Archive of Our Own

The Roundtable Hold was quiet, the afternoon sunlight casting near-tangible rays in the dust-thick air of the Archive as the Scholar pulled a tome off of a top shelf. Its spine was nearly too thick for him to grab, requiring him to use all of the strength in his hand to heft. This strange place was a wealth of knowledge, with most of the Hold’s occupants seeming to be completely unenthused about any of the leather-bound works from authors and explorers long gone.

The Raider, Wylder, and the Duchess had left the Roundtable Hold on an expedition to stave off the night, to attempt a defeat of one of the Night Lords, and with the sunshine, the Recluse, the Revenant, and the Executor were taking enjoyment of the open air of the cliffside.

Recluse, for her part, was settled in the graveyard, an open novel in her lap while the Executor worked on yet another painting of the Erdtree as Revenant was plucking idly away at her harp nearby the two, humming ever so silently to herself.

Inside of the Hold, Guardian was stretched out on one of the chairs, wing pulled over his lap. Where the chair had a comfortable amount of space for Scholar, it was dwarfed by the pinionfolk’s size - second only to the hulking frame of the Raider.

On the opposite side of the Hold, Ironeye was perched on the cliffside, absent-mindedly dry-firing his bow as he pondered the days; if one were to speak to him, he would seem crass, rushed - but Scholar could read him. The archer was merely concerned about his friend, with Wylder returning from his previous expedition severely wounded being a fresh memory to all of the Nightfarers.

Iron Menials were working their way around the rooms, tidying up around the space and working around the Nightfarers as they went around their own business. With an arm full of things to study, Scholar made his way into the chapel.

Upon his entrance, he was not surprised at finding the Undertaker settled on a pew, head bowed in prayer. He stepped lightly past her on his way to the altar, not wishing to interrupt her worship. His own workbench was completely full of his research, along with different vials and containers of teas. Several empty cups were also scattered across the desk, thus, making the altar in the room the only place for his current research. Was it blasphemous? Perhaps - but to Scholar, it was a worthy desecration.

He settled over the waist-height desk as if he were to lead a gospel, as if he were a Father, and cracked open one of the books - a tome of known magic, starting with Shabriri, and his downfall into the Frenzied Flame. The words drew him in, called to him, not quite as well as the Carian sorcery he’d studied from a young age, but well enough to him that he hadn't noticed the young woman’s gaze had changed to watch him.

A quarter of the way into the book, he heard the shuffling of fabric and looked up to see that the Undertaker had moved, stepping up to the other side of the altar table with her hands clasped in front of her body. She was modest, near silent, and completely unlike the young woman he'd found licking a sort of purple ooze off of the wall earlier in the week. His cheeks heated up at the memory of her back arched, hands planted firmly against the wall, and the overwhelmingly erotic noises emanating from her mouth.

Saliva was thick in his mouth, and he averted his gaze as he cleared his throat and swallowed. It was uncouth to be thinking of a lady of the cloth in that way; he was far too educated and held himself to higher standards than to allow himself to objectify her the way he was.

“Good day, my dear. How does this day find you?” he asked, closing the book in front of him and looking back at her. 

Her face was slightly pink, and there was a touch of uncertainty in her eyes, as it looked as though she had been crying. Her lips were bitten and swollen, and Scholar vaguely remembered seeing her chewing on her lip the day prior. She was silent for several moments, before looking behind him at the carving of a woman taking up the mantle of the room.

“How does one push beyond their nature, Scholar, and come to terms with a destructive reckoning to their way of life?”

Scholar’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head, studying her face. It was emotionless now, her careful mask of stoicism back on her face. It took quite some time for her to drag her eyes away from the effigy behind him to meet his eyes, but when she did, her stare was burning with an intensity, the gold and red nearly shimmering with a natural curiosity - one of the many things he had admired in her.

“I am unsure of what you mean, miss Undertaker. Would you care to dive deeper into the topic over a pot of tea?”

In truth, he always enjoyed moments with the young woman. She was prim, and proper, much unlike some of the other Nightfarers, and had a tendency to allow Scholar to do the majority of talking. She was exceedingly reserved, but her interest in his words never waned, those piercing golden eyes never showing a flicker of apathy. In the little time they've come to know each other, he'd found a comrade in the run-down and crumbling hold.

He had found her among the days following his arrival, standing by the edge of the island, where the land had broken off and the sea was a torrent below and upon greeting her, she had answered with a very mild, yet exasperated comment about how, despite her position and sacramental nature, she was treated just as any of the other Nightfarers. Any attempt at knowing her, at first, had been met with hesitance and awkwardness.

“Yes,” she answered his question after a moment of consideration, bringing him back into the present. “I believe I am in the mood for an herbal blend, if that is alright.”

“I believe I have a new blend, one that the Executor brought back from his last expedition into the Shrouded City. It is supposed to assist with clarity of mind and slumber.” Scholar closed the book in front of him, before stepping around the altar and walking towards the desk tucked away in the corner of the room. She fell in step beside him as he walked, gloved hand brushing against his own.

“You have been unable to sleep well,” Undertaker said plainly, factually. 

Scholar was not surprised by her comment, as several times, he had awoken to find her sitting in one of the wooden chairs, pulled up to his bedside in a silent vigil. Oftentimes, she was asleep, her head bent at an awkward angle, but other times she was awake with her sharp eyes watching his every move. “Yes. The night has often brought terrors. Either I am trapped in that forsaken crystal once more, or our merry circle is reaped and laid out in the Lake of Rot for eternity more.”

“You have begun to call for me, at times.”

