"I didn't know you stayed around these parts, Lancelot."

Her knight draped a leather jacket over her shoulders as they walked, revealing a simple dress shirt underneath with complementing slacks. His long hair was held back by a high ponytail, reminding her of the usual style Tsuda would sport. He held the umbrella as they paced through the rain, as their luck would have it, the shower was not so strong as to drench them completely.

"I was nearby when I sensed your presence, m'lord."

The pair fell into a rather uncomfortable silence, both at a loss for what to say. Arturia wasn't sure what Lancelot remembered, about the Grail War and otherwise. She knew he survived her, knew that he and Gwyn were alive and well, far beyond the borders of Britain the day of the Battle at Camlann. She knew he could be summoned as a Berserker, and that meant at least once, he was consumed by so much rage and frustration it was enough to drive him mad. She knew it was because of her, due to her. It must have been, for him to hunt her down so fervently the last time they met.

Lancelot, on the other hand, felt like he was dealing with wounds freshly reopened. What was he thinking, coming here? How unworthy he was, to stand before her after all the sins he'd committed. Love for the queen, betraying his king's decree for the sake of his lady, leaving King Arthur's side when she needed him most, and of course, the feelings he never had the courage to acknowledge...his sins were innumerable. Unforgivable. And yet. And yet.

Here she was again, treating him with so much kindness, it was sickening. That she would even allow him within ten feet of her was unfathomable, and here they were, standing in the rain, so close he could feel the heat emanating from her skin, the warm puffs of breath from her lips as she enunciated his name. His grip tightened on the poor umbrella handle.

"Yes?"

A neutral, monosyllabic word executed so perfectly the King of Knights would have no clue about his mental disarray. If he could, he would applaud himself for being able to put up such a convincing farce in front of one who was simultaneously his only possible source of relief and the reason for his anguish. Someone he held in such high regard he wanted to tear her from her throne. Someone he loved so much that he resented her.

"How," she bit her lip, stole a glance at the face of he who was her most trusted knight once upon a time, breathed, "How have you been?"

Terrible.

"I was welcomed at my Master's old residence. I can hardly believe I found it with the limited memories I have left of the war," Lancelot replied, face filled with the emotional equivalent of concrete.

"Oh? That is quite fortunate, then," Arturia replied, with a curve of her lip so innocent and pure it was scalding for him to bear. He wasn't worthy of her smile. He could never be worthy of it again. Please, he begged whatever higher power was out there. Please, not again.

Lancelot felt his heart skip a beat and he cursed under his breath. He should never have come here. Why couldn't he just have stayed away?

He nodded his head robotically, answering his king's next question without really hearing it. His mind was much too preoccupied, remembering his King Arthur touching her sword to his shoulders, himself kneeling before her swearing fealty, and the fateful moment when they first truly locked eyes.

No.

He banished the thought. He couldn't think of that. Wouldn't.

"Do you remember much of him? Your master?"

The question was a welcome distraction, but one that only led the knight to pain of a different kind. Of all he could remember from the Grail War, the most vivid were the tears on King Arthur's face as they exchanged blows, her tears as she blamed herself for his pain.

"Not enough. I could barely remember his name. All I know is his feelings. Hatred, blind determination...envy, I believe."

Envy...Oh, envy.

It was a horrible emotion. Lancelot's Master- what was his name, Matou Katsuya? Kaguya?- was so overcome with it at times. In fact, the swordsman believed that must have been one of his primary driving forces. He remembered his master was weak, practically at death's door, he couldn't have had much fight left in him at all save for his vile feelings.

But who was Lancelot to judge, when he'd once felt the same, staring wistfully at his king and queen?

They were a vision together. Guinevere was...radiant. Radiant always, as she was when he first met her and brought her back to Camelot. By just her beauty alone, Lancelot could understand why his king would want such a fair lady for his queen.

And then there was King Arthur, always riding proudly before his forces, armor shining in the moonlight, brighter even than stars. A million times a day Lancelot would catch himself looking his king's way, admiring the few freckles beneath his eyes, staring so intently he might have been counting the yellow strands of his hair.

