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His lips were stiff as wood. Seconds passed before Jasmine pulled back and searched his face for a reaction. He hadn't moved a muscle. Not forward, not back. Not an inch from where she'll pulled him in. His eyes slowly opened.
Jasmine drew back more, uncertainty stirring within her. She expected to surprise him, but this passivity? She might as well have been kissing a wall. It was a clap without an echo, a knock on an unanswered door. Perhaps she'd miscalculated and all his prodding up to that point were empty threats, an idea he never planned to execute.
She took a step back but was unprepared by the swiftness in which he recaptured her.
His mouth was on hers, full of heat and fervor as he anchored a hand in her hair. Jasmine clutched his robes, the only thing keeping her stable in a spinning world. His grip was just as unyielding as his lips, molding her to him, refusing to let her break away. She had never been the recipient of something so vicious. Aladdin's kisses had been firm when they needed to be, eager when they needed to be, yet never this intense. She felt as though she was drowning in him, that she wouldn't be able to resurface if she tried. His hands lowered, clawing down her bare shoulders, her waist.
This was good, a part of her reasoned. The more willing he was to take her, the faster it would be. She was no experienced lover, but if there was one thing she learned from her marriage, it was how swift release came when a man wanted her. Jasmine tightened her grip on his collar and returned his vigor. All she knew was to match him, to throw back whatever he threw out.
In one motion, he had her off her feet. She held on for dear life as he moved them forward and only relented when she felt the soft quilts of his bed against her hips. Still deep in his embrace, the material of his robes dissipated underneath her fingertips, leaving skin. A shiver ran through her—the realness of it all descending upon her. For Agrabah, she remembered. For Agrabah.
He broke away from her just long enough to position himself above her, trapping her between his torso and the quilts beneath.
She didn't think so.
At once she fought her way out in the most respectful manner possible, although the way she shoved him on his back did lack tenderness. He let himself fall anyway, the only time he'd ever willingly let her best him. She held his stare—his eyes darker than anything she'd ever seen—as she wrestled her thighs on either side of him, pinning him underneath her.
This was a position she knew well, mainly for the times she had to up early for a council meeting the next morning; it saved time and was very effective in achieving the desired result. It wasn't a position for her gratification, but sometimes she preferred it just to revel in the power it brought, to watch her husband unravel before her eyes. Only that position would suffice in a situation like hers. If she was going to do this with her enemy, it would be on her terms.
She rolled her hips against him, testing the waters and eliciting a long, labored breath from him. While his gaze was undoubtedly concentrative on her body, he seemed to be in another world, in a trance. Jasmine paid it no mind. The longer he was letting her control everything—even him—the more she was going to take advantage of it.
After a few rolls, he was already hard beneath her. Jasmine wasted no time. Without letting herself hesitate, without looking, without thinking of Aladdin—no, definitely not Aladdin—she guided him inside her and sank down.
Both gasped. Jasmine's—painful. She hadn't exactly spent the time getting herself ready, but that was beside the point. This wasn't supposed to be a romantic excursion. She was there on a mission. She was there to get in and get out. Nothing would make it comfortable with a stomach full of nerves anyway.
As she started to move on him, Jasmine took his hands—his pretty, immobile hands—and brought them to her hips, her waist, her moving breasts. Instead of gripping her, his touch was gentle, caressive. He was still far away with that glazed look in his eye, seemingly unable to register anything going on. She was partly grateful for it. She didn't know what to expect going into this but knew knowing him, any humiliating acts wouldn't be out of the question. This, she could get used to. Each roll of her hips brought her a new wave of confidence as she stared at the quiet man beneath her.
She leaned over and captured him in another kiss, her hair spilling over her shoulders and across his collarbone—a move Aladdin liked. Jafar's lips were still stiff, but they tried. They received and answered. With that, Jasmine leaned back and increased her tempo, ready to wrap up the whole ordeal in a nice bow and be on her way.
Suddenly—his hands, formerly drawing shapes along her skin, tightened on her hips as he abruptly moved under her, meeting her halfway.
Jasmine cried out.
It was involuntarily. Immediately she stopped, her eyes wide and unblinking.
She watched Jafar slowly sit up to meet her, roused from his trance. The look on his face made her tremble, made her feel as if he could see into her very soul. Nerves dug a hole in her as she felt his hands travel lower, gripping the back of her thighs in place.
When he moved again, she felt the same electricity, but was ready—and stifled any sound down. A part of her knew it was too late. He knew. He knew. He gripped the back of her neck and quickened his pace.
No.
Jasmine began to panic. She clutched his back, his shoulders, his hair, even. Nothing was slowing him down. It would be easy for her to just hold on, to cave and let him prey on the vulnerability he had found, to let him hit and hit the warmth growing within her, but this could not happen. Using all her strength, Jasmine shoved him back down, locking her thighs around his to keep him stuck.
He would be the one to come undone. Not her. Not ever her.
Jafar looked up at her, his eyes ablaze with the challenge. He had magic, she remembered—and could easily use it to immobilize her in return. Jasmine crushed her mouth to his, seeking any way to distract him from that truth as she resumed her original rhythm. She felt the pressure of his legs wanting to break from her prison, but she refused, desperate to finish him—to beat him—
Moments later, she felt him clench and shudder beneath her, his long exhale audible. Filled with relief and triumph, she quickly climbed off him, shrugged on her robe, and fled back towards the safety of her chambers.