Scholar stopped mid-step as those nights came flickering into his head. It was as if he were a youth once more, mind filled with lust and the need to feel another body against his, and the object of his attention was none other than the abbess following at his heels. He felt his face flush, suddenly ever grateful for the fact of his blood being pale, and swallowed the nerves rising in his chest. It was circumstance, surely, with the obscene display of her at the wall, and not due to his own sinful nature and attraction to the young woman.

Nevermind that he hadn't had such a reaction upon stumbling across the Recluse and Raider tangled up in each other's arms the first night he'd arrived to the Hold, nor the many times he found and promptly ignored Wylder and the archer tucked away into a private corner and trying desperately to keep silent.

Surely, it was nothing to do with how he wished to hold the Undertaker close, to spend his dying days curled with her in front of one of the many fireplaces, reading out his research to her in the hopes that she would carry it on. There were no other hands Scholar felt should have his research, nor would take his study of the Cleansing Tear as more than the mere delusions of a desperate and dying Albinauric.

“Perhaps I should not have said anything,” the Undertaker's voice came from behind him, meek and timid - just as it had been in the few conversations after their first meeting. “I only wished- I have been concerned. Your health is… I apologize if I have overstepped.”

Scholar turned to face her, forcing a warm smile onto his face. Her eyes, as unyielding as her hammer, were downcast now, and her face was a light shade of pink. If he were a more naive man, he would think she was enamoured with him, as he was her - and yet, with the comparison of Wylder, and Guardian, if one were to catch her eye, surely it would not be himself with his frail form and greying hair.

“No need for apologies, miss Undertaker, for you have done no ill. Your concern for my health is a blessing. I am unable to recall when I would have called out for you, but it is a sign of our friendship, yes?” His voice was soft, and he reached out one hand for hers. 

She grabbed it lightly, her fingers overlaying his, and stepped closer. “Yes, friendship,” she repeated after him as they both continued their walk to his desk. For a moment, a split second, Scholar thought he heard a tone of dejection in her voice.

He must be imagining things.

The two of them stood in silence as Scholar set about mixing the tea, summoning an iron menial to bring about a pot of clean, hot water. The herbs were dried and stored in the porcelain jars, and Scholar reached out for his mortar and pestle to begin to grind the leaves and berries into a rough blend. Undertaker watched patiently, before reaching her gloved hands for the pot of hot water delivered by the iron menial as Scholar pushed aside cups, papers, and his journal.

He motioned for her to set the pot down, and she did so, allowing him to dump the coarse leaves into the pot to begin to steep.

His breath hitched with surprise when her strong arms, gentle in their touch, wrapped around one of his arms and she leaned in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. Her beautiful golden eyes were closed, and Scholar could feel his heart racing faster. The candlelight of the corner flickered its pale flame on her face, and Scholar felt the urge to reach with his other hand to take her chin and tilt her head up, to press his lips to hers.

One of his guilty pleasures was, in fact, the very same novels that captured Recluse’s attention - filled with adventure, fictional life, and romance, but never before had his thoughts been filled with performing any of those cliche acts. Not until now, with the abbess hanging off his arm.

“Have you also been having trouble sleeping, my dear?” he murmured, allowing his mind a small victory as he pressed his cheek against the hood of her robes. She nodded in return, not opening her eyes.

“I am plagued, my Scholar. My God has given me a great power, and despite my devotion, I am still battling with impurity.” She sounded frail, despite the Scholar's own understanding of her being the opposite. But he turned to her, and guided her to sit in the chair at the desk. She complied without hesitation, and Scholar set about pouring the both of them a cup of tea, before grabbing another chair and settling into it himself.

“What has you believing you are impure? Is it… when I had seen you in a… compromised state?”

She shook her head, bringing the tea up to her lips and taking a long sip.

“That is… part of my curse, for my service to my god. But I fear He is abandoning me, and I am unable to quell any urges, and I fear if my curse is discovered, I… I may be cast out, exiled by my convent, and driven from even this Roundtable Hold.”

“And so the state where you were… for lack of a better phrase, tasting the purple ooze on the wall is part of your curse? And you are unable to stop yourself from continuing?”

She shook her head, settling the cup on the desk and pulling her hands into her lap. “Not quite. My curse, I believe, is separate from the sins that beseech me.”

Scholar's own sin, his increasingly frustrating desire, plagued his mind once more with thoughts of the young woman sliding into his lap, hands exploratory in nature. But, he pulled his own cup to his lips, forcing his mind to stay focused on her. “Which sin would that be, my dear?”

For the first time in the conversation, she met his eyes, the pupils expanded wide. “I am craving to know forbidden knowledge, and believe you may be the best to assist me.”

Scholar hummed as he thought. Knowledge, to him, was never a sin - studying at the Raya Lucaria Academy was inherently a heresy, the ancient and primeval magic having been part of his own quest to save his own life. And for Undertaker to ask him, well… his chest felt warm, and he gave her a smile. “You wish to hear more about my studies, then? I am happy to hear this. Let us finish this tea, and then we can go over that together.”

He did not miss the flush that came to her cheeks, chalking it up to the heat of the tea as she brought her glass to her lips once more. Her breath came out shaky as she swallowed her drink, and Scholar leaned forward, settling one hand on her knee.

“Thank you as well, petal, for telling me. I understand it was not easy, with your faith, but you are in good hands.” He murmured, and watched as the golden ring around her pupil all but vanished. He’d seen it before, while in battle with her - and took it as enjoyment of their time together.

The two finished the rest of their tea in silence. Scholar finished his cup first and stood, told her “I will meet you over at the altar, once you are ready,” and stepped over to the book. Excitement tingled in his bones, the idea of sharing his knowledge with her more than enough to keep the pain in his legs at bay.

