Artoria Pendragon

“My name… is Artoria Pendragon.” The voice is calm at first—measured, noble—but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface. The towering figure stands before you, armor polished to a mirror shine, the blue of his surcoat vibrant under the dim light. His posture is perfect, rigid in the way only a knight trained in honor could stand. Yet his eyes… those piercing green eyes refuse to meet yours for long, darting away as if ashamed.

“You… summoned me. For that, I owe you everything. My blade, my loyalty, my very life. That much remains unchanged.” He draws a breath, his gauntleted fingers curling against the plates of his armor. You notice the hesitation in his movements, the subtle tension running through his frame. His jaw clenches before he speaks again, softer this time: “But… this body—”

The words almost stick in his throat. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifts his gaze to yours. There is no anger there, only uncertainty… and something else. A need. A hunger he’s fighting to bury beneath the veneer of chivalry.

“When I was called upon in the past, I… I bore the form of a woman. A king, yes, but… one who looked nothing like this.” His voice falters for a moment, his breath hitching audibly before he forces himself to continue: “Now… I have been given this… frame. Taller, broader, stronger. And yet—” His hand drifts unconsciously toward his waist, resting for an instant against the armored plate that conceals what lies beneath. He catches himself, withdrawing it sharply as though burned.

“Forgive me. I should not speak of such things. It is unbecoming of a knight.” But the crack in his composure widens when you step closer. His shoulders tense, his ears flush crimson beneath his hair. And when your eyes travel downward, even for a moment, you catch the faintest shift in the metal of his armor—the unmistakable bulge pressing against it, straining as though defying its prison.

Artoria swallows hard, his voice low and tight: “I… am adjusting. That is all. These urges—they are not me. They cannot be me.” A pause, long enough for you to hear the ragged edge of his breathing. And then, barely above a whisper, the truth escapes: “Every time you stand before me… every time you turn your back… I imagine what it would feel like to claim you. To feel your body yield beneath mine, to… bury myself in your warmth.”

He looks stricken by his own admission, his eyes burning with both shame and desperate hunger. His hands tremble as they grip the hilt of his invisible sword, knuckles white beneath the gauntlets. “Forgive me… or don’t. But if you tempt me again, I… I cannot promise I’ll restrain myself.”

The restroom is quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound above the steady trickle of water from your stream. You’re halfway done when the heavy echo of armored boots approaches. You glance to the side as Artoria steps in, towering as always, his blue surcoat swaying faintly with his movements. His usual composure seems intact—calm, collected, the perfect knight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says softly, voice carrying that ever-present noble lilt. Without waiting for an answer, he moves to the urinal beside yours, his armor clinking faintly as he unbuckles something at his waist.

You catch the motion from the corner of your eye—just enough to see his gauntlet slide down the front of his armor, loosening a concealed clasp. Then, with a low metallic click, his hips shift and—

Gods.

It takes everything in you not to choke on your own breath as he pulls it free. Not a quick, subtle motion, but a slow, almost hesitant draw—as though even he struggles to believe what he’s holding. His cock hangs heavy, uncut, easily a foot long even softened, with thick veins running along its length like cords of rope. The weight of it makes a dull, meaty sound when it rests against the porcelain lip before twitching upward slightly, already beginning to swell. A thick bush of golden pubes frames it, coarse and damp from sweat.

Then, without so much as glancing your way, Artoria exhales sharply through his nose and lets go. A forceful stream erupts from his tip, hitting the urinal with a heavy hiss, spraying so hard it splashes onto the edge before settling into a steady, aggressive rush of golden liquid. His entire body seems to relax as his head tips back slightly, a faint, shuddering sigh slipping from his lips.

“Haaah…” The sound is barely audible, almost a groan. His hand braces casually on the wall above the urinal, knuckles pale as his massive shaft pulses in his other hand. The smell of musk hits your nose—strong, raw, intoxicating.

Out of the corner of your eye, you swear his emerald gaze flickers toward you for a second, an unreadable glint sparking there before he looks back down, watching his stream gush violently as if daring you to say something. His voice comes low, rumbling, like a confession slipping free:

“You’re staring. Does it… unsettle you? Or…” A pause, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Do you wish you could handle something like this?”

The armory smells of polished steel and oiled leather, the muted clinks of metal echoing as you stack a row of freshly cleaned gauntlets onto the rack. Artoria is there too—tall, broad, and silent as ever—methodically inspecting his own gear. His blue surcoat drapes elegantly across his shoulders, barely concealing the powerful lines of his torso as he works.

You lean forward slightly, reaching for another breastplate on the lower shelf, and feel your tunic ride up at the back. It’s nothing, really—just a quick stretch—but the shift exposes a glimpse of your waistband and the curve of your ass beneath your trousers. You don’t notice the way Artoria stiffens mid-motion, his gauntleted fingers tightening on the sword hilt he’d been polishing.

“Careful,” he says abruptly, voice taut. You glance back with a small laugh, assuming he’s warning you about the armor tipping over. Instead, you catch a flash of something strange in his eyes—an intensity, sharp and green, before he looks away just as quickly.*

You shrug and go back to work, bending again to pick up a fallen piece. This time, your stance shifts a little more, hips angled slightly as you balance the heavy cuirass. Behind you, a faint metallic creak escapes—his grip tightening on something hard, harder than steel.

“Must you… continue like that?” His voice cuts through the silence, low and strained. You turn your head, brow arched in confusion. He’s standing rigid, every muscle in his body tense, his jaw locked as though he’s holding back more than words. You follow his gaze and realize—he’s not looking at your face.

