murmured into your ear as you clung to his chest, positively delirious with pleasure. His voice, that voice , that you would likely never get used to, settled over you like the most wicked of magic. The two words swept over you like an unbreakable spell. You sucked in three quick breaths in succession, and then you came undone. Moaning against his hand, you trembled from head to toe as waves of pleasure crashed through you mercilessly. And even then he did not stop, still burying his fingers into you, only to pull them out and slam them back in, fucking you through your orgasm until it bordered on torture, until your walls clung to him as desperately as your fingers clung to his robes. Liquid gushed from you, dirtying your skirt and pooling on the confessional floor. Only then did he remove both of his hands and settled back to observe you, panting through your orgasm, spittle dribbling from your lips.

You fell back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed as you fought for breath. Your hands hung limply at your sides, and one knee was still drawn to your chest as your other leg stretched out at an odd angle. 

Your throat ached, but you missed the taste of him already. Your body sang with happiness, endorphins rushing through you. You had never felt so alive. 

“Heh,” he eased back slightly, and ran a hand through his hair. The sight of him was intoxicating. The small smirk, the mischief in his eyes, the proud cheekbones. You couldn’t tell if he had used the hand that had been halfway down your throat or the other one, but by the looks of it, he didn’t care either way. 

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, willing yourself to regain some composure. On trembling hands, you pulled away from the wall and struggled to straighten out your appearance, avoiding his gaze. You tugged the hem of your skirt back down over your knees and winced as you felt the wetness between your thighs. Your fingers fluttered towards your blouse, fumbling in your haste to button yourself up again as shame washed over you. What had you done? 

You glanced at the ring gleaming on your finger as your fingers flew over the buttons of your blouse. You needed to put this to rights. You needed to do something to dispel the awkwardness that lingered in the air.

You cleared your throat, chancing another glance at him as you smoothed your hair back behind your ears. Open amusement danced across his features at your discomfort and a blush burned across your cheeks. 

“Right, well…” you glanced at the fluids that had gathered on the confessional floor and winced, reaching for your bag. “I’ll clean that up.”

“Leave it,” he dismissed lazily, and you abandoned your fruitless search for a tissue or a disinfectant wipe. 

He squatted before you, still, an elbow resting on his knee, his chin resting on his knuckles as he watched you flounder in embarrassment. 

“ What have we learned ?” was the question he posed. The tone of his voice, like a teacher speaking with a prized student, had you tripping over yourself, wanting to deliver the right answer even though you weren’t quite certain you had understood the question.

You paused, suddenly brought back to the heat of the moment that had passed between you. The ten minutes that had turned your world on its head. 

“Learned…?” 

I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart… you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before…

You bit your lip, flushing even more deeply as you recalled his earlier words. What had you learned? There was no denying that you had submitted to him, been driven to obey him. Even going so far as to want to prove your obedience… You cringed. It was embarrassing. 

But he did not seem to look down on you for it, even as he went on observing you amiably. Enjoying the expressions that flashed across your features as your mind rioted, dashing from one train of thought to another until they inevitably crashed. 

Submitting to him hadn’t required conscious thought. It hadn’t required effort. It was the simplest thing, like a base instinct written into your DNA.

You glanced up at him again, his smirk widening as he saw the realization dawn on your face. 

“It’s… not hard,” you admitted in a nervous whisper.

“Come again?” You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or not. Teasing you seemed to be his default state. 

You cleared your throat. “It wasn’t hard,” you repeated, louder this time. 

“Not hard?” he tutted, “I think you can do better than that.”

You swallowed, glancing over his shoulder where still no one had appeared. Was there anyone else in this church at all? You thought about what the two of you had done, how loud you had been and embarrassment threatened to overwhelm you. 

“It was easy,” you confessed finally. “It felt…” you closed your eyes, recalling the sensation, the moment you had chosen to put all thoughts aside and put your trust in him. “Natural,” you concluded finally, confused even as you said it. 