"Land ho!"
"Land ho!"
Aladdin rushed to the side of the ship with the other passengers. Sure enough, miles out in the distance sat the city of Agrabah amongst the vast desert. He could see the faint domed structure of the palace, standing tall and proud. His home.
Or was.
Abu gave an anxious shriek from his shoulder. Aladdin fixed his hood over both their heads, already prepared to blend unseen in the crowd. As the ship grew closer to port, Aladdin watched from the bow, listening to the familiar cawing of seagulls and merchants at work. The wood creaked behind him, holding the weight of another passenger.
"So that's it."
Aladdin turned his head, finding the black-bearded thief, Ranvir. The journey across the seas had been a long tedious one, almost a month in length, but they hadn't crossed paths or spoken since they first docked the ship. Aladdin preferred avoiding him. The man was clearly insane for what he was planning to do.
Ranvir made an approving noise. "I can see why the sorcerer likes it."
Aladdin felt Abu shrink deeper into the cloak. He knew Abu was wary of the thief and he trusted his monkey's instincts. "You're really going to try and kill him?"
"Aye."
Aladdin made no remark, but Ranvir caught the look on his face. "You doubt me."
"He's smarter than you think. He's not some pampered peacock—he's ruthless. He grew up on the streets just like us."
"Us?"
Aladdin regretted his assumption. "Like me."
Ranvir pursued his lips. "It's possible. But I know his weakness." He looked past him where Agrabah laid ahead. "No one has power like that and doesn't think they're invincible. It blinds them."
Aladdin bit back a scoff. Even if the thief was right, it didn't mean he understood the full scope of what Jafar was capable of. Maybe he could take him down if he got close enough, but Jafar wasn't willing to keep anyone close. He was far too smart for that.
"Do what you want," is all Aladdin said.
Ranvir turned to him fully, crossing his arms. "And what's your plan, street boy? You got a wife in there too, don't you?"
Aladdin's throat tightened. He didn't have a plan. Not a good one, anyway—and he wouldn't be one to underestimate his enemy like the thief. Jafar could track them down anywhere they escaped to. It would take patience, stealth, and most importantly—luck. Luck that Jafar had grown disinterested in his claim on Jasmine and didn't care where they'd go.
Aladdin closed his eyes, knowing such a scenario was unlikely. Jafar wouldn't wake up and suddenly forget the man and woman who imprisoned him. It was far more likely that Aladdin needed restraint more than luck, something to keep himself from going to her after seeing what Jafar was putting her through.
"If she stays out of my way, you two might just get reunited," said Ranvir.
Aladdin looked over at him, his chest swelling. "I hope you're right."
Everyone was on their feet as the ship docked, ready to finally step foot on land. Aladdin gathered his minimal belongings and threw them over his shoulder as he headed down the gangplank, grasping the railing when he needed. He skidded to a stop when he noticed Agrabah soldiers waiting to intercept them, but kept moving, not wanting to cause any attention. When it was his turn, a soldier glanced up from his vellum. "Name."
"Ali," said Aladdin.
"Residence?"
"Uh…to be determined."
The soldier scribbled it down. Aladdin started forward, but the soldier held out a hand. "Wait." He held a strange device up to Aladdin's face. Aladdin stilled, trying to keep calm, until finally the solider lowered it. "Agrabah descent," he read. "Go on."
Aladdin strode forward, his heartbeat in his ears. Since when could Agrabah soldiers learn the nationalities of its immigrants?
It had to be a device from Jafar.
He took a long breath. It didn't matter. He got through.
Up ahead through the crowd of other passengers, Aladdin saw Ranvir's head swivel back. Ranvir held up two fingers, some sort of farewell gesture as he disappeared into the sea of people. Aladdin started the opposite direction towards his old abandoned tower.
It was time to plot.
Until that day, Jasmine had never been embarrassed to stand in front of her father.
They'd gone through a lot together. Shared several types of emotions. Grief. Pain. Anger. But never embarrassment. The fact that he wasn't alive made it worse. His tomb was as still and cold as ever, offering her no warm hand, no assurance that she was forgiven. Her shame just hung there, permeating the air.
Wind bristled around her neck and whipped through the line of red Shirabad capes above her. She left her bed no sooner than she'd tucked herself in, wanting to flock to the only sense of family she could find. It was midday now, hours after the sun escaped the morning horizon and the shadows of her father's tomb fell across her lap. Guards and servants hadn't found her yet and she was grateful. She couldn't stomach being dragged back.
For all her beliefs on doing what was necessary to reinstate her power, they sure felt hollow now. She didn't feel powerful; she felt grimy, foul—the lowest form of human there was. She was supposed to be a princess, a Sultan, someone who shared herself solely with her husband—not someone who betrayed her every virtue. Even if she found a way to bring Aladdin back now, how could she face him after what she had done?
Jasmine fought back more tears.
