i’m sorry mom

when the holy grail is activated again ten years later, it sends a shock so unsettling within general mato’s body that he briefly wonders if he’s dying. his vision tunnels and his limbs become numb, feeling the scar on his abdomen turn white hot as his insides begin to twist and pulse. his mouth is dry as he silently reaches for archer, the sudden change in atmosphere so strong that he reacts to it, too.

general mato curls in on himself, unable to focus on the minimal projection magic he uses to keep him looking more human. black sclera form against blood red pupils and sharp teeth glisten as they line his mouth. he bites down and sets his jaw, trying to suppress a pained, guttural moan. his veins are burning. his insides are bubbling. his mind is slowly deteriorating from its usual sharpness into something much more feral.

general mato can feel archer’s hands on his shoulders, lightly shaking him while his head rolls back. he doesn’t feel the sticky tear tracks on his face, but he hears the pained wheezes that rip through his chest. ‘this is bad, this is bad’ is the only marquee of thoughts he can manage, though it quickly goes from bad to worse as general mato can feel his body losing its form; melting into something that is nothing and everything at the same time.

archer doesn’t hide his concern or fear as his shouting falls on deaf ears. he keeps shaking general mato’s shoulders in an effort to get a response — any response at all from him.

then suddenly, his strained voice escapes him through gritted teeth.

“go. run.”

the look in his eyes tells archer that soon general mato’s will won’t be his own, but his feet are so firmly planted in place. despite what a stupid choice it is, archer shakes his head profusely. “no. i’m not leaving you.”

general mato melts through archer’s fingers, his form shifting into something black and viscous. though he no longer has a voice, archer can sense his panicked cries. they reverberate against the scraping metallic sounds caused by the atmospheric invasion of evil, permeating every far corner and filling it up top to bottom.

the mud at his feet bubbles and expands, forming large, strong appendages that firmly wrap around archer. the sticky sounds they make as they slap against leather make archer shudder as he struggles. he tries to trace a weapon, but the interference from the grail forbids it from forming. his magic projection crackles as it instantly burns to ash and is swallowed up by the mud.

he can feel the playful, yet terrifying intent of the grail as it wraps thickly around his waist and jerks him around. it’s definitely playing with him, he thinks, before the pulls become more violent. archer’s heels drag along the floor in an effort to become stationary as the mud’s appendages begin to toss him around like a rag doll. without warning, his entire body is slammed against the ground and then instantly smashed into the wall.

through the wall.

when archer comes to, he’s bleeding from just above his hairline, thick lines painting red down one side of his face. slowly, he realizes he’s stuck.

he’s been thrown through the wall, though only part way. he coughs brick dust and drywall, his hands trying to push the remainder of his upper body through the hole it created in an attempt to get free. he’s so tightly wedged in, however, that his efforts are in vain. he growls and pounds his fists against the wall below him, desperately calling out to general mato by his old name. the only response he gets is the seemingly telepathic panic, still overwhelmed by the sinister, cold atmosphere.

it seems the grail’s thick appendages aren’t through with him. the slime they excrete corrodes and burns the leather of his pants, creating purposeful rips and holes. said slime against flesh tingles and make his spine arch in visceral discomfort. squishy edges sink into the fabric around archer’s exposed skin, pulling and shredding as they curiously probe against him, pushing and pressing until one finds its way to the front of his pants and curls around his dick.

archer’s whole body jerks in response, his face turning white. (no, no no — not that. don’t let this be happening.) his legs have no ground to stand on, so he practically pedals in desperation as what may now be described as tentacles make their intentions known. the remains of his pants that cling to him are covered in slime, tentacles weaving in and out of not-sturdy-enough fabric and kneading against his thighs and ass. even with his body tensed, the sensation of thick muscle against him makes him feel soft.

archer breaks the skin of his bottom lip trying to hold back the groan that rumbles in his throat. a tentacle is roughly working its way inside him. he tries to resist it, to tighten himself and it only seems to make it more eager to push through him.

and it keeps pushing.

archer’s legs thrash wildly at the implication that the intrusion may not want to stop, the metal tips of his boots unable to gain any traction against the wall below. he groans in disgust as the tentacle pushes and fills him deeper than anything has before. after a certain threshold it feels liquid and viscous again, filling him in a way that feels even more violating than before. the painful stretch travels through him ruthlessly until he feels his body pushing against the tight constraints of the wall until his thinks he might snap in half.

archer doesn’t want to think about how hard he is, his dick essentially encapsulated in what feels like a lukewarm onahole. it’s obscene and the disgust archer feels within himself soaks in him so heavily that he heaves and it resembles a sob. the thick mud inside him pulses and pumps forward and tears cling to white eyelashes as archer fears it may go all the way through him.

it’s an eerie feeling knowing that this form is both general mato and not at the same time. the unbreakable thought that somehow these touches feel familiar because of that makes him feel a frigid cold at the very core of his being.

his body trembles as restrained cries fall from his lips, his legs and arms long since gone limp and overwhelmed by the collection of sensations. his hips stutter when he comes, feeling it get practically sucked out of him. he feels a pleased sort of vibration surrounding him before it’s back to business, and archer groans desperately at the indication that the end of this was nowhere to be found.

the mud jerks him off several more times; more than he ever thought possible and greedily ingests the fruits of its labor. archer can feel his energy, both physical and magical draining from his body. he twitches weakly as he continues to be ravaged, the pressure in his gut and the pressing of his spine against his confines pushing so hard it creates cracks in the wall. the mud can feel his body slowing down, so it retaliates by slamming into him violently again and again, making archer cough so hard that he thinks he may vomit.

begging sounds that aren’t words tumble from archer’s lips as he clings onto what he has left of cognizant thought. he’s been milked completely and abused so thoroughly that he barely registers the feeling of the mud finally retreating from his body. his muscles tense weakly as he whines against the sensation of being emptied; the stretch in the inside of his body reluctantly being relieved of the pressure. it leaves him with a sickening pop.

without being pushed taut, the hole in the wall has been made just big enough for archer to slip out. too exhausted to crawl out forward he slips out backward, thudding against the floor. when his eyes slowly look around, he can see general mato crumpled on the floor alongside him.