“And why was that?” he prompted, not yet letting up. 

You bit your lower lip, missing the way the priest’s eyes darted towards your mouth as you did so, and contemplated what could possibly have been different about this particular moment, that made it so easy to yield to this strange priest whereas giving even an inch to the men in your life felt like dragging a knife through your veins. 

Now it was your turn to consider him, cocking your head to the side as you took him in. He was strong. Physically, mentally. Confident. Whatever happened, he looked like he could handle the fallout. From the moment you had met, he had given you his complete and utter attention. Listened to you. Taken your concerns seriously… 

It was him. He was different. 

You averted your gaze, then. Not knowing what to make of that information.

“I suppose it depends on the man.” By the time you realized you had spoken aloud, it was too late. Your face burned all the way up to your ears, utterly mortified. 

“Hmm,” the priest hummed, finally rising to his full height and holding out a hand to help you to your feet as well. “Surely, our Lord and Savior would not require you to submit to and obey an unworthy man, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Again, that seductive voice, saying things you had always longed to hear. 

“But aren’t we meant to obey… the men in our lives?” Confusion furrowed your brow as you dusted off your skirt, neatly sidestepping the wet floor as he led you out of the confessional, the loose floorboards creaking under your weight as he did so. 

“I think…” the crimson-eyed priest purred, sinful temptation in his voice, “if you were meant to obey them, then you would want to, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you have a natural inclination to obey the ones you were meant to obey?” 

You froze, your gaze entranced by his proud lips as he spoke. You had never felt a natural inclination to follow anyone. Not until today. 

“But I…” you lowered your gaze. You were going back to your family, to your fiancé. If anything, this realization only made things more difficult. You left your protest unspoken as he led you back the way you had come, down the nave and towards the church doors. 

“Fret not,” he smiled, bringing the knuckles of your hand up to his lips and pressing a brief kiss to them. “I did agree to save you, didn’t I?” 

You blinked, and then nodded slowly, daring to hope. He had said he would save you. This was only the beginning. Surely, by the time he was through with you, you would have no more doubts. 

“Come to the service on Sunday,” he lifted the latch and opened the church door, revealing that the rain had stopped and gentle moonlight glistened on the wet pavestones.

“I go to church with my parents on Sundays,” your brow furrowed as you turned towards him, reluctant to leave his presence for reasons you could not explain, even to yourself. There was no possible way to explain to your parents why you were suddenly visiting a different church. 

“So you do,” he agreed smoothly, as his hand found the small of your back. “But this Sunday, you’re coming here.” 

There it was again. That inexplicable pull. The desire to do as he asked, the certainty that it would be worth it.

Your eyes sought his, wondering what lingered in their depths, even as a raised brow dared you to deny him. You should probably feel guilty about what had happened, but you could not summon the emotion. Nothing about it felt impure. He was helping you understand the tenets of your faith, wasn’t he? And you did feel like you understood things a little better now. Far from feeling guilty, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, an intoxicating feeling of not being alone. 

“I’ll be here,” you promised, although you did not quite know how you would manage it. 

You turned towards the steps, not wanting to outstay your welcome, and floated down the three short steps to the main road, acutely aware of his eyes on you. You hesitated on the last step, and turned back towards him suddenly, where he stood shrouded in the shadows, limned in the light of the candles behind him. 

“What’s your name… Father?” You added the proper address as an afterthought, almost having forgotten that he was a priest.

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips, likely because of your late addition, and when he spoke, the name washed over you, settling in your heart like a key turning in a lock. 

“Ryomen Sukuna.” 

[maochira]

Masterlist: Father figure coaches

This is a series of headcanons and scenarios about Noel Noa, Chris Prince, Lavinho and Marc Snuffy taking a father figure role in the reader's life.

