Archive of Our Own

Awareness comes slowly, these days.

He curls a finger. He shifts a leg. He twitches a wing. He blinks—once, twice—despite having no eyes left to see with. He closes them and tries to even his inhuman breathing. It takes conscious effort to try to get it to a human’s resting heart rate of eighty beats per minute, and the moment he drops his concentration, it returns to its erratic rhythm.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum.

Ba-

-dum.

How annoying. But the irritation fades away as briefly as it comes.

He is lying down. Above him, the sky is purple, a few black stars winking in and out of existence. There are…three moons tonight, he feels. Eyes are not needed to see Carcosa. In fact, it tends to be easier to see without them.

Sometimes, he misses his eyes—

No. None of that. They were taken out for a reason. Punishment. Atonement. A blessing. Just like his wings. Just like his armor he was allowed to keep.

Not that he would take it off now. He is his King’s loyal knight.

He was once his own person. Not an actor playing a role, but a man exploring—

He dispels the thought, though not as quickly as he would like. Sloppy. Maybe he needs to review his lines. Everything in his mind feels…sluggish. Did something happen? It is probably not important.

…No, he should not be thinking in possibilities. It is definitely not important, if his King is not reminding him.

The bed underneath him is soft. At least, he thinks it is a bed—though the sheets are silky smooth and familiar, so maybe it is not a bed but the—

(Slowly.) A voice murmurs in his head. (You are still recovering.)

(The primary role of the amygdala is to process memory, decision-making, and emotional responses, which includes fear—)

He whimpers. A hand strokes down his back, gentle over his feathers. The thought ends before it finishes, his mind left floating in nothingness. He is…lying on silk robes. His King’s robes.

…Wait.

(It is fine.) The hand settles firmly on his back when he tries to sit up suddenly. (You need the rest.)

It is disrespectful. A Knight is meant to serve their King, to stand guard and watch for intruders. Not—rest on his King’s robes like some sort of ignorant wretch. He is a disgrace, a mess, and he deserves to be discarded and thrown out—

(Knight.) His King’s voice breaks through his spiral of thought. (Enough of that. You have not offended Me.)

It…It is not offended? It should be. He—he made a mistake—a-and—

(Are you questioning your King?)

He shakes his head vigorously. No. No, he is not. He is not supposed to doubt his King. He is…his practice is…slipping. He needs to be better.

“I…I apologize.” His voice has long been a little gravelly, raspy from disuse—another trait his King has kept for him, since Its Knight does not often need to speak—but his throat seems to…throb, strangely, as he says the words. It takes a moment for him to place the sensation as pain. His throat…hurts?

His King sighs in a faint patter of rain. (Your mind was strained in your last assignment. You did succeed.) It assures as he stiffens. (You simply needed the rest.)

“I…see.” He wonders what might have happened. He has not been made to rest in a very long time. Though if his King is not telling him, it must not be important for him to know.

…But he has always been a curious being. That was his downfall, was it not—

He does not need to know. He has already been blessed with more knowledge than any could ever hope to achieve. To yearn for more is greedy, ungrateful—

(Your curiosity is understandable. That was one of the reasons I chose you, after all.) He subconsciously preens at the approving tone. (As a reward for your success, I will tell you. The last actor was…connected to another former actor. Upon hearing the name of that former actor, you fell into a rather unfortunate spiral of panic.)

“O-oh.” That sounds…undignified. But he managed to succeed in the end, at least. “Am…am I allowed to know what the name was?”

A pause. Just as he starts to wonder if he has made a mistake in asking, his King speaks. (Very well. His name was Avery.)

“What did you do to Avery?!”

Avery. Avery—

Slime. Friend. Jester—

You helped him. You betrayed him.

Why did I…?

The image is…oddly vivid in his memory. A green slime hybrid, wearing a casual black button-up with flowers and a white shirt underneath, with brown cargo shorts and black…flip flops? Who wears flip flops in a cave?

His smile was like the sun—bright, radiant, warm. His hand was pleasantly cool to the touch. It felt damp when he was holding it, but his hand was dry when he released his grasp. Avery had been kind, concerned, and incredibly perceptive—

…Why does he know this? His King normally does not give such detailed descriptions of Its actors. Description is for the convenience of his assignments, so he knows what to watch out for if said actors struggle in their retrieval. After all, visuals matter not to the blind.

