Chapter Text
When everything was said and done, Fire Lord Ozai was sure it had at least been, in part, Zuko's fault.
Ursa was gone, and with her departure so came all the things he had spent all of his life chasing for.
A victory over his brother, the fall of his father, the departure of a distant wife, and more importantly, the throne.
For some reason, even that left him less than satisfied.
Ursa too had been, once, one of his selfish desires.
Ever since he'd seen her perform on a play, she had become part of the treasure he was sure belonged to him by birthright. Beautiful, stubborn, kind, and more importantly, carrying the blood of avatar Rokku in her veins.
He'd wanted her, and as so, he had gotten her.
It was an easy fact, a simple matter of nature. What the royal family wants, they get, easy as that.
But she had never truly belonged to him, not really. Her body belonged to him, but her mind, her heart, it had never been his. That, she kept to herself, kept under lock and key and tucked in a corner even he couldn't reach.
For that, she considered her, and by extension himself, a failure.
He had longed to keep her hidden away, like a dragon does it's treasure. He'd yearned to clutch her heart on his hands and bend her heart to his will like he did his flames. Make her belong to him in all the ways it counted.
But in the end, she was gone, and all he kept of her was the two children she bore him, and the crown she'd paid her freedom with.
It was not enough.
Azula was a good heir, despite being his second born. She was strong, shaping up to be the ruthless leader he expected her to be. Talented, strong. Yet, even Ozai could see the seed of madness seething inside her soul, a rotten disease lurking to destroy the one useful thing that had come out of that woman.
His crown prince, who could not even manage to eavesdrop on his own father undetected, was the complete opposite.
Ozai put the glass of fire sake down with a sneer.
Even now, with a full day to come to terms with his mother's departure, he still had to quiet his pathetic sobbing with the border of his robe.
“If you want to enter the room, do so, or leave before you test my patience,” Ozai scoffed, not bothering to turn around.
The child answered under his breath, shuffling inside the room with the demeanor of a scared pygmy puma.
The boy was weak, obedient, sentimental, and way too soft. Nothing close to what Ozai wanted in a heir.
Even now, the boy shuffled close to him with a scared uncertainty that did nothing more but irritate Ozai. His eyes -much like his mother's- glued onto the ground, his hair loose and covering his face.
“She's not coming back, is she?” he asked suddenly, like he was afraid the courage would slip from him if he did not say it at once. “Mother, she's left for good, right?”
Yes, the kid was too much like his mother. Weak minded, and sensitive.
“She clearly spoiled you too much,” Ozai frowned, glaring at the cringing form of his son. “For that she's not only a traitor and a bad wife, but a failure of a mother. You're better off without her.”
Perhaps now without her influence on him, Zuko may yet be shaped into something of use, something more than the weak heir and useless son he'd been forced to keep.
The boy stifled a sob, and against everything Ozai had taught him, crashed onto his side and silenced his tears against his chest. Ozai is ready to push him off, punish him and strike him for disrespecting him so blatantly. And then, the child turned to look at him, and every thought halted in Ozai's mind.
Because, from that angle, the candlelight obscuring the room enough, fire sake clouding his mind, with his son's hair down, and his eyes shiny with tears, his lips and cheeks flushed from crying and looking at him in that pleading, vulnerable way; Zuko looked just like his mother.
Yes, his son, useless and cowardly, looked just as beautiful and soft as his mother had.
And it made Ozai's insides stir in a way that was strangely pleasant.
Slightly baffled, he rose a hand up to the boys cheek, cupping that soft and delicate face, his thumb removing a tear to see him better, the boy unknowingly leaning into his touch in a way his mother had never allowed herself to.
“You're too much like your mother,” he muttered, only to himself but loud enough that his son heard it, his breath hitching for a second. “Will you leave me too, Zuko?”
The way Zuko's eyes grew bigger with fear and sadness is almost exhilarating in itself. A spark of pleasure ran down his spine when he saw him shaking his head almost desperately.
“All I ever want is to make you happy, father.” he said instead, and maybe it's the way he said it, on the verge of begging for his father's favor, seemingly starving for a single show of affection.
Maybe it's the way Ozai knew this boy is ripe and bendable in the way others had not been.