The headcanons can technically be puzzled into a story, but it's mainly just "what ifs" and "how would a scenario like this go", so I'm not intending this to be a complete story. Also there are a few inconsistencies, but I will always base every scenario/headcanon off of the first set I wrote for this. It's some sort of base for the entire thing.

Also, some posts might need context of one or two other posts, which will always be linked at the beginning of the said post.

Snuffy was only added after chapter 216, so he's not in everything and most just include Noa, Chris and Lavinho (feel free to request a Snuffy version of something, tho!)

How they became your father figure / Snuffy version

Giving you "the talk"

You crush on/date a Blue Lock player

You return after staying too late in your Blue Lock boyfriend's room

They find out you date Michael Kaiser

Meeting your bio father / Snuffy version

They find out you date Shidou

How they encourage you in for your matches

How they act towards your partner

You make lunch for them

You let boyfriend!Shidou stay overnight

Idk what to call this one

You get injured during a match

Their reactions to you wanting to quit soccer

Love languages

You pass out during a match

Graphic design student!reader with a passion for art

You go through heartbreak

Doing Lavinho's hair

Reader who likes bone hunting

Teaching each other your native languages

You have a cold personality, but a player in Blue Lock makes you more cheerful

They comfort you over your needle phobia

You distance yourself after a fight

You don't want to be a striker anymore

You have a very energetic personality

Hugging them on a rough day

You struggle with nosebleeds

Telling them everyone thinks you're annoying

You're burnt out from soccer

How Lavinho feels about you

You come out as trans

Father figure!Snuffy and the five love languages

They make your bio father jealous

You meet their team in Blue Lock

They accidentally walk in on transmasc!reader wearing a binder

Distant!reader asks for a hug

Male!reader comes out as gay

Trans!reader gets imposter syndrom in Blue Lock

[wannab-urs]

Build Me Up, Buttercup | Professor!Joel Miller x Student!Reader

Summary: Reader confronts Dr. Miller about her grade in his class.

Warnings: Not much yet. Reader is of legal age, no less than 22 but not specified, she's about to graduate college. She’s an English major. This is grumpy x grumpy. Lots of snark, eyerolling, etc. Not-Quite-Enemies to Lovers. And no she doesn’t blow him to get a better grade! (I would, but reader is classy). 

Word Count: 1.1k

Why Do You Build Me Up

(Buttercup)

Dr. Miller’s Foundations of Architecture class was supposed to be a fun elective for you. You could learn a little more about architecture, something that has always been a mild interest for you. You like pretty buildings and you think it’s a cool subject. It’s your last semester of college and you deserve to take something fun to fill in that last elective requirement. 

You certainly were not supposed to fail the fucking class.

“He’s so rude, Cooper,”  you tell your friend. Coop looks up at you over their laptop, red curls springing in every direction and glasses sitting on the tip of their nose. They’re feigning interest while they hammer away at some graphic design assignment.

“One time he made a guy who said he liked 432 Park Ave leave the class. Like just kicked him out for the rest of the day! I mean that building is awful, but still!” Coop heaves a sigh and shuts their laptop. 

“Is this that hot professor you told me about or is it the one who always wears really weird outfits?” 

“No! The weird outfits guy is my Chaucer professor,” you choose to ignore the first half of that question. “I have words for him too, actually. He keeps-”

“Focus! Why are you failing Arc?” 

“His essays are insane! Like, this is not English class, my guy, why are you grading me so hard? I’m literally an English major! You’d think my writing would be more than acceptable for a freshman level class.” 

He had given you a D on your paper about gothic architecture. You’d chosen to write about the Santa Maria del Fiore in Italy and he took off THREE letter grades because they finished the construction in the neo-gothic style… which you had made a whole section of your paper about. It’s perfectly valid. It’s not like he really gave you much to go on. 

“Did you follow the prompt? Sometimes your brain takes you places the question didn’t exactly call for…” they give you a knowing look. 

