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The inside of the church is shrouded in mist. He thinks it’s magical, by the taste of it, but whether it's an illusion or something deadlier, Shirou couldn't say. He turns to ask Tohsaka her opinion, but–
"Hi again."
Shirou jumps backwards, shifting into a battle stance as quick as he can, but his stomach drops as his brain picks up to his body and puts a face to the voice he's just heard.
"Lancer."
"The one and only." The voice is closer to the back of Shirou's neck, and he strains not to flinch.
"We had an agreement." Shirou doesn't turn around. His body feels ice cold.
"Did we? I can't seem to remember, now."
Shirou's stronger than before, maybe he can fight Lancer off, or at least keep him distracted until Saber can–
Except that he came here to save Saber. And Tohsaka is gone.
He's alone.
The whistle of displaced air pierces Shirou's ears as Lancer strikes, and he grits his teeth against the sharp ache that blooms from his skin. There's a long, shallow cut that doesn't feel too serious, but its placement parallel to and centimeters from his spine is more than enough to make Shirou aware of every vital point on his body–and how easily Lancer has struck them before.
Before he can whip around to face his opponent, he's tackled to the ground. A hand grip the back of his neck and shoves his face into the dusty stone floor, and he coughs and spits as Lancer crushes the air from his lungs with his body weight alone, heavy muscled thighs framing Shirou's sides and holding him in place. He can hardly even struggle in this position, much less fight Lancer off.
Lancer doesn't kill him immediately, instead using the hand that’s not holding Shirou's nose to the ground to rip at the holes in Shirou's clothes that Shirou is only now noticing have been torn open by Lancer's Noble Phantasm. As if that was his goal of his attack, and not the result of a narrow miss.
Then again, when has Lancer been known to miss?
"Just following orders, kid," Lancer says, and then the pain really starts.
It's a strange, discomforting pain unlike any other injury he's sustained during the war–by now, the bite of a spear or sword is familiar, the forced entry of a foreign body into his skin is no longer as frightening as the first night he saw Lancer. In fact, the clean cut of a blade would be welcome compared to the burning stretch and the stomach-churning presence Shirou feels forcing its way into him.
At first, he thinks Lancer has chosen the most humiliating possible way to kill him. But the shape and texture of the thing inside him doesn't match up, and it's not until he hears the hiss of breath between Lancer's teeth that it finally clicks.
Shirou goes into a panic, scrambling to get out from under Lancer's weight, but his hand stops responding a second before another wave of pain hits him as Lancer's short spear pierces his forearm, attaching it firmly to the ground like a pin in a butterfly. Bone scrapes against metal, muscles twitch and snap, and the agony only doubles when Lancer thrusts his hips.
The cock in his ass feels impossibly big–not that he'd have anything to compare it to–and it doesn't all enter him at once, instead rocking in and out in larger and larger increments, each movement stretching him further and jostling his impaled arm in a way that rattles his teeth. Tears are rolling down his face, Shirou realizes, pure physical hurt leaking out of his eyes more than any particular emotion–though now that he’s noticed it, he can’t help but think of how pathetic he must look. Weak, prone, red in the face and stuck like a pig in two different places. The next wave of tears comes with a hacking sob that he vainly attempts to hold back.
“Isn’t that sad,” Lancer croons against Shirou’s ear, his breath hitching on another thrust. “I hate to see it, you know. I’m a very passionate lover, when I get the chance to be. But this–” Shirou cries out hoarsely as Lancer sinks deeper into him, as deep as Shirou thinks (hopes) he can go. “This is just another unfortunate hero’s quest.” Lancer pulls back, far enough that for a brief instant Shirou thinks he might be done, but instead of pulling all the way out Lancer slams back inside at full force, the entire length of his cock scraping his insides and filling him so deep he can feel his stomach flip.
Lancer fucks him now, long and fast thrusts that rock Shirou’s body in a devastating rhythm, every stroke pushing more tears out of his eyes and blood out of his arm. It’s a wonder he hasn’t bled out by now, but not enough of one that Shirou has time to think about it, other than wishing he could finally pass out from blood loss. But instead, he’s wide awake, fully aware of every point of contact that sets his nerves on fire.
And then something strange happens–Lancer grabs Shirou’s hips and drives into him at a new angle, and his cock presses against something that sends thousands of volts down his spine. He yelps, and his free hand clenches and unclenches involuntarily until the shock subsides.
