hey guys... sorry i've taken a little break... i've had a lot of stuff going on and not a lot of motivation. i am alive tho lol. also heres pics of minmo to make up for me being gone <3
thinking,,,, shigaraki who always comes to this one specific video game store because you work there. the selection isn't massive and most of it is preowned retro stuff but it doesn't matter as long as you're the one that's telling him about some dogshit game he's never heard of before. you seem into it and that's enough for him to walk out of there with a copy. he's shy, so it's hard for him to strike up a conversation with you, but you make talking easy once he's got you going. you aren't scared of him. you don't think he's gross. it's nice. he's found out about a lot of cool games because of you. he can't play any of them because he doesn't have the console, but he won't tell you that. he'll keep going in and blowing league money on old games he'll never play because he gets to see you smile at him.
Dabi is the human version of a heating pad, all you have to do is take his hands and place them where it hurts and he will do his best to take the pain away
-đ»
PLEASE!! but also i have a chronic tummy illness and this happens all the time so he would never be free from my grip lmfao
single parent!reader who was in a relationship with dabi pre-lov. dabi left reader right before reader found out they were pregnant. unable to contact dabi since he seemingly didn't want to be found, reader was left to raise the child on their own. fast forward a few years. the lov has been established for a while. toga, out at the mall, sees reader and their child, who bears a strong resemblance to dabi. upon returning to hq, toga recounts seeing "a cute kid that looked a lot like dabi!" he chokes on his drink.
saw someone say that after you fuck nanami you'll wake up to coffee, breakfast, and a stock portfolio and that you should just throw out your birth control. i have never agreed with something more in my life.
as ofc the reader is a naive nun, they had no idea what to do with this growing situation between their legs. in fact, reader believes that this was some sort of force was trying to tempt them away from their duties. considering how well they trust childe as he was the one who took them in, they go to him for help. little would they know, reader would end up bent over the podium, taking his massive cock over and over and over again while reciting a prayer of salvation that he deemed necessary for this ritual
yes yes yes, this indeed... it's easy to feed you lies when it comes to sex and intimacy when he's starting with a total blank slate. he doesn't have to go through the process of reversing or overriding what you already know when you don't know anything... he very well could convince you that children are made when two people who love each other hold hands lmfao
cw: afab + gn reader, reader is a nun and childe is the head priest. religious themes/talk, emotional manipulation, reader is Desperate for approval, dubious consent (reader consents but because of the idea of "i need to do this" rather than active sexual desire), abuse of power/authority, no foreplay/childe pushes into you when you're kinda dry
also crossposted to ao3 if you prefer to read content there.
It is not within a nunâs line of duty to indulge.
Your tiny little monastery bedroom is noticeably devoid of any furniture or decorations beyond your bed, desk, dresser, and bedside book compiling all of the churchâs values and teachings in their service to the Tsaritsa. You get by with only what you must; you donât waste your money on frivolous, unnecessary items to enhance your appearance or show off any sort of social standing. You sustain yourself with simple, basic foods like potato soup and bread; any food item more fanciful would be better either gifted to the homeless or to the Tsaritsa Herself as an offering.Â
If you have the money to throw at purchases of expensive clothing, fine dining, or fancy interior decorations, then you have the money to donate to the church or otherwise put to better use than downright wasting it on yourself.Â
Just as it is not their duty to indulge in the more tangible pleasures of mankind, a nun neednât concern themselves with relationships outside of that of the one between them and the Tsaritsa. Needless to say, romantic and sexual relationships are explicitly forbiddenâ such depraved encounters only serve as distractions from your one true duty: your service to the Tsaritsa.Â
Save for the Archon Herself, no figure has been more vital to the development and enhancement of your faith in the Tsaritsa and Her kindness, loyalty to the Greater Cathedral of Snezhnaya as a gesture of gratitude for all the kindness it has blessed you with, and insistence on always being the best representation of Her you can be than the monasteryâs head priest Tartaglia.Â
Itâs hard to remember anything of note from your life prior to joining the Churchâ Tartaglia took you in about two years ago out of the goodness of his own heart as a member of the clergy; he mentioned that he is but a vessel for the Tsaritsaâs divine kindness and that it is his duty as a direct representative of her to pay that kindness forward. Turning his back on a destitute, helpless being, someone created in the Tsaritsaâs own image at thatâ youâre just as much a creation of Her as he isâlike yourself at the time would have gone against everything the Church stands for.Â
A whispered promise to deliver you from the vices and horrors of man and into the warm, loving embrace of the Tsaritsa was all it took for you to accept Tartagliaâs invitation to the Church. You would have accepted any offer of food and shelter at that timeâ whether or not it was simply luck or divine fate that it was Tartaglia who found you, cold and ill and alone, is beyond your comprehension. As far as youâre concerned, itâs bothâ who alive could show you more kindness than Tartaglia has throughout the past two years?