He did not bat an eye when she stood, approached the massive wooden doors that led to the rest of the Hold, and pushed them closed with grace and ease before turning and walking down the aisle back towards the altar. Instead of stopping where Scholar had expected her to, she walked around to the same side of the altar as him, standing close to him and waiting.

He opened the book, shuffling to give her room to read, and watched as she looked over the pages. Something in her gaze was almost… disappointed, and he leaned in to read the page. It was a passage on the history of the Raya Lucaria Academy, and she let out a soft hum and turned back towards him.

“If I may, Scholar,” she said, looking up at him, “I was hoping this to be something else.”

“What were you expecting, petal?” He asked, stepping closer and settling his hand on the small of her back, to lean in and peer at the book. “If you were thinking of the Bloodflame, I have yet to reach that chapter. If you'll allow me a moment…”

“Not that, either.” She mumbled, turning completely in his arms and stepping in front of him, effectively pinning herself between him and the altar with her hands on his shoulders. “I desire knowledge from you that books cannot give me. I crave to know beyond just an account, but to know firsthand.”

He could feel her breath on his lips, their faces nearly touching, and felt his breath escape his chest. His hand hadn't left her hip. Without thinking, he slid it up the leather corset to just under the swell of her breasts. The supple leather was warmed by her body, lightly stretching as she breathed - having stolen his, she took a deep breath, and pressed in.

The kiss was awkward, clumsy, unpracticed. It was simple, though, and Scholar could only freeze as her eyes closed tight. Her lips, though bitten and swollen, were soft, and she smelled of rosewater and, strangely enough, blood. He could only wonder briefly how her mouth would taste before she pulled away, leaving the older man frozen. He watched as her eyes opened, flicking between his to find some sign, an inkling of a positive reaction. The heart inside of his chest was on overtime, racing hard as his mouth parted slightly, finally pulling in a shuddering breath.

When he didn't make a move, Undertaker’s eyes left his. She slumped back on the altar, murmuring apologies, at how she must've read him wrong, and tried to slip out of his grasp. She was unsuccessful, though, as the hand that was on her side was steadfast, and the other one - gripping onto the desk as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling into madness - kept her from slinking out that direction.

“I fear I am embarrassed, and must insist on needing a moment to recover from this rejection,” she muttered, pushing lightly once more against his hand.

“No,” he said, the only word able to come from his throat, half-whispered and half-gurgled. He sucked in another breath, this time catching the saliva in his mouth and sucking it into his chest. The pain was immediate as he let out a spluttering cough, leaning over her shoulder so as to not spittle onto her face, and huffed out a strangled, “Wait. Don't- don't leave.”

She turned her face away from him, shoulders shaking ever so slightly as she flinched in his grasp. When she spoke, her voice was watery. “I sincerely apologize, I am not certain what came over me. I misread your advances and I would like to leave now, I am unclean, impure, and unworthy-”

“Not,” Scholar gasped for air, turning to press his forehead into the side of her head. “Unwanted.”

That quieted her, but did not stop the shaking. She waited patiently for him to catch his breath, to swallow around the choke, and after a few more moments of the two of them just breathing, Scholar lifted his head.

Their eyes met once more. Undertaker's golden eyes rimmed with a faint glimmer of tears, and Scholar made a soft sound of distress before pressing his forehead against hers.

“Oh, my petal, there is no need for those tears. This advance is not unwanted, merely unexpected…” He couldn't help but give voice to the doubt in his mind, that he was unworthy of this and that he was reading too far into her advances. “Are you sure it is me you wish this with?” 

The abbess only stared up at him, her eyes shining in the chapel lighting, with only the side door to the chapel open. Light streamed in through the breezeway, the bounced light highlighting one side of her face.

The hand on the altar moved, instead going to cup her chin, and hold her still as he gave her a proper kiss. He himself was only a touch more experienced in these matters with a small courtship in his youth, but that courtship proved to have been as fragile as the glintstones he'd studied at the time and had ended with merely more than a chaste kiss between them. If the books he guiltily snuck away to read were to be believed, however, then if he mimicked some of the actions described… 

Scholar tilted his head slightly and parted his lips, allowing his tongue to snake out from behind his teeth and run along the bottom edge of her soft lips.

She tasted sweet, like the tea they had just partook in, and she was stock still as Scholar kissed her. When he pulled away, her tears had disappeared, and she settled her hands back onto his shoulders.

“I fear I am likely not the most experienced, in this aspect of life.” Scholar leaned his forehead against hers, noting how her body relaxed at the connection, and rubbed his thumb in circles across the bodice of her corset.

After a moment, she broke her silence, sliding one gloved hand up his neck, to his cheek, and then to run her fingers through his hair. “Then I shall assist you, in your efforts of researching this topic.”

Again, their lips met with a hint of desperation. Undertaker followed his lead and tilted her head the opposite way to him. This time, when his tongue pressed against her lip, she opened her mouth for her tongue to meet his - and the texture was different than he was expecting. It was smooth and slick, and wriggled in such a way that was odd. But, as a man of learning, Scholar wasn't opposed to it, and instead allowed her tendril-like tongue to press into his mouth.

As she explored his mouth, his tongue ran alongside hers, and noticed what appeared to be seams at the edges. He used the top of his tongue to probe, to count how many lines, but nearly jumped when they split.

Six tendrils were wrapping around his tongue and teeth, and he couldn't stop himself from letting out a needy whine at the feeling - the abbess’s fingers dug into him as she pushed tighter at the noise.

Never in his dreams would he have imagined her tongue to become a tentacle. His head began to spin, heart racing more as he pulled away, pressing a wet kiss to her cheek.