“Ah, there it is,” Lancer says nonchalantly, and it happens again, the full-body shock that Shirou can’t describe except to know that it blots out some of the pain. He chases the feeling without thinking, trying to hold still so Lancer can hit the same spot again and again, until he realizes with a vague sort of horror that he’s starting to feel good.
There’s no point in fighting back, not against Lancer, not alone as he is, so Shirou’s body goes limp as he takes everything Lancer gives him, allowing the pain to fall into the background of the forced pleasure as Lancer continues to fuck him harder. Shirou’s own cock starts to stir, weirdly, but he doesn’t really notice until Lancer reaches underneath him and grabs it with one rough palm.
“You like it that much, kid?” Lancer’s voice is soft enough that Shirou can hardly hear it over his own groans of mixed pain and pleasure, much less respond to it in any intelligent capacity. But Lancer doesn’t seem to care, stroking Shirou’s cock deftly until what little blood he has left pools between his legs. “Might come before I do, at this rate.”
It takes several seconds for Shirou’s brain to catch up with Lancer’s words, but it hits him like a slap to the face when it finally does. “No–” he gasps, “No, no–” But Lancer’s thrusts are already speeding up, turning shallow, and his hand tightens around Shirou and his voice goes breathy in Shirou’s ear, and Shirou braces himself–
There’s a sickening crunch, and Lancer’s body suddenly feels heavier on top of him. Something wet drips against the back of Shirou’s neck.
Shirou turns his head as far as it'll go, and sees a mangled ruin where Lancer's face was a moment ago. And behind that, a pair of enormous feet.
Shirou doesn't need to crane his neck further to know who it is.
Berserker roars, the sound almost drowning out the sound of bone and sinew being crushed as one huge hand grabs the bloody pulp that used to be Lancer's upper torso, and Shirou's stomach turns with the movement of Lancer's still hard cock shifting and dragging against his insides until it finally pulls out. The wave of relief Shirou feels is brief, panic still bubbling throughout his body and only rising as Berserker tosses the body to the side and grabs Shirou as if he were a discarded doll.
Shirou screams through the pain of the lance, still stuck in the ground, ripping through his flesh and realigning his bones as Berserker pulls him close, and this time his consciousness does flicker out–only long enough that one moment he's in the air, the next he's leaning against Berserker's chest, gasping and sobbing as he's split open again.
And again. And again, and again, pried apart on what feels like an entire steel beam between Berserker's legs, what's left of his arm swinging uselessly at his side as he's bounced up and down on the monstrous cock. He's too exhausted to even think of struggling anymore, the agony and terror dulled by shock and blood loss. He becomes just a limp doll for Berserker to use, low involuntary moans punched out of his throat, eyes barely seeing.
He's trapped in the blurry haze of semi-consciousness for a while, until suddenly it stops, with a shock of full-body wakefulness like falling into cold water. Shirou takes what feels like his first breath in hours, a sharp gasp of air that echoes in the dim chamber, and realizes that his arm–and the rest of him–is fully healed. As if nothing had happened.
“Are you really surprised, little mage?” a voice calls, high and mocking, and Shirou looks around until he sees a figure materialize in the mist–a slight woman, cloak billowing even in the stagnant air. Caster. “I thought you would have broken my illusions by now, but I decided to take pity on you before they fractured your pretty little mind.”
Illusions. Lancer hadn’t betrayed them, and Berserker is still elsewhere. And he hadn’t actually been–
“It’s a pity all my work is going to waste,” Caster sighs, “I thought this would be a lovely way to break down your sweet little former Servant, but you went and tripped the mechanism early! It only has enough power for one or two more Heroic Shades.” Caster’s hood lowers, and her eyes are brightly, gleefully cruel. “But then, by the look on your face, it shouldn’t take much more before you snap.”
Shirou realizes he’s shaking, his hands gripping nothing as he vainly attempts to summon a weapon. His body may be healed, but his mental exhaustion is enough that his Circuits feel fried. Still, he needs to try. He needs to escape. He needs to move.
He blinks, and Caster is gone. His legs finally find the energy to stutter to life, and he charges at the space where she had just been, desperate to find, if not her, the edge of whatever Field she’d put up so he can try to hack it apart.
