Summary: Anaria is once again captured, and faced with a realization that may break her.
"You're lucky."
Anaria, chained to the wall, laughed. It was a dry, sarcastic sound. "Am I?"
Her wings were spread behind her, held there by rope. She wished she could pull them into herself, remembering too well the time the man in front of her had sliced off her feathers. But no - now, she was exposed and vulnerable.
Hakur stepped up to one adjacent wall, put the torch he was holding in a sconce. It was too bright for Anaria's eyes after being left down here for so long. She wondered if it was the same cell she'd been put in the first time. There was a blood stain on the stone floor.
"Yes, Anaria, you are."
His voice was smooth and rich... and she hated it. She wanted him to shut up and leave her be, let her go, do anything but come closer to her.
But, come closer he did. He ran a hand almost reverently over her right wing, and she flinched and growled. She wished she could turn his organs to fire, see him squirm as he was burned from the inside out. Her magic, however, was blocked by the collar around her neck. She hated that damn collar.
"Did you know that the magic of the Nessari isn't attached to the wings like they think?" He continued speaking as he pet her wing, as if his touch wasn't bothering her.
"And how would you know that?" Anaria snarled. She was scared though, terrified out of her mind. This man had hurt her, and now here she was in his clutches once again. She was traumatized by him. Everything in her was shriveling into a ball as if it was going to die, but she couldn't show any of that. No, she would show anger instead.
Anaria continued speaking before Hakur could answer her question. "Bet you cut off a Nessari's wings and just watched them suffer."
Hakur chuckled, shook his head. "If only." He lowered his hand from her wing, turned his back, folded his hands behind him.
"What do you mean?"
The torch on the wall suddenly flared, flared so tall that the flames roared and reached the ceiling. It spread, closer and closer, but did not touch Hakur, or even Anaria. It filled the whole room with terrible heat that made her skin tingle and sting.
Then in an instant it was gone, over, the torch back to its normal bearing on the wall, the flames flickering there as if nothing had happened to it. Anaria was gasping for breath, and realization punched her in the gut.
"Y-you..."
"Yes, Anaria." Hakur turned to face her. "I am Nessari."
"But... how?" Anaria didn't even know where to begin asking questions. Why was he revealing this to her? Why had he never used his magic until now? Had he been hiding it from her just for this grand reveal, this explanation? "You could have used your magic a million times with me, and yet you didn't. Why?" Sweat dripped down the side of her face, onto her eyebrow, and she had to blink it out of her eye.
"You see, princess, many people don't like us Nessari. They loathe the royal family especially."
"You mean like you?"
"Princess, they would see you dead."
Anaria wanted to say she wished that he would kill her, but then she thought of her father, Hali, Girad. She'd never see any of them again if he did. She would die here in this miserable dungeon away from the ones she loved. And it would be a betrayal from a fellow Nessari.
"I was... raised, in a sort of way, by humans," Hakur said. He'd circled around to her other side, was now stroking her left wing. Anaria tried her best to move it away, to flutter it, to pull on the ropes, but all the movement and struggle did nothing but strain her muscles. "After they removed my wings, that is."
"Removed your wings?" She was so startled by this. She'd heard of poorer Nessari having their wings brutally cut off by humans, but Hakur wasn't poor. He had a castle, status, an army. How had this happened to him?
"Yes," he said. He suddenly clutched Anaria's wing by the base quite fiercely, making her give a sudden cry of fear. "Took a bone saw and cut right here. Didn't care about how I screamed or begged. They seemed to relish the blood, almost."
"Why?" She was trembling, frightened that he was going to do the same thing to her. She wasn't going to lie to herself: she cherished her wings. She couldn't lose them, especially not as the Nessari's princess. Dear gods, what was he going to do?
"There was a plot," he said, loosening his grip to stroke her feathers once more. "A plot to get rid of the royal family. It didn't work, of course, given that you're here. It went wrong. So wrong."
"What are you talking about?" Something fluttered in her gut, a sense of dread.
"Did your father, Sol, ever tell you about his brother?"
"I don't have an uncle!" she snapped. "I'm pretty sure I would have known that if I did."