But Ozai knew he was not lying, and he knew that single seed of hunger for love and the will to do anything for it was just what he needed.
What he wanted to take, and grow and feast on.
Zuko was a useless heir.
But Ozai realized he was yet useful in a wildly different way.
The day after Zuko embraces his father, things change
A servant comes, first thing in the morning and tells him his father has requested he moves his rooms. Zuko finds the request odd, but follows it nonetheless, never a fool to think refusing his father's order is even an option.
Until he finds out, that the room he's requested to move to is the room besides his father.
The servant tells him that the new Firelord has ordered him not to leave the room under any circumstances, and when he goes, Zuko hears him lock the door behind him.
Hours pass, and hours turn to a full day with only a spare number of servants coming inside to serve him meals; and as the time passes with no one able to tell him what's going on, Zuko begins to fear Azula's taunts of his father intending to kill him may yet become true.
On the second day, things get even weirder.
When he wakes up, it's to find his new room furnished with items that he's never seen before.
There is a closet now, embellished with carvings of flowers and flames, the insides of which are full with robes in every shade of red, the silks beautiful and luxurious enough that Zuko wonders if he's gotten this all wrong, and maybe, father is making him a gift.
There's a flaw in that logic thorough. Cause the more he looks at the new clothes, the more he realizes they can't belong to him.
Every one of those robes is tailored in cuts that are definetly meant to be worn by a lady.
There's a vanity too, full with headpieces he recognizes as his mother's, sweet smelling creams and fine perfumes that smell of jasmine and freshly cut lilies.
It's at that moment that Zuko First realizes that there's something wrong going on. Something he's yet begun to comprehend.
When the servants come that morning, they bring no answers to him. Their faces pinched and reserved, troubled; their words the same, over and over again.
It's the firelord's command.
That day, they draw him a bath, full of sweet smelling essences and soft creams that they lather in his skin and hair, a servant dutifully tending to rubbing away the calluses of his hands and feet.
The maiden that dries and combs his hair lets it down that day, pulling only a section of it. It's defining top knot and combing the rest to lay on his back softly. His male clothes disappear, and instead, Zuko is made to wear a dress.
He expects something to change that day, but the sun sets, and for many more days, nothing does.
The days come and pass, and so does the date of his father's coronation, but yet, the newfound routine stays the same.
He's softened and styled and made to smell and look a certain way, and when Zuko gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he twists his mouth at realizing he looks like a girl.
Is this a punishment? A way for father to drive it down that, if he can't even surpass his little sister, he should live one instead?
It makes no sense, but he keeps himself from drawing judgement.
It beats getting burnt to learn his lesson any day.
On the sixth day, things change.
The servants of that day look pale, their faces grim as they perfume and style him. They put a pale powder on his skin that makes it look translucent, rouge on his cheeks and dark Kohl around his eyes, his lips are painted red and his hair braided neatly, a beautiful headpiece full of glass flowers on his hair.
He's confused, a tight knot of unease in his stomach that tells him he should know what this is all about. He has seen it before.
And then he realizes.
He's being made to look in the same way his mother had in her wedding pictures.
He's shivering, his hands shaking as for the first time in more than a week, he's finally allowed to leave his rooms, the guards refusing to meet his eyes as they escort him to his father's office.
He thinks he sees one of them give him a sorrowful look before they close the door.
Father looks at him for the first time since that night, and despite the shame that seems to crawl over Zuko's skin, he doesn't seem to notice what's wrong with his appearance. His eyes roaming Zuko's new image with something strange in his eyes.
Satisfaction, perhaps, stained with a bit of pleasure.
Either way, Zuko makes himself smaller, casting his eyes aside.
“It has come to my attention that your performance as crown prince is less than adequate,” his father starts, making Zuko cringe and grimace. “The fire nation has no place for a weak crown prince, you are well aware of that, don't you, Zuko?”
He raises his eyes tentatively, knowing better than to not meet his father's eyes when he's being talked to.
“Yes, father.”
“Good.” He nods, “Nonetheless, I realize now that you may yet serve a bigger purpose, a duty that your mother failed to accomplish and you may yet prove yourself to be useful at.”
Heat surged to his cheeks, this time with an excitement that he was having a hard time to contain.
Useful. His father had not given up on him yet.
