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... Roused from the depths of a particularly miserable slumber, Prince Ozai could smell the thick, heady scent of opium and felt the hardness of the cheap futon, then sensed something firm and warm pressed into his back, and the heft of an arm draped over his chest. His first weary thought was that Ursa had succumbed to her wench-like instincts and no longer had the will to resist him. But Ursa wouldn't deign to indulge in life's pleasures (later, Ozai would tell himself that was a trait he had bestowed upon her) and, most importantly, her wifely duties always consisted of the bare minimum: it was Ozai who doted on her, like a good husband. Not the other way around.
Still stuck in that strange, otherworldly state between sleeping and waking up, Ozai half-registered his mystery partner exhaling small plumes of steam as she leaned in to nuzzle his jaw: something coarse and prickly brushed against his cheek (perhaps she was not of the voluptuous kind?) as a calloused hand snuck its way onto his left pectoral (definitely a lady of the night, not like his girls back at the palace). Ozai stirred and blinked a few times, his eyes heavy with fatigue. He could scarcely make out the blur of flesh in the lantern-lit dimness and quickly fell back into a teetering slumber, feeling a certain satisfaction in being lavished with attention—even if she was a two-bit wench.
"Mmm," a long, drawn-out groan, then an all-too-familiar, low-toned oily grumble. "Morning, my prince..."
At that moment, Ozai recalled the events of last night: the screams; the scuffle in his parlour; him clamping down on her wrist, his palm aflame with a white, blistering blaze—"you leave me no choice, dear wife ... you need to learn one thing: you're mine ..."—her screeching and scrabbling as fat hot tears ran down her dewy cheeks, the stench of burning flesh hanging heavy in the air—"see that you escort my wife to the family physician ... do not breathe a word of this, or you will suffer the same fate as her"—slumping down in his chair with a cup of rice wine in hand and the vague notion that he needed a good fuck—"you, boy! Fetch me my dream stick!"—staggering, stumbling, his limbs flailing around like a dragon just slain ... a mind of their own ... into the streets of Habour City ... warm palm on the nape, gruff whisper in the ear ... not safe out here, Prince Ozai ...
( ... He had spiralled out of control again ... so weak, so pathetic ... a worthless, wretched little insect ... )
( ... Ursa would pay dearly for the damage she had caused him ... but first ... )
Ozai had just about pieced together his situation when the lieutenant slobbered up and down his neck and had the gall to pinch one of his nipples.
"What ... what are you doing?" He croaked in a sort of hoarse murmur that was unwonted to him.
"Exactly what you ordered me to do," was the slimy response. "When I pledged my allegiance to you all those years ago, I assured you I would do anything you wanted."
Ozai rolled over onto his back, feeling the aches in his joints, the light throbbing that began to creep across his temple. As he turned his head, he caught sight of Zhao staring at him with a look of utter desperation, as a dog longs for its owner. "Well, isn't that nice?" He scoffed. "Pledging your allegiance to a prince. One might assume that loyalty is simply a matter of choice, rather than a debt to which I am owed."
Zhao gave a low, affected chuckle. "Well, I doubt anyone thinks that, Your Highness." He grinned and Ozai felt the fingers on his chest drawing shapes. "I assure you I don't."
"Hmm," was all Ozai could manage. Zhao had always sought to prove his worth in some capacity, but in recent times it had become something of an obsession. In any case, Ozai was not adverse to his subjects treating him with respect (which, in itself, was a basic requirement—the Royal Family were of dragon's blood and had been touched with the spirit of Agni, so they were entitled to a certain level of reverence), but he knew Zhao went further than most. It was pathetic, Ozai thought—Zhao might as well renounce what little decency he possessed and vouch for a promotion to 'the Royal Lapdog.' Or, better yet, the prince's personal cocksucker.
He had, in time, responded well to his training. When he had first started out, his voice was on the cusp between boy and man, his accent of that jarring Shuhon stock, and he had been pleasantly gangly in all the right places: still, he had proven difficult to tame and did not always yield to his superiors. Now, by contrast, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and spoke with a kind of affectation that lent itself to blind obedience.