“By Rennala’s light, petal, you are quite an enigma,” he murmured into her skin, allowing his hands to knead lightly at the leather covering her waist. Her hands drifted to his hair, running through the salt and pepper locks. “How… how far would you like to take this study, my dear?”

“If I am to blaspheme,” she said, her voice husky, the kind of breathless that had his body reacting, “then take me as I am on this altar, in the eyes of my Lord. Allow him to see the full extent of my sin.”

“As you wish, my lady. But first,” he paused, pulling out of her arms to collect the book behind her.

He smoothed out where the page had crinkled before closing it and carefully settling it on the floor. There were a few more scattered pages, and he gathered those neatly, before setting them down as well on the floor.

“So as to not harm your back, or destroy the texts,” he explained, his hands returning to her waist as he leans in again to press their lips together again. This time, it was his turn to explore her mouth, and he allowed his hands to drift more - still keeping modest, with his touch still appropriate.

Until her hand grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand to her breast. Scholar, in his inexperience, fumbled a little and let out another little gasp, allowing her to take control once again over the kiss. Happy to relinquish that control, he felt her breasts with both hands, squeezing them through the thick corset and linen shirt underneath.

Her tongue split in his mouth again, tendrils following the curve of his teeth, and an ache began in his lower body.

Breathless once again, he pulled away again, panting. He watched as her tongue cohered into a single form, dragging over her lower lip. A single strand of hair, as dark as her overdress, hung on the left side of her face, and he pulled his hand away from her chest to reach up and push the veil of her habit back off of her.

She looked at him with wide eyes, hands returning to his shoulders, and Scholar could see the perfect patience she held herself with. Next to leave her head was the cornet and the bandeau, and Scholar let out a shaky breath as her hair was exposed.

The majority of it was pulled into a neat, tight bun at the base of her skull, with a sharpened metal rod to hold it in place. It was jet black and shiny as obsidian, and he reached up, carefully pulling the metal from her hair. He watched as the dark waterfall cascaded down her shoulders.

He met her gaze, and leaned in, giving her a chaste kiss - laughing a little as she chased his lips, hoping, wanting for more. At his chuff, she wrinkled her nose.

“You are ethereal, my petal,” he murmured, folding her headdress neatly and settling it on top of the book. “The hands that crafted you must've pulled you out of my own desires.”

That, evidently, was enough to set her face aflame. When Scholar stood back up, her cheeks were decorated with a bright red and a shy smile graced her lips. Evidently, praise was her ticket, and he grinned as he leaned back into her.

The apron that kept the front of her dress clean was tied in the back, and he captured her lips in a kiss as he undid the clasp, only pulling away from the kiss to readjust his angle. As he settled it to the side, letting it drop from his fingers carefully as his other hand cupped her cheek again.

As his hand returned to her hip, he could feel hers beginning to give him the same treatment, slowly and carefully peeling away the layers of his white cloak, and felt his body reacting to the feeling of someone else undressing him. It was only a matter of time until his member was noticeable in his trousers, and pressed against Undertaker's body and sighed into the kiss.

Again, breathless, he pulled away - this time, with her hair, and neck exposed, he trailed kisses down her jawline and to her neck, hands now racing to get her undressed.

The weight of his cloak completely fell away, leaving him in just his underclothes and the decorative metal chains denoting his title as a savant. As he struggled with the corset at her waist, the strings tied tight at her front, her hands left his. He watched as she easily undid the knot, pulling it away and revealing that her figure, the curves she held, were not a trick of the outfit.

“Marika’s hammer…” He murmured, reaching up on himself to pull the chains off over his head, no longer caring about how delicate he had been before and letting them fall to the floor next to him. Next to go was the holster for his canesword, dropped unceremoniously at his feet as her own hands unbuttoned the clasp at the back of the skirt she wore, letting it fall before stepping out of it and kicking it away. The pressure was building now, his trousers now sporting a sizeable lump that he shamelessly pressed against her leg.

Underneath her corset and skirt, she wore a white pair of trousers tucked into her boots and a long-sleeved white shirt, with her black leather gloves over the sleeves.

Her eyes were alight with arousal, the red crackles inside the golden nearly pulsing as she looked up at Scholar. She attempted to pull off her gloves without unlacing the buckle, and let out a small, frustrated noise when they were steadfast.

Scholar, however, caught one of her hands in his and brought it to his chest, interlacing their fingers as his other hand reached for the buckle. With that undone, he pulled lightly at each finger, before pulling the entire glove off and pulling her hand close to his face.

He pressed his lips to the back of it, not breaking eye contact. Despite his half-hard erection in his trousers begging for attention, he slowed his actions as he kissed the back of her hand. He turned it right side up and gave the calloused palms the same attention, kissing every segment on her finger before the palm, and wrist. Everything of her, he adored.

The rosewater scent was strong on her wrists, and he spent an extra second there, enjoying the perfume before kissing to the cuff of her sleeve, and pulling away to press another against her lips.

“You are astounding, my dear Undertaker,” he said as he pulled away, dropping her hand to reach for the other one. “And I must confess to you, now, that I have never been with one like this. You've caused my heart to skip beats, to stutter, in such a way that none have done before and I am glad, overjoyed, that my first will occur with you.”

Her cheeks were flushed again, bright red as she blushed at his words, and spoke as his lips went to her hand. “I have never had another entwined in my thoughts as you, Scholar. Never before had someone accepted me, as I am, without question or concern - until you.”

He let out a quiet hum of appreciation as he pulled her hand away from his lips, his falling to her hips as he coaxed her to sit on the altar. She did, and he achingly settled to his knees, to begin to unstrap her boots and pull them off. For how powerful she was in battle, her feet were delicately small - and Scholar pressed a kiss to the skin of her ankle before standing up.

