"The sky was falling down on me and I spent most of the time drunk. It was the only way I could handle it."

-David Millar

For those of you that have ever been raped, I cannot express enough how sorry I am for what happened to you. And that you and I are not alone.

Jasmine had been raped. Regardless if Jafar was now her husband or not, she hadn't been willing. Hadn't wanted it. Not that way. Not ever. There was no love, no consent. Only fear, and abuse. It felt as if she had been drowning. Drowning, over and over again. Her head held underwater until her lungs exploded and blackness consumed her; only to find, she hadn't yet perished, but woke again, face still submerged in a watery grave. Feeling herself held against her will, dying over and over again in a bottomless quarry of agonizing suffering. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She couldn't understand why. All she was able to do was stay there and drown, and think about drowning. Drowning because of him. Because he took more delight in execution than exculpation. Found victory in torment instead of tenderness. He was a monster, through and through, and he was past saving. Past hope. She hated Jafar, and wanted him to die. Wanted him to suffer in unimaginable ways befitting hell.

…Though she shook, aching all over as she sat up on the bed. Though it burned to breathe, and her womanhood screeched out at the simplest of movements. She could cry no more. Drained of all her tears. All her grief inflamed with despair and emptiness, turning her emotions to ash. There was nothing she could do to change the horror of losing her virginity. Of how her husband desecrated his young bride. She felt dirty, and sick to her stomach. She felt alone, and lost, and some part of her wanted to blame herself. The charcoal smudges on her face tightened, cracking against her flawless skin, as Jasmine blinked away the dryness in her eyes. She had nothing left anymore. Nothing to offer anyone ever again.

He took it. All of it. All of her.

She held her stomach with a trembling arm, the front of her mother's dress still intact at her bosom and belly. Her finger danced on the studded garment below her bust, and she had a moment, just the slightest, in which she envisioned wrapping a rope around her neck and letting the vertebrae snap. To leave her body cold and wide eyed for Jafar to find. So, he could know exactly what he did to her and that her blood was on his hands. But she shook the morbid image from her mind, taking into view, as she scanned her prison, the bottle of wine. The glass Jafar had poured for himself earlier was still full, and the bottle sat next to it, filled a little more than halfway.

Though she hurt all over, Jasmine scooted herself from the bedding slowly, holding the torn gown against herself to remain decent; the walls were too close for comfort and loomed over as if they were watching. She steadied herself when reaching the desk, the heel of her small hands leaning into it; trying to regain a shred of strength.

While in the brothel, and long nights of girl talk with Tahira, Jasmine had attained a tiny habit of drinking. Though it was minuscule at best, Jasmine had found the smallest shred of alcohol could ease her tension; allowing her to relax and forget, momentarily, the never-ending sea of turmoil. And though Jasmine's vivid imagination could enrapture her from reality often, tonight she found it a useless trait; imagination and dreaming was for children who had yet to experience the brutality of realism. Therefore, she needed something stronger than wishful thinking and daydreams.

Jasmine had never drunk wine before, but supposed it couldn't be worse than drinking hard liquor, and finished off Jafar's abandoned glass, gulping it down in a single breath. When her head came back up, she instantly felt a tingling sensation at her fingertips, and a glimmer of white light behind her eyes.

"Whoa," her tongue explored the inside of her mouth, smacking her palate, trying to get rid of the bitter taste. Though it hinted of musky old wood, Jasmine took a liking to it, figuring nothing could be worse than going downstairs, of sober mind, to play nice with her accoster. So, Jasmine took the bottle and filled the glass two more times, drinking them like sweet water.

There was at least a glass or so left to be had, but Jasmine decided against it, already feeling slightly woozy from her share. Her sensitive organs hurt a little less, as did her heart, and she found the strength to be able to get bathed, dressed, and fix her makeup and hair; picking out a gown she hadn't worn before. Father picked it out for Jasmine shortly after Prince Ali, Aladdin, had come to ask for her hand.

Oh, the morbid irony of it all.