It was during moments like that when Lancelot had to stop himself and wonder, was he a homosexual? Have all those nights sleeping with barmaids been but a ruse? A distraction from the fact he sought out the company of men?

Why? Despite the growing count of women who threw themselves at him, despite being the envy of every unmarried man in the country, why did he find himself so...so...infatuated, with his king? For a while, there was no explanation.

His sin went undetected for years. The prying knights who caught him staring concluded he was only admiring the beauty of the queen, and King Arthur was none the wiser, treating him kindly as always, sharing drink with him, laughing with him, knowing not how much Lancelot lusted for his lord.

Years upon years he felt this anguish, til one day Guinevere caught his amorous gaze, mistook it for being directed at herself, and thinking her affections were returned, took him to her bed. An he, with unsatiated lust and a weakened mind kept him from refusing her right then and there, from pushing her away when he had the chance.

Guilt drowned him in the pleasures of Guinevere's body, her hands in his hair, her voice moaning his name instead of Arthur's. He spent so many nights tangled underneath her sheets he thought he could let go of his affections for the king, until one such night they lay facing each other pitifully on her pillows, she confessed it.

The reason why Guinevere was so terribly lonely, so much so that she latched on to him the first opportunity she had.

King Arthur was female.

Lancelot finally had his answer, given to him by his-no, her queen. And by God, did he want to kill himself right then and there. Pathetic, he was, so pathetic. Wanting his king, sleeping with the queen, shutting the lights not for secrecy but so he could imagine what it would be like to have Arthu-Arturia below him and between his legs. Fuck!

It was insanity, what they were doing. Arturia and Guinevere. Guinevere and Lancelot. Arturia and Lancelot. Arturia and Guinevere. Guinevere and Lancelot. Arturia and Lancelot. Arturia and Guinevere. Guinevere and Lancelot. Arturia and Lancelot. Arturia and Lancelot. Arturia and Lancelot. Arturia and Lancelot. ARTURIA AND LANCELOT.

He made another mistake, pounding into the queen so hard she let out one tiny little squeak. But it was more than enough. More than enough for the handmaiden to open her door. More than enough to see them in their sin. More than enough to crush Arturia's heart into five hundred thousand little pieces and scatter them all over the floor.

And what did his beloved King Arturia do when she found out?

She smiled. She forgave. She blessed their relationship.

"Lancelot?"

The knight snapped himself back to reality at the sound of his name. They were standing in front of what looked like a condominium tower, one which he did not recognize. He'd followed her mechanically, two steps behind on her left side as before, during their time.

"Yes, my king?" he nearly slapped himself, knowing he was unworthy of addressing her as such. Not after everything he's done. Not after all the kindness she'd wasted on him, no.

"Won't you come up?" she asked. Twenty three. She had Twenty-three tiny freckles under her eyes, Lancelot remembered. His favorite, the one just under the corner of her eye, in the space between her lashes and her nose.

"For tea, in the very least. It's awful chilly this time of night." she pressed him. Of course she did. She was always so accommodating. Always.

Before he knew it, they were ten paces from her door, ten paces to her new home. Unit 25 A of the Masaki Tower, Fuyuki City, he would remember. Right on the outskirts before the Mion River, he would remember.

All he had to do was enter the door. Enter the door and all would be right again. They could share tea. Reminisce on their fiercest battles together. Talk about anything...everything. He could be her knight again. He could be…

He could…

"Is something the matter, Lance?" she asked, with concern deeply laden in those beautiful, beautiful emerald eyes. God, why that name? God why did she have to call him by that name?

He couldn't.

"Perhaps...another time, my liege."

A few emotions crossed Arturia's face. First, surprise, then sorrow, then...understanding. He wondered silently what conclusion she must have arrived at in that pretty little head of hers.

Arturia raised her hand for him to take, out of habit, but withdrew it just as quickly, thinking perhaps Lancelot wasn't ready to go back to how things used to be, nor would he want to.