(He was the last actor you saw with your mortal eyes.) His King says. (You brought him to play his part, but the mental load would have killed you, had I not taken action. It is understandable that the reminder would overwhelm you.) Another pause. (Focus, Knight. You are shaking.)

He is? He is. His hands are trembling, and something about his head hurts, trying to recall distorted memories. His King’s hand on his back starts moving again, slow but steady, gently preening some of his feathers as it goes. It is a strange welcome sensation, and his limbs slacken one by one—hand, arm, shoulder—

(Petting a parrot on its back can induce hormonal and behavioral responses that cause the bird to see you as a reproductive partner. This that can lead to the bird being sexually frustrated, resulting in—)

The thought drifts off as it always does, but this one feels…a little more intentional, if a little embarrassing. He tilts his head slightly. “Are you trying to distract me?”

His King is silent, but affirmation pulsates in the air, and he tries to reign in his thoughts. His mind is wandering too much. It would be a shame to have to go back to practicing his lines. He has been good for so long now.

(Even experienced actors can suffer stage fright. There is nothing to be ashamed about.) His King reassures him. (Your performance has been perfectly satisfactory. You have not forgotten any lines.)

That is a relief. That being said…he shivers as the hand trails down. There is an implicit question in the action—his King is asking, even if It owns him. It could do anything It wanted without his permission.

It has done much without his permission—

Sometimes, he does not know what will help him. But his King has done everything to mold him into a flawless Knight. Wings that gave him speed and flight. Polished armor that reflected Its glory. Honed mind to perfect his script and act. So if his King is offering, it must be necessary.

(A recalibration, if you will.) His King explains. (Your mind is still unstable.)

It is right, as always. Ever since waking up, he can feel that his mind is…scattered. It is harder to focus than usual. Part of his brain seems to be resisting the rest of itself, stubbornly refusing to cooperate.

He was screaming under the weight of knowledge. He had felt his King grasp his spinal cord and rip agony into every nerve ending as he begged for the pain to end. It was necessary, was it not? It was all to make him perfect.

This is why he needs this. He cannot be expected to play his part well if his mind will not obey his King.

“I accept your judgement,” he murmurs.

He feels hands move, dextrous fingers undoing the straps of his armor, sliding each piece off one by one, and—

“In Carcosa?” he asks, more out of confusion than questioning. He would have thought his King to prefer somewhere private. It seems strange for the grand stage to present him so flawed, to present such an intimate scene at all.

(Let the audience bear witness.) His King replies, and if his King wills it, so be it. (Are you uncomfortable?)

He shakes his head. A little embarrassed, maybe, but there is no room for discomfort on stage. He lets his King undress him, stripping away layers until he’s left bare, save for his helmet. The headpiece stays as a symbolic representation of his role, and it is a part of him just as he is a part of it. One hand traces down his skin, where he is sure golden lines spiderweb over black. Forever marked. Forever owned. Even without his eyes, he can feel his King’s attention wholly on him.

He is rearranged to be leaning against his King, legs splayed. One of his King’s hands lightly curls around him down below, and he can tell he is already half-hard. It is a bit of a relief to feel his body respond accordingly—he has not done this before, even if his knowledge has provided all there is to know in theory.

(Very good.) His King praises, and oh. He shudders, hips twitching, but his King holds him down, preventing him from thrusting up. (Patience, Knight.)

He feels warm. He Knows it is a common side effect from hormones produced during the act, but it is one thing to Know and another to experience. He turns his head, burying a stuttered sigh into silken robes. The touch remains light, just barely there, more a teasing reminder than movement. Another hand brushes behind him, and when he tenses at the contact, it applies a little more pressure until he remembers to relax. His King will not hurt him without reason. He bites his lip as a finger presses in gently. The sensation feels a little strange, but Knowledge tells him that it will feel better after a moment.