This was the point of no return. The deed was done. Over with. And if she wanted to achieve a semblance of what she intended to—she needed to move forward. Relinquishing all her power to Jafar, however, chilled her to the bone. If she gave up everything, surely there would nothing of her left.
Out in the distance, she could see the gates of the palace opening, making way for the fruit carts to be distributed to the townsfolk. A fine carriage flanked by four horsemen waited for them to pass. Jasmine stood up, studying the details closer.
She knew those flags. Green and yellow. Pascua.
As if revived by lightning from her despondent stupor, Jasmine gathered her skirts and rushed back inside the palace.
Jafar wouldn't have wasted time making Pascua royalty travel long distance with his powers. That meant he didn't know they were coming—and it meant another thing, too. The Pascua king was angry. And when he was angry, he was unreasonable.
As she hurried down the hall, a guard stepped out to intercept her. "Princess—"
"Where are they?" she demanded.
"The throne room. With the Sultan—"
Jasmine continued past him just as quickly.
She was late. By the time she'd reached the throne room, the harem women were hanging tapestries and Jafar was standing near his throne when the doors swung open, the Pascua king striding through with a desperate Agrabah soldier at his heels.
"What is the meaning of this?" said the king, throwing a folded letter at his feet. "You dare threaten my kingdom this way? What right have you to—"
The clap of Jafar's staff rattled everyone to the bone, making the king fall silent and the harem girls crouch in fear. Even Jasmine shrunk at the sound.
The Pascua king looked relatively the same as she remembered: a middle-aged man with a silver forked beard and loose linen garments the color of moss. Atop his belt lay the protruding hilt of a sword, something he never carried in all the years she'd known him.
Jafar moved into his throne, unbothered. "Proceed."
"I know what you are." The king's face hardened. "I've passed the ruins of Shirabad. Breathed in the smoke and ash." He brandished his sword. "But no matter how powerful you are, the foundation of Pascua will not be intimidated by a foreign sorcerer. We are a people free of war, as was decreed by my father and his father before him. And I refuse to break that tradition."
"I see," said Jafar. "So you choose death."
Jasmine felt herself shrivel. The king looked aghast. "What?"
"You would prefer your lands be blackened and charred like the Shirabad ones you crossed. Your people a sea of corpses."
"Of course not—that's preposterous."
"I will not accept neutrality. Swear fealty or die."
Jasmine could see the anger in the king's face ebbing to distress. "Can't you understand? My people are not accustomed to the ways of war. Their lives are peaceful. They would never harm anyone, not a person from Agrabah or anywhere—"
Suddenly the king was on his knees. Jasmine looked away, unable to stomach the sight as he howled and howled in pain. Her fingernails dug deep into her palms to hold herself back. If she outwardly tried to stop Jafar now, all her progress up to that point would have been for nothing. The king's screams seemed to go on forever, making every second an unbearable existence to scrape through.
Finally, the king fell forward, his sword clattering against the polished wood and his ragged breaths reverberated all throughout the room.
"Perhaps," said Jafar, his voice far too calm, "you'd prefer your people to feel this same pain as they die with you."
The king glanced up hatefully through sweaty strands of hair. From across the room, an overseer was beckoning the harem girls out of the room through a side door. One by one, the girls stood up and hurried past. Jasmine followed but as soon as she crossed the king, the man caught her arm.
"You…!" said the king, still breathing raggedly. "I know…I know you…"
Jasmine mustered a smile. "It is good to see you, your grace."
His face broke with relief. "Jasmine…" he breathed. "Oh...it is allaying to see you unharmed. We were worried, Dhyana and I. We heard Shirabad had amassed a great army and we feared the worst." He examined her head to toe. "But you look well."
"I am," she managed.
The king released her arm. "We are indebted to your hospitality. Please remember us this way." He faced Jafar. "My people are better dead than conquered."
Jasmine's stomach plummeted. From behind her, she heard Jafar say. "Then you've made your decision."
"No!" she said quickly. "He hasn't."
She bent down in front of the king, speaking softer. "Kneel to him."
The king shook his head. "Jasmine—"
"Kneel to him."
"Kneeling means subjugation forever. Death is better than this. You know this. I know you do—I see it in you now."
Jasmine squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep herself from cracking. She craved to open up to someone from her old life after the things she'd been through, but now was not the time. The king's life and his people depended on her and she knew she couldn't have him thinking she was a hostage. With a sharp inhale, she opened her eyes again and grasped his hand.
"You're mistaken. I would not be standing here if it weren't for the Sultan. He saved me. He saved everyone. Agrabah is finally in safe hands. Better hands. And you would be a fool not to make an ally of him."
The king was looking past her at Jafar. Jasmine was thankful she couldn't see him; she didn't want to see his gloating face as he listened to her sing him false praises.
"He's a tyrant," said the king.
"And the whole country is better for it," Jasmine returned.
Moments passed. The words felt venomous coming out of her mouth, a serpent's poison—but she would do anything to preserve the king's life. His spite, however, was no stranger to her. She knew all too well where he was coming from; she vowed the same thing once, determined to save Agrabah without Jafar's help. Jasmine swallowed hard.
"Don't die in front of me like this," her voice came out desperate. "Kneel to him. Now."