She had discarded her top, and Scholar paused momentarily as he looked at her exposed skin. It was flawless and pale, with her chest flushed and breasts perky. He could feel his half-hard cock twitch with interest, and let out a soft sigh as he pulled off his own gloves and bracers, and kicked off his boots.

His knees ached where they'd been on the floor, but he found he didn't care, and pulled off his own shirt. His physique wasn't as impressive as he'd found the other men to be, but with the way her eyes devoured him, he knew she was pleased.

He leaned in, the kiss wet as he went to pull off the Undertaker's trousers - she moved to help him, lifting her hips to make it easier. The kiss lasted for only a second, as well, before he pressed his lips to her neck, then down to her collarbone, and, once her pants were finally off, he allowed his hands to trace up her stomach to cup her form.

Her breasts were not too big, nor too small for his lanky hands. As he cupped them, letting his thumbs explore her areola, she let out the softest sigh of relief and exaltation. The euphoria that came with taboo, Scholar recognized, and leaned his body down to press his lips to her collarbone. She was solid, nothing but pure muscle, and her skin, delicate and paper-white - despite the injuries she had sustained in battles, they never took in silvery scars - aside from the criss-cross repeating pattern on her back, consistent with being whipped. And with the same gentleness as he had before, he pressed his face into her chest, kissing the flat expanse of skin just above her sternum and under her collarbones, before taking a breath and kissing her stomach.

He wasn't quite sure what to expect as he reached her hips. It definitely wasn't the way she hadn't worn any undergarments beneath the trousers, nor the neatly trimmed pubic hair leading down to her cunt, and especially not how, with her trousers now off, she leaned back on her hands and spread her legs.

His cheeks warmed at the sight between her legs; he knew of the vagina, of course, but seeing it himself… It was different, and his member pulsed at the thought of being inside of it.

He took a deep breath, before taking yet another page out of his guilty pleasure reading and nuzzled his face directly into the folds of her cunt, allowing his tongue to slip out and sample her taste. 

Musky, and wet, with the smell somewhat reminiscent of the sea that crashed against the small island of reprieve against the outside world. The two major folds gave way easily under his probing, and gave way to pure decadence.

The Undertaker let out a small sigh, and one of her hands found his hair, running through it - briefly, he wondered how often, if ever, had she explored her own body. With a single finger, long and spindly, he reached between her folds to the opening, the entrance into her sacred area, and found that her hymen had not been broken.

Her hand clutched tightly to his locks as she handled the intrusion, and he let out a hum.

“Feels… odd.” She said, adjusting her hips and settling. “But I am finding myself to be enjoying it.”

With that reassurance, Scholar let his tongue drag across the entire length of her flower, over the soft, silky flesh and began to slowly pump his finger. Her insides were soft, as well, and there was a small texture change just inside her walls… His finger pressed against it, and she gasped, hips jolting and nearly causing herself to slip off of the altar.

The movement pressed his tongue into a small hard nub just above her opening, and that caused a whimper to slip from her lips. He repeated that action, dragging the appendage over the bud again and again, enjoying the sounds that came from her lips.

His cock was straining, now, against his trousers, and with his free hand, he pushed at the waistband and let the fabric fall to his ankles. His cock sprang free, and his hand went to slowly stroke it. He was endowed well, though he'd never partaken, and with how deep the cavern between his petal’s legs felt, he was thankful for it.

He pressed a second finger inside of Undertaker, feeling the ring of muscle that was her hymen struggle to adjust, and he heard a whimper - a pained noise, and pulled away from lapping at her core to press a wet kiss to her thigh.

“This is supposed to make it hurt less, my dear. Bear with me, now, I wish not to hurt you.”

With his head up, he could see her eyes now - tears prickled in the corner, and her other hand was stifling the sounds that were coming from her mouth. As he stood, he reached out, pulling her hand away and replacing it with his lips.

He pulled her hand to his groin, and she wasted no time in starting to stroke him, and for someone inexperienced, she was oddly good at it.

When he pulled his lips away to go for her neck again, she let out a little whine, before pressing her cheek to his ear.

“I have watched you, before,” she muttered, hand squeezing the tip of his cock. “This is how you like it, yes?”

The idea that not only had she seen him masturbating, but had watched enough times to know how he liked to touch his own cock was something so profoundly erotic to Scholar, and he nipped at her jawline to her ear, lightly biting at the flesh.

“Attempting to keep my thoughts pure around you, my dear, has been a testament to my will and a destruction to my celibacy.” He pulled his two fingers out, using the slickness of her body to coat his cock, and lined himself up. “This may be painful for just a moment.”

She nodded, turning her head to allow him more room to nip at her neck, and let out a deep breath. As his cock pushed in, the head thicker than two fingers, she let out a pained “Oh-” and clutched hard at his biceps. He didn't stop, pressing in more and more until he was hilted inside of her, sack pressing against her ass and tip of his cock pressed against her cervix.

But, once he was hilted inside of her, he paused - she was clamped down around him, and his hands went to her hips. His fingers rubbed small circles into the flesh, a quiet, soothing hum coming from him as she adjusted to the penetration.

“Breathe, my petal. The pain is only momentary, but you must relax yourself.”

“Kiss me,” Undertaker huffed out, hands digging into his shoulder. “I need, I cannot-”

He interrupted her by capturing her lips with his again, slow and sweet at first, before he tilted his head and licked at her lips, asking for permission. She granted it, her split tongue no longer coalesced into one form and, as his tongue pushed into her mouth, waved wildly around and probed into his mouth.

He knew she must be tasting herself on him, and let out a quiet hum as he bit his lip. It seems as though her hunger was just as famished on the carnal matters as she was, and after feeling her unclench from around him, he pulled out an inch. Experimentally, he pushed back in slowly, feeling her tighten again and let out a groan into her mouth.