When Jasmine had finished getting ready for the reception, she had run downstairs to the kitchen and servants' quarters, inviting them all to join her at her party. Initially no one thought it a wise choice, but Jasmine insisted and even loaned some of the girls her dresses and helped fix their hair too. If only Tahira were in the mix, then Jasmine could truly find strength in her weakest hour. Either way, showing up to the reception with dignity, and some friends, rather than a broken-down wreck, was the only way to get back at Jafar - At least for now - and she put on a happy face that could fool her own father.

She had tried ignoring him when he entered the ballroom, not wanting Jafar to know how much control he held over her or how intoxicated she had become. Her face was flushed and she was surprised he hadn't said something about it. Then when she danced with Tobias, and several other strangers, Jafar sat there doing nothing; albeit, to her relief, and Jasmine allowed herself to feel the effects of the wine unafraid. But when Jafar held her in his arms, twirling her around the floor, Jasmine refused to look into those dark beaming eyes; knowing she might kill him if she acknowledged he was there. Or more importantly, he might kill her if he realized she'd drank most of his wine.

When Jafar had looked like he might kiss her sweetly, he ruined everything once again, leaving her to feel more empty and unwanted than she already did, as she watched the brute walk out onto the balcony towards another woman. That damned woman again. Just when Jasmine thought the pale wench had gone, and that kiss had been a misunderstanding, Jafar had left his wife to go be with the conniving-perfectly-blonde-secretive-mistress of London.

Jasmine had endured enough for one day. She wasn't about to entertain the thought of fighting for a demon's affection. She'd seen enough, and allowed plenty more than was acceptable. She would call it a night.

"Where do you think, you're going?"

Jasmine didn't turn, instead held up her gown, stomping away from the dance floor, as she ignored Cruella and the gape in her chest. She had only stopped when Cruella blocked her path, jumping in front of her like a helpless puppy dog, needing her attention.

Jasmine looked over her sculpted shoulder where Jafar stood in the distance, leaning against the archway and towards that woman. The gall – to defile her innocence and then chase down some whore right in front of her. Dickhead.

"Does it always hurt like this?"

"Does what hurt, my love?"

Jasmine shook her head turning back to Cruella, who held a glass in her hand, "Forget it. I'm going bed."

Cruella grabbed Jasmine's wrist, turning her back around, "Darling, talk to me. Is it Jafar? Or losing your virtue?"

Jasmine bit her lip, shoving down the acidic taste in her throat. "I don't know…Both? Everything?" Her voice broke, suddenly overcome with emotions, "I …I can handle a lot. Okay? I'm not as weak as everyone thinks I am… But, what that man…what that monster has put me through," her lips tucked under her teeth as she tried gathering incoherent thoughts.

"Tell me darling. You can tell Cruella anything. You know that?"

She allowed her dress to fall around her feet, letting it go so she could hold her stomach, "I don't want to… feel." Her breath was shaky, "I don't want to feel any of this anymore. I just want to be numb. I want to forget how much it hurts." Her eyes watered, looking out at the dancing smiling faces, wishing somehow, she could be in their shoes, instead of being tormented by a man she detested.

"I know just the remedy you're looking for," Cruella flashed a wicked grin, catching Jasmine's attention as she handed over her cup of gin, "We're at a party, young Queen. There should be no tears. Only overindulgence and dancing."

Jafar's stoned heart quickened. Not in the way a love-struck idiot's did. But in the familiar way his would when he was vastly enraged. When the beast, that he tried so often to lock away, decided it wanted to play; clawing at the door of its cage with razor sharp talons and venomous fangs. Somehow or another Jasmine brought it out of him the most, and she was doing it again. Clearly the girl had a death wish.

Jasmine's heart shaped face rose and fell, ducking in and out of the scattered drunks as she moved, dancing, throwing her head back as she laughed. That stunning smile flashing in front of him, taunting him, before being hidden from him again as she spun or moved out of his line of sight. Her hair had been let loose, curling around in a waterfall of waves, flopping over her face before being tossed back to cover her small body. Her happiness mocked him, and he hated whatever was making her laugh so much, hated how she was … Drinking?!

Jafar snapped to attention, pushing himself from the railing to straighten, suddenly forgotten of Ettie and the nuisance of past memories; now fully alert to his young wife and the way she drank straight from a bottle of wine.

All he could envision was dragging her out by her neck to throw her over the balcony. This was no way for a Queen to behave. Jasmine was doing it to spite him, to make a fool of herself and in turn a fool out of him. Jafar strode powerfully back inside ready to backhand her when he noticed no one was taunting, or abashed, by how their Queen behaved. In fact, a rather large circle had formed around Jasmine – and her group of morons; everyone seemingly entertained as they clapped along to the music.

Jafar allowed his dander to simmer, for the moment, deciding it best to not cause a scene unless necessary, and leisurely stepped along the outside circle with intense precision. The Sultan clasped his hands behind his back, head tilted as he watched Jasmine, undetected. Like a hunter circling its prey. Watching. Waiting. Looking for his opponent's weaknesses and strengths. Learning when and where to strike a debilitating blow.

She hadn't known when Geraldine made it up here from the kitchen, but somehow or another, she had and was dancing with Razoul, while Cruella and Tobias partnered up, and men were darting in and out of the circle, to dance with Jasmine; or rather trot around until she was dizzy and gasping for air as she laughed. Everything was funny to her. Hilarious in fact, and she could not. Stop. Laughing.

After the first few numbers, Geraldine had requested the troupe to play an Irish song from her homeland, and though their instruments weren't readily meant for such a request, they made do, and Geraldine seemed pleased; now showing everyone how dancing was done in Ireland.

Jasmine found it the damnedest thing; those awkward steps were simply delightful and downright fun! A man hooked her arm, and they spun in a stationary circle causing Jasmine to giggle like a school girl, clutching onto the bottle of wine, taking another swig when they'd stopped. In addition to the three glasses of Jafar's wine, Jasmine drank a glass of Cruella's gin, and now had plowed her way through half a bottle of her own wine. The more she drank it, the smoother it went down. She had been reluctant at first, knowing that alcohol affected people in terrible ways, and was concerned as to what sort of person she would become when intoxicated. But the ache in her belly, and the heaviness of her heart won out, and she took Cruella's advice; the young bride would get good and sloshed for the very first time. It was fitting. There were so many 'firsts' the last twelve hours. Getting married. Getting raped. Having a dead hand thrown in her face. She might as well go all out!

"The one thing that can solve most of our problems is dancing," Geraldine had called out to no one in particular, holding onto Razoul's sturdy arms as he held her close, spinning her along.

Jasmine barely made out what was said, but agreed full heartedly, her wide smile suddenly falling as she nodded, eyes closed, as if in serious deep thought. That's right. Alcohol solved her problems. Dancing solved her problems. Man. She was around so many inspiring people right now. She felt so good, and so relaxed for the first time in a long time. She couldn't remember why she had been sad in the first place, or why she wanted to forget.

How life could bad be? She thought, now enlightened.

Jasmine hadn't noticed she'd stopped in the middle of the circle, her numbed senses able to close out the world around her, and she felt safe where she stood. Doused in calmness and a tingly sensation that touched to the tip of her nose and he ends of her hair. She took another swig. Alcohol. And then started to move. Dancing.

At first, it didn't match – her movements and the Irish melody. But within a few moments, someone had queued the musicians to change genre, and the music Jasmine had been playing in her mind came to life, encompassing her as it mimicked the flow of her curves. She was concentrating, eyes closed, unaware that her companions had stepped down: allowing the little Queen to steal the show. Jasmine never danced before in her life – aside from one time.

One night, when Jasmine was three or four, the Sultana came in, wine on her breath, happy as ever as she scooped up the Princess and spun her around. "Let's dance little one!"

Jasmine had smiled, running her round baby hands over her mother's cheeks, as her feet were placed back on the floor. "Dance as the gypsies' dance," Sultana had said in a strange high pitched voice. And Jasmine had followed her mother as best she could, excited at trying something new with her mom.

Though that moment was nothing short of a foggy blur, dancing now came second nature; as if she had never stopped dancing after that night with her mother. As if she were a dancer in another life, only now able to discover the hidden talents that she'd always possessed.

Thin muscled arms raised above her, the bottle of wine sewn to her right hand, while her face rolled slightly to the left, feeling wonderfully intoxicated and relaxed. Jasmine's knees were relaxed too, and she began working her left hip upward and forward in a strong accented motion. Activating the outside of her thigh and hip, to give the movement oomph, Jasmine then dropped it slightly before lifting. A drum hit as her hip did, causing a stir of excitement from the audience. Jasmine dropped down the left side, and worked on the right. Up, out, down. Switch. Up, out, down. A little faster each time, controlling every muscle, biding it to do what she pleased as the music kept in time with the little dancer.