And it does, when his King pushes in deeper and nudges against a spot that sends sparks skittering up his skin. He forces back a small whimper. His King evidently disapproves of that action, because another set of hands lift his head from Its robes and pry his mouth open. In the absence of sight, every other sense is amplified. Every touch is a jolt to his nerves. The air smells faintly of flowers—jasmine, honeysuckle, lavender. His mind is growing hazy, and distantly, he recalls that this is supposed to help him, is he supposed to focus or not—

His King crooks Its fingers, and he cries out as sudden pleasure ripples through him, thoughts scattering. The sensation surges swiftly, but slips away in the subsequent seconds. Just a brief feeling of what is to come. He feels his King’s presence wrap delicately around his mind, shoring up the frayed edges where his thinking dissolves.

Once his body relaxes again, his King continues Its ministrations, working him open little by little. Something else nudges alongside the fingers in him, sliding in smoothly. He gasps through the fingers in his mouth when it sinks deeper, pressing up against that sensitive spot. Prostate, his mind helpfully supplies, though the thought blurs into a heady daze as quickly as it comes.

He squirms, wings twitching. Countless hands maneuver around him, rearranging him so he is laying comfortably against his King, but easy to restrain if he tries to escape. His King seems content to take Its time with him, even as his breathy gasps turn into little pleading whimpers.

(You will take exactly what you are given.) His King hums. (And endure otherwise.)

It continues Its slow pace, seemingly content with dragging him to the edge bit by bit, through the infinite gap between zero and one.

“My King,” he gasps out. But he cuts off the plea before his mouth can betray him further. His King has given him instructions to obey.

(Excellent.) It is strange, for such a simple word to unbalance him so easily—

A sudden sharp thrust causes him to lurch forward, a gasp escaping his mouth as the thought fragments once more.

(You have no need to think.) His King whispers. (I will catch you where your mind falters.)

To not think is an impossibly difficult task. Madness comes from too much thought, not too little. To lose all sense of thought is terrifying, and a shiver of unease creeps up his gut at the idea of it. If he is not thinking, how can he serve his King—

The thing inside him presses down on his prostate hard.

Pleasure splits his nerve endings, lightning quick and fire hot. He shakes in place, trembling, but his King holds him firm, waiting for the feeling to ebb once more, leaving him ever closer to the edge, still hard, still needy. It is so much but not enough.

Please, he thinks. I am incapable of Your request. Help me serve You.

(Good. You are beginning to understand.) HIs King eases up, just slightly. (My Knight, you are capable. You will be.)

The words are a monolith. He feels their sway, sagging against his King. He is…full. So full. When did that happen? His arms are restrained, but he is sure if he could move them, he would be able to feel his King in him. Hearing the thought, his King drags a hand down his stomach, and—yes, he can feel the protrusion.

There is a small, satisfied huff from behind him, before his King presses down—

His mind simultaneously disperses and coagulates. My King. M y K i n g.

Too much, he has the mind to register, as his King drops the facade of gentleness and impales him in one smooth movement.

He tries to thrash. He cannot.

His King moves.

He tries to form words. He cannot.

The impact is relentless.

He tries to think. He can’t.

He is—he is screaming. There’s wetness on his cheeks—is he crying? Pressure. Pain. Pleasure. Everything is sensation. Everything is ecstasy. There’s nothing but him and his King. There’s nothing but him, breaking apart, mind fracturing from seams of yellow, shattering into shards of golden glass that glints and gleams and glitters in glowing geometry—

He can see the lights of Carcosa. He’s not supposed to be able to see. But starry eyes blink down at his sightless ones, watching. Impossible colors and dizzying shades that smatter across nothingness, as the world ripples underneath him and the entire stage slides left—

He is lying down.

His body is still trembling. There is a dampness between his legs that was not there before, and something soft wiping it off in gentle strokes. He shudders, still oversensitive, and a light breeze brushes his cheek, ruffles his feathers.

His mind is…quiet.

“…My King?” he croaks out.

(I am here.)

He relaxes. If his King is here, then all is well.

He feels…heavy. Loose. But hands hold him together, both literally and figuratively. He is all his King’s. It is…a wonderful thing. To know that he will always be held, cherished, adored. All he can think about is his King. Every timeline, every string of fate, every chain, leading back to It.

(Is it not beautiful?)

Knight and King. Actor and Stage. He leans his head into his King’s palm and breathes.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum.

Ba-

(My perfect Knight.)

Yes.

Yours.