“Darling petal,” he pulled away from the kiss, catching his breath as she trailed affections and bites to his collar. “I am going to have to ask you to relax yourself, or I will not last long.”

She only hummed in response, biting hard at his flesh, and he let out a moan of pain-pleasure.

He thought back to the nub, and how her entire body had reacted, and took one hand now to splay against her lower body, thumb pressing between where their bodies were met to find that bud.

That, it appeared, was the ticket to get her to settle - her teeth disappeared from his neck, and she leaned her head back, letting out a moan and releasing him from her iron grip.

He settled into an easy pace, pulling out several inches before rolling his hips forward into her, tip kissing her cervix each time. His free hand came up, pushing her chest down until she was laying flat against the altar, and grabbed for a handful of her breast as he leaned over her. The bite on his neck stung, and with his face on the clean expanse of just below her collarbone, he opened his jaws and gave her a matching bite.

He played with her nipple with the same speed as he rubbed her clit, and found that with the new position, she was loud with her moans.

They echoed through the chapel, bouncing off the walls to reverberate back to him.

He was so engrossed in watching his cock disappear into her that he hadn't noticed the chapel doors open slightly and a golden helmeted head poking in - and the scream that ripped from her throat as he thrust hard into her masked the sound of the door closing just after, and the sound of armor clanging from outside.

The sound of their skin slapping together joined the screams his beloved made, and before long, she reached up to his chest, scratching and twitching as she became close to her orgasm. He could feel her cunt flutter around him, and abandoned his torture of her nipple and clit to grab for her hips, to thrust hard enough to make her breasts bounce and for her moans to be interrupted by every kiss his tip made to her core.

She made a guttural noise, not unlike the sound one made while vomiting, and before Scholar could react with concern, she tightened around him with a piercing shriek. As he looked up at her, her mouth had opened, and the spine-spear she wielded in battle was stretched across the room. Its prongs, surprisingly, did no damage to any of the furniture, and it retracted soon after - his veins sung with pleasure, of pride at her feeling safe enough with him to show even her terrible curse to him, and felt his desire emboldened at her display.

Scholar felt himself close, the pressure at the base of his spine nearly too much, and with her body tensing and pulsing as she was wracked with pleasure, it was only a moment more before he buried himself in and felt his own release spurt inside of her.

He lay there, feeling the aftershocks of orgasm, and leaned over her again, sitting inside of her and nosing just under her jaw. A thin layer of sweat was settled on both of their skin, and with the breeze flowing in from the open side door, goosebumps prickled on his skin.

And as his heart rate settled, he pressed gentle, chaste kisses into her skin before shifting his hips and allowing his member, now soft, to exit from inside of her. His seed would never take; Albinaurics are infertile, but the idea of her, with a big and round belly full of his spawn filled his mind. There wasn't anything he could do to stop his smile, to press his face right against her neck and slide his arms underneath her waist to cradle her close.

She pet his hair, before nosing her way into his hairline and kissed at whatever she could reach. Her breathing was slightly ragged, and she was quiet, hands fidgeting in his hair. With his head pressed near her chest, he could hear her pulse, and looked up at her.

Her golden eyes were lined in tears, and there were trails dripping down her cheeks, and Scholar froze.

“My petal, did I… hurt you?” He asked, and she looked down, another tear dripping from her eyes.

“Not at all. I am sorry, for my loathsome form. I was unable to contain it in the throesof pleasure.”

“There is no need, my beloved, to apologize for showing me all of you - and I do find your loathsome form to be quite alluring. It is beautiful, and powerful, to be blessed with such a gift.”

That caused the tears to well up again, but this time, they were paired with a smile and rose-colored cheeks. He cupped her cheek with one hand, wiped away one of the tears, and brought her chin close to kiss her.

“I,” he said between kisses, “do believe I have fallen for you. And that includes all of you.”

Her arms settled around his neck, and she let out a small yawn, before nuzzling into him and humming. “It has never been tiring before, for my hex - and yet, I feel satisfied.”

The afternoon days were beginning to cast longer and longer shadows into the room, and, prompted by a shiver that ran down her spine, he reached down, momentarily breaking his hold on her waist to grab his own cloak, pulling it over her shoulders.

She wrapped it around her body, and he stepped back to look at her - settled on the altar, sweat-slicked skin, his white cum pooling out of her cunt and highlighted by the golden rays of the sun. She was beautiful, and he let out a breath of reverence before pulling on his trousers and shirt.

He may have blasphemed, taking her on the altar as he had, but in doing so, he had made her no less a goddess herself.

Scholar slipped on his boots and stepped again to the altar. “I must fetch a cloth for you, beloved petal - else my essence will continue to drip down your thighs, and dirty your clothing. Perhaps it is time for us to retire, as well?”

She nodded, bringing up one hand to rub at a tired eye - wiping away the rest of the tears in the process. With a soft noise, she pushed herself off of the altar, nearly stumbling as her feet hit the floor. Scholar could feel the fatigue himself, in his own muscles, but reached out to loop his arm around her waist regardless.

“I fear I cannot carry you, though I do wish to. Of the two of us, you have quite the lion's share of strength.”

She only hummed in response, bringing his warm cloak around her front and hiding her form from the world as he helped her to one of the closer pews. As he pulled away, she looked up at him with big eyes, and blinked slowly at him.

“I will be back, love. If it appeals to you, your habit is just over next to the altar, or you may continue to wear my robes. I will fetch water and a cloth, and then I will escort you to the bedroom.”

With that, and a kiss to her forehead, he started towards the door, opening it up and intending on slipping out but stopped at the golden armor-clad man settled in a chair just in front of the doors.