The king fell quiet, deep in contemplation. She knew this was the hardest thing he'd ever have to do: compromising his bloodline and his country to this madman of undeniable, uncontrollable power. As he considered reason, she hoped her expression gave him some understanding of his struggle. With difficulty, the king adjusted his position on the floor to a kneeling position.
"My Sultan." He pressed his fist to his chest. "My…sincerest apologies."
Jasmine released the breath she'd been holding in. She turned, seeing Jafar wrapped up comfortably in his throne, plainly pleased with the situation. Another piece of the map, another city of innocents—all his—with little effort. He beckoned over the closest guard.
"Prepare a room for the Pascua king," he told him, "to celebrate our newfound alliance."
"No." The king shook his head. "No, I must be going." He kept his head bowed as he sheathed his sword and started out of the room, but not before pulling Jasmine aside. "You are welcome in Pascua anytime. Dhyana would love to see you."
Jasmine smiled flatly. They both knew the possibility of her staying in Pascua was slim to none. Even still, the king's presence brought her a comfort she desperately longed for, and she felt her heart sink as she watched him leave the throne room with what was left of his dignity. She would never forget his bravery that day—his willingness to die a free man alongside his people.
The door shut, a great echo, and then the room went silent.
Jasmine flushed, knowing good and well that Jafar's eyes were on her. Memories of the night before flooded into her, drowning her in the most uncomfortable of feelings, and she felt the sudden urge to flee, to escape. She spotted the nearest door by the stairs and started towards it.
"Princess."
And just like that, she was immobilized.
Jafar was moving down towards her, taking long languid steps. He stopped at the last step, using the additional height to make her feel even smaller, even more unnerved as he swept a hand through her hair.
"Say it again."
Jasmine couldn't move an inch. "Say what?"
"That Agrabah is better off under my control."
The restraint it took her not to laugh in his face physically pained her, although she shouldn't have been surprised by the request. She let the lion drink; it was foolish of her to assume he wouldn't return to that well over and over again. Especially when he knew—he knew—that having to do this drove her to insanity.
He waited for her, the ghost of a sneer playing at his lips. She would give up both her legs for the opportunity to throttle him. Only the stark reminder of all she had sacrificed up to that point gave her the strength to hold back. He was just doing his usual tests, poking around to see if she would crack. She had already gone through the catastrophic event of sleeping with him. She simply could not let her progress go to waste.
"It is," she bit out.
His eyebrows perked up. "What is?"
She decided she would give up her arms as well as her legs for the chance to throttle him.
"Agrabah," she spoke in a clipped tone, "is better off with you."
His eyebrows flattened, pleased at her words. She ground her teeth as his hand left her hair and came to her face, her lips. She disliked this unknown territory. Before, there seemed to be a buffer between them. Now the lines were blurred after their night together. He felt that he owned her, she knew. That she belonged to him.
Jasmine was thankful she had the ability to turn her chin away. "I would like to move now."
Her tone was polite given her circumstances. Jafar's smile widened, letting her sit there for several moments before she felt the gradual return of her limbs. Turning out of his grasp, she made her way towards the door she was originally heading for. His voice followed her, echoing through the tunneled door.
"Expect Amir tonight."
A cold wind sent the curtains afloat throughout the corridor. Clouds were gathering outside, black and grey and cloaking the city of Agrabah. Jafar made his way down the corridor alone, his pace leisurely and unrushed. There was nothing left to rush for. He now had everything he wanted. Every nation in the country had bent the knee. Pascua had bent the knee.
He liked to accredit it to natural order. Time restored all things to how they were meant to be run. He may not have been born into the royal family, but he was always meant to rule, and rule all of Agrabah and its neighboring regencies. Who else was a more fitting and deserving ruler?
And even she had yielded.
A part of him doubted they would ever reach that point. For so long, she was just out of his grasp—something that dangled in front of him most temptingly. Even when he rose to power, he would not have her screaming and crying. It was far more delectable toying with her, unrooting her from the inside. That was their game from the moment they laid eyes on one another.
And when she came to him, he felt nothing short of godlike.
She didn't desire him. He knew her well enough to know she didn't work that way. She surely had a purpose, enough so to suspend even his belief—but he was content not knowing the extent of her plans if this was what he was getting in return. The first night with her may have been rushed, but the second wouldn't be. Of that he was certain.
Jafar tilted his face up at the palace corridor ceiling, up where the former Sultan's banners used to hang.
Look, you old fool. I told you. I told you I would take what you love most.
Another wind blew through, carrying with it a sound.
Jafar stopped abruptly. It may have been months since his imprisonment in the lamp, months since he studied the sound of silence—but his ears were no less sharp. Sharp enough to recognize the miniscule sound of a joint snapping nearby. He turned back down the corridor, down the long line of curtains.
"An impressive attempt," he spoke clearly.
Moments later, a man uncurled himself from a curtain, hopping down to Jafar's level. He was of average height and smiled beneath his thick beard. "You're as good as they say."
"They?"
"Those across the seas."
"I hear not many cross the seas anymore." Jafar inspected him, inspected his ragged attire and the knife strapped to his belt. "What brings you here?"
"I'm in the market for business," said the man.
"By hiding behind my curtain. Perhaps your business involves assassinating me."
