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Such a bumbling, weak-willed man as the Sultan was in no shape to discipline a girl so bull-headed. That would take a man with power, a man with inner strength, a man with just the right amount of ...
This is quite, er, kinky, so I wouldn't advise it if you're not happy with the idea of corrupted childhood memories.
None of them deserved her.
Jafar had seen them all, from the very first to the most recent, and he had heard almost all of their speeches to the princess. He had watched them all come; and inevitably, he had also watched them all leave too, not long after, storming out of the palace in disgust at such terrible treatment.
The princess had had more than her fair share of suitors, and any other woman would have said yes to a rather large number of them. They were acceptable, for the most part. Jafar supposed that they might be called desirable, from a woman's point of view -- rich, well-bred, powerful, often also handsome. What more could the girl possibly want from a husband?
"I am not a prize to be won!" The princess' voice rang out into the cold corridors, angry, the tone of it defiant from the first syllable. Jafar rubbed his temples and pulled a face, scowling at the far wall. If the girl had to disapprove of the Sultan's choices, did she have to be such an annoyance about it? Couldn't she be a little quieter?
"I wish she'd stuff a cracker in it!" yelled Iago in response, giving a loud, indignant squawk from his perch and ruffling his feathers.
...Well, perhaps Jafar didn't have reason to complain about the volume. Really, it was more the attitude behind it that bothered him: Jasmine was such an insolent girl, talking back to her father, doing as she pleased, ungrateful and arrogant without cause.
He was right. None of the suitors deserved such a curse of a wife. None of them had the spine or the power to put her in her place, and as such, they reaped their own rewards -- a bite from the tiger, or scorn from the princess.
It was no surprise that she was insolent. Jasmine had always been given free rein in the palace, and now the Sultan was reaping his own reward along with the suitors. Such a bumbling, weak-willed man was in no shape to discipline a daughter so bull-headed. That would take a man with power, a man with inner strength, a man with just the right amount of patience; a man like himself.
If he ever made Sultan, Jafar decided, he would take the princess in hand, keep her in control at all times. There was nobody else in the palace fit for such a job. There was nobody whose will could match the princess'; nobody's but his.
Jafar stood up, hands braced against his desk, and gave Iago a brief glance. The parrot was on his perch, head drooped and mouth firmly shut. Which meant, of course, that he was either asleep or dead. Jafar considered giving him a good hard poke, then decided against it. If Iago was dead, he would know by the morning and have time to replace him then.
Piles of paperwork lay on Jafar's desk, all completed and stamped with the official seal of the vizier. From the sounds of the palace around him, it was nearing nightfall; he could hear the servants carrying away clattering dishes and lighting the lamps, interspersed with their brief, whispered conversations. Which meant that this particular suitor had lasted half a day -- a personal best for the princess, no doubt.
Reaching down and picking up his staff, Jafar swung his cloak over one shoulder. He snatched up a sheet of paper, the most urgent, stamped and signed, and headed for the door, walking quickly. He would take this to the Sultan; it was an approval for tighter security in the city. Thieves seemed to be prowling the streets day and night like filthy rats, and if the Sultan was too blind to do anything about it, Jafar would take matters into his own hands.
However, as soon as Jafar rounded the first corner on his way to the throne room, he spotted a familiar figure and stopped. "Princess," he murmured, sweeping into a low bow, his eyes facing upwards so as not to leave her face.
"Jafar," she said in reply, making no move to acknowledge him; she stood still, hands on her hips. "What are you doing here?"
Defiant, as always. Jafar sighed. "I wish to speak to the Sultan," he said simply. "A confidential matter."
Jasmine's eyes narrowed at that and she shifted, though her stance was still guarded. "I see." Her eyes didn't leave Jafar's face, and her bottom lip stuck out slightly.
Just like a child, Jafar thought, and sighed again. Even now, as a woman, the princess acted like a girl; her lips were red, her long hair smooth, and her figure slim, feminine, but a child she would always remain. Even the way she dressed was inappropriate for a woman, especially a woman of such standing.
It wasn't difficult to imagine her the way she should look; Jafar let his mind wander for a moment, filling in the blanks. A crown on her head, and something to cover that waist; her hair bound up on her head, perhaps.
"I thought you wanted to speak to my father." Jasmine's frown deepened, and she gave Jafar a wary glance.
