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You don’t remember how you end up at the steps of the Favonius Cathedral, the faint chatter of parishioners flitting by your ears. A bell tolls from the church, signalling the end of a mass. You turn your head towards the opening double doors. There, you recognize a few familiar faces. Barbara and Sister Grace stand at the entrance, faces alight in gentle smiles as they shake the hands of the people exiting.
The sight makes you recall this morning’s service.
Barbara’s tranquilizing voice lulling the church goers with the day’s chosen hymn. The choir made up of Sisters and parishioners alike echoing her in harmony. It would be beautiful if your mind wasn’t elsewhere.
Your attention is not on the blonde. Beside you, you can feel your mother’s hand, an iron grip on your forearm. She looks straight ahead towards the altar, her posture rigid.
The dread that vibrates in your bones surrounds you, so violent that you’re certain it could eat you whole. It was a mistake, telling your mother. Thinking you could confide in her the tumultuous feelings boiling deep in your gut whenever you saw Acting Grand Master Jean return through the front gates from a mission. Muscles coiled and sweat dripping down alabaster skin. Or the way your heart races at the sight of Captain Eula strutting past the Good Hunter, claymore perched in one hand, swinging past smooth, voluptuous thighs. Or the way the steady throbbing of your heartbeat dropped low, to the crux between your legs, whenever you went to return a library book, only for the librarian Lisa to greet you with a flirtatious smirk and a ‘hey cutie.’
At first you had brushed these feelings off as mere infatuation, simple admiration for respected (and objectively, very attractive) women. There was nothing sinful, or depraved about that. But as the feelings grew, and your thoughts unconscious thoughts became more … carnal in nature, your concern and panic had led you to your mother’s door, seeking some type of explanation, some type of solution.
Your mother was far from pleased at your confession, dragging you to the cathedral at earliest notice. To confess to the Archons your (in your mother’s words) ‘wicked’ desires. Your ‘sinful’ thoughts. Your ‘sick’ mentality. To repent and pray for absolution.
You are unsure if the dread you feel is a response to your mother’s revulsion or an unconscious reaction to these so called wicked desires. Perhaps your mother was right. That this line of thought was wholly immoral, and would have you punished by the Archons for even being brought into existence. So when your mother strongly suggests in her terms, orders in yours, for you to attend the evening confession, you are easily swayed.
You break out of your thoughts as the sun makes an unexpected break in the clouds just as the last bell chimes, mercifully drying the lingering wetness on the asphalt from this morning’s shower. The crowd of parishioners has long thinned, leaving Barbara and Sister Grace standing at the entrance in solitude, seemingly in light conversation. You uneasily stride up the steps towards them. Sister Grace greets you first with a gentle smile and nod.
“Are you here for evening confession?” Barbara remarks cheerfully.
You merely nod in response and Barbara’s smile, if possible, grows brighter. You wonder how someone can be so overwhelmingly happy all the time without exhausting themselves.
“Sister Rosaria should be in charge of the confessionals today,” Barbara dismissively gestures towards the cathedral. “The door towards the back on your left.”
You nod your head in quick thanks, your feet shuffling as you enter. The cathedral is quiet at this time of day, only a few stragglers left in the pews conversing quietly amongst themselves or knelt in silent prayer. You wonder if you could get away with lying to your mother that you fell at your knees in remorse, and Barbatos had forgiven you without hesitation of all your transgressions. Yet, there is a part of you that considers how this could benefit you. If you were in fact “sick”, and in need of guidance down the right path.
Before you know it, the door of the confessional is a step away from you, loosely shut with only the slightest opening on the side, looming over you like the blade of an executioner at the guillotine.
You swallow once to ease the stubborn dryness that has settled in your throat (and the even more stubborn ball of nerves that sits heavy on the back of your tongue) before pushing the door of the confessional open and taking a seat on the wooden pew inside. The door closes behind you with a soft thud.
Your tongue feels heavy as you struggle to remember your words.
“Cat got your tongue?” A low, smooth voice incants from the other side of the partition. Sister Rosaria. “Get along with it if you must, I certainly do not have all day for this. And I refuse to be here overtime.” There is a mild note of irritation in her voice that she does little to conceal.
“Sorr- My apologies,” You finally manage to speak past the knot in your throat. “Bless me sister, for I have sinned.” You refrain from breathing out a sigh of relief as the words begin to reappear in your head. “My last confession was a month ago.”