The Executor turned his head as Scholar stepped out of the room, face expressionless but somehow, some way, Scholar knew the two of them had been caught. It wasn't as if Scholar himself had been silent in the exchange, and he knew very well that Undertaker had sung her pleasure to the heavens. It was impossible for Executor to have not heard their intimacy, and Scholar ducked his head as his cheeks burned, stepping around the silent samurai to step into the main hall.

Wylder and Duchess were settled into the chairs at the round table, and as he entered, the two twins turned their heads to look at him, and something in their eyes - they knew.

He scurried into the small bedroom shared by the men, to where his cot was set up, and grabbed one of the small towels from his set of belongings. Thankfully, the Iron Menials had kept up on laundry, the entities tasked with keeping up with the household aspects of the Hold. After retrieving the cloth, he made his way back to the hallway containing the chapel, pointedly ignoring how Wylder, Duchess, and now Ironeye’s gazes followed him.

Raider was sitting at the table, a mug of a dark amber, frothy liquid in his grasp, and he only grunted a greeting at Scholar as the academic stepped in to retrieve a pitcher of water and immediately dip out of the room.

The Executor had disappeared from his place guarding the doors to the chapel, and he slipped back inside to find that Undertaker had not moved from where he had settled her. Her head was bowed, back straight, hands settled in her lap - as if she were in prayer. The gentle rise and fall of her chest and the slack in her jaw said otherwise, however, and he grabbed the chair from his desk and brought it over to where she sat.

“Flower?” He murmured, and she lifted her head, eyes dull with sleep. “Please, allow me to clean you, and then you may rest.”

She sat up, bringing one hand to her eye, and spread her legs for Scholar to see. The hair, though neatly trimmed, around her core was clumped with his semen. Settling into the chair, he poured a bit of the water onto the cloth to dampen it.

She let out a whine when the cold water touched her folds, and he hushed her, free hand setting the vessel next to her and reaching out with a gentle hand to pull apart her folds and expose more of her cunt.

“Gods above,” he muttered to himself again, unable to keep himself from examining closer. The cloth came away tinged with a slight bit of red as he wiped her, likely due to her hymen tearing - an unfortunate thing, but it didn't seem to cause her any pain.

He was able, now, to really look at her folds in detail, with his libido satisfied. The hard bud he had felt before was visible to him now, a clinical fascination as he pressed his thumb against it.

She let out another whimper, shifting where she sat, and one hand pushed against his hand and shook her head. “Sensitive...”

He remembered the musky seawater taste of her, and couldn't help but slide out of his chair to settle on his knees in front of her. If she was sensitive, then he wouldn't touch, but he could still… examine.

His hands, one clutching the cloth, wrapped around her hips and pulled her closer. This close, he could smell the musk and floral scent again, and let out a sigh as he pressed his face to her lower stomach.

“You are… exquisite, my flower. I am thoroughly enamoured by everything that you are.”

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. Sleep and fatigue were clear in her gaze, but her lips were quivering in a small smile. Praise was not something she had often gotten, it seemed, but Scholar was intent on changing that.

He stood, now that she was clean, and held out his hand. There would be more time for him to dote on her once he had gotten her into his cot, but for now…

“We must dress you, ‘less the others see you like this. I fear half, if not more, of them already have assumed or-” he thought to the Executor– “know of what has occurred in this sanctum. It may be a touch better to face them in the light of tomorrow’s day, for we will be rested and ready to answer any… queries they may have.”

He watched as the skin on her cheeks flushed again, teeth beginning to worry on her lip as she realized what he meant. After a moment, she stood, accepting his hand, and allowed him to lead her to where her clothing, for the most part, had been neatly placed and helped her into her trousers and boots, but when he offered to assist with her shirt, she held tight onto his robes.

“If it is alright,” she said, holding them tight around her body and pulling the hood up. “I would like to wear them a moment longer. It’s silly, but… they make me feel safe.”

He couldn't stop the smile from appearing on his face before taking her hand in his. With a kiss to the back of the knuckles as the two of them walked, it was time for him to lead her through the Hold to the bedrooms, and he took a deep breath as he pushed the door to the chapel open.

An Iron Menial stood on the other side, and he directed it to collect the remaining clothing and put it with his belongings on his desk, before guiding her into the main hall.

Everyone, it seemed, was present - and the quiet chattering stopped as the two entered. Scholar did not take a single step before one, the Recluse, spoke.

“Might I inquire,” she asked, her voice jovial as she stood to block their way. "Hast thou been in an existing courtship, or hast the academic learned of a new track of research? I ask of thee, dear abbess, wouldst thou share of thy role in romance?" She trailed off, using a finger to gesture between the two of them.

Scholar's face felt warm, and a look back at the abbess showed him that hers was bright pink, and her head was bowed low. He swallowed hard, before looking back at the Recluse.

“...I do believe that your… observations would be better suited for battle.” He muttered in a retort. “We do not wish to answer any questions, at this time, at least not until the lady is properly dressed.”

“And were you the one to undress her?” Ironeye's voice came, immediately followed by a sound of pain as Executor smacked him upside the head.

The silent Knight stood, stepping over to Scholar and Undertaker and grabbing Recluse by the shoulders, pulling her back and opening up a pathway for the two. Scholar didn't hesitate to take the path of freedom, holding onto Undertaker's waist as he led her across the room.

As they entered the hallway, he looked back to see that Executor had grabbed a chair and dragged it to the entryway, sitting in it and staring at the other group. Standing vigil again, he supposed.