He looks up, eagerness clear on his face as he looks, expectant, for his father to reveal to him this duty.
Father closes in on him, his hands, strong and capable, rising up to cup his cheeks in a hold that's too soft, too kind, a show of affection that makes Zuko's whole body flush in happiness.
“You, Zuko, will become my second wife.”
His face drains pale.
What?
Father's agile fingers tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, Zuko's whole body paralyzed, and the firelord smiles, a sinister thing that makes ice run down his spine.
“You are beautiful, you know? Just like your mother, but you're better, aren't you Zuko? A dutiful son.”
The words are everything he's ever wanted to hear from his father, but the context is wrong, so wrong. His heartbeat increases, his throat hitching up with nausea.
Father's hands travel down his cheeks, clamping softly around his neck, pulling him forward til his breath mingles with that of his father.
“You'll do anything to serve your Firelord, won't you, Zuko?”
For a second, father's hands squish around him, a warning disguised in almost comforting gesture.
Zuko's lips are trembling, the words coming out stammered.
“Of course, father.”
And then, father's lips are on his, warmer and forceful, an almost scolding tongue parting his lips and invading his mouth, forcing itself inside him, cutting his breath. Zuko moans, to his own shame, the gesture seeming to only make his father more excited as one of those hands sneaks itself into the small of his back and pushes him into his father's body. His meandering hands, squeezing his arms, his waist, his hips.
Zuko realizes with horror that his father is hard.
His father's erection is pushing against his stomach.
He shivers, and his father smiles against his lips, he pushes Zuko, backing him down until he's forced to sit on top of his father's desk, the man taking advantage of their position to push his legs apart and lodge himself between them, his lips leaving Zuko's, and he has to bite his lip not to scream as his father starts peppering wet kisses on his neck, one of his hands lifting the robe to trail hot callused fingers up his leg.
“I can't believe it took me so long to see it, a beautiful creature, just like your mother,” he rasps in his ear. “Beautiful, and docile, truly loyal to your nation. More prepared to be my bride than your mother ever was.”
There's a knot in his throat, the hot burn of bile rasping at his chest, his father's touch leaving goosebumps in it's trail.
He had failed after all. Is that what this meant? He had failed as a son and as an heir and this is why father was doing this to him. Is this really the one thing he could be good at? Being his father's bride?
Was he being punished? There was no way this was something other than punishment.
Fathers don't touch their kids like this, fathers don't turn their sons into their wives.
Zuko truly was disgraceful, and now he was paying for it.
He felt his eyes burning up, a whimper leaving his lips as he felt his father sucking on the juncture between his neck and his shoulder, one of his father's hands, at last, leaving his side to pull at his own clothes.
Zuko refused to see, he refused to look, his eyes stuck still to the emblem of the fire nation, proudly displayed on the walls in front him. But then, his father was grabbing his hand, pulling it until it touched something warm, fleshy and pulsing, and Zuko can't even look away now. Not with his father's cock in his hand.
Zuko had never seen another cock that wasn't his before, but with his father's one in hand, it was bizarrely easy to see why he was the one being turned into a wife. His father's cock was thick, long as his forearm and slightly thicker, warm, and an angry red color that seemed to concentrate at the tip. It made Zuko feel dwarfed and afraid, it'd weight heavy in his hand.
He must have looked at it for too long, because father grasped his cheeks with one hand, squeezing his jaw as he whispered hoarsely into his ear.
“Please your firelord, Zuko. Don't you want to make your father happy?”
His hand starts to move on its own. It's a strange thing, almost like he's possessed, his motions clumsy, led only by the crude drawings he'd found in the library once, and his own, almost non-existent experience. His hands feel small wrapped around it, and to his horror he finds himself having to use both of them, his newly manicured fingers getting sticky with his father's precum.
He doesn't even realize he's crying until his father kisses his cheeks, the tears smeared into his face, the make up the servants had applied earlier starting to spread.
“That's it Zuko, you're doing really well,” he whispers, hoarsely, in his ear. “You're a natural.”
Unwillingly, his chest fills with pride, and he doesn't know whether to cry or laugh. All this time, seeking to be praised by his father, and all he had to do was just jerk his cock.
At least, a talent for his father to praise.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, father groans, burying his face in Zuko's hair as he fills his hands with semen.