"Oh, but your father is tricky, you see," Hakur said. He let go of her wing to step up to face her. He clicked his tongue at her. "Always hiding something."
"No," she said, in complete denial of what Hakur was telling her - because, really, she did know what he was saying, but she didn't want to believe it. She couldn't believe it. "He's not like that. He's... he's better than that."
"Then why did Sol never tell you about his older brother?" Hakur asked. There was a cruel smile on his lips. And now, Anaria recognized those lips, his cheekbones, his nose. She hadn't before. Before, it was like she'd been blind. She knew all those facial features because they resembled her father's... her own. "His older brother who was stolen from the castle in the dead of night and never seen again?"
"Does he know?" Anaria asked. Gods, she felt like she was going to be sick. She turned her head away, swallowed back bile.
"That I'm still alive?" Hakur clarified. "No. He does not."
"So... so what happened to you?" She still wasn't looking at him.
"The humans took me far away," Hakur said. "By ship. I was sold at the slave markets of Esken. The person who sold me... he had me chained by hand and foot and cut off my wings."
"And what of him?" Anaria asked. Her father was old, much older than her. He was in his early hundreds. Hakur had to be older.
"I killed him once I escaped," Hakur said. "But, a Nessari cannot grow back their wings." He sighed sadly. "No matter how hard they try."
Hakur turned, to walk away, leave the cell. He was taking the torch with him, though now Anaria knew he didn't need it. Perhaps, during his slavery, he'd gotten used to not using magic.
She felt like she had to say something. She was never going to accept Hakur as a family member, not after what he'd done to her, not after all his atrocities. But she had to say something.
"I'm sorry," she called out to him. "I'm sorry they did that to you."
Hakur stopped, went rigid, seeming to be surprised. His back was to her, a back that had once bore wings. She couldn't help but wonder what colors they had been.
He turned his head slightly towards her. "Are you, princess?"
"Yes."
"No. You're not."
Anaria wasn't going to deign to argue with him. There was no point. She really did feel sorry though, sorry that he'd been uprooted from his family, that he'd suffered so much, that he was now wingless.
Hakur left the cell, and she could see his eyes glittering through the grate in the iron door.
"But you will be," he said.
Anaria wanted to scream as he left, just scream until she ripped out her own voice. So Hakur was going to hurt her for reasons she couldn't understand. He wanted people to understand his pain, but he was going about it all the wrong way. He was inflicting pain instead.
Anaria looked at her wings, hoping against all hope that she would not also become wingless.
(Something I'm writing for Kinktober but can be very whumpy as well.)
---
Hakur liked bruises. He liked all the colors they came in, liked all the different things they could mean.
There were the black and purple bruises of a newly broken bone, or the blue bruises of freshly rent flesh. Then there were the bruises of touch, the telltale fingerprints of a grip too strong and painful. His grip would often leave those bruises, more of a brown and purple color than anything else. They would eventually turn green, then yellow, and then fade all together.
If they faded at all.
Some bruises, he’d realized through experience, stayed. It was as if the skin was given a permanent memory of that touch or injury. It would hurt no longer, but the signs of cruelty remained.
That’s what Hakur liked the most, even if that color was faded and dull. He liked skin that remembered his tortures.
Summary: Hakur likes having control, and to him, having control means doling out pain.
Hakur liked bruises. He liked all the colors they came in, liked all the different things they could mean.
There were the black and purple bruises of a newly broken bone, or the blue bruises of freshly rent flesh. Then there were the bruises of touch, the telltale fingerprints of a grip too strong and painful. His grip would often leave those bruises, more of a brown and purple color than anything else. They would eventually turn green, then yellow, and then fade all together.
If they faded at all.
Some bruises, he’d realized through experience, stayed. It was as if the skin was given a permanent memory of that touch or injury. It would hurt no longer, but the signs of cruelty remained.
That’s what Hakur liked the most, even if that color was faded and dull. He liked skin that remembered his tortures.
And Wyniin’s skin was perfect for such things. It was sensitive and pale and new, unmarred by anything, untested by the world.
Untested by him.
It hadn’t been hard to talk her into coming with him to his bedchamber. He’d seen the way Anaria’s former servant girl looked at him, had sensed her desire for him. Hakur hadn’t had sex with anyone in quite some time, and would be more than happy to indulge her… if he got some of what he wanted as well.
