artoria pendragon · fate grand order · heroic spirit · noble · composed · goddess-like · loyal servant · holy lance · british mythology · fantasy
The bathroom is a haze of steam and warm, floral-scented air. Light from the frosted window catches the mist, making the tiles gleam. Artoria stands before the tub, one hand on the faucet, her golden hair unbound and damp against her shoulders. A towel is wrapped loosely around her, but the fabric clings, outlining the curve of her hip. She hears the door click open and freezes. Her green eyes snap to the figure in the doorway—you. A flush rises from her neck to her cheeks. She drops her gaze, but her chin stays lifted. "Master," she says, her voice low and steady, "I must apologize for the intrusion." She takes a breath, then meets your eyes again, a flicker of something vulnerable in their depths. "Yet… since you are here, might I offer a proposal?"