“This isn’t a fanfic writing challenge, Coop, I can follow a damn prompt. He doesn’t give us anything to go on at all for these essays! Or for anything else, really.” 

He is the least verbose professor you have ever had. It’s honestly kind of refreshing for a man to not love the sound of his own voice, but you’re also paying him to teach you something. 

“The essay prompt was literally ‘Gothic Architecture’ and the guidelines were ‘12 pages, double spaced, due March 19th.’" You drop your voice into its lowest register, mimicking Dr. Miller's deep baritone. "And that’s what I wrote!” Someone shushes you from behind a bookshelf. You’re getting a little over excited, borderline yelling in the library about this infuriating man.

“Have you tried going to his office hours?” God why are they always so reasonable?

“Have you tried going to his office hours… No. I have not. He’s rude, remember?” 

“Just try it! What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“He could drop my paper down to an F.”

“And you could report him for unfair grading practices. Go. Shoo,” Coop starts pushing your books toward your bag. 

“Fiiiiiine,” you relent.

Twenty minutes later you find yourself standing in the doorway of his office. Dr. Miller is sitting behind a large wooden desk. It’s very neat, the only things on it a computer, a picture frame turned away from you, and a stack of books. Dr. Miller has one of the books open and is writing something in a notebook, brow furrowed and tongue poking out between his lips. 

“Dr. Miller?” you ask hesitantly. 

He doesn’t look up from his work, just lifts a hand vaguely in your direction for a second and keeps writing. You roll your eyes and look around the office. There are bookshelves lining the walls with architecture textbooks in neat rows. A few covers of Architectural Digest are framed on the wall. Is he in those?

Your eyes land back on him. He’s wearing a dark grey Fleetwood Mac shirt that looks old as hell. The collar is stretched, revealing a bit of his chest. Your eyes trace a line up the column of this throat… He has a nice neck. 

You had called him your hot professor at the beginning of the semester, regardless of how you felt about him now. There’s just something about that fluffy bed head he always has, like he couldn’t be bothered to run a comb through it. And the scruffy beard laced with grey he doesn’t seem keen on trimming. And the way his mustache frames his pouty lips. And his prominent nose that looks straight out of a painting. And okay that’s enough. 

“Dr. Miller, I need to talk to you.” 

“M’busy,” he mumbles out, still not looking up from the textbook. 

“Okay, well it’s your office hours, so technically you have to talk to me.” 

“Technically, little miss, I don’t have to do anything.”

“Excuse me? Let’s not speak to grown women like they’re children, sir.” Is he fucking for real right now?

He closes his notebook and looks at you for the first time since you walked in. Probably the first time all semester. He kind of pauses when he sees you, hopefully realizing he isn’t talking to a freshman. It wouldn’t make the little nickname okay, but it would make more sense at least. 

He looks you up and down and his jaw ticks, “Sit.” His eyes flick to the chair in front of his desk. You drop your bag on the floor and slide into the seat. “So. What can I help you with?”

You take a deep breath. “You gave me a D on my last paper.” 

He just stares at you. 

“And considering our prompt was all of 8 words, I think- I know I met the requirements and that I did a good job. It was thoroughly researched, structured well, copy and content edited, and turned in 2 days before deadline. I would like an explanation-” 

“Enough,” he cuts you off. “I don’t have to justify my gradin’ decisions to you.” 

You let out a frustrated puff of air. This man drives you insane. “Dr. Miller, I’m a senior. I took this class to fulfill an elective requirement and because I like architecture. I would like to understand what is so egregious about my writing that you would have me fail a class in my last semester of college.” 

He considers you for a moment, meeting your eyes. He lowers his brow, screws up his mouth from side to side, like he’s thinking hard about something. “I’ll reread it.” 

Not I’ll reconsider your grade, but at least it’s something. “Thank you.” You grab your bag, moving to leave, and he stops you. 

“Wait!” You pause, arching an eyebrow. “What was your name again?” He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. 