And what he wanted was pain. To cause it. He’d had enough pain in his life, and now wanted to inflict it on others, wanted to see them scream and shake and blossom with bruises and blood. The body truly was a colorful thing when in pain. Wyniin needed some color, what with her white, nearly translucent skin, blonde hair, and white wings. She was a blank canvas, waiting to be painted by him.
Hakur tore her dress off with little care to how the fabric ripped. He could just have a new one made for her anyway. He had the money. He had the influence.
“I liked that dress,” Wyniin complained with a luscious pout that was oh so pretty. She was looking at the remnants of it on the floor.
“I can have a replica made for you,” Hakur said, stepping closer. One hand took Wyniin’s hip, fingers delving to bruise, making her gasp in shock and pain. The other went to a round, ample breast. She felt good in his hands; breakable.
But he wouldn’t break her yet. He had use for her still. Though, he could start to form the cracks, could begin the breaking of her, wear her down until she was ground to nothing in his hands.
Wyniin leaned into his grasp, pressing her breasts and soft flesh against him. She was fat, and beautiful for it. Hakur had seen enough forcefully emaciated bodies in his life that he did not find himself very attracted to thinness.
“And will you undress, my lord Ivaran?”
Wyniin did not know his true name yet, or his true heritage or past. To her, just like everyone else, he was Ivaran Morus, a fearsome general—carrying the name of a legend—that was leading his troops in battle against Nessar. To her, he was merely a human man.
“If you promise not to tell anyone what you may see,” Hakur said, holding her tighter. He was an artist ready to paint her flesh.
“I will not speak of it,” Wyniin gasped out. He knew it was a promise. He was good at getting promises from people.
So, Hakur released her and undressed, noted with satisfaction that Wyniin rubbed absently at her hip as she watched him. Yes, that would bruise. He was excited to see what color it would be.
Wyniin gasped as Hakur’s body was revealed to her. She probably had expected a few scars from battle, but not the flesh that was painted rife with them. There were his brands in the shape of a crescent to signify a sickle, the brands of a slave. Then there were the many, many whipping scars. Most were on his back, but some crossed along his front and his legs.
“My… my gods…” she breathed. She stepped forward, very carefully laid a hand on the brand in the middle of his chest. “You… were a slave?”
Hakur took Wyniin’s other hand and directed it to his back. Now he would reveal he was Nessari, as she had promised not to tell. If she did, she would live to regret it, and he’d make sure of that.
Wyniin’s fingers found the indents of where his wings had been, the long canyons of flesh that signified something missing.
She very suddenly drew her hands back from him as if burned.
“Ivaran…” There were tears in her eyes.
“Do not let my appearance deter you,” he said, taking her by the waist. He was more gentle here. There would be time to leave more bruises later. “I want you, Wyniin. Do you not desire the same?”
She was going to say yes. He knew she would. It might be out of some fear of him, but a yes it would be.
“I do.”
Hakur wrapped arms under Wyniin and lifted her right off the floor, wings and all. She cried out in surprise, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck.
“Then come and let us enjoy each other.”
He took her to the bed and threw her down on top of it. He climbed on top of her, pressed his fingers between her thighs, gripping hard and shoving them apart. Her chest was heaving in the most beautiful way, skin ready for painting shining in the torchlight.
“Is there anything that you prefer?” Hakur asked. He was growing erect from looking at her and her reactions to all this.
Wyniin blushed furiously, and the thought of making her bleed entered his mind, but not tonight. Tonight was for discovery and bruising.
“I’ve, um… never actually… coupled… with anyone before,” she admitted awkwardly.
Hakur smirked. “Then I will make this most enjoyable for you.”
And for him. He’d most certainly make this enjoyable for himself. What was the point of sex if not pleasure?
And he took pleasure in pain.
Hakur found his mouth on Wyniin’s hot center. He kissed and licked at her clit hungrily, enjoying the taste of her. Perhaps she would bleed when he entered her, and then they’d both be stained scarlet; a beautiful thing no doubt.