She didn't know what this was called, or what it looked like. It felt sexy, and smooth, and liberating and that's all that mattered. Jasmine then began to move her midsection in a figure eight pattern, the abdominal acting as if it were disconnected from the rest of her, and that got an even bigger response. So, she did it faster, and more dramatic, moving like a snake as her delicate arms came from above and stretched out at her sides, her elbows bending slightly, as she propped her hands gracefully. And of course, still kept a loving grip on the bottle's neck.

Someone whistled while another hollered something profane, probably Cruella, and it made Jasmine grin from ear-to-ear, thick lashes touching her cheeks. She decided it time for another drink, and carefully moved the bottle to her lips, throwing her head back as she kept dancing.

One. One gulp was all she'd been allowed when suddenly the glass was ripped from her hand, its rapid departure leaving a trail of red liquid to roll down her chin.

"Ay!" It was more of a sound than a word. Jasmine opened her half-lidded eyes trying to focus as the crowd around her dispersed. A hand was at the small of her back and she grinned, lids heavy like an iron clasp. "Ay. Now. Lookin' is free –," she giggled, "Touchin' is gonna cost ya sumthin'," Jasmine snorted feeling clever as she slurred. Another hand came at the back of her knees, sweeping her off of the ground, pulling her into a firm broad chest.

It felt like the world was spinning, and she looked up, seeing the arches of the palace pass above her in a dizzy mesh of random shapes and colors.

When she spoke, it sounded out of body, and strained, "Ay…Put me down, I'm – I'm married."

Jasmine leaned her head into the man, half asleep when her words finally caught up with her mind and she remembered she'd gotten married today. Jafar! Jasmine's eyes shot open, and she tried looking behind her captor. Slurring in concern, looking to see where Jafar could be, and if he would attack her for being in the arms of another. Again.

"My husband. I have a husband," Jasmine squirmed a little, and unhooked an arm so that it came around the man's shoulder. She reached out a hand towards the disappearing ballroom, making a grabbing motion for invisible leverage.

She began again. Although, to be honest, she wasn't sure she had ever spoken in the first place since no one would respond back. But she had to try and convince this person to let her go. Or it could mean bother their heads.

"No… my husband will be mad… Ay," Jasmine swatted at the white clothed chest with a dull thud. "I'll kick yer ass…," a soft deep rumble came against her cheek, the captor taking her threat as a joke.

"Ay, I'm a woman married. Jafar will … my Jafar will," Oh the terrible things that evil man would do. All the terrible things he had done.

Was she crazy? Trying to be carried back to Satan incarnated when it was clear someone had finally come to rescue her from this hell hole? Why should she give a damn what Jafar thought, or what threats he imposed? Her muscles were trembling and she realized her arm was still outstretched towards nothingness, and gave up trying; arm falling limp, swinging lifelessly as they went up the stairs. Jasmine rested her tingling face against the warm chest, breathing in a strangely familiar scent of spiced cinnamon.

The world tipped on its axis when Jasmine was tossed into a dark bed, her head bouncing off the mattress upon impact before coming back down. She didn't care none though. Her entire body was extremely relaxed; so much that if she fell from the tallest window of a tower, her body would bounce off the ground and be just fine. What sounded like flint and steel struck, and in moments a fire was blazing from somewhere in the room. The cackling sound gave her something to focus on, helping calm the nauseated spinning inside her head. And with the warmth around her, and black silk sheets against her flushed face, Jasmine found herself drifting far away.

He remained by the fireplace, stoking it a little more before rising and coming towards the bed. Jasmine laid on her stomach, arm hanging loosely over the edge with her left leg hiked up. Light blue and white silk had bunched around her creamy skin, and Jafar wanted to reach out and grip the meat of her thigh. His palm itching to smack her lovely, curvaceous, backside and the salivary ducts in his mouth excreted all the more as Jafar imagined tasting, licking, and biting into her perfect flesh.

He swallowed hard, pulling himself away from the entrancing effect she had on him. Jafar went to his desk and shrugged out of the white wedding thobe. He'd meant to take it off earlier, and was glad to be out of the awkward color; now leaving him in the red harem pants and shirt. Red and black were best; white felt to cliché. He folded the garment neatly and hung it over the arm of his chair. A glance was given towards the girl on the bed and he was thankful she was asleep. She was exhausting to say the least, and he was grateful to finally get some silence. Jafar reached out for the glass he had poured himself that afternoon, finding it empty, then picked up the bottle next to it, finding it too nearly drained.

"Son of a bitch –." Jafar held it up in the light, seeing where the mark was compared to where he had remembered leaving it. How much did Jasmine drink? He threw his head back, eyes closing, trying to contain his ever-growing aggravation.

There were two options. Wake the wench up now by smacking her across the face, and give her a much-deserved punishment. Or, wait until she was sober enough in the morning to lash out. At least then she would feel every blow he dealt, and remember every second of her punishment. Deciding on the latter Jafar poured whatever remained from the bottle back into his glass. He took a sip, and envisioned Jasmine drinking from this same cup earlier, and his tongue darted out, licking the brim of the glass, imagining the taste of her delicious mouth.

Jasmine moaned, groggily, turning over onto her back, and Jafar watched through the curvature of the crystal as he polished off the refreshment and set hit back down on the table, his gaze never leaving her sleeping face. Wondering why he hadn't punished her downstairs instead of carrying her like some damn princess up to his room.

At first, he had watched from the outside circle. Planning on interrupting, no matter how forcefully, should she over step the boundaries of heathenry. But when that woman started dancing. When her waist, hips, and beautifully sculpted legs began to move, Jafar found himself hypnotized.

The way the Egyptian cotton dress moved with her body, her slender curves rising and falling. In that light, in that dress, he could see every strand of her muscles. The perfect firm swell of her breasts, and her small navel in the center of her sculpted belly. She as if a string held up the middle of her spine, while her waist rolled independently in controlled, sensual waves. Controlling her audience as they watched mouths agape. Controlling him. He was the snake and she his charmer, and all he wanted to do was kneel before her and beg for one drop of her essence.

Only when she moved faster someone had whistled, and Cruella shouted profanity, snagging Jafar from the trance. Men were drooling over his wife, and other women looked either jealous or equally entranced like the men. He all but lost his damn mind when Jasmine then proceeded to take another swig of wine. He had, had enough of her putrid antics and shoved the crowd apart, marching towards to rip the drink from her hand; shoving it behind him at the chest of some random idiot.

"Mm –."

Jafar stirred from his thoughts by Jasmine's moaning. She sat up like a corpse rising from an autopsy table. Stiff. Disorientated. Swaying a little to the right and then the left and back again. Her eyes were half closed, but he could see her long lashes lifting tiredly, when her head turned slowly in his direction. His blood ran cold at her blank stare, and Jafar froze, dropping his face to try and hide how she affected him. Trying to take back the control she had taken from him when she danced.

But Jasmine turned away again, looking forward as if she hadn't even noticed him standing there. Instead of just climbing out of the side, where it clearly would have been much simpler and less clumsy, Jasmine scooted her rear across the bed to climb awkwardly from the foot of it. She stumbled when her feet touched the ground, and reached out around for nothing; desperately trying to steady herself as she went towards the exit.

"Where do you think, you're going," Jafar called like a disembodied voice from somewhere in the room.

Jasmine couldn't pinpoint who or what had spoken. It was difficult to make out where she even was at this point. All she knew was that she wanted more wine, and to be with her friends' downstairs, dancing.

Trying to be serious failed, once the words passed her lips, as she giggled, "I'm thirsty …"

Jasmine reached for the door when the deep low rumble came again.

"Get back in bed, mouse."

Her head spun, and she nearly toppled over when she clutched onto the door handle for support, turning to look through blurred vision at the room. The walls were a deep shade of red and the floor a shiny black marble. There were flames from somewhere and they flicked off the floor and cast shadows among the ominous rom. And a tall figure in the distance stood fully clothed in red. Now it was all clear.

She was in hell.