The events of last night proved just how far he had come—but there was always much to perfect. After all, even faggots had their uses, despite the lowliness of their kind.
Ozai gave a considerate hum, idly stroking his beard as he gave Zhao a once-over: the lieutenant was still staring at him with need in his eyes, as if he were ready to pounce on command, but there was a look of rare contentment that Ozai wanted to crush, as well; toadies were at their most delectable if you could smell their fear. Not that he would do it, but the opportunity was there if need be. Now, though...
Yes, that's it—I shall repay his kindness with a lesson, a lesson in what it means to serve me. Ozai's cock twitched at the thought.
"Why don't you make yourself useful, hm?" He asked, putting his hand underneath Zhao's chin. "The day is still young, and you should embrace the chance to serve me as I see fit."
Zhao grinned at him. "That would be an honour, my prince."
Ozai kissed him then, planting it firm and deep on his lips: he would never debase himself with a sloppy kiss (that would be surrendering to his lowest common instinct). One of Zhao’s hands slipped into his long hair and he felt the rumble of a groan against his lips. Anyone who sullied his hair would typically be dealt their due punishment, but the loud, shameless moan Zhao gave as Ozai palmed his cock was enough to excuse him.
Ozai pulled away from the kiss to sit in-between Zhao's legs, his cock brushing against Zhao’s thigh. He reached for the phial of oil at the side of the futon and spilled a generous amount onto his palm. With a falsely-tender touch, he caressed the pale flesh of Zhao’s body, leaving a sheen of cool, slick oil across his thighs and stomach. Another moan and a slight jerk of the hips told him that Zhao was prime for the taking; a mere slave to his desires.
Good.
"Needy, aren’t we?" Ozai smiled at him.
"But of course ..." Zhao breathed out. “You’re beautiful ... fuck, you’re beautiful ...” He drew in a sharp breath as Ozai gave his cock a few quick pumps.
"I’m aware," Ozai drawled. A part of him would always be disgusted, somewhat, by the effect he had on men, but as he took in the sight of this proud, wretched thing, his cock painfully hard despite what little they had done, Ozai revelled in the thought that he could bend anyone to his will—before he broke them, of course.
Zhao watched as Ozai grabbed the length of his own prick and stroked it, just for a moment or two. His grip then extended out to Zhao's cock, encircling them both in a tight hold; the other hand squeezed Zhao's arm in tandem with Ozai rubbing their cocks together. Zhao, predictably, began to grunt something absurd and lewd ("fuck, yeah, take my fuckin' cock") and he titled his hips up, moaning like a whore as Ozai slid the tip of his head down his balls ("o-oh, yeah... fuckin' blessed with your royal cock..."). There was no doubt his lowly station was coming into play here: nobles were so dreadfully uninspired when it came to sex (especially the women—he'd barely heard a peep out of Michi during their trysts), but Ozai found that these... outbursts of profanity turned him on in ways the consorts could only dream. Ozai wanted his partner to yield to him, yes, but he wanted passion, to boot!
"Agni..." Zhao gasped, fumbling fingers taking hold of his cock. "Pass... pass me the lube..."
"Ah, ah, ah," Ozai said, clasping Zhao's wrist and forcing his hand off his prick. "Surely I taught you better than that."
In his youth, Zhao would have spoken out of turn if he was, rightfully, put in his place. Ozai could almost hear him shout: "oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was illegal to jack off, Your Highness!" If it were anyone else, of course, he still would've lashed out. But, in the presence of greatness, he lay quite silent and glared, his jaw clenched with the slightest of tension. A ghost of resistance, tempered by the light of Agni.
When he spoke, there was a faint gruffness in his tone. "My apologies, Prince Ozai. I was simply... trying to relieve myself."
"Yes, but in doing so, you forgot your duty to me. Must I spell it out?"
Zhao stilled for a moment. "No. No, of course not, my prince. I assure you, if it were not forbidden, I would take your hand in marriage right here and—"
"Yes, yes, I've heard quite enough," Ozai growled, reaching down to fondle his throbbing cock in a moment of temporary respite. "Now get on with it."
Zhao did.
