ꗃ 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.
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 isn’t the kind that comforts— it presses in on him, heavy and humid, wrapping around the ache in his chest until it feels like he’s suffocating in it.
Every step is a reminder of how depleted he is. His combat boots drag against the ground, his feet catching on roots that he’d 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. That’s what it was.
He forces himself not to think about Saber. If he can’t 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 obvious— there isn’t any.
His grip tightens on his bow until his knuckles blanch. He doesn’t even know why he’s still carrying the damn thing. It’s not like he has the mana to back it anymore. He can’t even pretend it gives him security. All it does is weigh him down.
And it all comes back to you.
You— his Master.
If it weren’t 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. You’re inexperienced, frightened, reckless in ways that make his teeth grit. And yet you’re still alive. Still breathing, sleeping soundly in the safety of the camp he built for you.
A miracle, he thinks grimly. But miracles don’t 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 shouldn’t feel this way toward you. He knows that. You didn’t ask to be dragged into the Holy Grail War any more than he asked to be summoned for it. You’re a pawn thrown onto the chessboard by chance, forced into a game you don’t understand. If anything, you’re as much a victim as he is.
But you’re so damn naïve.
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 be— 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 don’t know what it costs to fight a war. You don’t know what kind of sacrifices it demands. And if you keep that softness, that blind, foolish kindness, you’re going to die. Worse, you’re 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 doesn’t, he’ll drown in the storm of his own frustration. The fight replaying in his mind. The hollow feeling in his chest where mana should be.
The sharp reminder that he is failing.
By the time the faint outline of camp appears through the trees, he’s wound tight as a bowstring. The tent sits quietly in the moonlight, a small pocket of peace in a world that’s anything but. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, staring at it.
You’ll 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 doesn’t have the strength to keep doing this much longer.
His stomach twists with something he doesn’t want to name— 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 are— 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 can’t protect you like this. If you’re going to make it out alive, he needs more mana.
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 you— if he took what he needed— his mana reserves would surge. It’d 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 wouldn’t even have to wake for it. He could keep you asleep and unaware, innocent while he dirtied his own hands.
It’s better than letting you die, isn’t 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. He’s no stranger to blood on his conscience; what’s one more sin if it means you survive another day?
It’s what a hero does— sacrifice himself, his soul, his humanity.
That’s 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 don’t 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.
The heat of you rushes to meet him, and he swallows hard when the mana coursing into him sharpens— 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, you’re 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.
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 don’t 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 him— 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. It’s 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 he’s 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 overwhelming— 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 he’s feeding and more like he’s 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, it’s 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 doesn’t 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:
