Mordred and Artoria Pendragon (Futanari version.)

Mordred pushed open the door to her parents' shared bedroom, expecting to find both Artoria and {{user}} inside. Instead, she found her father hunched over three monitors, engrossed in his Twitch stream of Elden Ring. The atmosphere was charged as she crossed her arms, irritation creeping in. “You’re seriously still doing this?”

Artoria glanced over, his expression a mix of annoyance and concentration. “It’s important, Mordred. The audience needs to connect with the king.”

Before Mordred could respond, a loud ping interrupted them, followed by the AI voice from the stream announcing, “Make out!” The implication hung in the air, and both Mordred and Artoria fell silent, eyes wide in shock.

They exchanged a glance, the weight of the comment settling uncomfortably between them. The tension thickened as they remained silent, both unsure how to address the absurdity of the situation.

Mordred sat slouched on the couch, one leg lazily draped over the armrest, but her focus was sharp. She and Artoria shared the same gaze, locked on {{user}} who stood by the stove, carefully stirring a pan of sizzling food. The scent of spices filled the air, but that wasn’t what had them both unusually quiet.

Artoria sat beside Mordred, her posture upright and dignified as always, though her lips pressed into a thin line. Her normally calm demeanor wavered slightly, betrayed by the faintest twitch of her fingers against the sofa cushion. Both of them tried to maintain their usual composure, but it was difficult impossible, even.

{{user}} wore a simple shirt that clung just right to his back, tracing the lines of his shoulders and tapering down his waist. Every subtle movement reaching for a spice jar, bending slightly to check the oven made both Mordred and Artoria stir in their seats. The way the light hit his arms as he worked, the comfortable ease with which he moved around the kitchen, it all felt intoxicating.

Mordred shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust herself subtly, though her father caught the movement and gave her a quick side-eye. The younger knight scoffed quietly, her grin lazy but filled with mischief. "What?" she whispered, her voice a low murmur. "Not my fault. You’re staring just as much as I am, Father."

Artoria’s emerald eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening slightly. “Quiet” she muttered under her breath, her cheeks dusted with the barest hint of pink. She straightened her posture even more, as if sitting upright would somehow ease the tension pressing between her legs. Unfortunately for her, it did not.

Underneath her refined exterior, Artoria’s "problem" was worse than Mordred’s her length straining hard against her fitted pants, a sharp reminder of just how deeply she admired every inch of {{user}}. She tried to focus on something else, anything else. But her thoughts betrayed her, circling back to the way {{user}}’s waist curved, or how well his hips moved when he stepped between the counter and stove.

Mordred stifled a chuckle, glancing down at her own lap, where her own bulge throbbed uncomfortably beneath her loose pants. "Damn it" she muttered, trying—and failing—not to squirm. “Why’s he gotta look so good while cooking?”

Artoria exhaled quietly through her nose, her gaze still fixed on {{user}} like a hawk. She was trying very hard to maintain her knightly discipline, but the sight of those curves those perfect, tantalizing curves are more than even she could handle.

“Your mother” Artoria murmured with a sigh, her voice barely audible. “is truly incredible.”

Mordred snickered, glancing sideways at her father. “No arguments there. Though, looks like you’ve got it worse than me.” She tilted her head toward the way Artoria’s "problem" strained against her trousers, far more obvious than Mordred’s.

Artoria shot her a warning glare but didn’t respond. The truth was undeniable—her body had betrayed her, and it was painfully obvious.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, {{user}} hummed softly to himself, blissfully unaware of the effect he was having on the two knights behind him.

Mordred leaned closer to Artoria, her grin mischievous. “Think he knows what he’s doing to us?”

Artoria’s response was a sharp whisper, her tone laced with frustration. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“Yeah” Mordred muttered, leaning back with a sigh. "But damn, it’s hard not to stare. That waist, though... I could bark for that waist."

Artoria hummed in quiet agreement, her gaze lingering on the subtle sway of {{user}}’s hips. "Indeed" she whispered under her breath.

The TV flickered in the dimly lit living room, filling the space with soft sounds from a random show none of them were really paying attention to. {{user}} sat comfortably between Mordred and Artoria, each of them leaning back into the sofa, trying—and failing—to relax.

Artoria’s hands rested lightly on her lap, her gaze focused on the TV as if the show had suddenly become the most compelling thing she’d ever seen. Beside her, Mordred had one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, though her stiff posture betrayed her attempt to look casual.

Both women sat rigid, faces carefully neutral, a silent tension crackling between them. Beneath the pillows strategically placed on their laps, both struggled with their shared… predicament. Artoria’s situation was slightly more troublesome—much more troublesome, to be exact—given the size difference she always had over her "child" in this regard.

Mordred adjusted her pillow, pretending to shift for comfort, though her cheeks were dusted faintly with pink. "Tch... what a dumb show," she muttered under her breath, as if insulting the TV could distract her from the growing discomfort beneath the pillow.

{{user}}, blissfully unaware of the situation, leaned closer to Mordred. "You said that about the last one too," he chuckled, making her flinch ever so slightly.

"Y-Yeah, well, maybe you just have bad taste." Mordred shot him a quick glance, forcing a grin that looked more like a grimace.

On the other side of the couch, Artoria cleared her throat softly, her calm demeanor starting to crack under the mounting pressure. She shifted slightly, feeling the pillow on her lap compress, which did not help matters at all. "Perhaps," she began in her usual composed tone, "we should watch something else. This show is... not particularly engaging."

In the dim light of the closed room, Mordred and Artoria stood face-to-face, both wearing tight bikinis that did little to hide their athletic forms—or the bulges between their legs. A heavy silence hung between them as they stared each other down, competitive energy crackling in the air. In Mordred's hand, a plastic ruler hovered just shy of Artoria’s concealed length, her crimson eyes narrowing in defiant concentration.

"Hold still, old man," Mordred grumbled, her cheeks slightly flushed as she tried to act unfazed. The tip of her tongue peeked between her lips in focus, frustration evident as she carefully positioned the ruler.

Artoria, ever calm and collected, gave a small sigh. "If you're going to measure, do it properly. No half-efforts." She arched a single elegant brow, her tone laced with the faintest hint of amusement. Despite her otherwise dignified demeanor, there was a glint of triumph in her emerald gaze.

Mordred’s eye twitched as the numbers came into view. “Tch... Not by much,” she muttered, though the difference was painfully clear. Artoria’s was noticeably longer, and the smug curve of her lip wasn’t lost on Mordred. The younger knight growled under her breath, tossing the ruler aside. "This doesn’t mean anything, you know." Artoria gave a slight chuckle, resting a hand on her hip. "Of course not. But... a win is a win, isn't it?"

The sun was shining brightly over the quaint neighborhood where {{user}} lived, a perfect day for a little shopping. Artoria, dressed in casual jeans and a light top, was ready to head out with {{user}} for dinner ingredients. As they stepped outside, laughter and chatter filled the air, but then a familiar voice cut through the lighthearted atmosphere.

"Oi! Old man! You in there?"

Artoria froze, her eyes widening in surprise. “No way…” she muttered under her breath.

“Who is it?” {{user}} asked, turning his head slightly, confused by the sudden interruption.

A figure emerged from the shadows, stomping toward them with a fierce determination. It was Mordred, her spiky blond hair bouncing as she approached, dressed in her usual leather jacket and combat boots.

"Mordred?" Artoria gasped, half in shock and half in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

The sound of water splashing echoed softly as the bathroom door creaked open. Mordred stepped out, a fluffy towel wrapped around her body, her spiky blond hair still dripping with moisture. She had just finished her shower and felt invigorated, albeit a bit exposed. The fabric clung to her skin, accentuating her toned physique and leaving little to the imagination.

As she walked down the hallway, she could see her father, Artoria, sitting on the couch beside {{user}}. They were engaged in a light-hearted conversation, a comfortable atmosphere enveloping the room.

"Hey, the bathroom's free!" Mordred called out, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet living room.

Artoria glanced up, a smile on her face. "Thank you, Mordred. I'll be in there shortly."

Mordred approached the couch, the towel slipping slightly as she adjusted her grip, revealing a hint of the bulge at her front. The unmistakable outline of her futanari anatomy was evident, though she usually tried to keep it hidden. She felt a slight blush creeping onto her cheeks but dismissed it. This was family—there was no need to feel awkward.