In addition to his otherworldly kindness, Tartaglia has shown you no shortage of patience since he took you in and insisted to personally teach you in the gospel of the Tsaritsa and personally train you in all the duties of a good, faithful nun. His affectionate nickname of âlittle lambâ has stuck with you ever since he first called you a lost one: a wayward, helpless, lost little lamb in dire need of the Tsaritsaâsâ and hisâ guiding hand. He dressed you in the warm, soft dress and robes customary of all nuns, a massive upgrade from the tattered, worn clothes he found you in. When he had asked you if they fit your body comfortably, you didnât tell him that they felt a little tight around your bust or your hipsâ beggars canât be choosers, and all of his teachings of gratitude and thankfulness would go to waste were you to have the audacity to complain about a brand-new, clean, fresh outfit, wouldnât they? Who on Tsaritsaâs green planet would even dream of complaining about anything when they previously had nothing?
You know better. Even if you didnât know better before, you certainly do nowâ Tartagliaâs gentle guidance has taught you at least that much.
âLittle lamb,â Tartaglia calls, resting a hand over yours as you go to flip a page in the Scripture book youâre holding. A chronicle of the Tsaritsaâs historical feats and accomplishments in addition to her dream for all of Snezhnaya, rather all of Teyvat, serves as the basis for the Churchâs teachings, and Tartaglia personally ensures that you donât fall behind on your readings by meeting with you every Monday evening. The desolate silence of the Cathedral after hours serves as the location for these studiesâ it allows you to immerse yourself in the grandiosity and significance of the Cathedral while you read.Â
He clears his throat and repeats himself. âLittle lamb, stay focused.âÂ
You smile sheepishly like a child caught sneaking a treat. âIâm sorry,â you offer, glancing over at Tartagliaâs gloved hand resting on your bare one.
He hums. âSomething on your mind?âÂ
Ah. Heâs always been able to see right through youâ whereas someone else may have just concluded that you were growing bored of reading after having done so for three hours straight, Tartaglia deduces that your mind is elsewhere. He deduces not that youâre bored of the Tsartisaâs divine accomplishments because youâre a good, dutiful, dignified nun who would never, ever tire of hearing of Her feats. He can confidently assert that youâre everything a nun representing the Tsaritsa should be because he personally taught you everything you know.
Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Allowing your mind to wander when you should be focusing on Her teachings is mortifying enough, but being caught daydreaming by Tartaglia is leagues more humiliating. âItâs nothing, I promise. Surely nothing more deserving of my attention than our studies.â
Tartaglia hums again as if heâs in thought then moves to close your book, resting his hand on the front cover. âWell, if itâs important enough to distract you from our readings, then it has to be worth hearing out, right?â
You didnât think of it that way. Finally forcing yourself to make eye contact with him, you take a deep breath to steady yourself and begin speaking. âItâs embarrassing, really,â you force a shaky laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood⊠or maybe itâs to distract you from the fact that the useless, wasteful wandering of your mind just caused Tartaglia to end your lessons early.Â
âItâs just that IâŠâ Your voice grows quieter and quieter the more you attempt to speak.Â
Tartaglia leans in closer, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. âYou can say it, little lamb.âÂ
âItâs humiliating, truly,â you finally continue. âBut recently I⊠Iâve been having thoughts in need of purging, sir. M-More frequently than usualâ theyâve only grown in frequency and intensity since our last cleansing.â
Thoughts in need of purging or, in other words, sexual thoughts that youâve been taught to never, ever indulge because nuns do not indulge in lust. At first, the thoughts were infrequent enough to the point where you could effortlessly ignore themâ even just the slightest distraction buried these thoughts completely. You could opt to sweep the Cathedral or tidy up your quarters and the thoughts would be gone just like that.Â
The timeline gets fuzzier the more you attempt to recall it, but you guess that those thoughts first appeared about three months or so following when Tartaglia first took you in. You didnât actually confess them until about six months into your mentorship under him, and he was quick to offer you a method to truly purgeâ not just suppressâ your mind and heart of these lustful thoughts.Â
However, those thoughts have yet to be truly purged. You must be brokenâ the thoughts have only increased exponentially following each and every cleansing session; whenever you and Tartaglia finish, your thoughts only grow more intense than before and you find yourself caught between the shame of confessing your moral degradation and the guilt of living silently with your thoughts. The idea of confessing that despite all Tartagliaâs patience and kindness with you and the cleansing rituals, your thoughts have only grown lewder and darker and nastier⊠how would that make you look? How could you ever look him in the eye and tell him that you fear youâre getting worse despite all his attempts to help you get better?Â
Despite your internal conflict, you always, always confessedâ youâve probably had about seven of your private cleansing sessions with Tartaglia now. He taught you to never keep sins a secret, whether you actually acted on them or not.Â
He doesnât say anything for a momentâ the minute of silence feels like thirty years and you begin to brace yourself for the firm scolding you deserve rather than the warm understanding he continues to undeservingly spoil you with. You wouldnât be upset if he were to reprimand you or punish you for your incessant sinningâ itâs what you deserve more than you deserve even an ounce of his kindness.Â
That scolding never comes, however, and once those metaphorical thirty years have passed, he clears his throat, removes his hand from yours, and leans back in his seat. âI understand, little lamb. Iâm glad youâre being honest about it.â
âHey, look at me,â he coaxes. You didnât even really notice that your gaze fell down to your lap rather than looking up at him until this request; surely it would have been more polite and sincere of you to look him in the eye while confessing the depths of your sins.Â
âIâm sorry,â you rasp, hesitantly (and finally) looking him in the eye per his request. âIâm so sorry, sir. Youâve been doing so much to help me curb these thoughts and they still⊠I stillâŠâÂ
He shushes you with a soft shh, taking your hand in his once more and smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. âSweetheart, itâs my job to help you and guide you. You know that. If I were the type to give up on you for failing once or twice or even a hundred times, what kind of mentor would I be? Little lamb, our cleansing sessions are important to me because I can see that youâre improving.âÂ
His kindness knows no bounds. Whereas he could have chosen to curse you or damn you for your incessant lustful thoughts, he instead expressed patience and understanding.Â
Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man.Â
âI guess that means another session is in order, huh, little lamb?â Tartaglia prompts you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. âWeâll continue our readings tomorrow once youâre⊠less distracted.âÂ
You laugh hesitantly, having been reminded of the utter humiliation of interrupting your weekly readings before you finished them by being too busy having lustful thoughts instead. You slowly rise to your feet and make your way over to the center podium where Tartaglia conducts all of his sermonsâ your cleansing rituals always take place right here because itâs, in his words, the holiest place in the entire monastery.Â
Youâre mortified. Humiliated. Here you are, a stupid wench of a nun who canât seem to learn how to properly behave despite all of Tartagliaâs attempts at helping you. How long will you continue to test his patience, reverse his efforts, and take advantage of his kindness? When will you ever, ever learn?Â
The sound of Tartagliaâs chair sliding against the cool marble floor alerts you that heâs ready to begin as well. He makes his way over to you and stands just behind you, a strong hand settling reassuringly on your hip through the thin cotton of your floor-length standard dress.Â
He chuckles in a manner youâve never heard from him before. Thereâs an unsettling sort of darkness in the way he laughs, his right hand gripping your hip and the left seizing hold of your chin to turn your head slightly towards him. Were you in the position to even dream of questioning him, you would probably find yourself unnerved by the soundâ but you are in no position to doubt the man whoâs shown you nothing but kindness since the day he met you. When youâre a lowly, sinful, wasteful little nun, you donât have the right to doubt a man leagues more powerful, wiser, and well-versed in the Tsaritsaâs teachings than you are.Â
These are not the depraved cackles of a man outside of the Churchâs influence staking claim on a pliant, unwitting toy. Tartaglia would never steer you wrong, he would never do anything outside of your best interests as an aspiring member of the Church, he would never hurt you.Â
Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man.Â
He caresses your chin and hums a hymn you recognize from his sermons. âI must admit,â he whispers, gazing at you with an expression you couldnât begin to decipherâ itâs some mix of rueful bitterness, anticipation, and sadism. âIâve been guiding you for two years now, and to see progress this slow⊠it does make me wonder if youâll ever learn,â Tartaglia breathes against your lips, grinning salaciously in a way wholly unbefitting of a priest. âItâd be wrong of me to deem one of the Tsaritsaâs subjects a lost cause, butâŠâ
Chuckling again, he releases your chin from his grip and traces a thumb up the swell of your cheek. Is he checking for tears? âBut you?â He finally continues. âIâm starting to wonder if youâre even able to be redeemed. If itâs gotten to the point where you canât even focus on your usual readings⊠maybe youâre just not cut out for this sort of thing, huh?â
Practically immediately following the last syllable that leaves Tartagliaâs mouth, a pained gasp escapes you and your eyes go wide with a sort of frantic horror. âNo! Please, no, Iâll doâ Iâll do anything!â Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you beg him, plead him, implore him to help youâ you really, truly would do anything to remain in the Tsaritsaâsâ no, in hisâ good graces.Â
He says nothing when you drop to your knees before him in a desperate display of submission, clumsily knocking one of your feet against the base of the podium. A tear falls from your eye and you donât stop your body from throwing itself at his feet, clinging to the sweeping skirts of his robes like a lifeline. âPlease, sir,â you wail pathetically, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing as if your filthy, self-victimizing tears will wash away the grime of your sins.Â
While not undeserved even in the slightest nor totally unexpected, his sudden cruelty has you feeling more terrified than anything youâve ever experienced in your life. Has he finally run out of patience? Has the dutiful, kind, intelligent Tartaglia who took you in when you didnât have even a single mora to your name grown fed up with your stagnating progress? Have you gone backwards despite all the sessions youâve gone through with him? Is he beginning to view his decision to take you in as a mistake? Is he going to brand your salvation a fruitless endeavor, forsake you, and throw you back out onto the streets of which he first plucked you from?
No. You wonât let that happen. Heâs given you so much and you wonât let all of his time and efforts go to wasteâ you will improve. You will not simply indulge in his kindness while keeping it from changing your heart; you will take his teachings and allow yourself to be born anew as the spitting image of a follow of the Tsartisa.Â
âPlease forgive me,â you wail weakly, throat already feeling hoarse. With your mind gone and your desperation controlling your bodyâs autopilot feature, you bury your face in the fabric of his robe and continue to cry and cry and cry.Â
Unbeknownst to you, Tartaglia smiles.Â
âI forgive you,â he notes simply. âBut youâre not trying to earn my forgiveness, are you? Youâll need to work for Her forgiveness if youâd like to really show me what a sweet, dutiful nun you can be.Â
I forgive you, he said. You suck in a shaky breath and do your best to quiet your body-wracking sobs into tiny, pitiful hiccups and coughs instead. Tartaglia looks down at you with all the empathy of a stranger passing a wounded animal on the street and you buckle against him, your arms wrapping around his legs.Â
âLetâs not waste any more time, alright?â Tartaglia says with a grin, prompting you to bashfully apologize again and clumsily rise to your feet. He doesnât need to ask you to bend yourself over the podium because you know the process plenty well by nowâ the cleansing ritual involves partaking in behavior nuns are typically required to swear off, so if that fact alone doesnât inform you of the desperation of the whole situation, nothing will. If Tartaglia deems it fit to break your vow of celibacyâ and you would never even dream of questioning the logic behind thisâ in order to purge you of your sins, then youâll accept no matter what.Â
He hums in approval at your obedience. You catch on quickly⊠itâs a shame that you donât truly internalize his teachings and learn quickly.Â
âItâs okay, little lamb,â he reassures you, gently clutching your dress and lifting the fabric slowly until heâs exposed your ass to the cool Cathedral air. âYouâll do well tonightâ just as you always do, right?â
You will. Youâll do so well tonight. Youâll behave and perform better than you ever have because you need toâ itâs one thing to mess up your first time and a whole different thing to mess up your eighth time. You wonât let Tartagliaâs guidance go to waste, you wonât allow yourself to go to waste so long as he sees potential in you, and you wonât give up as long as Tartaglia continues to view you worthy of molding, changing, and shaping into the ideal nun.Â
Itâll be okay.Â
Itâll be okay.Â
Itâll be okay.Â