Watching a man jerk his cock with abject zeal wasn't the sort of morning Ozai had expected. Sometimes, that wife of his was there to fulfil her obligations (a strong bloodline didn't build itself), but he was often greeted by one of his girls, doe-eyed and softly spoken, their lovely, lean bodies as pliant as clay. He'd had many lovers over the years, a throng of nameless, negligible faces that flitted in and out of his life, but he couldn't deny that Zhao, and men like him, were skilled in the art of service. The prospect of men lying with men sickened him, of course, but so long as they served him well, whoever shared his bed was of no consequence to him. Besides, was he not entitled to make use of his people?
He moaned as Zhao stroked up and down his prick with one calloused hand and gently squeezed the head with the other. For a change of pace, he reached down and took hold of Zhao's cock, smearing a little precum down the length. As they jerked each other's cocks, skin slapping against skin, Ozai let himself revel in the feeling of Zhao squeezing his balls—the warmth, the pressure—it truly was worthy of his needs. So much so that he came with a stilted gasp; then, momentarily, Zhao followed suit, making a face as he came. Ozai gave a low, mocking laugh at this, leaning in to kiss Zhao before shifting off him to recline against a pillow he'd propped up.
"I am impressed with you, lieutenant." Ozai favoured him with a tight smile, readily wiping his hand on the rumpled covers. "You never fail to serve me well, but today, you have surpassed my expectations. Perhaps a reward is in order." A lie, of course, but Zhao had all the intelligence of a rice farmer in some backwater village, so he wouldn't figure it out.
Zhao shuffled over, slightly dazed from their tryst. "Well, I always aim to please, Your Highness." He simpered, that familiar oiliness seeping back into his tone.
"Indeed," Ozai said. He briefly arched his back to stretch out his cramped muscles, then crossed his arms behind his head and let out a cloud of steam through his nostrils. "It nearly makes up for you bringing me here of all places!"
Zhao stiffened. "Your Highness, I didn't have many options and—"
"Oh, do calm yourself. I've frequented many a brothel in my time. Being married to that miserable little wench would drive anyone to such measures."
"Ah, yes, well... some women ought to know their place. But I doubt any of them truly understand what it means to serve. No skills, all the hysterics—no wonder your wife is so useless."
Ozai let out a bark of laughter. "You haven't the faintest idea! Once, she dared to challenge the system of the Royal Consorts. 'Oh, my love,'" he adopted a breathy, high-pitched voice. "'Why must you be unfaithful? Agni knows I adore you so—they groomed me for it, after all!'" They shared a laugh before Ozai shook his head. "Try as she might, I see her for what she is: the descendant of a traitor whose bloodline lives on."
"They say treachery is innate, Your Highness," Zhao said. "It's... unfortunate that the Fire Lord was not advised on this matter."
"Oh, he was advised, all right. But lest you forget, my father finds comfort in his delusions—spirits and all that nonsense."
"Mm, I see."
"'Yield a bloodline of great power?' Please. That woman can't go one minute without bawling her eyes out. She's weak, just like that grandfather of hers." Ozai spat. "My father might've been foolish enough to believe in her, but I know she's nothing more than a pathetic little wretch." A wretch who betrayed me for a fucking servant, he thought.
"If I may, Your Highness," Zhao said, with as much calm and tact as the likes of him could manage.
Ozai arched an eyebrow. "Go on."
"Princess Ursa is a broodmare; her only purpose is to bear offspring that will impress the Fire Lord—you said so yourself. And as long as she fulfils that, does it truly matter if she isn't the ideal wife?"
Of course it matters, Ozai thought, his lips pursed in dismay. She is mine, and I expect her to act accordingly, even if she is a mere broodmare.
He carefully hid his expression, not allowing his rising anger and disdain to show. "I never took you for an expert in wives, lieutenant," he said. "Then again, it's not as if you have one of your own, is it?"
Zhao's nostrils flared, and there was a look in his eye that was eerily reminiscent of the boy he was: strong, unwavering—a beast that could not be tamed. Then, after he a moment, he said: "I... no, Your Highness."