Damnit. The first time she had decided to get sloshed, she'd drunk enough to stop her heart. Now she was among the dead – trapped in hell no less.

"Well That's. Just. Great." Answering herself aloud, Jasmine slurred, raising her palms in the air before letting them drop dead weighted.

Jasmine resumed her mission to find more red honey and dance for eternity. She loved to dance. Someone called her name, telling her to stop, when she had again clutched the door handle. Her eyes opened, as much as possible given her condition, and she looked the door up and down.

Are you talking to me? Jasmine didn't know if she said it or thought it, but stabbed a finger at the inanimate object, "Ay…I'm going. And that's final. So... I'm, I'm – leaving."

"Is, that, right?" She heard the door reply in a low drawn out tone, though now it sounded like it came from behind her.

"Mm hmm –." She gave a childlike noise and a head bob that made her stumble where she stood, clutching the handle with both hands to keep herself up. "And I'm gonna daaance …" Jasmine broke into a girlish smile, her head hanging forward as she stuck out her hips beginning to move to the melody in her head.

As she leaned back further, the door gave way, as the handle clicked, and pulled open; then was instantly slammed shut by a large hand splayed above Jasmine's head. Jasmine didn't seem to notice though and kept moving her hips, dipping her back, lost in her own melody and drunken bliss. Jafar placed another hand on the door, bringing himself to loom over her small frame.

He didn't recognize his own voice as it came out, husky and full of lust, "Jasmine," Her name made him shaky in the knees and any anger he had in the beginning diminished, replaced with weakness, "Jasmine, get back in bed."

Her backside met at his groined, earning a sharp inhale from him as she began slowly circling her buttocks around his growing organ. Jasmine grinned vividly, not caring who was behind her, only that she had a dance partner and was free to move her body anyway she pleased. It felt good, her tingling skin creating friction as she applied pressure to the sturdy man behind her.

Jafar closed his eyes, and pressed deeper against the door, trying to expel the powerful lust through the palms of his hands so that he could think clearly. But it didn't help, and Jasmine dipped lower to the ground, coming back up slowly, sliding her ass against him; climbing up from his knees, over his thighs and pressing delicately onto his erection. And Jafar gasped, feeling the tip of his sex moisten from his own arousal.

She was absolutely sloshed and out of her mind. He did see her talking to a door after all, and so he allowed himself a moment to bask in her. Inviting her captivating power to control him for the second time tonight. What was more, was that she enjoyed this just as much, and never before did he think she would ever smile while touching him. So, in this moment, he would allow himself to be weak and vulnerable. Jasmine wouldn't probably remember this tomorrow anyway.

"I'm married… ya know," his little drunk wife was barely audible, mumbling each word, giving a hiccup in between her sentence.

Really now my pet? It would be a little too late to tell a man you're seducing that you're married. Jafar chided looking down on her succulent body. Her full breasts hung slightly from this position, and her waist cut in before surging out into spectacular curved hips. Just like an hourglass. Counting down his time with her with each passing day.

"You don't act like you're married, little one," Although she wasn't really little anymore. She had gone and grown into a strong woman in the blink of an eye, "Where is your husband, Jasmine?"

And you better give me an answer I like, girl.

Jasmine scrunched her face, finding it difficult to focus on dancing, speaking, and thinking, all at once. Her head swam and she slowed her hips, trying to remember what had happened to Jafar.

"Ja…far," Jasmine tested out the name in a groggy whisper, hating how it felt in her mouth. Jafar would kill her is he seen her dancing, and drinking. She remembered his threat that if another man ever touched her he'd, more or less, kill them both and use their body parts as for morbid amusement.

Raising her head slightly, she spoke against the door, her own breath warm and smelling like booze, "My husband," she drawled out the title and it tasted like vinegar, "Hates. Me."

Jafar stilled, coming off of the door, and bringing his largs hands to the sides of her hips and Jasmine giggled, her head falling again to face the floor. And the next thing she said made his gut twist.

"Jafar is going to kill me. So –," She gave a small snort, "It's a good thing I'm already dead."

The large brows on his face tucked down, "Jasmine…Where the hell do you think you are right now?"

Though she remained in her awkward pose hanging on the door, Jasmine looked over her shoulders slightly, staring at a spot on the floor, "You said it … Hell."