"You? That's a fool's errand."
"Oh, it is. My servants come to the gates when they want to present their aid. They do not dare enter the palace without my permission."
Suddenly the man was hovering. He floundered around, gripping his collar as he would a noose, but as intruders went, this one managed to mask his fear of impending death-by-strangulation rather well. "I figured for the…the work I want to do for you…a…a demonstration would be in o-order."
Jafar's eyes narrowed as he studied the man. He was reckless for an intruder, yet intriguing and perhaps worth the effort of hearing out. Jafar returned him to the floor and waited for the man to stabilize himself, his eyes a piercing onyx black.
"Your people cower in the presence of your sorcery and your guards, but who is there to ensure what they say in the safety of their homes is equally praising? None of your men have the art of stealth as I do." The man removed his knife and dropped to his knee. "Let me slit the throats of any man who would speak a word against you."
It was a notion Jafar thought little of. He wasn't sure he even cared what his people whispered so long that they remained loyal. But it was a seed planted—a seed that he would likely chew on and chew on as his days ruling went on. He already had everything. Who was to say he couldn't have the words of his people as well?
"Your knife is rusted," Jafar said.
The man looked down. "It works."
"You're stealthy. That doesn't make you a good assassin."
"Aye—but in my case, they're one in the same."
The man reached into the sack across his shoulders and pulled out a round lump, tossing it at Jafar's feet. A human head rolled into his leg. "He would've caused you trouble later. I took it as my first assignment."
In the greyed light, the Pascua king's lifeless eyes stared back at him, his forked, silver beard caked in blood. Jafar looked up.
"Your name," he inquired.
"Ranvir."
Despite himself, despite the social unrest on the horizon, Jafar felt himself smile. It was refreshing to have an accomplice willing to do the dirty work. Especially in his field of generals who would much rather nest in the safety net of the palace than cut throats.
"I expect your next assignment by tomorrow night, Ranvir."
The man smiled back, bowing low. "Aye, my Sultan."
When the first stroke of lightning cracked across the skies, Jasmine's maid decided it was time to close the curtains. Jasmine demurely drank her tea as she watched her maid bind the thick rose-gold pleats into a formidable tether. The soft pittering of rain soon followed.
Shortly after Jasmine was brought a new cup of tea, her maid bent over and erupted in a fit of yacks. Jasmine put down her cup at once. "Wrong pipe?"
"No, no." The maid waved her off. I've had this all day. It's the weather, I suspect."
She hoped her maid was right. "Hearing people cough makes me nervous."
"Pardon me, princess."
"No—I didn't mean to say you couldn't. I just…it makes me think of my father."
The maid smiled understandingly. "He'd be proud of what you've done. He would. He would feel blessed to have such a strong young woman for a daughter. Moving kings and Sultans like chess pieces."
Jasmine shot her a skeptical look. It didn't feel that way. She felt more like a drowning sailor lost in the currents, struggling to keep her head above water—much less the captain at the helm. And even if her maid had a point, the circumstances were fleeting.
He was coming for her that night. And somehow, someway—she was even more terrified than the night before. It would be foolish of her to expect the same passive man. He wasn't one to remain dormant in his roots; he learned, adapted, evolved. And it was terrifying for her to think of what he'd already assembled from her.
Jasmine sipped her new tea and nearly spat it back out. "What—?"
"A necessary tea, princess." Her maid gave a knowing smile. "Unless you're prepared to bore the Sultan a child."
Not even a moment later, Jasmine downed the rest of the tea whole.
Aladdin took shelter underneath a domed qubba in the Sultan's palace. His cloak was useless against the violent downpour of rain and he was as unagile as he was unpracticed in those slippery conditions trying to scale the palace walls. Still, he'd crossed foreign lands and oceans to get back to Jasmine. A little water wouldn't deter him now.
Aladdin removed his hood and shook out his hair, annoying his equally-wet monkey. "Wasn't so bad, was it? Just like the good ol' days."
Abu voiced his unease. Aladdin ventured further into the dark room, a sanctuary of some sort, perhaps a study. Books lined the shelves and an intricate podium stood beside a case of jars and herbs. With a pang, Aladdin realized he'd been there before.
Jafar's study. The very one he was thrown off.
Perhaps not the most ideal place for him to wander into, but the study did look relatively unoccupied. Dust collected on opened books. The candles sat unused. What need did Jafar have for his old study when the entire world was his?
Abu leaped onto a podium and cradled a book with a gem-crested cover. "Stay close to me," Aladdin muttered. Just because Jafar wasn't there didn't mean he didn't have traps set up. Or his bird on guard.
Aladdin pushed back the curtain, squinting through the rain for a sign of light. Jasmine's room had been on the third floor. Jafar could have downgraded her to the dungeons or some other terrible place, but it didn't hurt to start there. He craned his neck further, the sound of rainfall filling his ears.
If she was there, the curtains were up. Everything was dark.
He had to find her, let her know that he was alive and hadn't abandoned her, although a part of him feared what he would find. Would Jafar have broken her completely? Destroyed everything that she was—the fearless, kind-hearted woman he fell in love with? Or worse—could he have executed—?
