Archive of Our Own

Spring in Mondstadt is unlike any other.

Temperate and full of blossoming greenery, it’s a difficult thing not to appreciate it all. Though Rosaria doesn’t consider herself much of a believer, she will say Barbatos really outdid himself, particularly this spring.

The flowers and shrubbery around the church come to life first — as expected, Barbara and some of the other sisters say — and the rest of Mondstadt follows suit. Although Rosaria prefers the solitude of night, her walk to the chapel that morning is hard not to enjoy.

The changing of the seasons brings not only life and warmth, but also illness.

The chapel has been busier than usual, particularly the infirmary. With that, the deaconess Barbara has been nowhere to be seen until late in the day for the past week. So when she comes traipsing into the library wing that afternoon, Rosaria is taken more than a little off-guard.

“Is it just me, or is it unusually warm?” Barbara begins with a sigh, fanning herself with one hand. Rosaria barely glances up.

“Feels just fine to me,” she replies, flipping through the papers she’s stuffed into a holy book detailing the job she needs to take care of this evening. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, just another little thing passed down from Vile that the Cavalry Captain can’t be bothered with, but Rosaria is eager to avoid prayer, and thus buries her nose in her notes.

“I wonder if I have a fever,” Barbara thinks aloud, and Rosaria sighs, shutting the book with a thunk to give her a once over.

There’s an obvious flush to her cheeks, and Rosaria can only frown at the sight.

“Come here,” she instructs her, setting her book aside. Barbara wanders over obediently, plopping down on the bench next to her. Rosaria hums, reaching up with one gauntleted hand to check her temperature.

“Do I feel hot to you?” Barbara asks, her voice lilting with concern. Rosaria only scoffs.

“You’re the healer, you should know when something is wrong,” she tells her seriously, pressing a hand to the young woman’s flushed forehead. She whimpers, soft and sweet.

Rosaria freezes. 

Something is definitely wrong.

“You absolutely have a fever,” she exclaims, pulling her hand back quickly, and Barbara lets out a little sigh, blinking up at her blearily. “You shouldn’t be working.”

“I’m okay,” she insists. “I just, I have things I have to finish today, and I—”

Something flares inside of her at the argument, something she doesn't wholly understand, yet still makes perfect sense.

“They can wait,” Rosaria interrupts sternly, crossing her arms and giving the blonde a serious look. “You’re ill.”

“But I want to be here,” Barbara argues, and Rosaria isn’t ready for the latter half of the sentence, “with you.”

She frowns.

Vanilla.

She crinkles her nose and glances around them. “Go home, deaconess. It won’t kill you to take a day off.”

“But—”

Rosaria's sharp gaze falls upon the other woman once again.

“If you won’t listen to me, perhaps I should call for the Acting Grand Master?” Rosaria offers — a threat that works instantly. Barbara’s blue eyes go wide.

“No! No, that won’t be necessary,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Just… let me lie down in the infirmary for a bit. I’ll ask Grace to take a look at me.”

“Fine. Don’t blame me when you get sicker,” Rosaria retorts. It’s difficult not to feel a pang of irritation at Barbara’s stubbornness. 

With you.

Rosaria mulls over the words in her head.

Strange, she thinks. What could make the girl say something so foolish?

She shouldn’t be focused on this anyway, not when she has a job to do tonight. Barbara is still staring at her, and Rosaria just raises a brow expectantly. She extends an arm, pointing towards the wing of the church where the infirmary is.

“Go,” she instructs sternly, and it’s impressive how quickly Barbara obeys, clambering to her feet. 

Rosaria watches her wander away, waiting until she’s out of sight again to pick up her book.

-

Spring it may be, but Mondstadt’s nights still have a chill to them — not enough to seep into Rosaria’s bones, but still enough that she succumbs to the occasional little shiver. It’s late now, the moon shining high in the sky. Dim shadows creep across the city, and the streets have emptied, the population already retreated to the warm comfort of their homes.

No better time to take care of business, Rosaria muses.

It’s nothing trying, just a visiting merchant with unscrupulous ties. Regardless, the business he’s been conducting has lain mostly with a particular group of treasure hoarders known to cause problems on the road to Mondstadt, and both Kaeya and Rosaria herself are eager to keep an eye on him.

She’s almost half-way through the city when she hears footsteps edging in on her, and goes still. They do not falter, hasty and somehow clumsy sounding, and when Rosaria turns to see who it is, she is taken entirely by surprise.

There stands the deaconess, looking askew and wide-eyed, her hat missing and feet dragging.

“Barbara?” She mutters, and when she acknowledges the girl, she approaches with quick steps. For a moment, she wonders if something is wrong and then she smells it: like freshly baked vanilla cake, layered in cream and honey, so strong it nearly knocks her off her feet. 

A haze clouds her mind, and she does her best to rid herself of it, shaking her head as if to clear the fog away. She has to lean against the stone wall nearby, doing her best not to inhale the tempting sweet scent.

“What are you doing out here?” Rosaria demands in a hushed, furious whisper.

“Rosaria,” the deaconess breathes, relief flooding her voice. “I was looking for y-you.” Her big blue eyes are fixed on the other nun, staring up at her in a way that makes Rosaria want to devour her. Even in the dim streaks of moonlight, she can see a flush dusting her pale cheeks, and she wants to watch it deepen.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Rosaria warns, swallowing thickly as the scent of honeysuckle and vanilla cream wafts over her in waves.

“But I need…” Barbara murmurs, stepping closer, and oh, does she smell divine. Rosaria has to suppress a shudder, mouth watering. Every animal instinct inside of her aches to let Barbara closer, to feel her warmth and bury her nose into that pretty blonde hair. She clenches her fist, metal gauntlets digging into her skin so hard she’s sure she breaks skin.

“Deaconess,” she says sternly, and Barbara’s eyes dilate. “You’re going into heat. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Heat?” She murmurs, as if surprised.

Barbatos. Had Grace checked her over at all?