He trips.
The floor rushes towards him and then suddenly stops, and he feels the tug of someone’s hands on his arm and back as he’s pulled upright again.
“Careful, now.”
Assassin, now. Another illusion, no matter how real the hand on his wrist feels. It doesn’t let go.
“I’m getting out of here,” Shirou says, not looking at Assassin. “You hear that, Caster?! I’m not falling for any more of your tricks!”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Assassin says, in that infuriatingly calm way of his. The worst part is that he actually sounds kind of sorry. “Accept your fate, and it will end quickly.”
Shirou shakes him off–or tries; Assassin’s grip is effortlessly tight–and tries again to conjure a blade. He almost forms one, the shape shimmering in the air for a moment before Assassin grabs that wrist as well, twisting Shirou’s arms so his wrists cross in front of him and then stepping close into Shirou’s space.
“Get away!” Shirou tries not to let his voice crack, but the panic is already returning, Lancer and Berserker’s violations playing back in his head.
“Shh.” Assassin keeps one strong but slender hand wrapped around Shirou’s wrists, leaving the other to loosely cup the back of Shirou’s neck. “Allow me to perform my duty. I can promise it will be painless.”
“You–” Shirou starts, but then his mouth is covered by Assassin’s own, lips and tongue firmly blocking Shirou’s protests. Shirou tries to turn his head away, but the hand on the back of his neck holds him in place.
It’s weird–but maybe everyone’s first kiss is weird. Shirou wouldn’t know–Assassin’s body heat mingling with his own and finding an equilibrium far too quickly for Shirou’s comfort as they stay in contact for longer and longer. Assassin’s tongue flicks at Shirou’s lower lip and then takes advantage of the opening when Shirou lets out a small gasp in response, and the hand on his neck travels up to thread fingers through his hair. Assassin tugs gently until Shirou’s neck is exposed, and Assassin finally frees his mouth to start leaving kisses down the length of his throat–and somehow that feels good too, the warm, gentle touches of Assassin’s tongue sliding across his skin.
He’s losing track of the situation, he knows this, but after the last two assailants he’d tried to fight and lost to, it’s hard to bring himself to turn down this chance to relax into a warm body that isn’t tearing him apart from the inside out. So when Assassin pulls on Shirou’s wrists and maneuvers him into lying back on the ground, he lets it happen without so much as a token protest.
The clothes that Lancer tore apart are whole again, now that the illusion has broken, so the stone floor is cool but tolerable against his back as Assassin continues to kiss him–his collar, his wrists, the bits of stomach he exposes while unbuttoning Shirou’s jeans. By the time Assassin starts slipping Shirou’s cock out from the slit in his boxers, it’s already flushed and oversensitive, hardening rapidly in Assassin’s clearly expert hands. He moans half into his own shoulder as Assassin dips his head and runs his tongue up the shaft before engulfing the head with those soft lips, and Shirou’s hips twitch unconsciously until Assassin is swallowing up more of his cock than he thought was possible.
It’s too much, too tight and too hot and too unlike anything he’s ever really considered having, much less sought out. Jacking off every now and then to get to sleep is one thing, having another man’s throat squeezing around the head of his dick after what felt like hours of being torn apart and carelessly used is another thing entirely, and it’s not long before Shirou is coming, his whole body trembling and his voice coming out in rasps as his mind goes blissfully blank.
Assassin frees his cock from his throat only after Shirou starts whimpering pathetically through the last of the aftershocks. Shirou’s vision swims–it’s hard to tell in the dim featureless room, but he feels dizzy, spots of color or lack thereof occasionally flitting in and out of view. The only thing that brings him back into focus is a sudden pressure and then an intrusion that feels all too sharply familiar, and he yelps and squirms as he realizes that Assassin has tugged at his clothes just enough to expose him once more.
No, no, no, this was just starting to be okay again, he can’t go back to–but Assassin’s fingers are long and slender, and the slide is smoother than it was with Lancer and Berserker, and Shirou’s arms stay at his sides no matter how hard he tries to sit up and get away. His Circuits feel frayed at the edges, his mana drained, unable to form anything more magical than a soap bubble.
“That’s enough,” a voice says, and the back of Shirou’s neck prickles.