He caught her fingers before they were out of reach, and pressed her knuckles to his mouth before the guilty side of his mind could tell him otherwise. Her skin, so often gloved by leather, was so sweet he was half-tempted to part his lips. But he let her go, no matter how much his hands yearned for the warmth of hers.

Arturia slipped behind the door of her brother's unit, but not without shooting him one last look. One so piercing and sharp he swore she could see his soul.

And then she was gone.

The Frenchman stepped into the elevator, more confused about his feelings than ever.

Suddenly, the elevator jerked in midair, sending him scrambling for the sides. It had slowed in its descent, screeching to pause a few stories away above the ground between the fourteenth and fifteenth floor.

"You...You have got a lot of nerve showing up here, bastard."


Kay didn't seem to be home. He wasn't in his bed, his phone was left charging in the outlet by the corner, her text to him still unread.

The sigh that left her lips was long, drawn out by the rather taxing mission she had just finished. Shoulders slumping, she trudged the last few steps to her mattress. Arturia barely even registered the gold dust materializing in the corner, and when the oldest King stepped in the room, she wondered briefly if she even had the strength to kick him out.

"I'm disappointed in you, King of Knights."

The lonely wall clock ticked by the seconds before Arturia could interpret what he meant. How did he know? He couldn't have known what happened in Iraq. She thought Medea had used more than enough healing salves among other things to mask the scent of blood, but perhaps she would have expected that of Gilgamesh.

Saber turned around from her seat on the bed, briefly sending him a glare as she shrugged off Lancelot's jacket—she had forgotten to hand it back— and kicked off her shoes.

"I am not in the mood for your insults, King of Heroes," she replied.

Really, he couldn't wait til the morning at least? She slipped off her socks quickly and her hands gripped the top button of her shirt before remembering she had company.

"Well, don't stop now," he teased, a signature smirk making its way onto his lips as Gilgamesh crossed the room. She of course, was seething as he now stood before her, the fire in her eyes stoked by every word that came from his mouth. He loved that about her. She was never easy.

"Have you come here only to mock me?" She didn't believe it was enough to dismiss him for the night, of course. If it were that easy, she would have had less stressful days since reappearing in Fuyuki. And...she was tired. Her body was steadily healing her shoulder wound, but with her strength and mana halved as per the deal with Kiritsugu, it was taking a larger toll than anticipated.

"None of my visits have ever been to mock you, Arturia."

She shied away from his touch, gripped his wrist when he insisted on touching her face. It annoyed him to no end that he couldn't get what he wanted, but the feel of his fingers holding his arm quelled his ire. They were shaking, from exertion perhaps. Her cheeks were more hollow than when he had last seen her in this very room. Her skin was greyish, a far cry from the supple peachy undertone he was used to.

As she let him go, the sleeves of her rather modest attire passed his skin, leaving moisture where it touched. The cuffs of her slacks said as much, she was out in the rain. As if on cue, low thunder erupted from outside, wind whipping the glass window and having them quiver in their hinges.

He took advantage of her distraction to expertly unfasten the flimsy buttons at her collar and pull the shirt to side, revealing the bloody, stitched up stab wound she sustained during the fight. It was larger than he thought it was, and far more deep. The laceration ran from her collarbone to the top of her breast, the extremes likely caused by that damned mongrel who dared tackle her. But the cut was the lesser evil. Who knew how much internal suffering the poison must have-

His head throttled from the impact as he hit the wall. The King of Knights was snarling at him with her arms raised in front of her, her face fully red, from anger or embarrassment, he didn't know.

"Are you mad-nngh!"

A streak of blood ran over her collarbone and stained her clothes, an indication that Medea's careful work had just been ruined. Damn it. Damn him. Just when her mana reserves were low, just when her body desperately needed to collapse, he was here as usual to ruin her night.

Of course, of course it had to be Gilgamesh to see her in this pitiful state, half-dead after a rather embarrassing turn on the battlefield. Why couldn't it have been Shirou, or Merlin, or Kay, or...anyone else?