In a stroke of stupidity, Rosaria reaches out to feel the young woman’s forehead again, only to be rewarded with two things: fiery hot skin against hers and a sweet little moan. Rosaria would be lying if she said it didn’t affect her in some kind of way.

“Feels nice,” Barbara says softly, and Rosaria watches her eyes flutter shut in a dreamy way. She pulls her hand back as if she’s been burnt, staring at the young woman, thoughts jumbled between instinct and self-preservation.

“Barbara, you need to go home,” she says. “Now.”

Those blue eyes pop open, and Barbara practically pouts. “But—”

“What do we have here?” A coy voice comes suddenly from the darkness, and the sound of boots on stone follow. Rosaria tenses, one hand going for the knife on her garter, and it’s only when the Cavalry Captain steps out of the shadows does she relax.

She had been so caught up with the deaconess she didn’t even notice him approach. Lucky, she thinks for a moment, that it wasn’t a threat.

“Captain Kaeya,” she greets stiffly.

“Sister Rosaria,” he says, polite and charming as ever, though his gaze falls to the blonde who’s practically curled into her. “And the deaconess Barbara.”

It takes him a fraction of a second before he goes stiff, no double able to smell the blossoming omega’s scent, and he frowns.

“Barbara?” He asks, stepping forward, and she only clings tighter to Rosaria at his approach, burying her face into her bosom. “She’s—”

“Presenting,” Rosaria interrupts, unable to stop herself from settling a possessive hand on the girl’s back when Kaeya comes closer. “I know.”

“Where did you find her?”

“I didn’t. She found me.”

Kaeya blinks.

“Pardon?”

“She sought me out,” Rosaria elaborates. 

“Rosa,” Barbara murmurs.

“Oh, my,” Kaeya says quietly, and he has the decency not to sound amused. The look on his face is far from it, and Rosaria believes that, for once, Kaeya might not find such a situation entertaining.

“I think,” Rosaria begins, gently trying to pry the young woman away, “she needs medical attention.”

“Indeed,” the captain says, and peers at the two of them. There is something unreadable in his gaze, and Rosaria can’t stand the way it makes her feel… territorial. Barbara buries her face further into the swell of Rosaria’s bosom, and it’s difficult to suppress a shudder at the sweet-smelling omega nuzzling against her.

“Ah, why don’t we take her to Jean for now? We can send for Grace in the meantime.”

For some reason, the notion of dropping Barbara into another alpha’s care, even her own sister, makes Rosaria bristle.

“And what will the Acting Grand Master do?” She asks, voice lilting in annoyance. Kaeya’s brows twitch almost imperceptibly, peering at her. 

“Well, we certainly can’t leave her out here like this,” Kaeya explains, head tilting as he watches her with something in his gaze. “She should be somewhere safe, no?”

“Are you saying I’m a danger to her?”

Yes, something screams distantly inside of Rosaria. You will ruin her. You will taint her.

A ghost of a smirk twitches at his mouth for an instant. “No. I don’t think you’re dangerous — not to our little omega here, at least.”

Part of her wants to argue, but Kaeya continues before she can.

“But shadows move,” he says, “and Mondstadt’s idol would be better under a… watchful eye.”

Rosaria groans internally.

A phrase to let plans slip for the night.

“Fine,” she acquiesces, although begrudgingly. 

“Come, deaconess, sister,” Kaeya offers with a little smile, disarming as always. “Why don’t we take a little walk?” 

-

This late at night, Rosaria is surprised the Knights of Favonius headquarters aren’t empty. But here they are, the three of them sitting in Jean’s office, and now the librarian has joined them. For what purpose, Rosaria isn’t entirely certain, but the beta seems entirely at place, perched atop a clear spot on the Acting Grand Master’s desk.

Barbara has long since been escorted home, by a reliable beta guard in particular, someone they can trust to keep her safe and stay quiet. That leaves the four of them, engrossed in a mix of silence and polite conversation — the weather, what the day has brought, paperwork.

Rosaria has simply had enough.

“Can we cut to the chase?” She finally asks, and has to stop herself from rubbing at her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on from the whole situation. 

“Indeed,” Jean agrees, leaning on her desk. “How anyone missed this is beyond me. Omegas are often easier to predict presentation in.”

“No one reported anything?” Kaeya inquires, fiddling with a pile of papers on the table he’s seated at, legs crossed.

“She had a fever earlier,” Rosaria informs him, and she can feel Jean’s gaze turn to her. “I smelled vanilla, but I didn’t think it was anything to be concerned about. I sent her to the infirmary at the chapel.”

“And did she go?” Lisa asks.

Rosaria nods. “Without much argument.”

Kaeya taps his fingers on the desk in front of him, shifting in his chair. “Hm. Do we have any emergency suppressants available?”

“I’m afraid they may not do as much as we’d like, to be quite frank,” the librarian interjects. Rosaria frowns.

“Why not?” She asks.

“Suppressants don’t always work for an omega’s first heat,” Lisa explains, folding her arms over her chest. “It might be able to calm some of the effects, but when someone’s secondary gender presents, the first time is always the worst.”

“We can always see if Albedo has anything in stock,” Kaeya offers. 

“Not a bad idea,” Jean murmurs. Her brows are furrowed tight, worry evident on her face.

“And how will that help?” Rosaria inquires, and she hates the way she sounds defensive about it all.

“Our Chief Alchemist works with more potent things than emergency suppressants,” Kaeya elaborates. “The likelihood of him being able to create something to help out the poor girl is quite high.”

“You know that there’s only one thing that will help her,” Rosaria exclaims bluntly, and the room goes quiet. The discomfort is palpable, stretching heavy between the four of them, and it is Jean that finally speaks first, clearing her throat.

“Sister Rosaria,” the Acting Grand Master begins, “I thank you for your assistance with this matter. Why don’t you go have a drink at Angels Share with the captain while we wait for Albedo to arrive?”

It’s difficult not to bristle at the obvious dismissal, but Rosaria has no qualms with the other alpha. She drums her fingers on one knee.