Wyniin yelped as he did this, then let out beautiful, high-pitched moans. Her sounds were lovely. He wondered if she sounded similarly while suffering. He’d find out in due time. Sometimes he had to be patient to get what he wanted.
Hakur came up from between her legs, then settled his hips down between them. Her wetness and warmth against his cock made him hum in satisfaction.
He ran his hands over her, feeling every fold of flesh, every dimple, every beautiful inch. He kissed her breasts, then found one of her nipples in his mouth. He did not deign to kiss her lips. She’d have to earn that.
Wyniin grasped at his shoulder blades as he tongued and sucked on her nipple, her hips rolling against him. Hakur could tell she was trying to be gentle with him, probably due to all his scars.
“I will not break,” he told her. Not the way you will.
Wyniin arched into him as he teased the nipple with his teeth. Her wings stretched and fluttered. Her nails dug into his skin.
Hakur dug his fingers into her hips, repositioned himself on top of her, and pushed into her without asking or giving her fair warning.
Wyniin screamed. It was a sweet, precious sound that hit something in his ears that sent a thrill through him. It was like his brain was releasing the chemicals for orgasm without him actually having one. He moaned in pleasure, slid right into her, feeling her blood begin to trickle around him. Her hymen was no more.
Hakur wasn’t always a cruel partner in bed though. He gave her time to adjust, did not start moving until her eyes, hazy, met his, and her hands stroked his arms.
Wyniin whimpered and moaned as he slowly pulled out of her and pushed back in, and he moaned too, enjoying her heat and tightness.
“Fuck, you feel wonderful,” he said, voice husky. It wasn’t difficult to make his voice sound like that, given his damaged vocal cords. Another scar from his time as a slave, a scar that could not be seen.
“Y-you do too,” she panted, clinging to him so tight he was sure she would leave some bruises on him as well. That was okay. Bruises from fucking were vastly different from bruises from torture or a beating.
“I’ll go slow for now, all right?”
Wyniin bit her lower lip in the most attractive way that almost made him kiss her, and nodded.
He stayed true to his word, working her up to a faster pace. It wasn’t long before she had her wings spread taut and her legs wrapped tightly around him as he fucked her. One of his hands went to a big thigh, trying to leave bruises there as well.
She was loud about all of it, and Hakur adored it. Sounds of pleasure and pain were so similar—his mind enjoyed both greatly.
He grunted and let out raspy moans as he fucked her. At one point she grabbed him by the back of his head and tried to pull him into a kiss, but he wouldn’t allow her to.
She wasn’t climaxing. Hakur could feel himself nearing his own end, but, despite the pleasure, Wyniin was not reaching hers. That was all right. She probably just needed some extra stimulation.
Hakur wanted to leave his hands where they were to imprint the bruises, so he used his magic. It was safe now that he’d revealed himself as Nessari and she would keep his secrets.
It was like a silken hand began stroking Wyniin’s clit, and she squealed and bucked into him. There. Now she would come for him.
“Ivaran…” she panted. “Are you…?”
He didn’t quite know what she was asking. Was she asking if he was close? Or if he was going to finish in her? He felt that he had the right to finish in her. She worked under him. If she became pregnant, so be it.
With a shout, Hakur hit his climax. He worked up his magic, and Wyniin was riding hers with him. Her muscles went taught, her body arching, a scream leaving her lips.
Then it was done, and Hakur was settling himself down on top of her, feeling blood and cum all around his cock. He stayed inside her, enjoying the warmth of her body.
He kissed Wyniin’s sensitive chest as she was left in bliss and gasping for breath. Eventually, she came to, pressed a hand to his face to tell him she’d had enough. He didn’t want to stop, wanted to hear her eventual cries, but paused nonetheless. He’d work her up to it. She’d understand the joyous torture of overstimulation at some point… Just not now.
Hakur examined her, running gentle fingers over the bruises forming on her hips, waist, and thighs. They were blue and brown and beautiful. So beautiful.
“Was that to your liking?” he asked her, touching one particular bruise on her left hip that was darker and more vibrant than the rest.
Wyniin nodded breathlessly. “It was, my lord. It was.”
With a satisfied smile, Hakur rolled off of her to see her blood standing out starkly against his flesh. It just made him smile more: the sweet colors of pain.