“Tell me your sins,” Rosaria drawls, disinterest apparent.
“See, sister, lately I’ve been burdened by… troublesome thoughts,” You say, perhaps a little too fast. “My mother brought it to my attention that these thoughts are not something I should be entertaining, and that I should seek guidance in… ceasing them.”
“Oh?” There is a tinge of curiosity in Rosaria’s voice now, smoothing out the harsh edges of irritation from before.
You are unsure if she has more to say, so you stay quiet, fiddling nervously with your fingers where they sit perched in your lap.
“Well? Will you elaborate on these thoughts or shall I use my imagination?” There is a teasing lilt to her voice. You think that if you could see her face she’d be smirking.
“I- The thoughts, they’re… lustful thoughts. Towards people who I shouldn’t be viewing in such an immodest way,” Just speaking the words out loud has warmth rushing to your cheeks. It is mortifying . But your mother’s face flickers at the front of your mind, pinched in repulsion and disapproval, and you push forwards. You must atone for your sins. “People like Master Jean, and Captain Eula, who deserve nothing but my utmost respect for their service to our city. N-not these unholy, dirty thoughts.”
“How interesting,” Rosaria is most definitely smirking now, you can hear it in her tone. What for? You’re unsure. Is your internal discord somehow amusing to her? “And what do you wish for the Church of Favonius to do for you?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m not sure. To help me. Cure me of these thoughts,” The words stumble out of your mouth in a slurry, your throat feeling even drier than before. All you can see is your mother’s face. All you can hear is her nasty, unrelenting words. Wicked. Sinful. Sick . “Give me a prayer to recite. Or a hymn to sing. I don’t know. Just… please, help me. Fix me .”
Rosaria seems to catch on to your distress, as the next time she speaks, her voice is considerably less smug, something akin to comforting. Or whatever the closest to comforting it is that she can provide.
“Let me enlighten you on something,” She speaks the words slowly, as if making sure that every word embedded itself into your skull. “These thoughts of yours. They’re completely normal for a woman your age.”
Your fingers pause in their fiddling, and your heart stops in your chest. Normal? How could something normal invoke such a response from someone who was supposed to love her unconditionally. To make someone look at her the way her mother had looked at her.
Rosaria continues, her voice becoming more stern. “They are not unholy. Or immoral. And anyone who tells you otherwise is merely twisting the will of Barbatos to fit their own agenda.”
You blink, attempting to see if you were perhaps day dreaming again, and will awaken outside on the steps leading up to the cathedral, about to head into confession. Or maybe you heard her wrong.
“As for prayer,” Rosaria resumes. “I only have one thing to say about that. Pray, not for the gods or the betterment of others. But for yourself.”
“I- I don’t understand,” You breathe out, voice shaky. There is the muffled sound of someone moving on the other side of the partition, before Rosaria appears in front of you, pale skin almost glowing in the dim candlelight of the confessional.
Unable to help the movement of your eyes, they travel along the long column of her neck, to her sharp collarbones, to her chest-
Rosaria interrupts your blatant ogling by clearing her throat. You feel your face darken in further mortification.
“Prayer should be done for the betterment of yourself. Because you desire to do so,” She steps closer to you, and you feel your throat close up. “Tell me. Do you really desire to free yourself of these thoughts? Because you consider them so immoral? Or is that the voice of someone else speaking for you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I think.” You manage to say, goosebumps rising on the skin of your arms as she steps even closer with every word. Later you would give yourself a reminder to congratulate yourself for speaking without your voice shaking.
The confessional is small enough that her knees press into yours from where you are sitting, and she is close enough that you can smell the faint but sweet scent of valberries emanating from her skin. Your throat bobs nervously.
“Perhaps I should help ease your confusion.”
If you found it hard to breathe earlier, it is nothing compared to now, as Rosaria sinks to her knees before you, still tall enough to grasp you by your shoulders and pull you into a searing kiss.
Your heart flutters uselessly in your chest, pulse pounding in your ears, your stomach, the crux between your legs.
She massages your lips with her own, prompting you to open them as she drags her tongue across your teeth, along the top of your mouth. Her mouth is hungry against yours, your lips sliding fluidly against each other as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.
You pant against her mouth as she bites your lip, gently enough to not break the skin, rough enough to hurt.