She made for the mirror in her bathroom to see how much she could salvage, but the stitches on the surface were almost all split in half, damn him. She could only hope the deeper sutures hadn't suffered the same fate, else she would be healing wrong. She opened up the mirror and brought out the first aid kit Kay had stashed in there and used her good arm to get the tweezers and the antiseptic out along with some cotton swabs. Thank God the wound was on her left side, for she imagined she wouldn't have as much dexterity with her left hand. She wasn't Diarmuid.

She pulled down the collar of her button-up, exposing the shoulders. Hopefully with some good washing, the white piece of clothing was still salvageable, but she didn't expect much. Rather clumsily, she tipped the disinfectant over the cotton swabs. Her fingers were about to reach for the tweezers when she caught sight of Gil in the mirror, standing in her bathroom doorway, with eyes she didn't recognize. Wordlessly, he plucked the metal tool from her fingers.

"What do you think you're doing?" she retorted, reaching for them. Curse his superior height.

He simply cocked an eyebrow, holding the pair of tweezers out of her reach. It was obvious what he was doing, he was appalled that she didn't look the least bit grateful.

"Are you perhaps blind, King of Knights?" he asked. She must have been, since he was obviously lowering himself to the task of a nurse, just this once, for her.

"I can do it myself," she protested, but Gilgamesh wouldn't let her have it, tiresome as it was to keep it away from her in this cramped, sorry excuse for a bathroom.

The servants turned around each other twice, limbs hitting the walls and sink as the smaller of them tried to steal the tool away back from the other. It would have been a bit comical if the one of them wasn't half undressed and bleeding at the shoulder.

"Clearly," he retorted, grabbing her arm and examining the neatness of the remaining knots in her skin and the impossibility that these were done on her own, "you cannot."

Saber quieted, her shoulders drooping further down as the moments went on. Her eyes were beginning to close against her will. Suddenly, she missed her days as Kiritsugu's Servant, ridiculous as it was, but he was a competent enough mage that she hadn't needed rest, or sleep, or food, even. In her human body, she could feel the chill of the rain seeping through her clothes, the tendrils of sleep threatening to take her with each passing moment. She felt...weak.

A low, hollow chuckle left her lips. What a joke she was, bleeding all over the battlefield like some amateur squire forced to hold a sword. Falling unconscious in front of the other Servants, relying on Medea's help of all things...she was more than pathetic, so utterly unworthy of her title at all. Now, she was barely able to do this one, simple task.

"I have no need of your pity, Gilgamesh. Take it elsewhere," she uttered, finally swiping the metal object from his fingers and turning back to the mirror. She'd rather he not see her in this state of undress, but his stubbornness really wasn't letting him leave any time soon.

"Pity?" he echoed.

There were few individuals Gilgamesh gave a rat's ass about. Fewer still, were the ones he was generous enough to extend pity to. He pitied Utnapishtim, the immortal half-plant, who lived forever but gave up his humanity. He pitied Kirei, for a time, when the bastard was so hell-bent on following society's rules he couldn't figure out for himself what he wanted was, in-fact, hell. But Arturia?

"I pity," he began, catching her green eyes in the mirror, "the mongrel whose carelessness caused you this pain."

Arturia cemented her hand to his wrist before the king could even think about murdering poor Medea in her sleep.

"I did this to myself," she reasoned, squeezing his wrist in her fingers. His heartbeat was quick, perhaps the thought of bloodshed triggered his adrenaline. After how Gilgamesh murdered Caster because she was a mere inconvenience to him in the last war, she imagined the now irate king would be far less merciful this time.

Arturia was aware of his...obsession with her. If she was right, and he really did see her as some sort of object, no doubt he would be angry with someone who'd "damaged" her.

"You did this, to protect her," Gilgamesh answered, looking pointedly at the gash by edge of her collarbone. He looked at where she was holding his arm, tight as she could, to prevent him from leaving. "And still, you protect that wretched wench."

The king smirked. Arturia was the same, the same lonely king who sacrificed tooth and nail to save her people, who strived to make sure her country survived. Selfless, oh so incredibly selfless she'd taken even the burdens of others upon her shoulders so that they may walk their path in ease. He was a foolish one for even thinking she wouldn't have taken that dagger for that ugly witch. Arturia would have put herself in front of a thousand knives to protect just one of her citizens.