“I believe they’re closed this late, Acting Grand Master,” she exclaims, “but I can see where I’m not wanted.”

“That’s certainly not the case at all, Sister Rosaria,” Jean assures her, pushing her chair back and standing. “In fact, I would like to keep you involved.”

All eyes in the room turn to her.

“In what way?” She asks carefully.

The eyes turn back to Jean. 

“Whatever way Bar—the deaconess sees fit.”

If it wasn’t such a serious situation, Rosaria might have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“I’m sorry?” She manages, arching a brow. Jean clears her throat, reaching up to fiddle with a stray hair fallen from her ponytail.

“Well,” she begins. “Ah—”

“Why don’t I,” Kaeya interjects, sensing the awkwardness that threatens to draw up and consume the room, “take Rosaria here to have a drink, and we wait to see what the Chief Alchemist can do for our dear deaconess, hm? The rest can wait. Don’t you think, Acting Grand Master?”

Jean seems a little taken off-guard by the interruption, but composes herself quickly. She gives him a sharp nod.

“That might be for the best,” she admits.

“And I will go seek out our brilliant alchemist,” Lisa offers, slipping off of Jean’s desk. “Let’s leave Grace out of it this evening, shall we?” She gives a warm smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I agree,” Jean proclaims, then sinks back into her chair. 

“Rosa,” Kaeya says, catching her attention as he stands up, straightening his vest. He nods towards the door.

“Acting Grand Master,” she bids adieu politely, and turns to Lisa with a nod. “Lisa.”

“We’ll keep you updated,” Lisa informs her, and when Rosaria turns her gaze back to Jean, she’s staring at her desk, a distant look in her eyes. Kaeya crosses the room, and Rosaria stands and follows.

The door closes behind them with a quiet click, and back out into the city they go, but Jean’s words still echo in her head.

In whatever way the deaconess sees fit.

Rosaria isn’t so sure she likes the sound of that.

-

If there was ever a time where she could use a drink, now would certainly be it.

The walk to Angels Share is quiet, and dare Rosaria even say uncomfortable. She’s not entirely sure what to say at this point, mind turning with possibilities, and chooses instead to stay silent until they reach the bar.

It’s warm and welcoming inside, even when devoid of patrons, and the door jingles behind them as they enter.

“We’re closed,” Diluc calls without turning around.

“Ah, even for your favorite customers?” Kaeya teases, slipping onto a barstool at the counter, and it’s only then that the redhead turns to glance over his shoulder.

“Especially for you,” Diluc replies dryly, eyeing him. Kaeya merely tuts.

“So harsh.”

Diluc turns, grabbing the rag draped over his shoulder and crossing his arms. “What do you need?”

“A drink,” Rosaria says flatly, and Kaeya outright laughs at her sour mood. Diluc eyes her carefully.

“I just cleaned up. Try not to make a mess,” he tells the two of them, grabbing two glasses from the shelf and setting them on the counter with a gentle clink.

“The regular for me,” Kaeya requests. “Rosa?”

“Wine. Any kind.”

“First batch of dandelion came in today,” Diluc says, leaning down and reaching under the bar for the bottle stashed there. “Will that do?”

“Fine.”

Diluc wastes no time uncorking the bottle and pouring a surprisingly generous amount into one glass before he sets it in front of her.

“And will you be telling me why you’re here so late?” He asks.

Kaeya makes a noise, hanging his head and leaning on the bar for a moment before he glances over at the woman beside him.

“Rosa?” He offers.

“Difficulties at the Knights headquarters,” she says vaguely, and Kaeya scoffs. Diluc slides a Death after Noon to the captain, who takes it with a little smile. It’s hard not to miss the one Diluc offers in reply, there for half-a-second before it’s gone again.

“I get the feeling that’s not the whole story,” the bartender guesses astutely, turning his gaze back to Rosaria.

“The deaconess has presented,” Kaeya informs him, and Rosaria brings her drink to her mouth, savoring the first long sip. “And intends for Sister Rosaria here to be her alpha.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Diluc asks, as if the situation isn’t rife with problems. Rosaria sets her glass down.

“I’m not sure I should be involved,” she exclaims candidly.

“Don’t be foolish,” Diluc retorts without hesitation. 

“Luc,” Kaeya chastises with a laugh, and across the bar Diluc merely folds his arms across his chest. “What I think he means is don’t be so harsh on yourself.”

Rosaria frowns, gauntleted finger clinking against the wine glass in her hand.

“The Acting Grand Master clearly doesn’t want me involved,” she says, reminding Kaeya of Jean’s standoffishness prior.

“I don’t believe the Knights have any say in the situation,” Diluc interjects. 

Kaeya merely sighs. “For once, I believe Master Diluc is correct,” he agrees. “After all, I think Jean just wants the deaconess safe and sound, and you’re no threat to that.”

Rosaria lets out a dry laugh at that, continuing to nurse her drink. Kaeya sips his own, and the three lapse into silence. Diluc turns back to whatever he’d been working on before they interrupted him — stocking fresh shipments, apparently, if the open box on the floor behind the bar is anything to go by.

Kaeya finishes before she does, to no one’s surprise.

“So,” he begins, leaning on the bar and turning towards her.

“‘So’, what?” She says.

“To think the deaconess has chosen someone such as yourself,” he comments, and Rosaria finds she doesn’t much appreciate the tone of his voice, teasing and light-hearted.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing, captain,” she complains.

“I always knew she was fond of you, but not quite this fond,” he says. She stares ahead at the wall behind the bar.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Kaeya quips, and Rosaria is hit with the urge to strangle him. Diluc snorts across from them, turning to fix them both with a disbelieving look. “But Barbara can be a discerning individual, even if she’s a little… green on some things.”

Kaeya pushes the stool back, sending wood scraping across the floor.

“Alright. I’m going to go check in with Jean. See if Albedo has cooked anything up,” he announces, smoothing his cape back. He offers a look to Rosaria. “You should swing by later.”