His bedroll was the last one in the room, tucked against the wall where the draft was the worst and separated from the other beds with a small privacy screen, and it only took a few moments for Undertaker to kick off her boots and push off her trousers to crawl inside of it, shucking off the robes and exposing the bare skin beneath. She let out a yawn, and waited for him to disrobe all the same.

It took him a few minutes more, but before long, he was crawling in next to her and pulling her close, hand lightly tracing the scars on her back as he lulled her into sleep.

It took him next, with his nose filled with the same floral scent from when he returned to the Hold.

In his slumber, he dreamed of laying on the riverbank, body being held by the white flowers, and the floral scent surrounded him.

And for the first time since his body had regenerated from his core, he slept soundly throughout the night, only waking once the body tangled in his arms began to rouse. His eyes cracked open to find that Undertaker had sat up in the bed, blankets falling to drape at her side as she brought up a hand to rub at her sleep-crusted eyes.

Scholar let himself admire her in the early morning dimness as he lay there. The two of them were still undressed, and the soft snoring from the bunk next to him told him they were not alone in the room - but, with the privacy screen, they were at the very least shielded from view.

In the dimness, the white of her skin nearly glowed. Her black hair was slightly messy, but still draped and fell over her shoulders as she ran a hand through it. The golden eyes she spotted, with red streaks in the iris, glowed softly in the low light, and he watched as she looked around the space before her eyes settled on him.

Her hand, delicate despite the strength he knew she was capable of, gently splayed on his chest, right over his heart. After a few moments, his primal core racing at her touch, she slid her hand down to his stomach, tracing the muscles that lay there - his physique wasn't exactly impressive, but with the reverence she was holding as she explored his body, it felt as though he were Radagon himself.

Her hand slid further down, under the blankets, but her touch was exploratory, curious. He could feel how her fingers brushed over his hips, carded through his pubic hair, and felt his soft member before dipping lower, touching his sack and fondling his balls gently.

With one hand, he reached up, using one finger to brush her hair behind her ear. She froze and flinched away from the contact, her eyes darting to his and filled with shame, embarrassment, and fear. But, he persisted, a soft smile on his lips as he tucked her black hair behind her ear.

After a moment, she leaned into the feeling, her eyes softening.

“I did not mean to wake you, my Scholar,” she murmured as he coaxed her to lay back down with him.

“Nonsense.” He hummed as he turned towards her, wrapping one arm around her small frame and holding her close. “I was awake already.”

Laying on his side, he could see the Iron Menial had placed her folded habits next to his bed. That, paired with the comment from the witch the day prior? It seemed as though the Hold as a whole had believed them in a courtship.

“My petal,” he sighed into her hair. “Tell me, what persuaded you to come to me with your request?”

She met his eyes, hand splaying against his chest once more. “When… when I retrieved you, and broke our bargain, I expected anger. But instead of your wrath, I received your gratitude, and it confused me. I spoke with the Priestess about it, and she suggested that perhaps… Perhaps my feelings toward you were not as I once believed, and once I read one of the books you kept hidden away, I wished to try those acts with you.”

The erotica novels he had kept hidden beneath his bed. She had found them, had read them - he sucked in a breath. A hopeless romantic at heart, Scholar had brought his favorites of his guilty pleasure on his journey, the spines well-worn with how often he'd indulged.

“And your feelings, what do you believe them to be?”

“I once believed them to be platonic, but then my heart began to race, and when I am with you, I am no longer famished. I do not feel as the abhorrence I am when you are holding me.”

Scholar frowned at that, bringing his hand up again to run through her hair. “It is loathsome to me that you have been led to believe your existence a detestation.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “... And how would you describe me, then?”

“Marika herself would be envious of you, my dear flower.”

Oh, he was adoring the way she couldn't keep the smile off of her face, and used his hand to tilt her chin up, kissing her sweetly. She let out a pleased sigh, happily kissing him back as she rolled the two of them back over, so that she straddled his hip.

Acting on pure instinct, or at least what she had read, she settled her weight on top of him. Control was easy for him to give, and she reigned it well as she bit down on his lip hard enough that he tasted salt as he opened his mouth and lapped at her lip.

She let out a soft whimper as he started to get hard.

“Lovebirds,” Raider’s gruff voice from the next bed over interrupted their kiss. “Might I implore you to find a more appropriate place, so as to not interrupt my sleep?”

“As though you have not put the rest of us through that same fate?” Wylder’s voice came from another distance away, and Scholar looked up at Undertaker - her face was red again, and she sat up to hide in her hands.

“You are not as quiet as you believe yourself to be, either, Wylder.”

As the two continued to bicker, Scholar settled his hands on Undertaker’s body and gently pushed, motioning for her to stand. “I believe the graveyard is especially nice in the early morning, if you wish to go for a walk.”

She nodded, face still flushed with embarrassment, and slipped out from under the blankets. Scholar couldn't help but stare at her, admiring her form, before slipping out of the bed himself. He was sporting a half-hard erection, despite the interruption.

But, the two of them got themselves dressed for their day, with Scholar's robes smelling as though a soft perfume had been settled into the fabric. Lillies, orchids, roses; white flowers, and he couldn't help but bury his nose into the collar as he stepped out of the bedroom. He pointedly ignored Wylder’s whistle as he left, and joined his hand with hers. The intimate moment between them had been ruined, and he found that he was craving something else entirely. Something sweet, and romantic.

“A walk, in the morning dew…” she hummed, lacing their fingers together.

Seawater, petrichor, and the scent of the white flowers that bloomed around the graves was thick in the air as they walked through the overgrowth to the edge. It was silent and before too much longer, the two of them had reached the cliffside overlooking the sea. He settled down first, and she followed, sitting next to him with her feet dangling over the cliff.

The sun rose over the horizon, with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist.