What I DO know is that I'd KILL for some consensual!Rasoul/Aladdin, post-"Destiny of Fire".

It starts with a remembrance of the friendship they managed to cultivate out of Aziz's defeat, with the realization they could get along. Then it moves to drinking, because what else are two barely-friends supposed to do together? It then moves to fighting, with the admission  that they can't get along. Then the fighting turns into something else entirely when the question is raised ...

Did they have to get along?

The slam of of his back against the wall steals Aladdin's breath and he takes in a desperate hiss of air. Rasoul laughs at having the advantage and how willingly the boy's legs wrap around his torso for support. He takes pleasure in tugging and pulling at the boy's white, princely outfit until it his half up his chest and half down his legs. He pauses for a moment in his  greedy groping to admire his handiwork. Aladdin's eyes are half closed in expectation and his chest heaves, his skin flushed and slightly bruised in places with the press of fingers. He is seemingly too proud to use his hands on Rasoul's shoulders to give himself more support in his precarious slump against the wall, so he instead presses his palms back against the stone in a manner which arches himself willingly up to Rasoul.

"Once a streetrat, always a streetrat." Rasoul's voice is a rasp of conviction.

It is Aladdin's turn, however, to laugh when Rasoul can manage no more words, and dives down into the body in front of him with mouth and hands. It feels absurdly intimate the way the Captain's mouth worries his neck, and he mocks the adoration of his body.

"Careful, Rasoul, it almost seems like you love me." He laughs again at the growl Rasoul gives in response. For his impudence, his nipple is roughly pinched, but it is no use, because Aladdin likes it anyway. He likes the sharp tang of pain atop an uneasy storm of pleasure.

Rasoul would probably like to respond with something cutting but he is not Aladdin; he is lost inside the animal sickness of desire and conquering, and cannot form coherent words just now, not when Aladdin's skin gives in to his fingers' pressure, not when the younger man's thighs are hot against his questing hands, not when the boy's cheeks spread for him as he paws at where he would like to be and there is hot breath bathing his neck.

But Aladdin can and does talk.

"Heh, a little desperate, aren't we Rasoul?" He shifts as he speaks, up higher on the wall away from Rasoul's probing fingers. He doesn't want him inside, not yet. He hasn't deserved it. "You know," he continues in a voice unbroken by lust except for the little gasps and moans he gives when Rasoul's fingers instead completely envelop his aching cock (Rasoul counts this is as a victory). "You know, I am starting to think this is why you chased me all those years."

Rasoul gives a hard jerk to the member in his hand and abandons it entirely, instead quickly slicking up his own fingers in his mouth and pressing against Aladdin's opening. He is smug when he breaches the twitching circle of muscle and the flesh inside is hot and angry, but Aladdin turns this into his own victory.

"That's it, that's why you wanted to catch me - to do this. You wanted me. " he says with satisfaction, his face screwed up tight as Rasoul works inside of him, preparing him.

That damn streetrat could talk through a mouthful of cock, Rasoul thinks bitterly.

He struggles to gain the upper hand, and forces out a savage utterance into Aladdin's ear.

"I am going to fuck you, streetrat."

He is rewarded with a flash of fear on Aladdin's face.

"No, that isn't a part of the deal."

Rasoul grins, though he is panting in the pain of being so unbearably hard.

"Stop me, then."

Aladdin's mouth is saying no, but his body is mindlessly rutting against Rasoul whenever the man's chest comes close enough, the Rasoul's crisp Captain's shirt sorry relief for his neglected cock. His mouth falls open, wet and slack, as Rasoul stretches him as far as he can go with the force of his fingers.

He is going to be able to do it this time, he is going to be able to sink as far as he can in that stubborn, wiry body.

But Aladdin is not defeated yet, and with a smirk of his own, he licks lasciviously at his own palm, sliding a little at the lack of grip on the wall, and wraps his hand, wet and sure around Rasoul's cock. Rasoul cries out, his fist coming down near Aladdin's head. It's almost a loving touch, the streetrat's hand.

He can only pant stupidly as Aladdin works with confidant expertise, touching with more variety and skill than a harem girl on his cock. He is not gentle, and he knows that works, his thumb indolently rolling over the head of Rasoul's cock like he owns it. And he's talking, he's fucking talking, his words stripped of any pretense of princely class.

"Did you want to fuck me, Rasoul? When you had me in chains in the dungeon, did you think about fucking me? I bet you did. I bet you touch yourself thinking about fucking me, having me down and writhing on the end of your cock." Mockingly, he arches forward and licks the tip of Rasoul's nose. The man sputters in rage, but moans like a wounded animal when his balls are cupped and rolled.

Aladdin's eyes lust close, his mouth endlessly loosing out a stream of filthy, wonderful words.

"What did you think I'd do if you finally caught me, hmm, Rasoul? Did you think I'd give in to you, that I'd sink down on my knees and suck you? Maybe beg you for mercy and offer my ass for freedom?" Rasoul's vision drowns in a red haze as Aladdin's other hand drops down to join the other, using only his spine and legs wrapped around Rasoul to keep himself from falling. "You old pervert." He says half insultingly, half in approval.

Rasoul explodes. His cry is wounded and relieved and, without care, he spurts cum over his own front and over Aladdin's hands. And Aladdin cums as well, after watching Rasoul. That stupid, impossible, perfect boy cums without being touched.

Rasoul sets Aladdin down with a gentleness outside of himself and collapses against the wall next to him, entirely spent.

Aladdin, however, needs no recovery, and with the ingratitude of youth, pulls his cum-stained pants up and walks confidantly away, but not before giving Rasoul a wink.

"I win."

Various/Any Disney or Pixar Fandoms
Any/Any

A canon couple (your choice) has their happily ever after, and after about fifteen to thirty years together, the male of the couple dies (details of his death is up to you), leaving the female a mourning widow who now has to live life without him. After a couple of years of widowhood, the adult children of the couple start to gently prod the female of the couple to try to find love again. If she does, and whoever it is, is up to you.

They plucked him right off the street.

In one moment, he was just another orphan, in the next, he was the possible-newest member of the family before him. It was like a dream - the sort of dream he stopped believing in long ago.

"Oh my stars in heaven, look at the poor dear, he's starved to the bone!" He was enveloped in the crisp white apron of the soft, sweet-smelling, stout, older woman. He struggled in discomfort at the strange, new sensation of being touched in a way that wasn't a smack or slap, and his shame at getting his street-grime on her fancy clothes.

She just pressed him harder to her in response, and he stopped moving, letting himself enjoy what might be his only, and perhaps last, hug.

"We must take him with us." She said to her male companions with an air of sensible authority.

"But of course," the taller, thinner man echoed in a friendly, yet highly affected voice. He smiled at the boy with wide, white teeth. "I am sure the master and mistress would not mind; it is, after all, the right thing to do."

"Now wait just a minute, wait just a minute." Interrupted a portly, mustached fellow across from the speaker. "It isn't our duty to go around spreading charity and picking up unfortunates wherever we go. that's not what we are here for."

The boy managed to get loose of the woman's hold, and stared up at the man's face, stamping a brave, impudent little foot.

"I am not charity! And I am not unfortunate, whatever that is!"

Eyebrows were raised down at him, though the thinner man wore an expression of amusement as well as surprise.

"Of course not, dear, now shuush." And WHOOSH he was swept back into the kind woman's flowery folds once more.

"Cogsworth, now, have a heart." The taller man said coaxingly with an arm around his hefty companion's shoulders."Surely it is not impossible for your pity and kindness to reach just one child? And think of how disappointed the master and mistress will be if we do not uphold their value of not being deceived by appearances."

Cogsworth raised his eyebrows as if the other man had said something loaded, while the other pair exchanged a wink.

"I won't hear of leaving him." The woman said as firmly as her grip on his hand.

Cogsworth looked as if he were going to argue, but softened and quieted with a grumbling, "Well it's on your head if the master doesn't approve, Lumiere."

The taller man came down on his haunches in front of the younger boy. He faced him like a man, and his easy respect relaxed the boy, who took his hand when offered and answered when asked his name.

"Aladdin."

"Well Aladdin, how would you like to come live far away from here, with us, in a great big castle?"

He could manage no words; the open disbelief, gratitude and wonderment on his smudged, six year old face  was too much for the sensitive Mrs. Potts to handle. She snuffed into her handkerchief, and discouraged more questions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the first time, he had real clothing. Made for him. That fit him. That belonged to him.

It was uncomfortable at first, in little formal breeches and structured shirts with buttons and loops and all manners of ornamentation, but he stopped fussing with it when Mrs. Pott's smiled and said he looked like a real gentleman. He promised to see her smile he'd try not to tug his collar so much, or slip out of his shoes as often (even if barefoot felt more natural to him).

Mrs. Potts became as close to a mother as he ever remembered having. It was unusual at first, to answer her questions about whether he was hungry or cold or tired - why would his happiness and comfort matter to her? But relaxing into her care felt like coming home to a warm bed.

He never disobeyed her again when she rushed out after him on that late night when he had left to explore the village below and she scolded him for his bleeding knees and scraped elbows and cuts on his face with real tears of concern in her eyes.

Lumiere became like a father, or a friendly uncle. Aladdin liked the man's casual air and harmless affectations. He liked the way he talked and walked, and even tried to copy it in his prepubescent, Arabic-manner, which produced great comedy around the castle.

Lumiere was not as smothering as Mrs. Potts, but then again, he saw things. He understood things.

When he found a little Aladdin sulking with his arms crossed across his chest in a corner, a mixture of hurt and anger in his dark eyes, he knew. He nodded towards the fireplace where Mrs. Potts sat with her other children, reading to them stories.

"You know my boy, the only reason you are alone right now is because you chose to be."

Aladdin looked up at him, passionate as always.

"What does it matter? I'll never be like them. I'm not really her kid anyway."

Lumiere shrugged, stretching with a yawn, rising to leave.

"Well, you should tell her that, because she certainly doesn't know the difference."

Aladdin stared after Lumiere as he left the room without a backward glance, and finally found the motivation to move from his cushion to join the family.

When he was older, too, Lumiere was there for advice, especially when it came to his first funny feelings about the other maids and servant girls.

Aladdin hid his reddened face when Mrs. Potts walked into his chambers and found a highly enthusiastic and wildly gesticulating Lumiere perched on his bed. She guessed the nature of the conversation instantly by the mischievous and romantic glint in the butler's eye.

She waggled her spoon at him.

"Now don't you go filling his head with all that nonsense, or he'll be just as bad as you!"

Lumiere called after her jollily as she left with her armful of laundry.

"That's what I am counting on!"

Cogsworth, however, took some time. Aladdin didn't resent Cogsworth for not wanting him at first; it was understandable to be resistant to the idea of bringing a street-rat like him into his private family. He made it a rule to avoid him; it usually was the best way to deal with people who didn't like you. And he didn't want to arouse Cogsworth's ire any more, or the delicate-blessing that gave him his home might be whisked away.

And then, around his eighth birthday, Mrs. Potts and Lumiere had to leave with the King and Queen of the castle on a trip, and Aladdin could not go this time, no matter how much he begged and pleaded. So he had to stay with Cogsworth in their now-empty-looking servants quarters.

The older man huffed sarcastically when he saw Aladdin's face take a sharp downturn when watching Potts and Lumiere round the last bend on the road.

"Gee, I should be flattered that my babysitting is being received like an execution."

"I don't need to be babysat! I'm not a kid." He snapped before he could help himself. He instantly regretted it, but was too stubborn to back down. Cogsworth merely ruffled the papers he was regarding in his chair and said in a clipped fashion.

"No, I suppose not. Now why don't you go read quietly?"

He went to his own reading without further regards to the younger occupant in the room. He only looked up when after several minutes of silence, he heard the tell-tale creak of the front door being opened, no doubt heralding Aladdin's disappearance to occupy himself outside.Cogsworth rolled his eyes in a self-suffering manner and called out.

"Not the right sort of day for outside play, come back indoors like I said and read. A much more respectable pastime for a youth, anyway than outdoor gamboling." He muttered righteously to himself. An impatient second passed, and he heard the footsteps of Aladdin's return. More silence, without the rustle of a book being brought down from the library shelves and opened. He set his paper aside to see Aladdin looking antsy and dissatisfied. No book in hand.

"Well, where's your book? Does my word mean nothing around here? Go read."

Aladdin turned up dark and stormy eyes, and mumbled something.

"What?" Cogsworth asked in exasperation.

"I can't read, okay!"

Cogsworth stared at the red-eared youth in front of him with the defensive tension in his body and the twist of his mouth.

"Can't read? Can't read? You can't read...of all the imbecilic, moronic, thick headed, addle-brained, absent minded! - "

That's when he stopped his rant and noticed how flushed Aladdin was becoming, how he clenched his fists in the way he did when he was being attacked in some way. The shine of shame in his eyes and hurt in the tight pressure of his withdrawn lip.

"Oh come now, I didn't mean you!'

Aladdin was shocked.

"What?"

"Of course I didn't mean you. I meant the other two - I can't believe no one set aside the time to teach you to read. Lumiere I am not very surprised at, he's hardly a distinguished reader, and I suppose Mrs. Potts is more interested in cuddles than education."

He looked at Aladdin again, this time with a little more softness.

"That settles it - I'll teach you."

And he did. With immeasurable patience and unexpected dedication, he taught a young, uneducated boy how to read in a language not his own.

And when Aladdin found a girl who loved him like he had learned to love, he hugged all three of them on his wedding day: Mrs. Potts, Lumiere and Cogsworth - the family who was his fondest wish to have ever come true.

He lays across the arms of his favorite red chair, sprawled yet still managing to look dignified. His pose is graceful withankle cocked and elbows askew, as he slides the bow up and down, testing and warming the strings of his favorite instrument. Only Basil could look this way, still refined and poised, while his clothes lay discarded on the floor in front of the fire, and wearing only his dress slippers. His fur is ruffled and oily from grasping hands and a lascivious tongue, but he is at peace as his song begins, somehow above the state of his own bodily debauchery.

A cultured man, Ratigan recognizes the piece after a few strains; Faure's Élégie is slow and low, and though peaceful, it still has the gentle sadness to accompany the drifting away of sense and reason.

Ratigan sets aside his glowing amber glass, and crosses the room to Basil . He reclines in his favorite place, above Basil on the back of the chair.

Who knew that such a simple thing - that violin - would have bought Ratigan the greatest prize of all? He would have thought that after telling Basil of Olivia's whereabouts, he would have had no more cards left to play. Yet it was Basil himself who proffered the transaction. It was but the work of a day to search the now-derelict remains of the abandoned Baker Street residence to find the prized violin. Miracously, it was still in excellent condition, warm and polished in Ratigan's hand, he having done the search himself.

He had it cleaned and refitted and brought it to Basil in a lovingly enscribed, brand new case. A case he refused to open for the detective until after...

Basil must have braced himself for the pain, because he made little vocalization of it. He moaned and grunted lowly, but absent were the tears and screams Ratigan had imagined in his darkest, most bitter fantasies.

He was a cool, wooden little puppet bending and following to the will of Ratigan's hands. Ratigan at first was dissatisfied with how passionless Basil treated the whole thing, hissing in only a little when Ratigan's fingers slipped inside him, gasping only momentarily when he was flipped to his back on his very own worktable. But once he had forced himself, inch upon painful inch, inside of Basil, was when his pleasure was fanned to it's fullest heights. The show had begun, a much more spectacular and devestating show than he could have imagined.

Basil howled, but it was the strained tune of inner frustration bursting painfully forth. Normally restrained, he cursed everything and nothing, and with the former detective's legs over his shoulders, Ratigan leaned forward to hear his frayed words better:

"Fool, I am fool, I have become a fool. I have nothing, I am nothing, All of it, all of it gone, an animal, just an animal..."

He stilled his hips and lay panting above Basil, staring with fascinated eyes as he watched his once idolized rival unwravel. Basil snarled at finding Ratigan's face so intimately close to his. Using his own no-longer-shaking legs, he pulled Ratigan deeper.

"Just get on with it, Ratigan."

Dearly, tenderly, Ratigan dropped a kiss that surprised even himself at the tip of Basil's nose.

"As you wish, precious."

Driving Basil's unprotected back deep into the splintering wood, he drove himself harder, higher into ectasy, feeling the great slithering beast of satisfaction, rear, bite, and seep sweet posion deep into his nerves.

Brought back to the present, Ratigan danced his fingers along Basil's dear skull that harbored a brain glorious and broken. Basil's song went on, entering a pitch that was so close to being fevered that it bordered on the angelic. His eyes were shut tight as up the scales he climbed, fingers bearing the deep cut of sharp strings without complaint.

Ratigan thinks that he knows now, why Basil was willing to sell the last half-acre of his soul for the violin. Basil had been robbed of his voice: his vocal wit, his learned tongue and expansive vocabularly did him nothing in his new world, for it was Ratigan's world. To hear his own voice in any other tongue but defiance would be a guilt too insufferable for Basil to bear. However, he would also forbid himself the easy peace of tears and screams. But his violin, his violin sang his pain more eloquent than he ever could. All of the friction of adjusting to his new life in Ratigan's deep and unyielding hold was poured into the making of music, and with his eyes shut and lips slack, he found release.

Ratigan felt fondness grow, and tipped Basil's chin up. Basil didn't let it impede him, his eyes didn't even open when Ratigan placed a few soft dotting kisses on his brow. He adjusted for the harder angle, resting his chin against his beloved instrument as if preferring the comfort of it's company over another living being.

Ratigan slept there that evening, listening to Basil play far into the night, the last beautiful night of a whole, clear mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gone, gone, the last piece is gone, and what is left...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What ho, ole boy, I seen you finally managed to give those pesky advisors the slip. "

Basil's cheery, confidant voice greets Ratigan as he lets himself into Basil's corridors with natural familiarity. It is his second home.

He smiles, and slips off his cloak, hanging it with his everyday-crown by the door.