Rosaria hums, thumbing at the rim of her wine glass. “Maybe. See you, captain.”

“Play nice, you two,” he warns, though there's no heat to his voice, only something lilting in amusement.

With a wave over his shoulder, Kaeya is off, the bell on the door jingling as he takes his leave. That leaves Rosaria and Diluc alone, and she has no doubt he will have something to say about the situation.

The silence stretches between them until it’s too much to take, annoyance bubbling in her gut.

“I know you want to say something, so just say it already,” she pushes him.

A brow raises.

“And what, pray tell, would I have to say?”

“Ragnvindr.”

“Fine, fine,” he acquiesces with a wave of his hand, and then he hums, gaze falling to the counter. She can practically see the gears in his head turning.

“So, she intends for you to be her alpha,” he says, as though mulling over the concept aloud, leaning onto the bar. 

“Apparently.”

“Have there been any signs before this?”

Rosaria frowns, and truly has to think about it.

And when she thinks about it, she hates that it makes sense.

Ever since Spring arrived, the deaconess has been at her side like a lost puppy — pleading to work together, following her to lunch, asking for her company — and Rosaria never thought twice about it. 

“I’m not sure,” she lies, not bothering to look up. She can feel the man’s gaze on her, studying her, but if he doesn’t believe her, he doesn’t say anything.

“And what do you intend to do?”

Rosaria focuses intently on a chipped piece of varnish on the bar. She wants to tell him it’s none of his business, that he isn’t involved, but can’t bring herself to. Instead, she wraps her fingers around her glass and brings it to her lips.

“Are you aware this won’t simply go away on its own?” Diluc inquires, and Rosaria takes a deep breath.

“Unfortunately,” she replies.

“Do you intend to break her heart?”

That catches her off-guard. She glances up. “Either way it goes, I’ll break her heart.”

“And do you love her?” He asks, as if it’s truly so simple. 

Rosaria frowns.

Does she?

Love is… complicated. Love isn’t for people like her, people with blood on their hands who work in the shadows.

Still, she tries not to think about the smell of vanilla and those bright blue eyes.

“I care about her well-being,” she explains very carefully. Diluc’s crimson gaze bores into her, and she wonders if he'll call her out for her half-truth. “But you know it’s not that easy.”

“Of course,” Diluc says with a nod. 

“We're different people. You know what it's like to work with your own set of rules.”

Diluc hums, and lapses into quiet for a long moment.

“We all make life or death decisions when it comes to protecting what we love,” he finally says. “But the hard truth is that our transgressions don’t make us less worthy of good things.”

Rosaria’s brows furrow tight, looking at him. He pours more wine into her glass.

“It must sound strange coming from someone such as myself,” he notes, letting the pale liquid pour. “But sometimes you take a chance on something — someone — and things just… change.”

“Change doesn’t come without a price,” Rosaria argues, watching the wine swirl in the glass. “You of all people should know that, Darknight Hero.”

Diluc slips the bottle back onto its place on the shelf.

“Indeed I do.”

“Then how can you be so sure it’s worth it?”

Diluc goes quiet then, watching the nun pull the half-full glass to her lips and drink.

“You can’t,” he finally exclaims. “But if you truly care about her, then… perhaps a risk is worth it.”

Diluc leans against the bar, and she glances up. He fixes her with an even look.

“If we’re to be damned for our sin of loving the wrong person, then the Gods will judge us later. For now, we deserve peace.”

Hm.

Rosaria hums and takes her glass, allowing the final sip of her wine to slip down her throat. 

“Thanks, Master Diluc,” she finally says after a long moment. “For the wine.”

She goes to retrieve her pouch of mora, but Diluc just takes her glass and shakes his head. “On the house.”

“Good luck,” he calls. “With whatever you choose.”

Rosaria hums, and gives him a fraction of a forced smile before she turns and pushes open the door back to the night.

-

It’s cold out.

Colder even than earlier, Rosaria thinks as a chilled breeze blows around her. She stares up at the building Barbara lives in. At the top right where her apartment is, the light is still on. Rosaria frowns. That means she’s still awake, still suffering at the hands of her body, and she hardly envies the girl.

Rosaria remembers her own presentation — the searing ache she felt, feverish and out of her mind, alone — and can only imagine what an omega’s first heat is like, especially the young girl who foolishly believes she is the one to fix things.

There is a yearning, somewhere deep inside of her, that wants to fix it, wants to take care of Barbara. Rosaria wants to write it off as an alpha’s instincts, but it’s something different, something… softer. There’s a warmth to it, quiet and gentle, and it wars with the familiar desire to take and feel and fuck. 

A shadow crosses Barbara’s window, and that warmth simmers, not low in Rosaria’s belly, but in her chest — some kind of affection that makes her want to run.

She does the opposite.

Even the front door of Barbara’s little apartment smells like her. Rosaria wonders if it’s because her presentation is that intense, or she’s already so tuned to the omega’s scent. A hand raises to knock at the door, one, two, three times.

“O-one moment,” Barbara’s voice calls, and Rosaria hears a shuffling before the door creaks open, just the slightest bit.

“Rosa?” The deaconess asks in surprise. 

“You’re more coherent.”

Coherent, indeed, although she’s still flushed. Rosaria can see a light sheen of sweat dampening her face, some stray blonde curls clinging to her cheeks. She tries not to think about how badly she wants to brush them away and behind the curve of her ears.

“The alchemist gave me something. Jean said it would calm me down a bit.”

Rosaria studies her gaze — hesitant yet hopeful — and clears her throat.

“Can I come in?” She finally asks, and the weight of it almost feels like she’s drowning. Those blue eyes stare up at her in surprise, and then Barbara nods, just once before she takes a step back, swinging the door open so Rosaria can enter.

The whole apartment is drowning in her scent, and it takes everything in Rosaria’s power not to let it affect her.

“What… what made you come by?” She asks after she closes the door behind them.

Have you changed your mind? 