Slowly working your white panties down your thighs, Tartaglia gently parts your legs wider by knocking his foot against your ankles, all but kicking you open to give him some room to work with. You donât feel as wet this time as you have in past sessions⊠does that mean your bodyâs ridding itself of all your sin and lust? He taught you that wetness is a sign of your bodyâs cravings, and if youâre no longer growing wet⊠thatâs a good thing, right? The thought alone fills you with hope that you are not, in fact, a lost cause.Â
The initial push of Tartagliaâs cock into your entrance hurts. You donât deduce that itâs because youâre not all that wet this timeâ no, you decide that itâs because your sins are finally leaving your body and because nothing worth having ever comes easily. The pain is a sign that the ritualâs working as far as youâre concerned⊠and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief amidst your whimpers of pain as he continues to push inch after inch of himself into you.Â
âThank you,â you wheeze as your body attempts to relax around him. âThank you for taking pity on me and⊠guiding me.â Just as you bent over his podium without being asked, you clasp your hands together in prayer before Tartaglia can ask you toâ if you want to show him how obedient and receptive to his teachings you can be, itâs now or never.Â
It hurts, but you donât complain. Why would you ever complain when heâs trying to help you? Why would you complain when this is surely your bodyâs way of notifying you that your sins are leaving it?
âThere you go,â Tartaglia grunts, cursing under his breath because youâre so fucking tightâ heâll have to remind himself that youâre not really one he can skip foreplay with, especially not when youâre this much of a wreck. âI knew you could do it, little lamb. Iâve always believed in you, you know. Iâve always thought that youâre special.âÂ
You barely have the mental capacity or rationality to compare these praises to his prior comments about you potentially being a lost cause.Â
Your body adapts quickly enoughâ the stress of the somewhat dry entrance causes your body to quickly overcompensate, producing enough juices as possible in a limited timeframe in order to allow Tartaglia a relatively comfortable slide in and out of your pussy. He figures that nerves are to blame (or thank, in his case?) for your sudden insane tightness, your pussy squeezing up so tight he can barely manage to pull out. Oh sweet Tsaritsa, he thinks with a sleazy grin. This sort of nun is the best there is.Â
âYour prayers, little lamb,â Tartaglia reminds you, grinning when you gasp out another apology for being so pitifully forgetful. Itâs a prayer he himself wrote just for this occasion; just for youâ that should prove the depths of his love and concern for you enough, right?
Nodding your head in understanding, you bow your head down to hang between your arms. âMy Royal Highness, the divine Tsaritsa,â you begin quietly, crying out for Tartaglia when he blesses you with a thrust so deep you feel it all the way in your belly. âI plead for Your forgiveness. Forgive my transgressions and pardon my sins. Though IââÂ
A moan of Tartagliaâs name falls from your lips and cuts your prayer short. Your priest seizes hold of your hips and all but jackhammers into you from behind, slaps resounding throughout the empty Cathedral as you pitifully attempt to complete your prayer amidst the sinful, sinful pleasure Tartagliaâs drowning you in.Â
âThough I,â you repeat yourself, starting the sentence from the top. âThough I may be imperfect, and though I may act in ways unbefitting of a pupil of Yours, I beg for Your forgiveness.â
Another hard thrust has you faltering, and you fight off your instinct to unclasp your hands from their prayer position and grab at the podium for stability. Tartagliaâs hands grip your hips harder and harder to the point where you swear you can feel his fingernails through the fabric of his gloves.
âI vow to always act in a way befitting of Your image.â You squeeze your hands together so hard they begin to shake, your breath coming to you only in staccato gasps and strained whimpers. âAmen.âÂ
As you finish your prayer, Tartaglia hums in approval from behind you and rubs his hand over your ass in a soothing gesture. âThere you go,â he praises. âYou did such a wonderful job. I told you that you grow better and better the more sessions we have⊠perhaps we should make these part of our weekly routine rather than sticking to a case-by-case basis, hm?â
Whatever it takes to reach salvation and prove yourself to him. Heâs such a busy, busy man and him taking time out of his schedule to read Scripture with you is already more than you deserve, and here he is, offering to cleanse you of your sins weekly and keep you at your absolute purest.Â
Would it be sacrilegious to claim that Tartagliaâs kindness surpasses that of even the Tsaritsa Herself?Â