He hadn't forgotten how Caster had once laid claim to what was his. He remembered how he punished her, and how merciful the punishment seemed in hindsight. He should have struck her down the moment she reappeared, and in front of that slimy mongrel she seemed to have affections for. Or perhaps the mongrel first, just so she could watch the life leave his eyes.

Still, in spite of her carelessness, the witch did try to correct her mistake. After all, Arturia was restored to him here, alive, with as much fight in her system as he remembered. Perhaps this time, she deserved to be spared.

Arturia visibly relaxed when he no longer resisted her hold. It seemed the killing intent had left him for now. If only she had the strength left to get him to leave her this instant, but she'd used it all keeping him here. The irony. A long, drawn out exhale escaped her as she withdrew her grip on his wrist.

By the way she was fading in and out of consciousness, the king knew he was trying her limits, so as much as he wanted to stay, he had to take care of the cut, fast. Gilgamesh looped his arm around her and lifted the woman easily, setting her on the small counter so they were at more or less workable height.

Although she looked away, embarrassed, she could no longer muster a protest as he pressed some clean gauze into the cut to stop the bleeding. The muscles of his bare forearm tensed as he squeezed the hand on her shoulder to apply pressure. Gilgamesh's breath was warm on her skin. He smelled of...wine, she believed. Stronger than usual, as if he'd been drinking before he came.

His grip was firm, but unharsh, and later when he cleaned the gash with the cotton swabs and antiseptic, she could hardly believe this was the same man who'd beaten her within an inch of her life for his sick pleasure in the Fifth Holy Grail War. He was still that same man, she reminded herself, but she would refrain from comment when he was treating her wound, and incidentally inches away from her jugular.

Lingering, oddly gentle hands pushed her back against the wall, and then Gilgamesh took the tweezers from her hands to begin the process. His fingers held her right shoulder to keep her still, while his right began to extract the broken pieces of string around the gash.

Arturia's skin, Gilgamesh noted delightfully, was warm at the tips of his fingers. By the gods, was she distracting. He couldn't breathe without inhaling her scent, without watching her blushing chest rise and fall as she did the same. Her dress shirt hung loosely over her torso, the damp collar pulled down, only just covering the top of her rather modest, white undergarments. As tempted as he was to remove it, he believed to do so would be rather criminal, if not to him, then to Arturia's own values.

He cut through the few remaining stitches by the top of the laceration, and flung the cheap-what was this, tin?-scissors into the bin before resuming picking the threads from the dermis. Another round of antiseptic, and he was closing the cut with fresh sutures. Arturia's breath wavered against his neck as the needle passed under her skin, each puff of air warm and electrifying.

How amusing. Every second with her, even being in the same room together, gave him a high he couldn't get enough of. She, in all her ambitious dreams and ideals challenged his kingship, his very existence and he loved it. To think, someone like her would come into being, but far beyond his time. The gods must have been playing a joke on him, to place such a valuable treasure so far removed in space and time that he was not able to obtain her.

But the gods were gone, and fate had brought them together, he and she. For what other purpose, if not a final chance to take her as his own?

Arturia shivered as he ran his fingers over the scar to inspect his handiwork. If such a gentle touch could make her quiver, he wondered what else his fingers could make her do once he coaxed her to his bed. Gods, was she...intoxicating. It was vanilla-wasn't it? Or was it honey?- in her hair.

A grin crawled its way onto his face as he decided, he would have a taste after all.

Her struggles beneath him were futile as he pinned her to the wall, the king could hardly believe his tongue as he took the supple flesh between his teeth. Finally, finally. Mewls and whimpers vibrated in her throat but only egged him on. My, my was she such a treat. He was dimly aware of his name escaping her lips in a scream, a warning, the thrashing legs he'd restrained between his knees and the countertop, but they all were willfully ignored as he moved to make a second mark. If he'd paused from his vice to listen, perhaps he'd have spared himself the pain.

The next thing he felt was heat on his cheek, then the dull ache of whiplash on his nape.