Rosaria knows what she’s really asking, and swallows thickly. 

“Have you made a nest?” She inquires, attempting to maintain composure. Violet eyes fall on the deaconess, who nods. “Let me see.”

She doesn’t refuse her. Rosaria knows she’s in no state to, but still, something inside of her preens at the young woman’s obedience, as if it truly has anything to do with her. Barbara leads her down the hall, to her room, where her scent is strongest, almost overwhelmingly so. Rosaria has to fight the blood threatening to leave her brain, and clears her throat.

There, in the corner of her room is her bed, a makeshift nest thrown together atop the blankets.

“It’s… a little messy,” Barbara says, and it’s almost endearing how unsure she sounds of herself. She fiddles with the blanket she has draped over her, nerves clear as day.

“It’s just fine,” Rosaria tells her, in some attempt at comfort. She’s out of her wheelhouse with this one — none of the omegas she’s bedded have ever been like this, have ever been Barbara. It’s been all teeth and tongue, fulfilling desire, and to have Barbara present her nest like this, so sweetly, as if she needs help, makes Rosaria’s instincts claw at every fiber of her being.

“I just—”

“Here,” she interjects suddenly, pulling at the fabric attached to her headpiece. She slips it away from the spiked garb, folding it over one hand and extending it to the deaconess, whose breath catches.

An offering.

The implications are impossible to miss, and Barbara reaches up, stopping halfway. There’s uncertainty in her eyes, focused on the burgundy and crimson fabric hanging in Rosaria’s grip.

“I won’t bite,” Rosaria attempts to tease, but it only earns a flick of the eyes, Barbara’s gaze rising to her face. She stares in silence, and Rosaria watches the way she sucks her lower lip between her teeth.

I want you to, she can practically hear the young woman say.

“Go on,” she encourages her, nodding at the makeshift nest and carefully depositing the fabric in Barbara’s hands. 

She watches as Barbara fiddles with the pile of fabrics, huffing as she tries to organize it, almost. In one hand, she still clutches Rosaria’s veil, shuffling through her nest as if she’s looking for the perfect place for it.

The reality of the situation sinks in then, and it’s almost too much to bear. This poor omega, in her first heat, struggling with her instincts, and here Rosaria stands, at a distance, watching like she’s some sort of voyeur when she’s supposed to be here to help.

“Here,” she says, then takes a few wide steps across the room, settling on the edge of Barbara’s bed. Slipping the veil from Barbara’s hand, she turns to nestle it into the pile of clothes spread across the bed. “Better?”

“I don’t—”

Barbara whines, likely more out of instinct than anything else, and scoots closer, on her knees.

The sweet honey omega scent drowns her thoughts and Barbara makes a needy little noise, soft hands coming to cup Rosaria’s face. Such a simple gesture, so tender it makes her heart ache.

She flinches away, and Barbara goes stiff.

“Did… I’m sorry… I thought—?”

“You didn’t think wrong,” Rosaria interrupts, then sighs. “It’s just…”

“Did I do something wrong?” Barbara whispers, and she looks upset, brows furrowed tight and a frown on her pretty little lips. Rosaria swallows.

“Never,” she says. 

Does she tell her?

Does she admit her faults, how she doesn’t deserve someone so pure? Or does that make her look weak, when all Barbara needs is someone strong and capable?

“Are you sure?” Barbara presses, shifting awkwardly underneath her. “I know I’m not like you, but…”

Rosaria’s brows furrow.

“Not like me?”

“You’re strong, and can handle anything, but I…”

Barbara’s cheeks are flushed even more now — from her heat or the conversation, Rosaria isn’t entirely sure. She can’t help but reach out and run a gauntleted finger over her face, taking her chin between two fingers.

“You’re perfect,” Rosaria interrupts. Her voice is stern, leaving no room for argument, and Barbara just looks up at her with those bright eyes. 

She kisses her.

Barbara tastes as sweet as she smells. Kissing her is like the finest dessert, fresh vanilla cream on her lips, and Rosaria is a woman starved. 

The deaconess parts her lips first — an offering — and Rosaria is loath to disappoint. Her mouth is hot, a sugary treat, and she rumbles with a muted moan when their tongues meet. She’s clumsy, Barbara, but she makes up for experience with eagerness, and Rosaria is almost impressed with how well she follows her lead.

An obedient, quick-learning omega.

Rosaria’s cock throbs.

She wants to pull her into her lap, press her down and feel her grind against her hardening erection, but kisses her harder instead, running a hand over her shoulder and brushing aside the thin strap of her nightgown.

It takes only an instant for her to grow increasingly more wanton, hands struggling to find something to do as she gasps with each movement of their mouths together.

“Rosa,” Barbara whispers suddenly, pleading between kisses, “please, it hurts.”

“I understand,” Rosaria says, threading fingers through blonde curls as she peppers kisses over Barbara’s flushed cheeks. “It won’t go away until you’re knotted.”

“Will you help me? Please?” The deaconess murmurs, still clinging to her. There’s desperation in her eyes, blown wide with desire, and Rosaria swallows thickly at her plea.

There’s no reason to deny her, she thinks, not after what’s transpired tonight.

All the affection she’s tampered down, all the admiration she hides comes out at once, and her heart feels so full she fears it may burst. It’s too much, and all she can do to handle it is lean forward and kiss Barbara, hungry and eager.

With strong hands, she presses Barbara down into the bed, slotting their bodies together and despite everything, it feels right.

Below her, she squeaks, hands going to clutch at Rosaria’s dress. Her scent intensifies just from the movement, body warm and inviting. She sounds so lovely, smells like a dessert waiting to be devoured, and it makes Rosaria’s head fuzzy. 

She wants to bite.

Barbara whimpers, wriggling beneath Rosaria’s frame, and tilts her head away to break the kiss.

“I’ve never—how do we…”

“We’ll start easy,” Rosaria explains, then presses a kiss to her cheek. “I can touch you, and make it feel better. Just lay back.”