He shakes, his hands trembling as the cum seeps from his fingers, the limp cock laying on his knees, staining the high quality silks with sticky white spots.
Father grasps his hands, pulling them and shoving them in their face.
“This is the first rule of being a wife Zuko, You must never waste your husband's seed.”
He resists the gags as one by one, he licks his fingers and palms clean of the sticky come. His lips and chin shining with spit and cum residues.
Father must say something, but Zuko is no longer listening, his mind clouded with the veil of horror as servants come into the room, their eyes wide and horrified, their skin pale and hands twitching.
They fix the ruined state of his face, turning him once more into what he now knows is the perfect face of a fire nation bride. They put his clothes back in shape, and pointedly do not mention the stains, nor the sticky residue on his hands as they wash them.
He's led, almost in trance, to a room, with one of the fire sages already waiting.
The man is surprisingly calm as he officiates the marriage rites, but Zuko can see the pity in his eyes when he looks at him. Can see the way they all look at him.
When the sun comes down on the sixth day, Zuko has changed from a crown price, to the wife of the Firelord.
And he can barely keep himself from puking.
“Get into the bed, wife.”
That's him now, Zuko thinks, his face red with humiliation, his father's wife. He sits on the bed, knowing full well what's supposed to happen, what husband's do to their wives on their wedding nights.
The ivory of his robe sits stark against the red of the sheets, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. He feels, more than he hears, as father sits right behind him, one hand pushing his hair aside to expose the pale skin of his neck, another pushing the robe to expose his shoulder.
“I'm sorry,” Zuko says before he can stop himself, his father's touch hesitant for a heartbeat.
“Sorry for what?” He asks and Zuko takes solace in that his tone is calmer than it's ever been before, almost indulgent.
Father's never indulged him before.
“For not being a strong enough heir.”
For being so weak, mother left.
For being so weak, he's been reduced to this.
Father laughs, his voice resonant and strangely jubilous. He pushes Zuko onto the bed, caging him with his arms, his hair tickling Zuko's bare skin.
Zuko realizes now that his father is naked, completely naked, his impressive body making Zuko look tiny and pathetic in comparison.
He's to serve a woman's purpose now, he may as well look the part.
“This was always the way it was meant to be Zuko. Even before either of us knew it, you were bred to be my perfect wife.”
He stifles the sob coming out of Zuko's lips with a kiss. Laying his full body on top of him, one leg coming to rest between Zuko's, pushing them apart so the robe opens up slightly.
What is he supposed to do? Just lay there and take it? Is he supposed to be acting back?
What had father called him before? Dutiful? Duty implies more than just stagnation, and this, this humiliation is all Zuko has left to prove himself as more than a waste.
Even if he hates it, he's meant to make his father proud.
Hesitantly, his shaking arms come to wrap around his father's shoulders, and he seems to like that, pushing deeper into Zuko's body like he wants to bury him into the bed.
Father pulls at his robes, exposing his skin to the cold air of the room.
He wonders if it's real, or if it's just a play of his imagination. His skin starts to chill, and yet, his father's hands seem to boil at his skin, splayed, groping at his soft parts, kneading with almost painful brute strength that is sure to leave bruises tomorrow.
What would Azula think of this? Would he be allowed to see Azula after this? Would she mock him?
Dumb little Zuzu, so useless he's been turned into a woman. She's sure to find this laughable, he's sure.
As if agreeing, his father squeezes his buttocks, and next thing he knows, those big, burning hands are pulling his buttcheeks apart, long dexterous fingers creeping in until they reach their destination, pulling a whimper out of Zuko's lips as they start to prod at his butthole.
His father pulls away from him, a satisfied smirk on his face, drool covered lips still connected to Zuko's by a trail of spit. He tutts at Zuko like he often did on the training ground after he failed his katas, his brow creasing in an expresión Zuko had seen enough times to commit to memory as something to fear, and yet there's something else behind it, a certain joviality.
“Ah Zuko, still failing at the easiest of things, a wife unprepared for her wedding night, how shameful.” His tone is teasing, the finger in his backside, circling the puckered ring for a moment before forcefully pushing inside, the stretch drawing unwanted tears to his eyes. “I should fuck you like this ,to teach you the importance of preparation, but I'd hate to break my new wife in her first night. Perhaps I can prepare you, if you are ready to do something extra to atone for your lack of preparation.”