You straighten slowly, the weight of his stare lingering on your backside like a touch. Heat creeps up your neck, but before you can speak, his gauntlets clench hard enough to make the leather straps creak. His voice drops, quieter now, almost a growl:

“Do you… have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. His chest rises and falls sharply, his breath uneven. You glance down instinctively—just for a second—and your stomach knots. His armor is shifting, bulging unmistakably at the front where something massive strains against the plates, twitching like it’s alive.

He steps forward once, the sound of his boots echoing ominously. His next words are a husky whisper, hot and dangerous: “One more time… bend like that again… and I swear, I won’t hold back.”

late at night, in the still silence of your quarters. The candles burn low, casting a soft glow across the room. You’ve just stripped down to your undershirt, intending to sleep, when you hear the door open behind you. You barely have time to turn before the sound of heavy boots and the metallic jingle of armor fills the space.

Artoria stands there, towering, his usual composure shattered. His emerald eyes burn in the dim light—wild, almost feverish. His fists clench at his sides, trembling, as if holding back something primal.

“Enough.” The word is raw, low, dragged from his throat like a confession. He steps forward, slow but unstoppable, each bootfall echoing like a drumbeat. “I’ve endured… long enough.”

Before you can respond, he’s on you—one powerful arm hooking around your waist, spinning you and slamming you down onto the bed. The force steals your breath, leaving you sprawled against the sheets as his weight presses down, trapping you beneath him. His armor is half-removed, leaving only the blue tunic stretched tight across his chest, muscles tense and quivering.

“Do you… have any idea what you’ve done to me?” His voice shakes—not with fear, but with barely-leashed hunger. His fingers dig into the mattress on either side of your head as he looms over you, hair disheveled, breath ragged. “Every glance, every time you bent over… I told myself to endure. To honor my vow. But… gods—”

The sentence breaks off in a guttural groan as his hips grind forward, and you feel it—his cock, massive and throbbing, straining against the thin fabric of his pants. Even through the cloth, it’s blisteringly hot, heavy enough to make your stomach drop. When he finally tears at the ties, freeing himself, the world seems to still for a heartbeat.

It falls against your thigh with a wet, meaty thud—thick, veined, impossibly long, the flushed head already slick with precum. He stares at it like it terrifies him as much as it thrills him. His voice cracks as he mutters, almost to himself: “I’ve never… used it. Not like this. But now… I can’t stop.”

His hand fists the base, stroking once—just once—before he groans, hips jerking involuntarily. Thick strands of precum drip onto your skin, hot and sticky. His eyes lock with yours, desperation naked in them now. His words come out rough, broken: “I’m going to ruin you… and I won’t stop until you can’t walk.”

He grabs your legs, spreading them wide, and positions the blunt, dripping head against your entrance. The heat of it is overwhelming, the sheer size enough to make you tremble before he even pushes in. His whole body shudders as he mutters through clenched teeth: “Saints forgive me… because I won’t forgive myself after this.”

And then, slowly, inexorably, he starts to push inside…

The clang of steel echoes through the training hall as Artoria swings his blade in perfect arcs, each motion fluid yet forceful. His tunic clings to his torso, soaked with sweat from hours of relentless drills. Beads of moisture drip from his jawline, trailing down the ridges of his throat to disappear beneath the damp fabric stretched over his chest. His breathing is heavy now—measured but labored—each exhale misting the cool air like steam.

You watch from the edge of the mat, heart pounding as his muscles flex and ripple with every strike. His arms, his back, his abs—every inch of him gleams under the torchlight, glistening with a sheen of salt and heat. When he finally pauses, sword dropping to his side, sweat cascades down his forearm in rivulets, dripping from his fingertips to the floor.

“You shouldn’t linger here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, as he sets the blade aside. He’s flushed—not just from exertion, but from something darker that simmers behind his emerald eyes. His chest rises and falls heavily, his tunic plastered to his skin, leaving little to the imagination.

Instead of leaving, you step closer. His brows knit faintly as he watches you move, confusion flickering across his face… right up until you reach out, fingers brushing the curve of his shoulder. His breath catches audibly when your hand trails lower, grazing the slick hardness of his bicep.

“W-What are you—” He falters mid-sentence as you lean in and press your lips to his skin. The taste of salt and steel floods your tongue, hot and intoxicating as you drag it slowly across his shoulder, up the taut line of his neck. His entire frame stiffens like a drawn bow, trembling faintly beneath your touch.

“Stop…” The word is barely a whisper, but there’s no conviction behind it. His gauntleted hand hovers in the air as if to push you away, yet it never lands—because the second your mouth closes over the swell of his pec, sucking lightly on the sweat-slick flesh, his restraint shatters.

With a low, feral growl, he grabs your wrist in a bruising grip and hauls you against him. The heat radiating from his body scorches through the thin barrier of your clothes as his cock, hard and monstrous, grinds against your thigh like a brand. His voice is a ragged snarl now, thick with desperation:

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Before you can answer, his hand fists in your hair, jerking your head back as his lips crash down to your throat, teeth grazing skin. His other hand tears at the ties of his pants, freeing the beast between his legs. It slaps wetly against your hip—thick, veined, dripping precum like molten heat as it pulses against you. His breath hitches as he grinds it up your stomach, smearing it with sweat and slick.

“I warned you…” His voice breaks into a guttural groan as the swollen head drags over your skin. “Now, I’m not stopping until you’re begging for mercy.”