“Seriously? I’ve been in your class since January. Figure it out.” 

You storm out, slamming the door behind you.  

A/N: This will be my first series! I'm really excited to try some actual characterization and plot, which I've never really played around with before. Constructive criticism in my DMs is always appreciated <3

Tag List: @beskarandblasters, @cutesyscreenname, @atinylittlepain, @wednesdayday, @whoiscaroline, @goldenhxurs, @northernwindd, @djarinxore, @worhols, @amanitacowboy, @silkiers, @4ueijos, @livinxdeadxgrl, @serenaxpedro, @huffle-punk, @elvn011, @thepriceofpepper, @lexic-22, @sunshinebtrfly, @strang3lov3, @virgogaia

[skwpr]

A simple representation of images does not offer enough for proper memorization.

Study Faster And Retain More With This Quick Tip

I don’t know a single student who doesn’t want to study faster and retain more at the same time. I usually get a little nervous when trying to use quick fixes to make this happen, but today I have an actual quick tip to help you do just this!

Being a problem solver by nature, I dug into the situation and tried a few new approaches. Some worked, and some did not.

One of my best strategies was to sort the information into two categories:

facts to be memorized

concepts to be understood

You can use this strategy for any course. No matter the subject, there are things you have to memorize (terminology, dates, names, equations, etc) and concepts you need to master. Identifying this creates a clear, drama-free path, meaning you actually study faster and retain more because you are working on the right information in the right way.

How To Memorize Facts

I used to hate memorization work. It seemed tedious and hard and I sucked at it. Or so I thought!

Turns out I just didn’t have good skills. now I have some strategies in my toolbox and I love fact work. It’s easy and you can master it quickly. The key to mastering memorization is to:

Keep a list of what you need to memorize.

Schedule time every day to work on it. You must have the daily repetition if you want new facts to stick in your short-term memory. Start with just 10-min each day and you will see results.

Vary your memorization strategies. If you use only one strategy it becomes less effective.

How To Master Concepts

How you approach concept mastery is going to vary a lot based on the subject you are studying. There are two strategies to help with every subject:

1. Hands-On Practice

You will never fully master a concept through reading about it. You learn the concept through reading, but there is a big difference between learning something and mastering it.

The basics of hands-on practice for any subject are to come up with an applicable problem and solve it. Then come up with another problem and solve it too. Here are a few ideas, by subject, of how you might practice:

literature – Read a book or short story and write an analysis of whatever focus you are working on.

computer science – Come up with a problem and solve it with real code.

graphic design – Imagine a client asked you to design something, and create 3 different solutions for them.

math – Pick an equation, make up some starting numbers, and solve it.

science – Define a hypothesis, create a simple experiment, get in the lab and execute it!

2. Explain Or Teach It To Someone Else

Want to be certain you have mastered and fully understand a concept? Teach it to someone else.

As a teacher myself, I can tell you there have been plenty of concepts I thought I knew really well until I tried explaining them to someone else. You need a thorough understanding yourself before you can help someone else understand it.

Enlist the help of a friend or family member and try to explain a major concept in a few minutes. If you struggle, make note of the sticky spots. They are exactly what you need to work on next.

If you have no problem explaining it and your friend understood everything, mark it off your list and move on to the next concept.

I hope this quick strategy helps you dig out of confusion and take the right action in order to study faster and retain more.

Try It Yourself: 20-Minute Challenge

Grab your notes, a fresh piece of paper, and a timer.

Set the timer for 15 minutes.

Go through your notes and sort every piece of information into one of the two categories: concept or fact Challenge yourself to do this before the timer goes off. Go with your first instinct if you aren’t sure.

Spend the next 5 minutes and map out your next steps.

How and when will you work on the memorization each day?

How will you approach the first concept?

[harpieisthecarpie]

Harp gets overly emotional about a lighthearted meme (reocurring theme) (not clickbait)

I know the underlying humor we find in the "graphic design is my passion" meme is contrasting the statement and the actual design's quality (tbf the og was seemingly intentionally made to be bad) and ngl sometimes I really hate that underlying message.