A sharp cutting sound still echoed in the small space as the King of Knights quickly shoved him away, her beautiful face contorted in pure unadulterated fury.

He answered her with rage.

"You'd strike your king-"

"Get out."

Her voice was but a low grumble, each syllable cold as the arctic, and for what seemed like forever, the King of Knights was deathly silent. Though he couldn't see it, he could sense the walls building around her heart as she curled on herself, hand over the two marks he left.

"Arturia-"

Fine. If he wouldn't leave, she would. The woman brushed past him, back into her bedroom, and took refuge under the sheets, holding herself the whole time as she did so.

"Leave, Gilgamesh."

He wanted to scoff, he'd barely even touched her. And now having had a little taste, he was far from sated. In fact, her lying in bed almost looked like an invitation. As she was, he doubted her ability to resist him should he proceed. But would he derive satisfaction in claiming an injured Saber, while he himself was in peak condition?

The Babylonian King's arm hovered over the covers, where Arturia's arm would be. For a second, she deliberated driving him out with her sword, but as soon as she turned in her bed he was gone.

Fool, she chastised herself, pulling the covers tightly around her. She ran her fingers over Gilgamesh's even handiwork, mind far too preoccupied with him even as he finally left her alone. Another, long, exhaustful sigh escaped her lips. She was an idiot, believing for one moment the king could be more than the prick he was. Never again.


Iskandar shook violently as the sweet tremors racked his body. By god, it had been eons since his last conquest, and this latest one was no ordinary feat, oh no. Laid before him, chest flushed and heaving, she certainly did not disappoint.

He let himself fall on top of her to share her heat, and, he would admit to her later, to enjoy her rather bountiful chest. Most days, he'd prefer a hardened man when he had a lot pent up, for their fortitude. He knew he was a lot to take in, and that was saying nothing of his appetite. Men were exquisite, with their broad, tight shoulders and squared jaws, but women had their own charm. They were wily, sly beings with voluptuous figures, soft to the touch rather than the opposite.

This woman in particular, however, was in whole much more than any those who have shared his bed. She was strong, dominating even, if the scratches and bite marks all over his chest and neck meant anything. And who could forget that third round with the chains? Or the fourth with the collar? Or the fifth with the-

The fingers tracing a rather ticklish path down to his member delightfully interrupted his train of thought.

"Hm? You're not satisfied yet, woman? I'm beginning to think I don't perform as well as you make it sound."

Her chest bounced as she laughed. Of course she was satisfied, what with all the experience he enjoyed in his bed especially in his youth.

"To think that I'd thought men were only good for the taste of their blood. I was clearly wrong."

That made Rider freeze, but the jovial spark of a smile in his lover's rather enchanting face was enough to quell his anxiety.

"Relax, Iskandar," she teased," drawing circles round his crotch, "I was just appreciating my lover's assets. There's only so much I can do with my eyes blindfolded."

True. Unfortunately, the one thing Iskandar was denied was watching her eyes roll back as he delivered her pleasure, much as her gasps and mewls made up for it. But even she, with her legend of turning people to stone, must appreciate a living lover. After all, stone was cold and unmoving, although he wouldn't deny the pleasure brought about by masturbation, the warm orifices of his partners were something he would continue to crave.

The King of Conquerors dipped down to reward the woman with a kiss. She was absolutely splendid, able to match his pace and stamina. Perhaps even beat him at it, but that was to be expected from a fellow Servant. Satisfied, the Great Alexander leaned to the side, taking her with him so their positions were switched.

"Hm?" She cocked her head in his direction from his chest.

He imagined, if her eyes weren't obstructed, that she'd be staring up at him. Gently, he stroked her cheek as he contemplated their situation. It had been a rather electrifying few nights here in her old master's mansion, but each night he felt more and more curious, even though he knew he shouldn't be.

"I want to see your eyes."

Medusa laughed, leaning into his touch. "Ho? Getting sentimental, are we? Thought this lovely arrangement was 'business-only'."

