It is said that Jacaerys Velaryon leapt free and clung to a piece of smoking wreckage for a few heartbeats, until some crossbowmen on the nearest Myrish ship began loosing quarrels at him. The prince was struck once, and then again. More and more Myrmen brought crossbows to bear. Finally one quarrel took him through the neck, and Jace was swallowed by the sea.
"The weak and feeble body of a woman". She's a dragonrider. She gave birth to five healthy sons. That's not weak. That and she grew up admiring Visenya and Nymeria. It makes no sense, why would she denigrate women now?
Absolutely love how apparently in Extella, Gilgamesh only joined up with Altera because he saw that she had a Master trapped in the regalia, said โhaha whoโs that idiotโ and then used his clairvoyance, saw Hakuno, and said โoh fuck thatโs MY idiotโ and proceeded to make up a bullshit story about Sefar and his father just to keep tabs on his dumbass Master.
๊ sum. after an unexpected battle against caster, archer finds himself exhausted and completely depleted of mana. when he returns to camp to find you asleep, he decides that desperate times call for desperate measures.ย
wc. 1.9k words
tags. emiya x fem!reader. 18+ mdni. dubcon (somnophilia). unprotected sex. twisted morals. you're a master in the holy grail war and archer is your servant.
a/n. okay so fate/stay night is a series that's very dear to me, and after rewatching unlimited blade works for the 5th time, i finally decided archer deserved a fic! <3
The clash of metal is still ringing in his ears when Emiya finally lets himself retreat. The forest around him is silent now, but it isnโt the kind that comfortsโ it presses in on him, heavy and humid, wrapping around the ache in his chest until it feels like heโs suffocating in it.ย
Every step is a reminder of how depleted he is. His combat boots drag against the ground, his feet catching on roots that heโd normally glide over without thought. His body is running on fumes, and his magical circuits sting like open wounds.
Caster should have been dead tonight. He knows that with a bone deep certainty. He had her pinned, her defenses collapsing, her rhythm faltering under the barrage of his blades. All he needed was one more strike, one final surge of mana to cut her down before she could recover. But that final strike never came. His reserves splintered like glass, and he was left with nothing but scraps of energy barely enough to hold her off long enough to escape.
Pathetic. Thatโs what it was.
He forces himself not to think about Saber. If he canโt eliminate Caster with everything he had left, then what hope is there when Saber comes for him? The answer claws at the back of his throat, bitter and obviousโ there isnโt any.
His grip tightens on his bow until his knuckles blanch. He doesnโt even know why heโs still carrying the damn thing. Itโs not like he has the mana to back it anymore. He canโt even pretend it gives him security. All it does is weigh him down.
And it all comes back to you.
Youโ his Master.
If it werenโt so bitterly ironic, he might have laughed. A novice thrown into a war meant for those raised to bleed for it. You have no lineage to speak of, no years of combat training, no arsenal of spells and strategies at your disposal. Just a name pulled from whatever cruel hand of fate thought it would be amusing to bind you to him. Youโre inexperienced, frightened, reckless in ways that make his teeth grit. And yet youโre still alive. Still breathing, sleeping soundly in the safety of the camp he built for you.
A miracle, he thinks grimly. But miracles donโt win wars.
The summer night presses down like a wet cloth, sweat clinging to the back of his neck and soaking into the collar of his jacket. The cicadas have gone silent; even the forest seems to be holding its breath. Each step feels longer than the last, as if the path back to camp stretches on the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.
Because he shouldnโt feel this way toward you. He knows that. You didnโt ask to be dragged into the Holy Grail War any more than he asked to be summoned for it. Youโre a pawn thrown onto the chessboard by chance, forced into a game you donโt understand. If anything, youโre as much a victim as he is.
But youโre so damn naรฏve.
Too trusting, too kind. You still believe in things like fairness, in the possibility of alliances, in the hope that someone out there might be persuaded to show mercy. He sees it in your eyes every time you hesitate, every time you ask questions instead of giving commands. It irritates him because it reminds him of who he used to beโ before cynicism, before disappointment, before the world scraped every shred of idealism from his skin and left him with nothing but the scar tissue of reality.
You donโt know what it costs to fight a war. You donโt know what kind of sacrifices it demands. And if you keep that softness, that blind, foolish kindness, youโre going to die. Worse, youโre going to drag him down with you.
The thought makes his jaw clench so hard it pops.
Branches crack under his boots as he pushes forward, the dark canopy of leaves above broken only by the occasional sliver of moonlight. He forces himself to focus on the path, on the muscle memory of walking, because if he doesnโt, heโll drown in the storm of his own frustration. The fight replaying in his mind. The hollow feeling in his chest where mana should be.ย
The sharp reminder that he is failing.
By the time the faint outline of camp appears through the trees, heโs wound tight as a bowstring. The tent sits quietly in the moonlight, a small pocket of peace in a world thatโs anything but. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, staring at it.
Youโll be inside, asleep. Oblivious.
Oblivious to how close he came to death tonight. To how thin the line is between survival and annihilation. To the fact that he doesnโt have the strength to keep doing this much longer.
