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Thread: White Day Lemon Contest (2017) Entries

  1. #21
    好き! Kirby's Avatar
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    Indoors Squirt Duel: a ‘Cerulean Ride’ Alternative

    Indoors Squirt Duel
    (a ‘Cerulean Ride’ alternative)
    There’s unfinished business to take care of before summer ends.

    See me as soon as possible in the master room.

    Artoria Pendragon

    Oh, dear.

    What gives? I thought we had already cleared the islands of those malevolent boars. Or is it some sort of new threat? In a twisted way, it’s fitting that the summer has to end on a big climax like this -- end on a bang.

    I’m annoyed, yet determined to see this through to the end. It’s my job as their Master.

    I leave the hammock behind and go off to the rendezvous point, ready to talk strategy with Saber?… Archer?… Artoria. Summer while working for Chaldea is weird. Whatever. Anyway, I go to the “war room” to be debriefed by the King of Knights.


    I nearly get whacked in the face with the squirt gun that Artoria aggressively passes to me to the point that it’s basically a throw. I desperately juggle the toy around for a handful of tense moments, until my brain catches up with the absurdity of the situation and I let the play-weapon clutter to the floor. It pathetically dribbles a little as it lies there, rejected.

    Nice try, but those are crocodile tears, courtesy of a certain Pendragon.

    “Master?! What are you doing!?” My black-and-white bikini-clad, ponytail-sporting Servant looks rather insulted, a slight sourness to her face more akin to the sternness she’s capable of. Guess an end to the summer means the slippage of everyone’s summery-facades, too?

    No, Artoria, what are YOU doing? No, wait, I know what this is, and I won’t take part in it.

    “Come on, come on, Master! Do not deny me this!” Artoria argues with me. “It’s been a full summer and I’ve not even had a duel with you! Come now, pick the soaker up and let’s have a fun contest!”

    I’ve seen you kill monstrous crabs with a squirt gun. No thanks.

    “I know my own strength, Master! I shall temper the water fae’s blessing and will not blow you away! This I do swear! Just have some fun with me!”

    Denied once, twice, every time, Artoria! Your word is good, but you’re nothing if not competitive. That trophy you somehow got is the proof of the pudding! You’re gonna Prana Burst on me, I just know it. Let’s just do something else!

    “M-Master! I’ll have none of that!”

    I’LL have none of THAT!
    Artoria points the barrel at me, threatening me to pick up my weapon and engage in sport with her. I grab the barrel in my palm and point it up and away from me, towards the ceiling. Artoria, please--!


    The gun goes off. We’re caught in the blast. If it were real, with solid slugs of standardized caliber, this situation will become an accident, or a tragedy, fostered by summer desperation.

    But it’s just a squirt gun. With just water.

    No. Wait.

    This isn’t water.

    This isn’t water at all.

    Artoria, this is—

    “Awa! Master, this is—- The battle potion is—”

    Excuse me, but… “battle potion?”

    She struggles to get her words out, and for good reason. “I j-just wanted to have a-a good d-duel with you, M-Master— B-But, if y-you refused to l-live to th-the f-f-fullehst on the l-last day of summer, then the b-battle potion in the gun was s-supposed to s-set your spirit a-a-ablaze—”

    …A “battle potion,” huh…???

    “Th-That’s what Kiyohime told me what it was! But, Kiyohime is, is not right in her m-mind, so Tamamo-no, Tamamo-no-Mae vouched for her word!

    “But, T-Tamamo-no-M-Mae is a schemer, s-so she can’t be t-trusted, either!

    “—but then Marie said, with a fine s-smile and a lovely laugh ‘Oh, my? This cute little vial? It is indeed a “battle potion!”’ And Anne and Mary cheerfully agreed! And Scathach too, she said ‘Yep. That right there is indeed “battle potion,” of sorts, meant for particular battles -- namely: duels.’

    “A-All of them, M-Master! All of th-them were in a-a-agreement! It’s a ‘battle potion!’ Well, M-Martha was nowhere to be f-found, but still-!”

    Artoria, you innocent fool, they all took you for a ride. I recognize this taste. I feel it’s effects as much as you do. This isn’t a battle potion—

    My Archer-for-the-Summer is dazed, swaying where she stands. Her eyes are drawn to me, distant and dilated and slowly blinking. She slowly, with a quivering lip, mouths at me “Master…” She leans back, falls – right onto the master bed. Artoria simmers and sweats and it’s not from the summer heat.

    —oh, dear.

    “Master…” her eyes dart up and down and down and up my body as she clenches a fist over her heart, as the Servant’s thighs rub against thighs. Her voice comes out as a whisper. “Pl-Please… Duel… Me…”

    This is not the first time I’ve experienced “battle potion.” But, that doesn’t mean I have any built up resistance to it.

    Right now, I can’t resist – don’t want to resist.

    And, from the state of Artoria’s bikini bottom—soaked without even getting splashed by the blowback—she doesn’t want to either.

    Artoria bites her lip and her chest noticeably yet slightly raises and falls with each breath. She mouths words even unsaid. “Master…”

    F-Fine. Let’s d-d-d-duel. An Indoor Squirt Duel.

    In this chaotic state I do the only sensible thing. I drop my trunks and hobble my way over to the bed. My swimwear got in the way, and even now it still HURTS to move. My need makes my weapon of choice feel alien, like a parasite I’m all too sensitive of that HAS to hunt.

    A-Artoria— My words are stupid, animalistic. Long live summer.

    Hands grab at her bikini top and TEAR. No mercy. We can always get another one made. Who cares now, though? Her breasts are slim, but soft, so soft that I throb in delight so much that it hurts. Her bottom goes too, God knows where, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men in Camelot can’t put that Humpty Dumpty back together again.

    “Master–! Y-Yes! D-Duel m-me!” Nearly completely gone is Artoria, the King of Knights, her personality nearly completely overwritten by those trace drops of “battle potion,” replaced with the primal urge to “duel” with me.

    I give it a go as I stand at the side of the bed, my taut muscles giving in, and I fall into Artoria. Her legs reach up and over my shoulders as I press into her all the way, her utterly wet holster accommodating my locked and loaded DNA cannon of a squirtgun.

    “A-Already!! S-So bold, already! Ah!” her voice raises, not at all in complaint.

    The wet sound of coitus, erm, duelling and friendly competition. VERY FRIENDLY competition. It should be embarrassing, but the “battle potion” makes neither of us care. Hip-to-hip. Waist-to-waist. Crotch-to-crotch. I strike. She deflects. She swings. I retreat. It’s wet enough. This IS a squirt duel, isn’t it?

    She was so wet before, so I have to see, touch her above our connection, to that very swollen little scale of Pendragon’s. “N-No, n-not there, n-not n-nooOOWWW—!!!” I barely pet her and she forces me out, and her own personal lady of the lake gives a blessing to this engagement of ours, soaking my hips and hers even moreso as Artoria moans out like a little girl.

    “N-No! No forfeiting. B-Back to the combat area. NOW.” She begs me, her legs and chamber already spread and glistening and too-willing.

    O-Of course. Who in their r-right mind would leave when it’s g-getting this g-good?

    Neither Artoria nor I are sane right now, but who cares.

    Same as before. I enter her again, and the sensation of my cock in her makes her roar with unrestrained delight. “F-Faster, M-Masterrr—!”

    Artoria wants to trade blows, does she? Then let’s trade them. Even if you’re a Servant, like this I can keep up with you.

    The first time is always fastest. Especially on “battle potion.” A dozen full strokes of the moves she wants, and I let her have it. I pull as fast and far out as possible. I grit my teeth and stroke like a madman and whitewater from my super soaker splashes up her body, face and breasts splashed with a manmade mother-of-pearl necklace.

    “You, you have bested me, Master,” she says. “But this, this is, is yet merely the f-first round…” Artoria, her face creamy and flushed, crawls over to meet me, and I oblige her and get up on the bed. She takes my gun in hand and opens her mouth, and her tongue dances along the white-dripping barrelhead. This, is…

    “ ‘tis fair, Mathtuh,” says she, and her lips suck up and down the barrel, lewd noises crashing against our ears like the distant waves of the beach just down the hill. Drool coats me, and connects her lips with that part of me, and Artoria strokes what bit that she’s able to as she takes me in her mouth, and I get treated to a more and more of her throat with each passing moment. “An ahpuhtoonehtee fuh yew.” She barely, legibly tells me.

    An opportunity for what? An opportunity that I already see. Can’t squirt you like this, get my points. Well, I could. But I wanna do it like THIS instead. I pull away, slippery in her touch, using her own tactic against her, and I leapfrog over Artoria to get behind her. On her belly, her butt sticks up, taut and tight and ready.

    I take her. She, in such a prone position, I don’t miss this opportunity. It’s not playing dirty, honestly. At least, NOT YET. Artoria’s velvety, wet cunt remains as inviting as ever, and her dazed eyes burn needfully though and at me as we use each other from behind like this.

    Artoria’s butthole winks at me as I pull back and forth. I indulge the cheeky thing and press into it with my wet dong. “Ahh! An underha-handed tactic! You! Y-You were the one to look out f-f-for!!” So she says, but obviously without complaint, as she leaks and leaks from between her lips with every stroke into her gut.

    This? Playing dirty. NOT YET.

    Her bottom is positively royal, yet I again miss that leaking fountain of once-and-future delight. Leavign Artoria’s bottom agape, I return to her and stroke and stroke in and out, and her hips press back more and more against me, as her voice and mine raise.

    Betwixt and between rational choice and hungry pillaging, I swap between Artoria’s ass and pussy, indulging in both as quick as I can, making her leak and squirt no matter which one I’m in, regardless of whether I get pushed out by her wonderful contractions as it happens or not.

    All the while her hips rise more and more to meet with mine until Artoria is all but face-down into the bed. “Master! MAsterRrR!! Your tactics—! Such manuever’n!!”

    I’ve lost track of how many times she’s come. So here’s another one for you, Artoria, and another load is loosed right in her face, getting into her flaxen locks, making those emerald eyes of hers squint.

    Even then, the bint, she still looks at me with eyes that couldn’t possibly be hornier. Seems like this match shan’t end so soon.

    The sun has started to finally dip below the horizon, and the sheets are soaked. I feel like I went swimming and I haven’t been in the water at all today. Artoria is coated from face to chest to abdomen in rounds and rounds-worth load as we lie there, finally having gotten that “battle potion” out of our systems, and our contest resolved.

    “Who… who do you suppose won the match, Mas-ter…?”

    Well… If we consider your actions, and mine, and our respective reactions, then…

    We could really use a referee.


    The startled voice of Mordred Pendragon resounds through the bungalow’s master bedroom, and yet does little to startle us from the lasting hangover of an summer’s afterglow.



    “What is this, Father?! And YOU, Master!!? Where the HELL have you been!! It’s been hours!?” Tears sparkle in Mordred’s eyes alongside her clenched fists. “I-I-I’ve been waiting, this whole time…!”


    “My invitation! Th-There’s no way you c-couldn’t have seen that, could y-you?!?”

    “Oh, that.” Artoria speaks up. “I saw garbage. So I disposed of it.”

    “Y-You’re the worst, Father!!”

    “O-Our Master’s a beastly brute, anyways! T-Too dangerous for you to handle, m-my s-son!!”

    “THE!!! WORST!!!”

    With that, summer was over, and the fantasy was shattered.

    Welcome back to Chaldea, everyone.

    Its the end of the FGO Beach Event, and after running themselves ragged managing the thing and making sure everything worked out, Gudao/Gudako (whichever the writer prefers) decides to spend the final day of the singularity relaxing and unwinding from all the stress when they get an invitation for a sunset beach date by one of the Event Servants [Mordred/Kiyohime/Tamamo/Scathach/Mary&Anne/Artoria/Antoinette] (Pick 1) that has all the ingredients for an unforgettable summer memory.
    Last edited by ItsaRandomUsername; March 14th, 2017 at 09:17 PM.
    Quote Originally Posted by Dullahan View Post
    there aren't enough gun emojis in the thousandfold trichiliocosm for this shit

    Linger: Complete. August, 1995. I met him. A branch off Part 3. Mikiya keeps his promise to meet Azaka, and meets again with that mysterious girl he once found in the rain.
    Shinkai: Set in the Edo period. DHO-centric. As mysterious figures gather in the city, a young woman unearths the dark secrets of the Asakami family.
    The Dollkeeper: A Fate side-story. The memoirs of the last tuner of the Einzberns. A record of the end of a family.
    Overcount 2030: Extra x Notes. A girl with no memories is found by a nameless soldier, and wakes up to a world of war.

  2. #22
    (´・ω・`) Sinon's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2012
    And so it ends.

  3. #23
    好き! Kirby's Avatar
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    He stroked the ring.

    He could have said he stroked the ring as a good luck charm. He could have said he did it to ward off anxiety along with the magic it repelled. He could have said any number of things to justify his handsy habit.

    But if he were to be completely honest with himself, if he were to strip away that veneer of respectability and leave the unvarnished truth naked for the world to see…

    He stroked the ring to keep his hand busy.

    He watched as the war goddess stripped the priestess bare, sliding the robes from her slim shoulders with a grace that spoke of reverence for the mortal. An interesting turnabout, that.

    He continued watching as the priestess sighed and turned into the kiss. The kiss. So sudden. So deep. Not a kiss of love. No, not entirely. A kiss of lust. One often begat the other, but there was no love lost or won here.

    This was an aegis against entropy. What better to counteract the creeping stench of death than the heady aroma of physical love?

    Lancelot of the Lake knew this. He had suffered through enough lectures from the flower mage to know the power and purpose of sex rites.

    He knew, and he did not care.

    He did not care about the arc of the arcane circle in which the women worked their magic. He did not care that the exchange of fluids imbued each with the power of the other. He did not care that this, the witching hour, had been chosen for its liminal state, capturing the concept of in-between things like lightning in the proverbial bottle.

    Lancelot knew, and still he did not care.

    Lancleot knew, too, that he had not known a woman’s touch in this incarnation of od. It was a half-existence, this one. So many doors had opened before him to walk again among the living, even as a ghost, but a great many remained closed to him. Or so he told himself.

    He thought it somehow improper for two of the Master’s Servants to carry on like this. He should have spoken up. He should have stopped them.

    And as he saw the goddess slide the crook of her fingers into Medea’s wet and willing body, the thought was blasted from his skull.

    His hands were still upon the ring, but it was a weak and feeble thing, that grip. Grip. When he had he started white-knuckling the ring as if it would keep him from this sweet sin?

    Medea’s delicate cheeks had gone rose-red, drunk on Scathach and what she had to offer.

    Oh, yes, Lancelot had heard of her prowess from her own pupil and sometime-lover, the Hound. Lancelot had found talk of carnal conquest to be low brow at best. He had tried not to listen just as he tried not to watch.

    Oh, but Lancelot, don’t you know what you are the weakest knight of all?

    The voice sounded like Merlin, cheshire grinning. The voice sounded like Morgan, peacock preening. The voice sounded like Guinevere, siren singing.

    The voice sounded like his own.

    Medea was no longer the passive partner. Her lips were locked around Scathach’s heavy left nipple like a child fresh from the womb.

    It was obscene, the mingling of childlike innocence and adult pleasures.

    But if that was obscene, so was Lancelot, whose hands had strayed yet again. They had strayed from his loyalty to his king and queen. Now they strayed from the ring of enchantment, a symbol of his chastity.

    He tugged loose his breeches in a perfect mirror of Medea sliding her hands down the front of Scathach’s body suit to find the place that made seed into child and child into man.

    Disgusting. Obscene. Shameful.

    The women or himself? Their actions or his own treacherous thoughts?

    It should have been hard to keep himself hard with so much self-flagellation intruding into his thoughts, but maybe, just maybe, Merlin had been correct.

    A strong woman suits you.

    Yes, strong. Who stronger than the Lady of Shadows? Who better than her to ride him, to tame him?

    Who better to lock eyes with him in that perfectly prurient moment?

    She did not blink. She did not look away.

    She knew what he was doing, and she did not care.

    And just like that, it was over. The eye contact was broken along with the spell of anxiety. She returned instead to the spell of sensuality, stepping out of the clothes that pooled around her milky thighs like leggings so that she could show Medea and Lancelot the totality of her bounty.

    And it was good.

    Medea’s breathing quickened. Lancelot set an even more demanding pace.

    Scathach saw all of this, knew her power, and smiled.

    Seed spilled in shame was not an essential ingredient of this ritual. Far from it, in fact. But she would not refuse it. Let the man have his moment and his shame. Such was the nature of his legend.

    What were the ghosts of heroes past but creatures of habit?

    Medea practicing a magic sex rite with Scáthach in the open air, with at least one male observer somehow affected by the ritual.
    Quote Originally Posted by Dullahan View Post
    there aren't enough gun emojis in the thousandfold trichiliocosm for this shit

    Linger: Complete. August, 1995. I met him. A branch off Part 3. Mikiya keeps his promise to meet Azaka, and meets again with that mysterious girl he once found in the rain.
    Shinkai: Set in the Edo period. DHO-centric. As mysterious figures gather in the city, a young woman unearths the dark secrets of the Asakami family.
    The Dollkeeper: A Fate side-story. The memoirs of the last tuner of the Einzberns. A record of the end of a family.
    Overcount 2030: Extra x Notes. A girl with no memories is found by a nameless soldier, and wakes up to a world of war.

  4. #24
    闇色の六王権 The Dark Six SpoonyViking's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2015
    Rio de Janeiro, RJ - Brasil
    Very much appreciated, whoever wrote it! Well worth the wait!
    My fanfics:
    The Gift (a Fate/Stay Night one-shot)
    - A duel between Cú Chulainn and Scáthach.
    Passion Acknowledged (a Fate/Stay Night one-shot) (Lemon) - Shirou and Shinji finally acknowledge their feelings.
    He Was a Good King (a Fate/Stay Night one-shot) - A short exploration of Beowulf's character as a hero and a king.
    A Fairy Tale of Love and Death (a Fate/Stay Night one-shot) - A meeting between Scáthach and King Hassan in the distant past.

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