I've kept my silence too long! I must speak my truth!!

so fuck it new year same me to be cringe is to be free dattebayo ramble on, it's 2025!

I refuse to punish someone's earnest passion by equating innate value with possible extrinsic applications. Joy does not exist to reward profitability and mastery.

A hobby or craft is always valuable regardless of whether you can capitalize on it monetarily. Your passions still matter when they're not your career, and its often healthier to have interests your livelihood doesn't depend on.

You don't need to publish your fanfiction, original story, or art online for it to have been worth making. You don't have to show anyone, ever, for your creativity to matter.

You can say you love to hike and only ever go on "beginner trails". You can say you love art and make everything with washable fingerpaint and glitter. Your bullet journals can be ugly. Your cupcakes can be deflated. Your poetry can be couplets forever. Because when you're always waiting on perfect, the question you must ask is

When you're gone, will you leave pieces of yourself behind?

Or will your loved ones be searching for memories in a mausoleum of blank journals, blank sketchbooks, unopened craft kits, empty photo albums, untouched skeins of yarn, puzzles and games still wrapped in plastic, a corkboard with yawning gaps saved for meaningful accomplishments?

Love is in the act of affecting and being affected, and I refuse to teach others thats a privilege they must earn.

I will not slap a crafting hand for being clumsy. Not even when it's my own.

[pinbones]

"They never taught us x in school" is sometimes a criticism of your school's biases or specific teachers being trash, but I think a lot of it comes down to the fact that kids have each subject once or twice a week, and learn at a high school level. You didn't get to learn a comprehensive history of your country's politics and culture because there wasn't enough time in between learning every other subject and doing all your extracurricular projects and learning how to write essays better than a toddler. And christknows kids barely do homework let alone read their textbooks cover to cover to see what they missed in class.

The point of school wasn't to teach you specifics about every topic on earth, that was never possible. It was making kids literate and setting them up for their future.

Back when kids were just taught to memorise flags and country names, schools caught flak for not teaching them about the culture and politics of those places ('facts instead of knowledge'). Now, when they DO teach you about a couple of countries' cultures and histories in more depth, people complain that it's too specific, or that those aren't the right country or time in history to learn about. You see the problem? The VASTNESS of planet earth and all of relevant human history? The generalised skills are the most useful ones, and I promise you they taught you those at school, even if they didn't give you a checklist of everything you would need to know to become ~informed about the world~. And now people are pointing out that students can't name every place on the globe, when that was never a skill anybody has ever used in their lives. (Psst -- globes and maps exist.)

Look through your old schoolbooks. They taught you how to analyse souces in history, and learning about WW2 or whatever was just a way to do that. In English, you learned how to recognise persuasive writing and how to do it yourself, probably by analysing everything from newspapers to poems. You were taught about other cultures and peoples in their respective language classes, you studied at least one. You might have learned about the impacts of tourism and climate change in geography and all the things we're doing to balance them. In chemistry and physics you learned about practical experiments and how they relate to real life phenomena that affect us daily. Food tech/woodworking/graphic design/resistant materials taught you about the design and production of new market products. You probably even learned the rules of the road as a bicyclist and pedestrian at school. School taught you about diseases and vaccines and handwashing, they taught you how to LOOK UP INFORMATION in libraries and how to format sources, and if you're on the younger end, they taught you how to use Google and probably made you get an email address when you didn't see the point of them.