"We have to get closer," Aladdin said, resolute.
Abu screeched. "What?" Aladdin turned around to see what he meant. Through the rain, he made out a small light where Jasmine's curtained terrace was. Two figures—two women were in view, seemingly attempting to tie back down the curtain. One, he didn't recognize but the other—oh, yes—he knew her long trailing hair anywhere.
She was okay. She was alive. And she was still so beautiful.
"Jas…"
Abu was still screeching. Aladdin whirled back, prepared to scold him, until he realized too late that the study was in fact not unoccupied.
"If it isn't our favorite street rat. Back so soon, are we?"
Jafar casually made his way out from behind the podium, his languid movements a stark contrast to the physical gridlock Aladdin found himself in. He fought to rotate his wrist, his ankle, but the only movement the sorcerer seemed to allow was letting him fall to his knees.
Aladdin went stone cold. "I don't…I don't under—"
"The moment you step foot in the palace, I am made aware. You never stood a chance."
Aladdin cursed and cursed and cursed himself. If he had only stayed in his tower, maybe waited for a chance for Jasmine to leave the palace—
"No need to look so distraught." Jafar smiled, rotating Aladdin's form so that it faced the terrace. "A night like this should be celebrated. A rare desert rain. A rare diamond in the rough. All in the same night. Allah has blessed me with great fortune."
Aladdin did his best to shut him out, to keep his eyes on the shrinking light in the distance as Jasmine and her companion mastered tying the curtain in place. Jafar's footsteps stopped beside him. "Tell me. What was your grand escape plan for her? Surely this isn't it."
Aladdin's mouth grew hard. Jafar persisted. "Go on. I am in the mood to be entertained."
"Entertain yourself."
"Is that any way to address your Sultan?"
"Enough of this," Aladdin griped. "Let her go. She's suffered enough."
"Does she look unwell to you?"
She didn't, Aladdin had to admit. She looked taken care of—at least from what he could see through the rain. But he knew his wife well. There was no way she would willingly volunteer to stay underneath Jafar's thumb. "You want me—not her."
Jafar scoffed, his face utterly cruel. "You're a fool. I've wanted her long before you came and will long after you're gone. You should have seen what she did for me last night."
Aladdin's stomach lurched.
"She even danced for me. A little solo, just like our Prince Ali once performed..."
Aladdin threw all his strength against his supernatural prison but still it was futile. Jafar laughed at his attempt. "You're out of your mind," Aladdin grit out, "if you think she wants anything to do with you."
"Does that frighten you, street rat?" Jafar leaned in close. "Although for someone so clever, I don't see how you could so blindly ignore reality. What do you have to offer her? A boy from the streets with no ambition, no wisdom, good for nothing but swiping an apple." He stood tall, towering over him. "Haven't you learned what she needs? She was bred to be with someone of caliber. Someone with power. Once her little phase entertaining commoners ran its course, she returned to reality."
The words weighed heavy on Aladdin's shoulders. Fighting still, he found the courage to look Jafar straight in the eye. "Bring her here, then. The real her. And we'll see which one of us she picks."
He caught it then—the slip in Jafar's mask. Moments later, Aladdin's screams filled the study, his entire body writhing and on fire. Through his body's spasms, he held onto the sight of Jafar's clenched jaw, his murderous eyes. "You and I…both know…" Aladdin grit out, "that when it comes to her…you'll always be…second—"
The pain was white hot now. Aladdin felt as if he was being seared alive, that the skin was melting off his very bones. Only when he started to lose consciousness did the pain cease.
"It appears I've banished you somewhere far too benign," came Jafar's voice. "I will not make that mistake again."
By the time Aladdin managed to get up on his elbows, Jafar had slipped his cold, condescending mask back in place. "Don't worry. You'll grow used to the cuffs eventually."
"No..." Aladdin's voice caught.
"Until next time, street rat."
Aladdin screamed for Jasmine as he was hurled ruthlessly back into a foreign world.
Jasmine suppressed a yawn as she flipped another page of her book. It was late now, past midnight—far later than any of Jafar's past requests for companions. Surely now Amir wouldn't be expected to knock on her door. She set her book aside and crossed the room to blow out the candles.
Perhaps the great Sultan had finally succumbed to the stresses of running an entire country and was too busy to attend to her. A peculiar concept. Normally he had the time to do as he wished; such a thing was possible for an all-powerful sorcerer. Jasmine chose not to dwell on it. If she was truly free for the night, she would thank the gods and revel in her solace.
Jasmine went about the room with her golden-quail candlesnuffer, watching the small flames disperse in a slow dance of smoke. She'd sent her maid away for the night since the poor woman's cough had worsened. Jasmine assured her she could handle herself, although she secretly longed for the distraction another presence brought.
After the final candle was extinguished, Jasmine sat herself in front of her mirror to take out her hair clips, each one removed a blessing to her scalp. She collected her hair in front of her and brushed it out with her fingers.
Just then, the bindings slipped and the curtains flew free, rain spilling sporadically into her bedchamber. Jasmine grumbled, sitting up—
Lightning struck.