With a small smile, Jafar bowed again. "Of course. Good night, princess."
Apparently satisfied, Jasmine stormed away from him, long hair swinging at her back. Jafar watched her leave, his thoughts running over their brief conversation again.
Yes, Jasmine had always been bad-tempered and bad-mannered. He had been right to think that only his influence could make enough of a difference; her father would sit in his throne and pine for Jasmine's troubles to disappear, but make no move to discipline her.
As soon as he was Sultan, that would all change. Jafar absently twirled his beard with one finger as he walked, his mind occupied with thoughts of the future. As soon as he got the second half of that scarab...
He would chain her up in the dungeons, he thought. Show the princess just what bad behaviour meant for the population at large; even she was not above the law. She would have to crouch on the dirty floor with the rats, and realise just how intolerable she had been.
But that would not be forever, of course. Eventually he would let her out of the dungeons, but not free her from her bonds. She could cower in the throne room instead, and watch him eat cherries on her father's throne. Only the finest, imported from a faraway country and sweet on his tongue. He could picture her eyes on him, all defiance gone and replaced with desperation.
Perhaps, perhaps he would show her how to be a good wife. She would serve him fresh red apples from a silver dish, those soft hands of hers lifting each one to his mouth. As he walked, Jafar could feel himself smirking, smug at just the thought of it.
Pretty wrists chained, Jasmine would lie with him on scented cushions while he listened to the daily news delivered by couriers; her long body would press against him as he passed laws and decided the fates of the citydwellers. She would hand him his staff, long fingers curling around the length of it, skin warm against the cool metal. The red of the snake's eyes would reflect back from her perfect skin, would match the red of her lips.
Under his command, Jasmine would dress more appropriately, cover her stomach and her arms; Jafar could picture her movements, slow and deliberate, knowing what beautiful skin lay beneath. Having it hidden would only increase the pleasure. Jafar could imagine running his hands along the hems of her clothes, fingertips sliding under the material and onto her flesh. Soft, and warm; hidden.
It wasn't difficult for Jafar to picture Jasmine obedient to him, bound at the wrists and ankles and bowing before him. The image was pleasing to him; his smirk grew as he strode forward, cape swishing at his ankles.
Of course, the princess would try to defy him. He could see it now: he would suspect it, yet still be caught off guard, as seemed to be her gift. Jasmine would try to turn the tables. Perhaps she would use her submission, lull him into security and then strike like a snake. Jafar shivered. Yes, no doubt she would use her strange and unique power over him to her own advantage. Kiss him, and then those delicate chains would be hard against his throat, pressing the air from his lungs, the power from his body.
The princess would be difficult, eternally difficult. Despite his wishes, Jafar knew that she would never completely submit; and somehow, the thought was a comfort to him. The princess would take orders from no one unless forced, and Jafar would be the one to do it.
Suddenly, Jafar stopped mid-step and took a long look at the corridor he was currently in. Strange... this one seemed unfamiliar to him. He considered it a moment; then, as realisation struck, he shook his head in disbelief.
His thoughts had occupied all his attention, and it seemed that he had been past the Sultan's room already. Mouth pressed into a thin line, Jafar turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come.
It wasn't long until his reached the throne room, and by then Jafar's mood had improved a great deal. He strode into the room, startling the Sultan; the smaller man leapt out of his chair and gave Jafar a questioning look.
"Yes, Jafar, what is it?" he asked, looking as oblivious as ever. Jafar fell into a bow, long practised.
He held out the document, and the Sultan took it, pulling an eyepiece from his pocket to inspect the paper more clearly. "Yes, yes, I see," he muttered, nodding. "Very reasonable."
After a moment, he looked up at Jafar again. "I do wish Jasmine would settle down," he said suddenly, sighing heavily and falling back into his chair. "She doesn't seem to have liked any of her suitors."
Jafar made a noise of agreement, silently wishing for a way to end the conversation before it really began. He had grown used to the Sultan's inane chatter, but that didn't make it any more bearable.
However, he was quite surprised to find himself agreeing with the sentiment of the Sultan's complaint. If only the princess would settle down, indeed. First, though, she would need an adequate suitor.
Jafar considered it for a moment, then remembered his earlier thought.
Yes, the fact remained and always would: none of them deserved her.