"And I see that you are still ticking away at your fantasy-invention."

Basil shakes his head, "Not fantasy, Professor, innovation! Think of the implications," he says with a bright gleam in his eyes, packing his revolver for another shot, "A silent gun. The perfect weapon." He closes one eye to peer along the line of fire, then sets it down, seeing to a cooling plate of a metal alloy.

Ratigan puts a hand to his face in mock horror. "But, Basil, that sounds postively crimminal!"

Basil gives Ratigan a light smack on the arm, laughing.

"Not at all, Ratigan. It is the job of the scientist to create things, not to dictate the morality of their use."

"There are two levers to set a man in motion, fear and self-interest."

"Bonaparte? That's down right seditious for a British King, don't you think so, Ratigan?"

Ratigan leaned down to tweak Basil's whisker.

"Ah but accusations of inciting rebellion against the king can't be levelled at the king himself, can they? But I'll humor you with something a little closer to home - Ethics and religion must not stay at home when we go to work."

Basil let the words ruminate as he left his experiment. Pausing as he pours himself a cup of tea, he smiles upon finding the perfect rebuttal.

"To you is granted the power of degrading yourself into the lower forms of life, the beasts, and to you is granted the power, contained in your intellect and judgment, to be reborn into the higher forms, the divine." He finishes with a pleased tone as he seats himself in one of the two chairs at the table.

Ratigan praises with open admiration, "Prettily put, my dear."

Basil waves his hand dissmively, "Mere semantics, now come, sit for tea. If we are to make any headway in our work at all, it should be done with something on the belly. Besides, I am very curious to see how those Oriental mixes brewed."

He looks so innocent and happy there, dipping a questing fingertip in his own cup and tasting it thoughtfully, that Basil starts to laugh despite himself.

Basil frowns in light irritation.

"If you are again laughing at my newest interest in cooking, I'd like to remind you the true Rennisance man is a master of all disciplines, even the culinary"

Ratigan slips for a moment, in his amusement, and betrays the illusion.

"My dearest Basil, your little charade of normalcy has become one of your most charming traits." He says with a fond laugh.

The smirk almost blooms on Basil's face as he prepares to give back an equal amount of banter, but it stops and fails. There is a stutter in his brain, a skip as Ratigan's words roll over, gaining unwanted comprehension.

Charade?

The stiff muscle of his logic strains, and he frowns, noticing how close Ratigan has leaned over him.

Charade, charade...

He clears his throat, and starts to rise from his chair, setting tea cup aside. He needs space - now. His duck from under the larger rat's chin would have been neat if not for the nervous twitch he gave while doing it.

"Well, Ratigan, it is getting late and I..."

Ratigan interrupts him with the ease of complete control. With a pitying smile, he rises as well, and snaps shut his pocket watch, Basil's ticking, unforgiving overseer.

"Too right you are, Basil my dear, so how about you come along," He takes the former detective's wrist and pulls him closer. In captivity, Basil has grown thinner, more fragile. It takes no effort to drag the upset mouse deeper into his own private chambers.

Basil tugs away, and an unsure expression falls on his face like a very small, very dark raincloud.

Ratigan snarls a little at the resistance, but then smiles, watching his once very proud, very gifted adversary diminish under the weight of his own mental anguish.

"Is there a problem, pet?"

Basil looks up and says simply.

"Come along...where?"

Ratigan draws him closer into the comforting reality of his own bulk, and lets his hand ghost down Basil's collarbone, "You're a smart mouse, are you not?"

Basil feels he should answer fast then he does. "Y-yes. Yes, I am."

"Of course you are. Now what do you think I want, what do I always want, dearheart?"

Basil clears his throat. "Oh." Ratigan's strong fingers are popping open the buttons of his shirt front. "Oh of course."

Ratigan is back in control, and resumes leading his charge into the bedroom. "It's only fair. " He reminds.

"Only fair. " Basil responds in a monotone as the lamp light is smothered.

Ratigan searches for a way to manipulate Basil no longer, for he understands, above all else, Basil wants company. When he had the luxury of refusing it, the famous Basil of Baker Street was a private man who enjoyed his own space, but forcibly denied of it now - to have the only real friends he had ever made, gone - he wanted it. He wanted and needed something to fill the whistling hollow of his life and self.

Ratigan filled him now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When there is nothing else left, there is still something left. While contradictory, the essence of creation is ever-present, even undetectable. What atoms made the first molecules, which made the first minerals, which made the first man, are still present even when the wholes they comprised are not. From the vaccum of a destroyed spirit, a new self arises, incomparable to the old.