“As you wish,” Assassin says, but he performs one last sharp thrust of his fingers before pulling out and getting to his feet. He straightens his clothes, face unreadable, and then silently disappears, leaving Shirou to stare into Archer’s cold eyes. Great. Him.
“I thought you wanted to kill me,” Shirou says. The muscles in his arms tense, but not enough for movement. “This seems like… kind of the opposite.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Archer says. “Believe me, I’d rather be doing anything else.”
“Weird thing for someone who’s not even real to say,” Shirou says, and Archer’s brow twitches, but he says nothing in response, instead pouncing on Shirou and pinning him down in one smooth motion.
“Don’t act like you’re not scared,” Archer growls, and Shirou grits his teeth. He’s not scared, he’s annoyed if anything, annoyed and tired and sick of the feeling of his insides being breached as it happens again.
Archer’s breathing is slow and even, ever the perfect unaffected warrior, and it pisses Shirou off the way everything Archer does pisses him off. “You suck at this,” he says, regretting it the second the words leave his mouth but not able to stop. “I get it now. You’re not real, this can’t hurt me, and if I just–”
“Shut up.” Archer claps a hand over Shirou’s mouth and hooks the other one under Shirou’s knee, pulling his legs apart so his cock can sink deeper inside. It hurts, but not too much, and Shirou bites his tongue against any involuntary reaction he might have that could slip through Archer’s fingers. Archer doesn’t let up, keeping at the same steady pace until Shirou is able to adjust to the feeling enough to try and block it out. Maybe he can even try to enjoy it. Just to spite the bastard.
It’s not even that difficult, once Archer accidentally–at least, he can only assume it’s an accident–hits that spot Lancer found, the one that sends electric shocks down to the tips of his toes and has him biting down harder on his tongue until he tastes copper. Blood fills his mouth and he knows by now that swallowing it will only make him nauseous, so he lets it smear across Archer’s palm with a moan that only gets louder and longer the more Archer fucks him.
Archer’s mouth twists into an even deeper frown than usual. Shirou isn’t sure whether to feel smug or offended, but he settles on the latter as Archer mutters, “Disgusting.”
Shirou moans again, mostly just to upset him, but Archer finally picks up the pace in response and Shirou’s cries hit a higher pitch. He’s hard again, hips wriggling uselessly upwards, seeking friction he knows Archer isn’t going to lend him–until, miraculously, he does. One of Archer’s hands reaches between them and starts stroking in time to his thrusts, and it would be perfect if Archer didn’t choose then to open his mouth.
“What kind of hero allows the villain to take them like this?” he asks, removing his other hand from Shirou’s mouth. “Who are you protecting by giving in to your own pleasure?”
“Shut up,” Shirou gasps, blood spraying from his mouth. “Shut up, shut up--”
“You have had the choice to fight back from the moment you entered her trap.” Archer punctuates every insult with a hard thrust that has Shirou scrabbling at the floor for purchase. “And again and again you lost your will to do it. Selfish brat.”
“I don’t need to hear this from a fake–” Shirou starts, and this time when his voice is cut off, it’s by Archer’s grip around his throat, crushing his windpipe until he’s seeing spots and still touching him, his heart pumping blood to his cock instead of his brain at an alarming pace. He wants to come, he wants to breathe, he wants to kick Archer’s ass or beg him for more, and just as he feels the crest of his orgasm start to hit him–
Archer disappears.
Shirou screams as his cock twitches and spurts, but instead of the warm glow Assassin had given him, his blood feels like it stands stock still for too many long moments. Maybe it’s his mana being expelled, or maybe it’s Archer staring down at him from above, re-materialized with not a hair out of place and his arms crossed. It hurts, in a way that makes him sick to his stomach as he tries to figure out what the hell is happening to his body, the coming-but-not completely wiping out what little strength he had left.
“I'm done,” Archer says, turning around and leaving with not a moment of hesitation. Shirou can’t find the energy for one last jab. He's still shaking, worn out and pent up at the same time, and his blurry eyes take several seconds to focus on the next figure in his field of view.
It's Saber.
"Leave her out of this!" Shirou snaps at the ceiling. Caster has some goddamn nerve. The clothes Saber has on are completely unsuited to her; lace and thin straps and a skirt that barely reaches halfway down the length of her thighs.
Saber takes a few halting steps forward, limbs oddly stiff. A product of being just a shade, Shirou guesses. "You've made your point!"