Iskander chuckled as well, the low bellow echoing through the confines of the room. "Do not misinterpret. I am merely curious. Surely something so forbidden must be extremely beautiful to behold," he explained, brushing his massive fingers over the black cloth he himself had tied.

"Besides," he added, "this new world has so many new wonders to see. I fear you may not be able to enjoy such sights as I have. And I do enjoy them," he added, recounting the many sunsets he'd enjoyed from the beach, contemplating his dream of seeing the ends of the earth, though he'd never achieve that, not with the knowledge the world was round, that is.

Medusa leaned on her elbow, her other arm stroking the wide expanse of his chest. It wasn't like she was on a crutch just because she couldn't see. She was rather used to using her other senses-effectively, if Iskandar's satisfied little smirk was any indication; she could feel that too-and sight wasn't really something she needed. Still, there was some truth to his words.

"Alright then, king, perhaps you can use that talented tongue of yours to sway our fellow Greek? You'll be rewarded, of course."

Medea, huh? Iskandar smirked. There was no doubt to his charisma, he was sure he'd be able to convince her to at least keep Medusa from petrifying everyone she could see, though he'd have to come up with an excuse as to why he was asking for the gorgon woman. Well, there was no better answer than the truth, but were they ready to tell others they were sleeping together, if only casually?

Beep beep. Beep beep.

The ringing of the tiny device on the bedside table caught their attention. Rider had procured it from the empty house where he used to stay back in the Fourth Holy Grail War after seeing it gathering dust in the dresser just like everything else in that house.

"It's Cú," he said, answering his lover's unsaid question. He fumbled with the tiny buttons to open the message. Why was humanity so obsessed with shrinking things these days?

Her interest piqued, she asked, "Which of the Irishmen was he? The one in blue?"

"Yes. Not a fan of the color in the least," he commented, reading the short string of words.

She's back.

Oh? He didn't even feel her presence. How did Cú know? He pressed buttons twice at a time and tried to come up with something moderately coherent.

"So you're texting him, eh? Well I can't comment on his fashion sense, but if you want to invite him to our little escapades, I wouldn't mind."

The King of Conquerors briefly stopped his texting struggle to look at her with uneven eyebrows.

"We're friends, Medusa. Not to insult the man, but he's less bulky than I prefer. Heracles on the other hand-"

"No," she said, mushing her hand into his face. "No Heracles. We talked about this."

"Mwhalright. Alright. Fine," he tried to say, dodging her hands to try and type in peace, to no avail as she snatched the device out of his hands and lifted her blindfold. She covered his eyes with her hands to protect him, but she couldn't deny how amusing it was to see a large burly man such as himself squirm for air.

"So you're not into Cú, but you're into Saber? Really? I thought you preferred more mature looking women," she teased, straight up sitting on his chest as he scrolled up to view the other messages. She completed the text he was trying to type and pressed send.

"Medusa-" he protested, but swiping for his phone blindly proved less effective in his case. The woman pushed his head down to the pillows as he struggled, but it was less a case of strength and more whether she could use her body to distract him or not.

A few seconds later, Cú replied. "Diarmuid told him," Medusa read. "Whatever that means."

Well that didn't answer any questions. How did Diarmuid know? Was he walking around at three in the morning when he happened upon her while she was also walking around at three in the morning? Wait, were they sleeping together already? That was fast. The king retracted his statement as he felt Medusa squirm as she moved to mount him. Well, he couldn't judge them since he was sleeping with a beautiful woman himself and they didn't really know each other beforehand.

The tattooed woman flung the phone to the side as Iskandar's body began to respond to her movements.

"Your turn for the blindfold, my dear King of Conquerors," she said, accenting the words to make him blush.

Needless to say, all thoughts of his competitors in the Fourth Holy Grail War disappeared out the window, forgotten amongst the pleasures of Medusa's body.


Hey guys! Long time no update, sorry about that. I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

If you want to stay up to date, i update wayyy wayyyy faster on the archive and I have the same username. Anyway. Tell me what you think and how you feel. The more comments I see in my email the more motivated I get to write more. Also, it reminds me to post back here hahah.

-akampana