In search of more contact, Rosaria presses closer to you, backing up against something solid. The back of the confessional pew. You feel a pool of warmth spread between your legs.
One of her hands moves to the front of your chest, where buttons hold your shirt together against your collar. You are unable to do much in response but gasp, an uncoordinated mess of lust, as she quickly unbuttons the first few with deft fingers, pulling the rest apart until they open.
Her mouth moves from your lips to ghost along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collar, nipping and sucking lightly enough as to not leave dark bruises to mar your skin. You whine at the treatment, unsure whether from the soft, feather like touches or the fact that she isn’t mapping a visual across your unmarked skin with her lips and teeth.
Rosaria’s hand comes up to cup at a breast over your chest binding, squeezing hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs. The practical side of you panics at the thought of her unwinding them, closing those tantalizing lips around one of your sensitive nipples. The other side of you screams at her internally to do so. Please. Barbatos please, Rosaria .
Your prayers are answered as Rosaria makes quick work of your bindings, fast enough to almost be impressive if you weren’t so distracted by the cool air of the cathedral now touching the sensitive points. Before you can collect your thoughts, her hand cups your bare chest, thumbs brushing over the points.
A strangled moan escapes your mouth, before you remember that you are in a damn confessional. In the cathedral . Where there are still other parishioners and Sisters on the other side of the wall praying to the God you are forsaking in this very room. You press your lips together tightly, attempting to silence any other noises that wish to escape, but by the Archons does Rosaria make it difficult.
You feel more kisses on your neck and let out a shaky breath.
“So responsive,” Rosaria murmurs against your skin. “And I’ve barely touched you.” You whimper pathetically at the huskiness in her voice, low and wanting.
You are so aroused already, her fingers brushing against your hardened nipples with every stroke, her lips massaging your collar. There is a familiar tension building in your stomach, similar to how you would feel when Lisa would look at you with that intense gaze, her arms crossed as she spoke to you, “So did you have something you needed?...Or did you just come to see me?”
All thoughts of the brunette librarian are shoved back into the recesses of your mind as Rosaria, finally , closes her lips around one of your sensitive points, lavishing it greedily with her tongue.
“Fuck…” You pant, feeling unsteady on your legs even though you are seated. Rosaria wraps an arm around your back, palm tracing circles into the small of your back as her mouth switches to the other point.
Your hands tangle in mussed red locks, grasp at silky skin, pull at the soft fabric of a worn habit.
The archons are all knowing, visions only bestowed upon mortals recognized as worthy by their respective archon. The archons do not make mistakes . Yet you think they’ve miscalculated in giving Rosaria a cryo vision instead of a pyro one, with the way her fingers trailing across your bare skin leave flames licking anywhere she’s touched - along your collarbone, across your chest, down your waist, skimming your thighs.
The confessional is far too cramped for you to move freely, Rosaria’s body pressing you uncomfortably into the pew. Your back hits the wood as she presses in more aggressively, but that’s not where the pain you feel comes from. Your hips sting from where her nails have dug into, sure to leave a bruise. Part of you keens at the thought. Of her leaving her mark on you for anyone to see. Another part of you feels the sharp prick of shame. This is not what you came here for.
You wonder how you’ve ended up in this position, your mother’s harsh and bitter words from earlier still ringing in your ears. Wicked. Sinful. Sick. It’s a mantra, one you have held onto the entire walk towards the cathedral. You remember her unkind eyes, accompanied by the shrill teachings she unmercifully preached your entire life. That kind of behaviour was depraved. People like her were fated to be punished by the Archons unless they repented.
Your thought process is abruptly interrupted by her hands moving downwards past your waist, gently parting your legs as far as the pew will allow them to spread. You find yourself unable to protest. Unable, or unwilling, you’re not yet sure.
Rosaria’s cardinal eyes meet yours from between your legs, as crimson as the wine that had flowed down your throat at this morning’s service. You shiver at the intensity of her gaze, the way her eyes seem to worship the untouched place she has just exposed.
There are accolades that state charged currents of energy race through the veins of those who possess electro visions, sharp and tingling underneath the surface of their skin. The archons did not gift you a vision, but you think you might understand how it feels, the way her gaze sends bolting shocks of lightning through your body.
Her finger slowly drags itself along your slit over your undergarments, brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves that seemingly explode at her gentle touch. Her eyes never leave yours. You whimper.