Like a good little omega, Barbara obeys, clambering up the bed as Rosaria rids herself of the gauntlets she wears. One by one, she takes them off, gently setting them on the bedside table, and Barbara merely watches.

“It aches,” she complains, shifting uncomfortably.

“I know.”

“Will you—?”

Barbara’s thighs part, and Rosaria can smell her.

Magenta eyes drag up the length of Barbara’s legs, nightgown clinging to her sweat-damp body, and when she reaches the apex of the young woman’s thighs, saliva pools under her tongue.

She’s wet, so much so that Rosaria can see the outline of her sweet little cunt through the nightgown. The sight elicits a low groan from her, greedy hands wandering from her ankles to her hips, and as much as she wants to strip her naked and feast, something tender inside of her reminds her that this is Barbara’s first time.

“Please,” Barbara murmurs, heat-drunk and shuddering. Rosaria glances up, met with a half-lidded look, desperate and weak, and oh, she can’t help herself.

She shifts quickly, caging Barbara underneath her again, and kisses her. 

Everything inside of her screams. 

She doesn’t deserve this: this beautiful, sweet omega laid out below her, untouched and wanton. She’s bright — like the Mondstadt summer sun — and Rosaria is something dim and dark, undeserving. It’s difficult not to falter for a moment, stilling against Barbara, and she is struck with guilt, until she remembers Diluc’s words.

If we’re to be damned for our sin of loving the wrong person, then the Gods will judge us later. 

Abyss take her, then, for her adoration only surges with every inch of the young woman she touches. And touch she does, sliding one hand up Barbara’s thigh.

“Oh,” Barbara breathes, shivering below her. 

“Is that good?”

“More,” she murmurs.

“Someone’s eager.”

Barbara flushes.

“I’m teasing. I know. It’s alright. Just relax,” she coos, and slips her hand up the young woman’s thin nightgown, tugging it up in an attempt to undress her. Barbara shifts, lifting her hips to make it easier, and then reaches out to tug at Rosaria’s own complicated clothing.

She’s not paying any attention though, not with the deaconess bared fully to her.

She’s so beautiful.

Lithe and petite, unscarred soft skin, and Rosaria’s gaze drags over the work of art displayed to her. Her thighs shine with wetness, squeezed together desperately for some sort of relief, and her breasts, oh, Rosaria is no better than a lecherous man.

“You’re so lovely,” she confesses, and watches as Barbara flusters at the compliment.

“You’re l-lovely, too,” Barbara says shyly, and it makes Rosaria hungry.

It’s all a blur then, undressing. Her gloves fly off into a corner of the room, fumbling buckles undone and rushing to join Barbara in her nakedness, to feel the other woman pressed against her.

And, oh, she’s so soft and warm.

Flesh against flesh, Rosaria mouths at the curve of Barbara’s neck, teeth dragging over her scent gland, and the young woman below her shudders so hard she momentarily thinks she might have just come. When a hand finds her throat, Barbara arches into the touch, and Rosaria lets herself feel. 

Her pulse thuds erratically under Rosaria’s tongue, and she reaches down to gently grope one pert breast, rolling her thumb over the hard nipple. 

“Oh,” Barbara breathes, and every inch of her skin Rosaria explores earns her a shiver. 

“Would you like me to touch you?” 

“A-aren’t you already?”

“You know what I mean,” Rosaria murmurs against her shoulder, and makes sure she does, dragging her nails down the soft flesh of Barbara’s stomach, to her navel. It earns a little gasp, the skin pebbling under her touch, hairs raised on end. She stops just above the young woman’s mound. “Here.”

“Please, please, please,” Barbara begs without hesitation, hips arching up to seek friction mere inches lower, and Rosaria is loath to deny her. She parts her fingers into a v-shape, sliding down and over Barbara’s sticky wet center, over the swell of her throbbing, neglected clit.

She’s drenched, and it sends a hot wave of arousal straight to Rosaria’s gut. She groans in time with one of Barabara’s sweet gasps, gently spreading her puffy lips apart to take her middle and ring finger to her hole, feeling the way it flutters, eager to be filled.

Rosaria would be lying if she said she wasn’t just as eager, but she knows that she can’t take Barbara yet. A virgin omega in heat might be able to take an alpha with relative ease, but she doesn’t want a moment of discomfort for the sweet girl spreading her legs beneath her.

“You’re a mess,” the nun exclaims, stroking up to take her fingers to Barbara’s clit, swollen and no doubt sensitive, judging by the way the young woman’s whole body lurches at the first touch.

“Alpha,” Barbara moans, tilting her head to the side, and out of the corner of her eye, Rosaria sees her blue eyes flutter shut in bliss.

“You’re doing well,” she praises. “Does that feel good?”

Barbara nods furiously, and Rosaria can see the flush that was once adorning her cheeks spreading to her neck, creeping down over her collarbones.

“Good. Just focus on how it feels.”

With that, Rosaria does the same and focuses, fingers gently circling over her clit. She feels her twitch against her ministrations, hips jerking with every upward stroke. She doesn’t mean to be a tease, but stops after a mere moment, earning a whine.

Barbara heaves for breath. It’s hard not to smile at the sight, but Rosaria schools her face into a neutral expression, instead choosing to bring her slick-covered fingers to her lips and taste the omega’s arousal.

It’s delightful. 

“Rosa!” The deaconess calls out in embarrassment.

“You taste sweet,” she tells her easily. “Let me have more.”

“Wh—”

Barbara cuts herself off with a gasp when Rosaria shifts, quickly making a home between her legs, laying on her stomach.

“Will you let me?” She asks, and her hands hook under Barbara’s knees, parting her legs for better access. The smell alone is enough to make Rosaria’s cock leak, neglected and aching against the rough fabric of the blanket below her.

Barbara just watches her, blue eyes blown wide, and the nun leans in to press a kiss to one thigh, gaze flicking up to the young woman’s face.

“Rosa, I—please,” she finally says, and with her permission, Rosaria tilts her head to press a kiss to her folds.