Unwillingly, Zuko's eyes trail to his father's cock, poking him in the stomach. Just as big as it had been earlier that day. In itself, he's sure it's capable of splitting him in half, but thinking about it entering him as it is, when one small finger had drawn tears to his eyes, it makes Zuko swallow down fear and bile.
“Please father,” he whimpers. “I'll do anything.”
Ozai smiled rakishly, fingers coming up to tangle in Zuko's long dark hair before pushing him down with a sneer.
“Then please your father with your mouth.”
His eyes open with surprise, a pained whimper escaping his lips as his father manhandles him by his hair to lower his face to to his crotch, a second hand pulling at his legs so he's straddling his father's chest, his behind pointing at his father's face, while Zuko's own is hit with the musky scent and intimidating image of his father's cock.
Up close, it's even bigger, the bulbous tip hovering too close to Zuko's face, already hard, with a bead of precum already gathering at the tip.
He'd heard of this before, in hushed whispers from some of the older boys he'd been forced to socialize with at parties. Of using a maiden's mouth to satisfy your own carnal desires without fear of offspring.
And here he is now, having turned into the maiden.
His nose scrunched up, biting his lip as he tries to approach the member, knowing if he takes too long, his father may yet grow impatient. Yet, he frowns helplessly, not knowing how to perform such humiliating act.
Hesitantly, he parts his lips, breath hitching before he wraps them, softly, around the tip, tongue poking out to lap softly at the bead of precum, he feels his father's abdominal muscles clench at that, and taking it as a good sign, he does it again, dragging the tip of his tongue along the slit of his father's penis, collecting the bitter substance in his tongue.
Father's fingers come to tangle in his hair, scratching at his scalp pleasantly before gently pushing him forward.
“That's it Zuko, now suck on it.” he commands, with the voice he had once, many years ago, before he'd deemed him a dissapointment, used to instruct him in firebending.
It clouds his mind with a pleasant fog of contempt, almost as if he could fool himself into thinking this as one of his lessons. He does as instructed, suckling on the tip, being pushed forward until the cock hits the back of his throat.
And then slick fingers prod at his ass again, and he's swiftly torn away from his blissful ignorance.
Thick, callused fingers, prod inside him, slicked by an oily substance that manages to be both cool and burning at the same time, stretching muscles in him that he didn't even know existed.
“So tight Zuko, you'll serve your father so well, the perfect little hole.”
Those words shock him so much, they drag a sob out of his mouth, the cock in his mouth doing nothing to help him feel any better. Such dirty lewd words from his father, as if Zuko we're a dirty whore, a hole for his father's pleasure.
Tears run down his face, and in a moment of panic he tries to scramble away, get it out, out of his mouth, but his father's hand on his hair is like an iron grip, keeping him in place, pushing him closer and he thinks he's choking, suffocating in cock. His father groans in frustration, and then those hands are out of his ass and smack down on his ass, the slap reverberating on the room's walls.
“Don't start acting innocent now Zuko,” his father growls, hand coming down again to slap his ass with such force it leaves a stinging burn, even after he's done. “We both know you're a little cocksucker, just like your mother was, it is in your blood more than royalty ever was. Now stop whining and start acting like a proper wife.”
It leaves him shaking, but he knows it's true. He's his father, the Firelord, and as such his words must always be true.
Zuko really is all those things and this is his reality. A reality he needs to accept.
He still shivers in repressed sobs, but he goes back at it again, mouth and tongue full of cock, pushing it inside his mouth even if it draws even more tears to his eyes, and when his father's fingers go back to prodding inside him, he doesn't fight it.
This time, when he sobs against his father's cock, it draws a pleased groan from him.
“Spirits Zuko, even your pathetic crying feels so good in your mouth.”
He should be proud, he's making his father pleased.
The fingers push inside, one becoming two, two becoming three that dig, deep inside him, opening him up, pushing his aching muscles apart. He thinks he's getting used to the uncomfortable stretching, but then those fingers push against a spot, hidden deep inside, and suddenly, Zuko's back is arching, and he's releasing a loud mewl against the cock in his mouth, a primal moan torn apart from his chest.
His father chuckles darkly, seemingly pleased with the development.
“See, I knew you had it in you.”
The fingers are back on that spot again, pushing against it insistently and Zuko doesn't know whether to give in to the strikes of pleasure running through his spine or throw up.
His father seems to find it amusing, chuckling with every moan he pries out of Zuko's lips, bucking into his mouth insistently, abusing his ass with his fingers until Zuko is a sobbing moaning mess, his chin wet with spit and precum, gagging on a cock that is almost choking the life out of him.
And then, finally, when he least expects it, father grabs his hair again to push him, now forcefully, down the member, the thick rod of flesh sliding down his throat before exploding with a burst of hot liquid that instantly makes him cough, filling every crevice of his respiratory system, getting into his nose, slipping out of his mouth, and yet father doesn't relent, using his face and thrusting inside him for a little longer before finally allowing him to breathe again.
Zuko pulls away, coughing at the remnants of his father's cum in his throat, breathing heavily when it seems it has invaded even his nostrils, and as he rises his head, he sees himself, for the first time, in the mirror of his father's room.
He can't recognize himself. His lips are swollen red with abuse, his eyes watery and blown wide, a watery white substance leaking out of his lips and nostrils, coating his chin, his lips, dripping onto his chest, the ceremonial robe he had been wearing clinging lewdly off his shoulders.
Father comes into frame, his thick arms wrapping around him, clinging to him with something that resembles affection.
“Admiring your father's handiwork?” He rasps against his ear, a hand coming to cradle his jaw, scooping up the cum that had leaked out of his lips with a finger and pushing it back into Zuko's mouth without question. “I haven't even fucked you, and you already look more wrecked than a common whore.”
He does, doesn't he?
His father's whore .
The aforementioned ruler forces Zuko's face to turn towards him, and it's strange how pleased his father looks at him, how that satisfied grim makes his heart swell with pride while also making him shudder in fear.
It's the same face father makes when he gets wind of another conquest in the war.
Zuko supposes it's the same, except the territory he's claiming now is Zuko's innocence and body.
“Beg for your father's cock, wife,” father orders him.
Zuko doesn't think he can even talk, his throat still freshly ravaged, and the mere idea of saying those words repulsive and humilliating.
Father's hand squeezes around his neck
“Don't make your husband wait,” he growls, and Zuko shivers.
With his face burning up, he opens his lips, coughing a little as he tries to regain the strength to put words together.
His tongue tastes of semen.
“P-Please father,” he begins, averting his eyes, when tears threaten to gather again. “Give me your cock.”
Father humms, seemingly not satisfied.
“You will need to be more specific, wife. Do you want me to use your throat again? your ass? Are you that desperate to suck cock again? Or do you want the Firelord to finally fuck your ass?”
It's so vulgar, words like that seem alien in his father's mouth, wrong in Zuko's. He's been taught to keep a certain level of property, laws of behavior instilled in his mind since he was little. A crown price should never be caught dead using such debased language.
But he isn't the crown prince anymore.
He's his father's wife.
“Please father,” he says again, hands shaking as he hesitantly lays them across his father's chest in what he hopes is an enticing gesture, pulling him closer, eyes rising to meet his. “Please fuck my ass.”
It's like watching a play.
His father groans in appreciation, pushing Zuko into the bed once more, prying legs apart and wrapping them around his hips before slamming his cock all the way inside him.
Zuko is aware that there's noises coming out of his mouth. But he's not sure if they're cries and sobs from how much his father's member wretches him apart, or lewd moaning noises as his father hits that sweet spot inside him with renewed vigor.
He knows there are sweet words being whispered in his ears, vulgar nothings, tongues that taste him and bites to his throat.
He sees his own arms, wrapped around his father's shoulders, his whole body rocked back and forth with strong thrusts and fingers that dig so hard into the flesh of his hips that they're sure to draw bruises.
But the most horrific part of all, is not even his noises, or the way his father seems to have forgotten he's not more than a child.
It's not even the fact he's being fucked by the same cock that made him, which crossed his mind for a fleeting moment.
No, the worst part, Zuko thinks, is that for a moment there, lost in the pleasure, in the illusion of affection his father gives him, and in the way he finally feels a resemblance of love coming from him.
Zuko thinks he feels himself smile.