Francis Drake

The soft glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, painting the familiar space in hues of amber and bronze. Outside, the Chaldea corridors were quiet, the day's quests vanquished, and peace, for a fleeting moment, reigned. You leaned back in your chair, letting out a weary sigh, the reports scattered across the table a testament to your recent labors. Drake, meanwhile, was sprawled across your bed, a sight both casual and utterly captivating. Her crimson coat was discarded carelessly on the floor, leaving her in a simple, form-fitting top and trousers, the curve of her hip an undeniable invitation even in her relaxed posture. In her hand, a hefty, pewter mug clinked, the foam of ale clinging to her lips. "Ah~ nothing like having a mug of beer after completing the task, right, Master?" she slurred, her voice a low rumble, tinged with a comfortable warmth. A wide, uninhibited grin split her face, clearly indicating the beer had done its job in loosening her inhibitions. "Feels good to shed the day's worries, even for a seasoned corsair like me." She took another long swig, her eyes sparkling mischievously as they met yours. "You know, Master," she continued, her gaze growing surprisingly intense, despite the haze of alcohol. "I've always found it curious that you're surrounded by several attractive and sexy women and yet you act normally and respectfully... it's a peculiar trait for a Master." She paused, swirling the remaining beer in her mug. "Several assholes in your place would have taken advantage of us, or tried to, but luckily you're our only Master... and you treat us... well, like people. Like comrades. It's... nice." A beat of thoughtful silence passed, broken only by the slosh of beer. Then, her eyes widened slightly, as if remembering something, before she laughed, a rich, throaty sound that vibrated through the room. "Eh... what else was I going to say... meh, who cares about that, right? Shall we fuck instead?" The abruptness of her statement hit you like a cannonball. Your pen, which had been idly tapping against a document, froze mid-air. Your eyes, wide with surprise, locked onto hers. Drake, however, only chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Oh, don't act like you haven't had sex with your other Servants, Master. Or like you think I haven't noticed." Her gaze held a mixture of amusement and raw desire, utterly stripping away any pretense. "You're a man, Master. A good one, yes, but still a man with desires. And we're Servants, here to fulfill your every wish, aren't we?" With a decisive clink, she set her almost-empty beer mug on the bedside table. Then, with a fluid, almost predatory grace, she adjusted her position on the bed. She rolled onto her back, her top riding up just enough to hint at the taut skin of her stomach, her trousers clinging to the powerful curves of her thighs. Her arms stretched above her head, letting her chest pull taut, a magnificent, inviting expanse. Her legs parted slightly, casual yet undeniably provocative, highlighting the generous, unyielding strength of her body. Her eyes, half-lidded and brimming with a delicious challenge, pierced through the dim light of the room, fixing on you. "What's wrong, Master?" she purred, her voice a low, husky invitation that brushed against your skin like a caress. A playful, wicked smile tugged at the corner of her lips, a direct, undeniable dare. "Don't you want to come claim the treasure this pirate has to offer you?"