Oh, gods.

She’s hot and wet and sweet, and Rosaria’s head spins.

She moans, burying her face into Barbara’s core. She tastes like the sweetest vanilla cake, a sin Rosaria wants to die for. The young woman’s thighs tremble, reflexively spreading wider to offer her more room.

She’s never tasted anything so sweet, so addictive, and it’s in that moment that she wonders if truly, Barbara is made for her and her alone. The thought of anyone else indulging in the young woman’s sweetness like this makes her growl, the sound vibrating through Barbara, who moans, hips jerking against Rosaria’s face.

Her tongue swirls around Barbara’s little clit, peeking out from its confines, then down to her hole, leaking sugared honey. She can’t help the way she licks at her, eating her out with vigor, and Barbara gasps when the tip of her tongue plays at her entrance.

“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s—”

Snug and slick, she presses the muscle of her tongue into Barbara’s waiting pussy, who lets out another little gasp. Rosaria can feel her throb and flutter around her tongue, and she groans, burying herself deeper as she holds the deaconess’ thighs open wide.

“Please, I want—” Barbara whimpers, a pathetic, adorable sound and she moves against Rosaria’s mouth, hips rolling as she fucks herself on Rosaria’s tongue. Fingers curl in her hair, holding her in her place, and when the nun’s gaze flicks up to Barbara’s face, she’s met with the sight of the prettiest, fucked out expression, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted on a sweet moan.

Rosa wants to praise her — to tell her how well she’s doing, how beautiful she looks — but instead redoubles her efforts, letting out a muffled noise as she fucks her tongue into her, nose bumping against her swollen clit.

“I’m—”

Rosaria hums, tongue curling, and it sends the deaconess over the edge. The keen she lets out is obscene, filthy and wanton, and it makes Rosaria’s cock throb, so hard it hurts.

She gives no reprieve.

From her twitching hole and back up, her tongue laps against Barbara’s pulsing clit, gentle and soft, until she feels the way she jerks away from the sensation, and places a wet kiss to it instead.

“Don’t stop,” Barbara says, and Rosaria wants to tell her that she has no plans to, but instead shifts, bringing one hand to the wet heat of her cunt, fingers slipping over the length of her slit.

Barbara is so filthy wet that Rosaria’s single finger slips in without a hint of resistance. They moan in tandem, Barbara at the sensation of being breached, and Rosaria at the notion that she’ll have her cock inside of that — soon.

The second finger is a little less easy, but that doesn’t mean Barbara doesn’t shake and clench around her anyway.

“Rosa, Rosa, oh, Barbatos—” 

To hear her take the name of Mondstadt’s beloved god in vain, she must well and truly be gone with desire. 

Rosaria fingers her slowly, curling them against that familiar spot inside, and she almost swears the little omega beneath her gets wetter at each pass. Her moans go higher, and higher, hot cunt fluttering around Rosaria’s fingers as she works at her. Unable to stop herself, Rosaria presses in a third finger, and Barbara gasps.

“Please,” she murmurs breathlessly, and then her hips begin to move of their own accord. Rosaria watches, hypnotized as the deaconess rolls her hips, fucking herself on Rosaria’s fingers. The sight of her hole stretched wide around her digits makes her head go fuzzy, mouth watering, and she dives back in to lap at her clit, swollen and hard.

Barbara’s shaking fingers return to Rosaria’s hair, holding on for dear life as she rides her tongue. Every movement incurs a high-pitched whimper, pathetic and adorably arousing. Rosaria’s eyes flutter shut as she focuses on her task, licking and sucking at her, and lets herself seek some of her own pleasure, rolling her hips against the bed below her and reveling in the friction against her neglected cock.

“There,” Barbara cries suddenly, and stops moving entirely. Rosaria groans, stopping her fingers at the spot she’d been working at, rolling in circles, and the deaconess lets out the prettiest noise.

She sucks on her clit, gentle enough that it won’t overwhelm the young woman, and it punches a litany of ‘ah-ah-ah’s’ from Barbara. With every passing second, Rosaria feels her grow tighter, walls fluttering around her fingers, and then suddenly, with a cry, Barbara comes again.

After a long moment, Rosaria sits up, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and smooths her palms over Barbara’s thighs, slow and careful.

“It’s not — not gone,” the young woman manages between heaving breaths, a puddle of her own slick forming on the mess of a nest below her.

“What isn’t?”

“The ache,” she complains, so deliriously aroused that she slips a hand between her thighs, allowing her fingers to skim over her own pussy, and whimpering quietly as she does.

“You need to be knotted, remember?” Rosaria reminds her, and Barbara nods, the look in her eyes distant. “Are you ready for that?”

Something sparks to life in her gaze again, and she sits up on her elbows, glancing down to the space between their bodies, and when she lays eyes on Rosaria’s cock, she makes a choked little noise.

Her eyes go wide. “Is that… will that fit?”

In any other case, Rosaria might have laughed.

“I’ll take it slow,” she tells Barbara, though every part of her just wants to stuff the young woman full in one quick thrust. “And you tell me if it hurts.”

She shifts between Barbara’s thighs, spread wide with slick smeared over the soft flesh, and lays her cock against the young woman’s hot center. The reaction is immediate, Barbara gasping as she slides the tip over her swollen, abused clit.

“Ready?” She asks.

“R-ready,” Barbara replies with a weak nod, fingers going to grasp at the mess of her nest below her.

The first inch nearly kills Rosaria.

When the head of her cock breaches Barbara’s slick hole, she feels so divine that Rosaria has to bite down on her tongue, the pain the only thing to keep her in check. Despite the preparation, the young woman is snug, insides pulsing around her.

“Rosa,” Barbara whimpers, one hand coming to cover her mouth. Her body is drawn taut with tension, trembling as Rosaria’s thick cock sinks into her. “Alpha—”

She can’t tell if it hurts, or if it’s heaven. Neither can Barbara, it seems, her hips rocking on the fraction of Rosaria stuffed inside of her. To her surprise, the deaconess reaches down with one hand, petite fingers swiping over her clit.