His stomach twists with something he doesnโt want to nameโ resentment, maybe, or envy. You can sleep. You can lie down, close your eyes, and drift into dreams without the weight of failure pressing against your skull. You can forget for a few hours that the world outside is tearing itself apart.
The anger simmers low in his chest as he finally moves forward, dragging the zipper of the tent open with a quiet rasp. The air inside is warmer, carrying the faint scent of you. His eyes adjust quickly in the dimness, and there you areโ curled against your pillow, long lashes resting against your cheeks, lips parted slightly as your chest rises and falls with even breaths.
Part of him wants to shake you, to wake you and force you to face the impossibility of the moment: he canโt protect you like this. If youโre going to make it out alive, he needs more mana.ย
The solution is so simple. So simple it makes his stomach knot.
His eyes drag over you despite himself. The blanket has slipped higher, baring the curve of your thigh, practically glowing in the silver wash of moonlight. Your skin gleams, soft and unmarked by battle, free of scars or blemishes, untouched by the weight of the world he carries on his back.
If he touched youโ if he took what he neededโ his mana reserves would surge. Itโd be enough to cut Caster down, and maybe, if he plays his cards right, secure him a victory against Saber. It would be efficient. Necessary. You wouldnโt even have to wake for it. He could keep you asleep and unaware, innocent while he dirtied his own hands.
Itโs better than letting you die, isnโt it? Better than watching you bleed out because he was too weak to do what had to be done? If he carries the guilt, it spares you the grave. Heโs no stranger to blood on his conscience; whatโs one more sin if it means you survive another day?
Itโs what a hero doesโ sacrifice himself, his soul, his humanity.
Thatโs what he tells himself as he steps out of his boots and slips beneath the blanket. He settles behind you, the warmth of his chest pressing faintly against your back. You donโt stir, not even when his fingers dip beneath your shirt, brushing over the smooth plane of your stomach. Your skin warms beneath his touch, and instantly, he feels it: a pull, subtle and unmistakable.
Mana swirls like heat gathering in his veins. It seeps into him the way warmth seeps into cold hands, spreading first in faint threads before rushing to fill every corner of him. The exhaustion in his bones loosens the slightest bit, and his body slackens with relief.
His hand lingers, fingers splaying wider across your stomach before drifting lower, tracing the curve of your hip. This time, you shiver beneath his touch, and his hand drops lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.ย
The heat of you rushes to meet him, and he swallows hard when the mana coursing into him sharpensโ no longer a slow trickle but a steady, molten stream. He spreads you gently, coaxing your thighs apart with a nudge of his knee, and the motion draws you closer into him, your body fitting tighter against his.
To his surprise, youโre wet when his fingers stroke between your folds, as though your body already knows him, already welcomes what he takes. The sound of it is quiet, slick against the pads of his fingers, and his cock twitches, hardening against the constraint of his pants.ย
With a low curse, he drags his hand from your shorts and undoes his belt. The metallic click of the buckle sounds loud in the small space, but you still donโt move. His cock springs heavy and hard into his hand, and he tugs the seat of your shorts to the side before guiding it between your legs.
The contrast nearly undoes himโ soft, hot, wet. He pushes forward just enough for the head to slip between your folds, spreading you open, and the mana answers instantly, rushing into him with such intensity that he groans low against your shoulder. Itโs raw and consuming, every nerve alight as power surges through him in tandem with the pulse of his cock.
Carefully, he presses deeper. Each inch he sinks inside you magnifies the flow until his body trembles with the force of it, as though he is drawing strength straight from your soul. You take him without resistance, your walls clinging tight, and he has to bite down hard to keep from rutting into you all at once.
It takes a moment, but once heโs fully sheathed, he stills. The torrent of mana pouring into him is almost unbearable, and he wraps an arm around your waist, anchoring you against him as he breathes raggedly into your neck.
Then he begins to move. Slow at first, steady, each drag of his cock pulling another wave of energy into him. The sensation is overwhelmingโ pleasure adorned with sustenance, hunger answered with every thrust. His hips fall into rhythm, grinding deep, filling you again and again, while his free hand cups your breast under your shirt.
Your sleeping body responds despite your unconsciousness. Your nipple stiffens as a soft sigh spills past your lips, and the sound nearly shatters his resolve. His hips snap harder, and the mana blazes in his veins until it feels less like heโs feeding and more like heโs being burnt alive.
His climax builds swiftly, inevitable with the way your body grips him, the way your warmth welcomes every inch of him. When it comes, itโs violent, his cock twitching deep inside you as he spills with a muffled groan. The release tears through him like lightning, wracking his body as the final flood of mana surges in, flooding every nerve with raw vitality.
He clutches you tighter as he rides it out, hips pressed flush against your ass, filling you until he has nothing left to give. Only then does the trembling in his muscles subside, the ache of exhaustion replaced with heady relief.
But even spent, he doesnโt pull away. He stays buried inside you, softening slowly, the aftershocks of mana still flickering through him like embers. His face stays pressed into your hair, his voice a low rasp, almost reverent as he whispers:
