Authors Note: ATLA and its characters do not belong to me. This story is dark, and contains mature themes. Please do not read if you are offended or upset by such material.
Update: Some very, very minor changes have been made to this chapter, hardly even enough to notice. One reviewer pointed out that I'd used the word "gunshot" which I have removed – I wrote the first version of this in about 30 minutes, and didn't even catch that mistake. Also, I think I am going to continue with this story a bit, though it will not all focus on this captivity, and will turn Zutara-centric. Also, for the purpose of this story, Zhao survived the events that transpired at the Northern Water Tribe – this is set much later on, once Zuko has already turned against the Fire Nation.
Zuko looked up from the pillow his face had been buried in. Anger shot through him as he tried to move, again, and failed. His hands and feet had been tied to the bedposts – expertly, he thought bitterly. The sheets underneath his bare body were in disarray from his attempts to free himself, bunched uncomfortably underneath his stomach and hips. It pissed him off to no end that he couldn't even fix them, couldn't even make this hell slightly more comfortable. He was powerless, completely and utterly powerless, and that fact alone infuriated him more than anything else.
When Zhao had captured him, he'd fought as hard as he could. He would have won, too, he was certain of it, but Zhao had managed to find him alone – and strong as Zuko was, he could not fight off Zhao's men all by himself. They had immediately restrained him and shoved some herbs into his mouth. He'd tried to spit them out, but Zhao had struck him across the face and then forcibly shoved the herbs down his throat using his finger, nearly making Zuko gag. At the time he hadn't been sure what the herbs were for, but he found out soon enough that they prevented him from bending. He wasn't sure how long their effects lasted, but he was fairly certain he'd been tied to that damn bed for hours now, and he still couldn't produce even the slightest bit of heat.
With a frustrated groan, he stopped fighting against the restraints. He wondered what Zhao was going to do to him. At the same time, he prayed he would never have to find out. Of course, though, he was Zuko, and so his prayers went unanswered. Shortly after he resigned himself to his fate – whatever that fate may be – Zhao walked in and locked the door.
"Well, well," he murmured. "Look at the prince now." He laughed, a dark, menacing sound that made Zuko feel sick. "Looks like I'm the stronger one after all."
"Fuck you," Zuko spat. "If your men hadn't been there you wouldn't have stood a chance." Anger flashed across Zhao's face and he stalked forward quickly, then backhanded Zuko across the face.
"You insolent brat. Don't worry though, Zuko, once I'm finished with you . . ." he chuckled, and Zuko felt his stomach turn. Zhao never finished his sentence, merely smiled at the look of horror that crossed Zuko's face. "I think you need to be punished. Don't you agree?" Knowing he was just trying to goad him, Zuko kept his mouth shut. For the first time since he had been captured, he felt real fear. Zhao was crazy, and he hated him. Zuko was completely at his mercy. He knew, though he wished he didn't, that whatever Zhao did to him was going to be very, very bad.
Zhao walked over to the dresser and removed a strip of animal hide. It looked tough, like Komodo Rhino skin, and was about twelve inches in length. Zhao slapped it against his palm and the sound cracked through the air. He smiled evilly. "Ah, yes. This should do just fine." Zuko knew what he was planning to do, but he refused to give Zhao the satisfaction of fighting. His father had beaten him before; he could take whatever Zhao dished out.
Still, the first slap almost made him cry out. Its sound echoed through the room, and left behind a stripe of fiery pain. Biting his lip, Zuko vowed he would not make a sound. Slap after slap rained down, covering Zuko from waist to knees with dark red stripes. For nearly six minutes the only sound was that of the strap biting in to Zuko's pale bare flesh. When Zhao finally decided he was finished, a thin sheen of sweat covered his brow. Zuko's lip was bleeding from biting it so hard, and the lump in his throat felt as though it were choking him. His butt and thighs were swollen and purple, and he was almost thankful that he was stuck on his stomach; at least he didn't have to worry about sitting on his bruised flesh.
"I think that will do for now," Zhao commented lightly. "Don't worry though, Prince Zuko. I'll be back shortly." With that, he left. Once he was gone, Zuko allowed himself to cry into the pillow, careful not to make a sound. He fell asleep until Zhao returned, several hours later.
Zhao entered the room cheerfully and woke the sleeping prince with a resounding slap to his backside. Zuko whimpered, his eyes flying open. Zhao smirked and allowed his eyes to rove over the naked boy in front of him. He was loving every second of this. He stood over the bed and slapped the boy's butt again. Then he shifted his focus to the inner parts of Zuko's thighs, which had been mostly untouched by the earlier punishment. Several licks had wrapped around and struck the area, but not nearly enough, in Zhao's opinion. Using his hand, he started to spank the sensitive flesh, alternating sides every ten swats. Zuko was tensed; Zhao's fingertips were dangerously close to his balls, and one slip could have him striking them. But it never happened. After two minutes of spanking, Zhao got bored and stopped.
He walked over to the dresser again and removed a thin, swishy looking cane. Zuko nearly wept at the sight of it, so similar to the implement his father had favored – he remembered the feel of each brutal stroke. It seemed as though he was about to feel it again, and he almost broke down and pleaded with Zhao, stopping only when he realized how much the man would get off on his weakness. He steeled himself for the first blow.
It cracked down on his lower back, not on his butt as he had anticipated, and he knew instantly that it had broken skin. His bottom lip was destroyed from the earlier punishment, so he bit down on the pillow instead as Zhao continued to rip open the flesh on his back. Ten strokes. Twenty. Thirty. They crisscrossed one another, and Zuko could feel warm blood running down his back. Tears slipped from his eyes into the pillow, but he made no sound. Zhao, apparently satisfied with the damage he'd inflicted to his back, moved lower and began to assault Zuko's bottom again. He was not hitting as hard, and though each stroke stole Zuko's breath away and filled him with a burning, agonizing pain, they did not break the skin. They would, however, bruise. Zhao delivered them all over his butt, including his sit spot which had been targeted viciously in the earlier punishment.
When he was finished he threw the cane to the floor and removed his clothes. Zuko turned from the pillow to see a naked Zhao standing beside him, cock hard against his stomach. It figured that Zhao would get off on beating him, he thought, curling his lip in disgust. Zhao licked his lips and a look came over his eyes that made Zuko desperately wish that Zhao had just killed him. He knew what was going to happen. And he was powerless to stop it.
Seeing the fear on Zuko's face turned Zhao on even more. He climbed on to the bed and knelt between Zuko's spread thighs, roughly grabbing the abused mounds in front of him.
"You're mine, Zuko. You hear that? I can do whatever," he parted Zuko's cheeks roughly, "the hell," he jammed a large finger inside of him, eliciting a small sound from Zuko's lips, "I want to you." He removed his finger and positioned his cock against Zuko's hole. Zuko felt himself go numb.
"Please. Please don't," he gasped. He felt ashamed at his weakness, but he couldn't stay quiet any longer. Zhao laughed, and the cruelty in it echoed around the room, pierced Zuko's heart. There would be no mercy here. In fact, Zhao probably got off on his protests, on his whimpers and begging. Zhao lifted Zuko's hips and plunged in, hard. Zuko couldn't help himself; he screamed. Zhao moaned in pleasure and urged Zuko to keep screaming. He began to move his hips in hard, quick thrusts, almost shivering in delight each time his flesh came in contact with the burning hot skin of Zuko's ass. He came with a loud, guttural moan, but remained inside Zuko for several minutes. When he pulled out, semen and blood mixed together and ran down Zuko's thigh and onto the sheets.
Zuko lay there, broken, sobbing. He felt a pain deeper than he'd ever known. He was stuck there. He was Zhao's. And he knew that Zhao's torture was not yet over. No. He'd be back.