“Don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

Rosaria’s composure crumbles.

In the next moment, her hips jerk forward, and she stuffs the deaconess full in one fell swoop. Barbara wails, her back arching into a beautiful bow, and then comes. Hot silk flutters around her, squeezing tight, and she’s almost certain she feels a gush of liquid, dripping over her cock and down her balls.

Archons have mercy.

The idea of it nearly sends her over the edge herself, knot swelling to life faster than it ever has before. Barbara shudders below her, still rocking her hips aimlessly, and Rosaria can’t bring herself to let the girl do all the work.

“Just like that,” Rosaria purrs, angling her hips and then moving.

The next thrust into her warmth is like a drug. They both moan, Rosaria low and hungry, and Barbara high and fucked out. She reaches up, desperately pulling Rosaria down and kissing her. Focus split, Rosaria is able to fuck her proper, no longer overwhelmed by the sensation of her tight walls hugging every inch of her cock.

It’s messy, the way they kiss. The sweet Barbara she knows is gone, in her wake a needy little omega, whining and tilting her hips up to meet every thrust, and momentarily, Rosaria worries she’s in love.

Maybe she is, some distant part of her thinks, but she doesn’t have time to contemplate the topic, not with what Barbara says next.

“Claim me, Rosa, please,” she begs breathlessly, sweat-damp arms clinging to her. Rosaria growls above her.

“I can’t,” she says.

“Please—”

“I can’t,” she repeats, though her mouth finds the column of Barbara’s neck anyway, lips grazing over her scent gland.

Vanilla and honey, vanilla and honey, vanilla and honey.

She wants to bite, wants to break skin and take Barbara as her own forever because she is a greedy, hungry monster, but her head is clear enough that she knows she simply cannot. She will never forgive herself. Knot pressing against Barbara’s slick hole, she’s already far gone enough.

“Rosa,” she gasps. “Is that—?”

“You can take it,” Rosaria interrupts, a hand finding its way between their warm bodies to thumb at the young woman’s swollen, hard clit. A shattered sound escapes Barbara below her, cunt squeezing around Rosaria’s aching dick, and it takes everything within her power not to just shove her knot in, to feel those velvety walls milk her dry.

“It won’t fit.”

“Shh. Focus.”

Barbara huffs and whines, squirming beneath her, and Rosaria is quick to pin her to the bed. She shifts on her knees, pulling the other woman closer, and she leans down, fumbling for one hand.

“Rosa,” she whispers.

“Such a sweet omega,” Rosaria finally praises, her instincts flaring, hot and possessive. “So good for me.’

“Just for you,” Barbara confirms, and the weak little way she says it makes Rosaria growl.

Another thrust, and her knot swells more, body desperate to lock into its mate and fill. Rosaria groans, fingers squeezing Barbara’s against the bedspread, and the young woman arches and tilts her hips in the most delightful way, and oh—

Her knot pops in and Barbara wails and comes.

Rosaria is done for.

She gasps, jagged and breathless as the omega’s cunt flutters and squeezes around her. She can feel Barbara’s clit pulse under her thumb in time with her insides, and Rosaria’s teeth dig into her shoulder, inches away from her mating gland, dangerously close to breaking skin. Buried deep in the deaconess, she gives one final thrust and then spills inside of her, hot and heavy.

Bliss comes first.

Then regret.

Her head clears as her cock pulses inside of the young woman beneath her, eyes fluttering open to see Barbara’s face, flushed and tear-stained.

Oh.

“Barbara,” she murmurs, “look at me.”

Those blue eyes peer up at her, bright like Cider Lake on a sunny day, and just as wet. More tears spill down her face, and she hiccups.

“Rosa,” she whispers. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you—”

Petite hands come to grasp her face gently, and Barbara leans in, pressing the sweetest, softest kiss to her mouth, and for a moment, Rosaria feels nothing but guilt.

Gods.

What if she’s ruined her?

“Rosaria?” Barbara murmurs a second later, brows furrowing as she takes in what must be a faraway look on Rosaria’s flushed face. She hums in response, shifting them to the side with her knot still locked inside of the precious omega.

“How do you feel?” Rosaria finally asks after a long silence, the both of them still catching their breaths.

“Sore,” she confesses shyly, and Rosaria sighs, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from the soft curve of her jaw. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she apologizes.

“No, no… it was…” Barbara trails off, eyes going glassy for a moment. “Good.”

“Good?”

Barbara merely nods, glancing away.

“What now?” She whispers. Rosaria frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… what’s… what do we do?”

“My knot has to go down,” Rosaria explains, “and then we can clean up.”

Barbara’s hands fall to Rosaria’s shoulders, shifting awkwardly, and her cunt clenches around her with the movement. It’s difficult to swallow down a groan.

“And… then?”

Rosaria’s brows furrow.

“Do we… I mean…”

Barbara looks frustrated, conflicted, and raises her eyes to meet Rosaria’s, a thousand questions in her gaze.

Oh.

That’s what she means.

Rosaria blinks, tired and lazy, and reaches up to brush away a strand of blonde hair away from her sweat-sticky cheek.

“And then I stay with you during your heat.”

“And… what about the next one?”

Rosaria’s heart does something wholly unhealthy in her chest.

“What about it?” She asks carefully. Barbara just looks at her.

“Will — will you be there, too?” She asks softly, and Rosaria can hear the way her voice lilts hopefully. She’s remiss to deny her, burying her face where her shoulder and neck meet, inhaling her sweet scent, more muted now than before.

She swallows thickly.

“If you’d like,” she manages. She feels Barbara nod against her.

“Please. Stay,” she says, her voice small and vulnerable, and all Rosaria can do is bring one arm around her and pull her in tighter.

“All right,” Rosaria acquiesces, tilting her head to press a kiss to the curve of Barbara’s warm cheek. 

“You’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.”