Ozai gave him a long, hard stare before he turned away and stared up at the ceiling. "Find my dream stick," he said, refusing to make further eye contact with Zhao.
"... yes, Your Highness."
As Zhao scrambled to set up the paraphernalia, Ozai leaned back and watched him with vague interest, absentmindedly lowering an arm to stroke his beard as the words 'I would take your hand in marriage' and 'does it truly matter if she isn't the ideal wife' revolved in his mind. It was fairly common knowledge that Zhao was a reprobate, and his obsession, as it was, with what Ozai simply expected of him, had certainly raised questions regarding the nature of his affection. If Ozai stood correct (and he saw no reason why he didn't), then this ... development could bode well for him. It was disgusting, no doubt—but such trite often swayed those of his ilk ...
Snapped back to the present by the sudden, fleeting hiss of the fire in one of the lanterns, Ozai refocused on Zhao, his bare ass in the air as he sat hunched over the paraphernalia. Truly a sight to behold.
"Must you spend all night on this?" Ozai asked, rolling his eyes. "I could have reduced Ba Sing Se to nothing but ash in the time you've spent fooling around."
"Ah, but it requires a steady hand to ensure the right amount of heat brings the opium to a boil," Zhao said.
"I'm aware, yes," Ozai drawled, an edge of annoyance in his voice. "Next time, save me your lectures; I have no need for them."
"My apologies, Your Highness—ah, I think it's ready."
Ozai scoffed. "So it should be."
Zhao handed Ozai the dream stick with a honeyed "enjoy, your Highness" and side-lay next to Ozai, gazing up at him expectantly. With one hand, he stroked Zhao's hair, as an owner would for its pet; the other brought the dream stick to his lips and he inhaled ... mind clouded in a haze of smoke ... that sweet, pungent scent ... the blur of light, misty shapes dancing across the room ... the troubles that plagued him melting away in the warmth ...
Ozai sighed in content and he passed the dream stick to Zhao, who shook his head: "I appreciate the offer, Your Highness, but I had my fill earlier."
"Oh, well. Suit yourself," Ozai drawled. Even in his current state, it occurred to him that Zhao rarely, if ever, turned down the opportunity to indulge: "Odd, isn't it?" He mumbled out loud. "I assumed you would've embraced the chance to bask in the pleasures that have graced my lips ... after all, you're always so eager, so desperate to lap up every morsel of my presence ... a common occurrence, really, but I don't blame you ... the masses need someone to obey; someone to assure them that their existence matters in the grand scheme of things ..."
"And who better to provide it than you, my prince?" Zhao had edged closer, his breath hot against Ozai's ear and his fingers tracing the contours of Ozai's pectorals, occasionally brushing past a nipple.
"Indeed. I am the ideal candidate, and if Father can't see it..." Ozai took another puff of the dream stick and was about to continue his tirade when Zhao's fingers trailed down his chest and began to tickle his pubic hair. "What a strange kind of foreplay..." He muttered, his eyes half-closed and heavy with fatigue ... a chuckle in his ear, a warm kiss pressed against the shell (was that a lick?), then more kisses down his throat—wet, firm, a dog's brainless assault on its owner—as calloused fingers edged nearer to his cock ...
As Zhao continued his ministrations, Ozai felt the effects of the dream stick wither way. The deep and inescapable realisation was that he lay limp like a useless doll as Zhao doted upon him yet again: it wasn't unwelcome, per se, but there was simply no delight in the act if it wasn't on his terms.
"Control yourself, lieutenant," he said, and Zhao repelled all touch in an instant. Like a fucking puppet, he thought, only more foolish.
"What ... exactly did I do wrong, Your Highness?" Zhao asked.
"Why would you assume that?" Ozai smiled at him. "You have done everything right, as is your wont. And for that reason, I have a special request only you can fulfil," he reached down and stroked his cock, slowly, with a languidness that spoke to his weary state. "Be a good boy and serve me again," his free hand pushed down on Zhao's head.
A fraction of resistance; the flash of panic in his eyes; then, he swallowed, and as always smiled, his obsession too great to deny. "W-With pleasure, Your Highness."