In her mirror's reflection, her whole room went white—illuminating a man standing beside her bed. Jasmine jumped out of her chair and backed away. Jafar stood wordlessly, his turban missing along with the rings he typically wore on his fingers. Jasmine clamped a hand over her chest, willing her heart to calm. "I didn't think you were coming," she barely got out.
He took a step towards her, then another. Her mind scrambled. Why wasn't he speaking? He always had something to say—some little jab or retort. Jasmine stood very still and tried to read his expression in the small light. He didn't seem…right. Less controlled. Angry, perhaps? The room lit up again, revealing the blackness in his eyes, the tension in his jawline. He came to stand directly in front of her, his head held high and absolute. Jasmine tried to form words, but her throat was thick and her mind was blank.
He reached up and grasped her chin, none too gentle in the way he moved her backwards. Her back hit the wall, accelerating her heartbeat. This time he would not be passive, she kept hearing in her head. This time he would be uncontrolled. And nothing she said or did now would change his mind—that much was plain.
Jasmine sunk her nails into the wallpaper behind her, bracing herself, as he leaned down to her face.
Nothing happened.
Her eyes shot open. He was still there, only a breath away. When she did feel his lips, they were no more than a slight brush against hers, light as a feather—so different from the strength in which he held her chin.
What was he doing? He leaned in again, applied more pressure. She received it just the same. Why was he doing this—and why was he being so gentle when she knew his state of mind and intentions were anything but? He pulled back and for a moment they just stayed that way, a mere breath apart, rainwater dusting across their cheeks. She stared up at him, mutely demanding answers, while he disclosed nothing more than blatant, black desire.
Releasing her chin, his hand slipped through the front of her nightclothes, drawing along her naked waist. A slow drip of heat formed in her abdomen. When he leaned in a third time—this time inciting lighter pressure—she realized with a jolt that he was luring her into giving him a response.
Not on her life.
She shoved him away.
He went back, although not as far as she would've liked. She might have been a coward, might have been wracked with nerves and anticipation—but that didn't mean she had to put up with his games.
"I'm not your consort," she spoke icily. "You don't need to seduce me."
His lips spread as thunder rolled outside. "Was that seduction to you, princess?"
Jasmine's entire body filled with knots. She would rather be dead than invite the kind of demonstration he was offering. "Just…" she struggled for the right words. Get it over with sounded too against her will, although she would argue it wasn't inaccurate. "Just…stop with the games."
Lost in the shadows, his unmoving silhouette spoke.
"This isn't a game."
When he came to her again, it was her wrists he went for first—the very wrists that had shoved him away—and brought them down to her sides, out of the way. His own hands journeyed back up her arms and enveloped her neck, her hair. His ensuing kiss was longer, deeper.
He leaned into her more, forcing her backwards, and Jasmine was struck by the sudden lack of a wall behind her. She was falling, falling—and in a moment of self-perseveration she grabbed him before hitting the floor. But there wasn't a floor: only the soft caress of her bedquilts where he transported them to. Jasmine quickly untangled her arms from him, but the damage was done. He was smirking.
Sprawled out like a painting, Jasmine turned her chin away as his fingers made a trail down the slope of her navel. Out of pride, she forced her chin back in place. This wasn't the time for her to shrink away like a little girl. She was the Sultan of Agrabah—his Sultan, even—and he wouldn't make a coward of her. So when he lapped the skin along her collarbone, she fisted a hand through his hair. When he reached up and kneaded her breast, she made him knead the other. And when his fingers slid into her body, she arched into his touch. This was their game, their battle of wits, their war. And Jasmine wanted to win.
Once his fingers started to move, however, Jasmine found herself biting down a cry. The feeling wasn't unpleasant and she hated how easy it was for her body to be set aflame—by him of all people.
Anyone could do this, she reasoned. Any man. Even Aladdin. Jafar is no different.
And this was admittedly more his domain than hers; he'd had lovers all his life. She would hope somewhere along the way he was smart enough to figure out the ways of a woman. A part of her ached to know how she compared—was she as easy for him to unravel as others? She decided immediately that she needed to throw him for a loop.
Jasmine rolled them over and wrestled a knee over his. He didn't land on his back like before; instead he kept himself craned upwards, determined to stay at her eye level. So be it, she thought, and tilted her hips in a way for him to easily guide into her. Pain awaited her from the night before, but the time he spent readying her did not go to waste—and any pain dissipated faster than her racing heartbeat.
Thunder ravaged the skies as they rocked against each other, each stroke of lightning giving her a brief shot of his every grimace, every movement in his face, confirming to her she must have been doing something right. Even so, he didn't seem to bend to any form of release. Again, that lure in his eyes. He seemed to be waiting for something. Waiting for her. Jasmine hoped he wasn't holding his breath: at this rate she would finish him five times over before she finished.
Faster than she comprehended, he moved them again, and she landed on her stomach, her quilts bundled around her torso and breasts.
This time she couldn't repress a cry as he drove into her rougher, harder, deeper—his hand anchored against her skull to keep her down. This was the intensity she was expecting, what was written all over his face the moment she discovered him in her room. Something angry, something maddening. Jasmine's knuckles went white as she gripped her bedquilts, fighting within an inch of her life to hold herself together.
This is what he wants, she reminded herself. This is what he's waiting for.
She had to let herself go.
She had to let him win.
No.
Jasmine ground her teeth together, trembling all over, the feel of him coming faster—
No.
—hitting her, hitting her—
"It's time, princess."
—overwhelming her—
"Let go."
Let go.
Let go.
Nails in the quilts, Jasmine arched her back into him, up towards the sky until she went weightless.
Sometimes a good Sultan had to surrender the battle in order to win the war, her father once told her.
She only wished defeat didn't feel so relieving.
Sometime after, Jafar ended up beside her, stroking the hair out of her face. Physically, emotionally, mentally—she was utterly depleted; death and rebirth were rumored to have that effect. Her eyelids fell and became too heavy for her to reopen.
As sleep descended upon her, she could've sworn she heard him murmur, "you would have chosen me."
Jasmine didn't understand what he meant.
Aladdin thought he'd be dead long before he'd admit such a thing, but he missed Butü.
He missed the shuddering winds, the wet earth, the taste of rotting fruits. All of it was preferable to this blistering hole of a desert—a desert far more humid and ruthless than Agrabah. Every direction, the dust and sand were one with the air. It was a wonder the camel hadn't killed over from sand inhalation.
In a daze, Aladdin rested his head against the cart wall, his rusted chains clinking every time the cart's wheel ran over a crack. There were seven of them chained up—most of them skinny and ragless and about to die of thirst. None of them even lifted their heads when the trader found Aladdin and Abu slumped across the desert floor, when he tied them up and added them like cattle to his cart.
Aladdin was nothing short of devastated. He had been so close, only a tower away from where she stood. All those weeks crawling back to her, withstanding weeks at sea, only to find himself back at square one.
He wished Jafar would've killed him on the spot.
Eventually, hours later, the cart stumbled to a stop. Aladdin lifted his head, shielding his eyes as best he could against the sand-filled air. They'd reached a port with buildings that looked on the verge of being torn down brick by brick by the winds. The trader trudged to the back of the cart and barked obscenities as he unloaded them.
Men dressed head to toe in linen were waiting inside. One of them had a purse made of purple silk. The slaves—including Aladdin—were blinded and gagged by sweaty smelling strands of cloth.
The trader said something foreign, loud enough to be heard by the men in linen. They bartered back and forth—at least that's what Aladdin figured, he knew the sound of bartering well—until each slave down the line was picked off and sold. Aladdin squinted against the cloth but was only afforded the sliver of light down by his bare feet. His feet were soon joined by the trader's, who had black untrimmed nails atop his sandals.
The trader slapped a hand on Aladdin's back, showing off his impressive shoulders, his strong calves, likely offering a hefty price for someone so young and capable. The men in linen argued a while but eventually came to a settlement.
As Aladdin was steered away by strong hands, he heard the faint screech of Abu in his cage. Aladdin whirled around. "Abu…"
The hands would not relent, and soon, the wood beneath his feet turned to sand.
Aladdin's blindfold was removed. A man—the man with the purple purse, naturally—started binding him to a new cart. Using his newfound sight, Aladdin ducked himself out of the man's grasp, a man with poor arm strength and even poorer running abilities. By the time Aladdin reached the slave auction site, the trader was alone.
Aladdin swung his chains around the trader's throat, letting the rust dig deep into his flesh. The trader gasped and choked.
"Where's the monkey?" Aladdin demanded through gritted teeth. "Who has him?"
The trader choked on. Aladdin tightened his grip.
Finally, the trader pointed north, repeating a name over and over again. Even through the weight of his exhaustion, Aladdin felt anger run hot through his veins. The trader was still choking, still spluttering for his life, and Aladdin wanted nothing more than to hurt him, to strangle him dry after everything he'd been through. He pictured the trader having cold, piercing eyes—a black beard—a condescending smirk—
Aladdin released him, the realization of what he was doing hitting him like a tsunami.
He took off.
The wind blew dry and scathing and sandy in his face. Aladdin sledged through, desperately searching for a cart up ahead, someone who had Abu…
His feet were bleeding. He was tired. He was thirsty. He was on the brink of insanity. But on and on and on he ran.
Finally—a cart.
It was heading to another town up ahead, still barely held together in the storm. Aladdin paid it no mind, instead charging on, past the homes, past the villagers until he caught a better sight of the traveling cart. He could see cages stacked on top of each other, all exotic animals, and Abu's copper one lodged methodically in the side.
"Abu…!" he got out hoarsely.
Before he could lay a finger on the cage, pain erupted hard and fast in his side. The man in linen had a baton and was well prepared to fend off poachers. Aladdin screamed and jerked his body around as he was repeatedly hit.
Without warning, the linen man fell forward, his head bursting with liquid. Aladdin scurried out of the way, first mistaking the liquid for blood until he realized it was purple and pulpy.
"Damn, kid. You're sandier than a crab."
Aladdin scrambled to find his feet, straining his eyes up at the person standing above him. The man was strong, able-bodied, and wearing a rather large hat. Abu scurried up the man's shoulders.
Then it hit him. "Gen…Gen…?" Aladdin gasped through chapped lips.
The Genie wrinkled his nose as he wiped the purple juice off his hands. "You owe me a new eggplant."
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