“You’re soaked,” She breathes out, finger brushing over the sensitive nub again. You feel another gush of wetness in response, your face flushing a bright scarlet. She wets her lips. “Delicious.”
Wicked.
Rosaria’s lips move to mouth at you over the ruined garments, her slick tongue lascivious as it runs over your folds and warming the tiny bundle of nerves that is slowly growing harder. Your head spins as she sucks harshly on the fabric. You can feel a puddle starting to form on the seat beneath you, the physical manifestation of your desire seeping into the worn wood.
Sinful.
If you have come here for absolution, it was long gone by now. Her hands move from where they have been resting by your bare calves up to your knees, two slender fingers worshipping your skin with their icy touch in a way that makes you want to cry and arouses you at the same time.
One of her hands shifts to pull the ruined garment down to one of your ankles, her mouth quick to greet the newly uncovered skin. The first stroke of her tongue is wide and warm, caressing the whole length of your folds before placing open mouthed kisses. You let out a soft cry at her touch, breath harshly expelled out of your lungs. Currents of electricity hurtle through your body. For a second, you cannot remember how to breathe. A hand instantly shoots up to cover your mouth, followed by a fervent look of self-satisfaction.
“Be a good girl and keep quiet for me. The sisters are already on my case,” she murmurs, never looking away from your face. A finger forces its way between your lips. Your mouth unconsciously pulses, wet tongue flicking around the intruder. “I would hate to have to atone for being caught by participating in choir. Or prayer. Or something else entirely unnecessary.”
You don’t think any amount of prayer will help atone for sins you have committed in the last hour.
Sick.
Rosaria pulls her hand away from your mouth, her own dipping back between your legs. You barely muffle a choked moan when it touches wet, sensitive skin.
“Rosa- Rosaria-”
“Shh,” Her tongue draws slow circles around your clit. Your teeth dig into your lower lip to resist the urge to close your shaking thighs around her head. You can feel more than see the liquid arousal dripping out of you, painting her chin in a glossy sheen. You have made a mess of yourself, and now Rosaria can feel it - can feel just how slick and swollen and slippery you are.
“Rosaria-, Please… Please,” You’re not sure what you are trying to vocalize. Your head feels so light, your tongue heavy with words you cannot seem to speak. It feels like your body is being consumed by her touch but you want more, you need more. The depravity of the feeling is lost to you. Let the Archons punish you if it meant Rosaria’s touch could be seared permanently into your skin.
“Patience,” She breathes, pulling away for a second, her warm breath on the sensitive bundle makes your legs quiver uncontrollably. “You’ve been so good so far,” Her eyes meet yours again, gaze heavy with something akin to hunger. Like she wants to devour you whole. You shiver at the notion, looking away. “Let me reward you.”
Before you can even inquire as to what she means, her lips close around your clit, sucking tenderly. Fuck! Your head rocks backward, thudding against the wall of the confessional. You turn your face off the partition and bite your lip to stifle the moan that escapes you. The taste of blood fills your mouth but all you can think of, all you can feel, is her lecherous tongue brushing back and forth, up and down, lips suckling you in.
You make the mistake of looking back down at her, and what a sight it was. Rosaria’s face is flushed with exertion, almost as dark as her hair, eyes closed, and hands stroking your thighs. She is on her knees, devouring you,
worshipping
you.
“Oh Barbatos-” You gasp, barely able to form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. Part of you amuses itself with the thought of your mother’s reaction to you using the Archon of Mondstadt’s sacred name in the midst of such an unholy act. You choke in a shaky breath, the sensation starting as a rolling tidal wave in your core that pushes and pulls until it grows so large you are completely and entirely consumed by the feeling. Your toes curl and your back arches. Close. So close . You just need-
A slender finger pushes into the pulsing circle of your centre, and the tidal wave thrashes violently before crashing. Bright lights flare in your vision, and you see nothing but white as your body is wracked by tremors.
You are unable to stop the choked, wanton cries from tearing themselves out of your lips, but Rosaria seems to have anticipated that as she moves to connect your lips in a heated kiss. Her tongue dances with yours as your body shakes and trembles. Her finger continues to pump inside of you, coaxing a seemingly never ending wave of pleasure from your ruined body.
Rosaria detaches herself from your lips to mouth at your jawline, whispering drawled words of encouragement between nipping and sucking at your skin. Her finger continues to move lazily inside of you, her palm brushing against your clit at every stroke.
“Good girl,” Her tongue lavishes your pulse point. “Just like that.” Another sharp nip along your collarbone.
You feel the tail end of the orgasm approach as your tremors begin to taper off. Your body goes slack against the back of the pew, limp from exhaustion.
Before you can muster up enough energy to speak, to acknowledge what has just happened, Rosaria quickens the pace of her hand. You are wet enough that she can easily slide in a second finger, curling them upwards to brush against a spot that makes you see stars.
“Ro- Rosaria!” Your cry is muffled as she feverishly connects your lips again, pumping her fingers even faster.
You are still so sensitive from the first orgasm that the touch is bordering on painful, but the tension still builds in your stomach at her touch. A paradox of pleasure and pain.
“Shhh. I’m not done with you just yet,” She croons softly, voice low, adjusting so she can speak directly into your ear. “I don’t think I’ve thoroughly convinced you yet.”
For the love of all Archons . Your head is spinning now, vision blurry as her hand continues to pound into you, taking away your words with every determined stroke.
“Can you take 3 fingers, pretty girl?” Rosara whispers, warm breath on the side of your face. “I’m sure you can, you’re absolutely dripping .” Your face burns at her words, torn between utter embarrassment and overwhelming arousal. All you offer in response is to clench around her fingers desperately, taking her even deeper, as she slips in a third finger.
You look down at her fingers and the tension in your stomach becomes so tight you feel as if the pressure will snap you in half. Your lips are stretched obscenely around her fingers, juices travelling in glossy trails down the expanse of her forearms, forming a puddle on the floor of the confessional. It’s as mesmerizing as it is lewd.
“Do you still wish to pray away this feeling?” Rosaria teases, her tongue licking a slow line along the edge of your ear. Who knew you could be sensitive there of all places?
“I- No. Rosaria… Please , Oh Gods,” You beg with a sob, your body desperately seeking the relief of release. You’d normally be embarrassed. To plead so pitifully for something you could otherwise give to yourself in the comfort of your own bedroom, but you’re close, so close .
The edges of your vision are blurring into a myriad of spots; crimson, white, black, blue, the peak of climax just in sight.
“I am no God. I cannot read your mind,” Her idle hand coming up to toy with your nipple, rolling the peak between the tips of her fingers. “Use your words for me.”
Her words are doing wonders to your libido as you keen wantonly, feeling yourself climb even higher towards the peak.
“P- Please make me come ,” You breathe out. “Archons please, please, pleas- ”
You don’t get to finish that sentence as Rosaria adjusts her position again, red lips curling into a salacious smirk. The new angle makes your back arch off the seat of the pew. Before more pathetic pleas could leave your lips, you see her hands glow faintly with an azure tint. Her cyro vision.
“Shiver,” She murmurs. Freezing cryo energy surrounds her hands, one still pounding relentlessly into you, the other wrapped around your breast. The sensation of ice against you makes your mouth open in a silent scream, back arching so violently you fear that your spine cannot bend any further.
You are unable to speak. To move. To think . Your body in overdrive and your eyes rolling into the back of your skull. You feel yourself go lifeless and pliant in Rosaria’s arms, lungs struggling to pull in oxygen as another orgasm rocks through your body with all the gentleness of a wrecking ball, ice shooting through your veins. Your consciousness is slipping from you faster than you can chase after it, mind and body ruined beyond comprehension. Fucked beyond comprehension.
“Beautiful,” Rosaria praises, the small hint of wonder in her voice shadowed almost completely by pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Lips press a gentle kiss on your forehead. It is the last thing you feel before your vision goes black.
________________
You awaken in an unfamiliar room with cream walls and golden accents. The cot beneath you is stiff and uncomfortable. Your back aches almost as much as the apex between your legs.
“You’re awake,” A voice softly calls out a few metres to your left. You turn to see Barbara standing by the door of what appears to be an infirmary now that you’ve looked around some more. Her face is twisted in concern. “Sister Rosaria said you passed out in the confessional, perhaps from stress, maybe dehydration, maybe both. You’ve been unconscious for the last hour.”
Stress . Dehydration. Really, Rosaria?
“Anyway, we contacted your mother. She should be here in a few minutes to escort you home. Just in case you’re still feeling a little lightheaded,” Barbara continues gently, her lips now pursed in a subdued smile.
Fuck. Right. Your mother. What the hell were you gonna tell her?