Saber gets close enough that her face is visible, a dispassionate expression he's gotten used to being unable to read. But even that seems more wooden than the real Saber, and Shirou frowns.
"It's not even a good copy." Shirou continues to talk at the empty air. "Did you give up trying for realism, or are you getting lazy?"
"So heartless," the empty air finally responds, and Caster shimmers into view behind Saber, her nails digging lightly into Saber's stiff shoulders. "You don't recognize your own Servant? Ah," Caster giggles. "Former Servant, that is. As you can see, she's completely mine now. And I didn’t even need the trap you wasted to do it!"
"Shi–" Saber's voice cracks, and her mouth snaps shut before she can finish the word.
“The warmup is over,” Caster says, moving her hand down to the small of Saber’s back. “Let’s finish this, shall we?”
Saber stumbles forward towards Shirou, her limbs jerking in unsteady steps until she falls forward at a flourish of Caster’s hand, right on top of Shirou.
They’re a tangle of limbs for a moment, but then Saber cries out as if pained and her grip tightens on Shirou’s wrists, pinning them down at his sides. She straddles him, and it’s only then that he notices the thick, heavy cock peeking out from under her skirt.
Caster waves her hand again and Saber lets out another cry, and Shirou’s eyes go wide as he watches her cock slowly grow to push up the thin material of the skirt.
“What are you doing to her?!” Even knowing preserving her modesty is a futile effort at this point, he looks away.
“Oh, now you’re concerned?” Caster snaps her fingers, and Saber starts grinding her hips against Shirou’s stomach. Wetness smears against his bared skin from the tip of her cock and her pussy alike, and she smells too sharp and real for Shirou to ignore what’s happening any longer.
“Don’t make her do this,” he says, staring past Saber to stare Caster in the eyes and finding no mercy in them.
“Good, good!” Caster cackles, and Saber trembles, her jaw clenched and her eyes screwed shut. “You understand, now? The toy soldiers were fun, but this one is for keeps.”
Caster thrusts her palm forward, and Saber lets out a harsh breath and quickly repositions herself to line up her hard cock against Shirou’s ass, still stretched and used by at least one illusion–which is strange. When the illusion broke the first time, he was fully dressed and healed again. What could that–
Saber throws her head back and sobs, and Shirou does the same as the reality of the situation slams into him as hard as Saber’s cock. A dam breaks, and Saber fucks him fast and rough without any of the halting restraint she’d managed before. Shirou clenches his jaw and tries to hold back any more tears, but then he feels droplets splash onto his chest. When he opens his eyes, he sees tears roll down Saber’s face and her mouth forms words that Shirou can’t hear, but the longer he looks, the more he can read.
Stop me.
Please.
It hurts.
Stop me.
Kill me, Shirou.
Shirou shakes his head; even if he could summon the mana to do it, he couldn’t possibly–
”Please,” Saber hisses through her teeth, and Shirou knows it took every ounce of strength to fight Caster’s control enough just for that. Her thighs shake with every thrust, her grip on him tightens, her cheeks are flushed and her breath gets faster and faster.
“Good girl,” Caster croons, and Saber snaps her hips one more time and shouts wordlessly–Shirou feels the thrust up to the back of his throat, and his stomach turns as he feels sticky heat spill inside him. It would be a relief, a sign that it might be over soon, but Saber only stops for half a moment before bearing down and slamming back inside him again and again, friction eased by Saber’s own forced orgasm. She’s hurting, he knows, and he wants so badly to fix it, but his useless human body can’t fight against one Servant, much less two. His vision blurs with more tears, and he whispers, ”I’m sorry.”
The world shatters–at least, he assumes that’s what happens, until the sound of the explosion settles and he hears a familiar voice shout, “Emiya-kun!”
Caster is blasted backwards by a glittering burst of color and light, and Saber goes limp on top of Shirou as if her marionette strings had been cut. Tohsaka rushes to them, stares, and then turns her gaze back onto Caster crumpled against a now-visible wall. The mist surrounding them fades away–and then swirls into the shapes of ghostly figures as Caster’s hands twitch.
“Stay there,” Tohsaka says, not looking at the two of them. Her back is fully turned, and her shoulders are tight. “I’ll take care of this.”
Shirou doesn’t know whether to believe her. But he’s certainly not able to save himself.