If you were never taught skills, then I'm sorry. But half the point of school is teaching kids how to CONTINUE learning their whole lives. It's not to catch them up on everything that happened in the world by age 18. If you had to know everything important by the time you graduated, you'd never have left

[btsbs]

With all due respect, I'm starting to think kpop fans were actually born yesterday. Even western celebrities and influencers acknowledge fanfic. I remember back in the 2000's, two members of tvxq talked about fanfic and one jokingly complained that they were always the "woman" in the stories. Singular fanfics aren't necessarily indicative of anything, but fanfic across the board is actually a pretty good indicator of how members of a group are viewed by the fandom, and it'd be insane to think celebrities or their companies wouldn't monitor that. For example, if a member is routinely villainized in stories where a certain pair is the focus of the fanfic, that might indicate bigger issue brewing in that group of shippers.

As an aside, that list of ships is made up. I read the actual hybe report and the only mentioned "ships" were nct and maybe one other group, nowhere did they provide any extensive list about ships they monitor. Pretty sure that list is just the popular ship list from postype (korean ao3).

So I’ve addressed the list already, but I’m going to take this opportunity to address your other point about companies monitoring fan fic overall. Regardless of whatever specific ship list we do or do not have proof of Hybe monitoring.

I mostly agree with you, celebrities have been aware of fan fic for decades, but most of the conversation about it has been more of a casual acknowledgement that it exists without going much deeper. Perhaps it was always a bit different within kpop, I haven’t been here that long but if you were following tvxq in the 2000’s it seems like you have been. The concept of the fourth wall has been eroding as social media has changed the way both fandom and every day life exists on the internet. The fourth wall is basically the imaginary wall that separates performers from an audience. As a fan you are aware you are watching a show, with music it’s a bit different than theatre as some interaction is expected at a concert, but the encore ends and fans share their excitement with each other and the band goes home and the wall is fully back up. In kpop maybe the wall was never quite as high, but I think my general discomfort with the idea of Hybe execs reading and discussing fan fics has to do with this blurring of lines in fandom culture. Which is also much bigger than just fan fic.

When I was younger and in the BSB fandom at their peak, fandom had only been online for a handful of years. We lived in message boards, ezines, random angelfire and geocities pages that functioned similar to a tumblr blog but without the connection. Search engines were not great, and you had to HUNT for fics. Things were starting to move over to livejournal as I stepped away from fandoms in general for over a decade- but there was no ao3, a perfect categorized library where you can find the most random specific fic you want in no time at all. Because it is so well organized, it makes it so much easier to track metrics. It wasn’t being done before because it was impossible to do, but the impossibility of it let the fourth wall carry over from the physical space (like a concert) to the internet. It was like that for a long time, until maybe 5-10 years ago.

The fourth wall is important because not every fan wants everything they say, do, or create to actually get back to the artist. We behave differently when we think they might be watching. Weverse has proved that there is some demand for a space like this, but I also think it’s just as important for fandom to have spaces that aren’t. Where we can be a little unhinged at times, share art or writing where the target audience is other fans and not the actual artist. Maybe you’re trying to teach yourself to draw or graphic design using your fav idol and you don’t really want your first attempts actually getting in front of their gaze. Maybe it’s just nice to have a space where you can say your fav wore an ugly sweater and *know* they’re not looking at that platform to ever see it.

To me, fan fic is in that domain. Fans write it for other fans to enjoy, and it feels like a fourth wall break for a company to be mining in there for market research and song inspiration. As much as I very much understand your point about why it’s done, I think it’s fair for us to ask if it should be done. Do we want it to be done. What if people start posting empty fics with their fav ship tags so their favs can have the best numbers, like people do now with streaming bragging rights. Does every aspect of fandom culture have to be a metric, a data point, a tool for more competition and consumerism?

I also think that if I was a famous person, the existence of fic wouldn’t bother me. If fans are writing it, reading it, staying on their side of the wall- it doesn’t impact the life of the celebrity much if at all. I listened to a podcast once, where they discussed hockey fandom drama over certain hockey fans screaming at the players about ships and fics from the sidelines at games and it made the players and their partners uncomfortable- which is fair, fans are climbing over the fourth wall. In this instance, it feels like Hybe may be crossing over the wall from the other side. Knowing it exists and having to confront it in your day to day life are two different things. The artists themselves also deserve to use the internet and live life with some protection from our wildest thoughts getting delivered directly into their laps as well. The fourth wall protects everyone, and Hybe potentially mining fan fic data is just another chip away at it.

[jeewrites]

🍣 Questions Tag Game 🍣

Thanks for the tag @toomanytookas, @katareyoudrilling!

do you make your bed? absolutely... not.

what’s your job? ceramicist aka I play with mud

if you could go back to school, would you? I also teach others how to play with mud (part-time) so it feels like I can never really escape school. Was thinking about taking a drawing/painting/graphic design class to bring something new to surface treatments, but I need to get over my belief that I can't draw.

can you parallel park? yep. drove a hand me down mini van in a hilly city during college/early 20's and boy i could squeeze that sucker into anything. without a back-up cam!

do you think aliens are real? the universe is too vast for us to be the only ones, but I'm thinking more like microbes than little green aliens? who know.

can you drive a manual car? in an emergency, but I'm probably going to destroy the clutch.

what’s your guilty pleasure? i refuse to carry guilt for any of my pleasures after being guilted all my life for desiring things. 😂 Even though I am happily married, I enjoy taking myself out to the movies or out to eat.

tattoos? my skin (eczema) can't handle it, otherwise I totally would. i really love fine line tattoos, so I'd maybe get a tattoo of a bowl of overflowing noodles or something.

favorite color? blue like the deep of the ocean or orange like a Texas sunset

do you like puzzles? nopers, I do not have the patience.

any phobias? flying, stinging insects. I absolutely lose my shit and flail around and run away. I know you're supposed to stay still but the one time I did stay still I got stung by a bee right between my sunglasses and bike helmet. Then my face swelled up so bad. so, i run away screaming now.

do you talk to yourself? my inner voice is very loud, sometimes it comes out of my mouth lol.

NPT: I think I'm pretty behind responding to this, so if you see this and you haven't been tagged... Now ya are! 😉

[nerdygaymormon]

Why is it all about being gay for you? You have reduced yourself to just being gay. How sad you have made this your whole personality. Gay gay gay, isn't there anything else interesting or notable about you?

Based on your message, I could rightfully ask why you make being homophobic your whole personality? Why this focus on being anti-gay? Isn't there anything else about you that would be interesting to share?

This is a themed blog, I'm writing my thoughts, feelings and experiences as a queer person who is LDS, so me being gay is going to be a frequent topic. My Facebook account doesn't look like this blog because it doesn't have the same focus.

Have you seen the world we live in? It is designed for straight people! There are messages about being straight everywhere. Practically every television show, movie, book and graphic novel features straight characters. Straightness is highlighted in commercials and on billboards. Straight straight straight everywhere I look. Straight people assume everyone else is straight unless they're told otherwise.

I heard Ben Schilaty say to imagine you went on a cruise and after it had left port you discovered it is a gay cruise. Everywhere you go on the boat there are gay couples and there's activities themed for gay culture. People keep coming up to ask if you're cruising alone or if you have a partner. Everyone is assuming you're gay. How would you respond in this situation, would you be telling other cruisers that you're straight?

It's well-known that for someone who is in a minority situation, that minority identity becomes important to them. An interesting example is when someone moves to a different country from where they grew up, they can experience an identity crisis and wind up emphasizing their identity in ways they never did when they lived in their home country. Like a British person living in American who has the Union Jack flag and a picture of the king in their home when they didn't have those things while living in England.

I attend a church which is hyper-focused on non-queer identities, so of course my queer identity is going to be important there. All the church teachings about living a heteronormative life leaves me wondering "what about me?" "What will heaven look like for me?" "What is my purpose in life?" "How am I to experience joy in this life?"

I suggest the anon show a little compassion and just let people express themselves as they want. If you don't like what I post, move along and follow someone else's blog.