Her body jerked as she laughed again, finding everything funny. Even death.

Maybe she wasn't as strong as he had thought. Maybe he did break her and her sanity along with it. It was possible Jasmine had been drinking because of him, because of what he'd done to her. And the slightest tang of guilt prodded at his calloused heart.

Giggling, Jasmine finally found some strength and tried to pull herself to stand straight, when the pressure at her hips tightened, and boney hands spread along her back, keeping her bent over. She didn't fight it, feeling like she could fall asleep right here, standing up. Then a breeze bit into her tan flesh: first around her calves, then the backs of her knees, and up and up; the evening gown sliding up gently, displaying her nakedness inch by inch.

The warmth of the room tickled her flesh, and the touch that followed after caused her skin to rise in tiny bumps. Jasmine moaned a little as her entire lower half was left exposed, the ends of her dress draping around her waist revealing the entirety of her buttocks and pink smooth lips.

The presence behind her closed in, and something whispered in her ear, "Dance for me, Jasmine," then backed away, leaving the space around her to feel empty.

She did want to dance. She loved to dance. And drink. She really liked to drink. There was probably cases more downstairs, and there the music would be loud and engulfing. The handle pulled again, and the door opened. Jasmine stepped out, hearing a grunt of irritation from behind her as she began to take a few steps into the hallway, her dress falling back down around her ankles. An arm darted out and draped around her belly, causing Jasmine to gag; the smallest pressure threatening to purge the contents of her overdosed stomach. Jasmine squirmed slightly, her face screwing into frustration when a shrill voice echoed around the large vestibule.

"Darling!"

Jafar pulled Jasmine in protectively whilst turning to face Cruella. God how he wished she'd just kill over. "Not now woman," He threatened through gritted teeth, but Cruella was too sloshed to notice.

"Cruella!" In a high pitchy voice, Jasmine sang out, her arms swinging up by her ears, nearly smacking Jafar in the face, "You're here too!" Of course, she's in hell with me.

Jafar hissed, dodging Jasmine's carelessness, trying to keep a grip on her slack weight; all while Cruella huffed on a cigar and blew the nasty smoke in his face. This was bullshit! With just a look Jafar had perfected striking fear into any creature. But all evening he kept losing control over each situation. No one cared how malignant or vile he was when they couldn't tell their left foot from their right. He hated drunks! And that hatred cleared the former foggy daze of lust. Maybe if he bashed Jasmine and Cruella's faces together they would snap out of it and cower before him.

Jasmine leaned back into Jafar's chest, and bent her arm to better cup the side of his face. Her delicate fingers traced the thick trimmed line of hair, from the top of his jaw, and down to his chin; her perfumed hair gathering under his nostrils.

"Look what I found," Jasmine smiled to Cruella, "We danced together. But … don't tell Jafar." Jasmine's bloodshot eyes glimmered childlike as she pursed her lips and placed the opposite hand at her mouth, making a Shh sound.

Cruella's tiny ankles wobbled from her high heels, and she spoke into her cup, "Why aren't you drinking darling, come downstairs. Everyone's waiting for the queen to dance again!"

Jasmine's leaned forward and out towards the boney woman, "No!?" Clearly astonished her eyes widened, "They want me to dance for 'em?" Jasmine made a weird squeaking noise as her mouth hung open in a smile.

Jafar rolled his eyes, tightening his arms around her midsection, sure that if he let her go, Jasmine would fall flat on her face and be knocked out cold. A tempting idea.

"Yes. Come darling, come, come. Jafar let her go. She's something everyone wants to see!"

Cruella threw back her glass of gin, and began to stroll ahead, stumbling when she came to the top step of the staircase, Jafar wishing the damned woman would tumble. But when she hadn't and kept strolling, by sheer luck, unharmed down the steps, Jafar groaned; thankful that at least one lush was out of the way.

Jasmine tried following after, but found herself stepping in place instead. Her brows tucked and her nose scrunched, not understanding why her legs wouldn't go. Jasmine's head fell over, looking down at the contraption that kept her steady and her hands flung to it, trying to remove it from her.

"What is this sorcery?" Jasmine slurred, fingers too numb to get a grip on the damned thing. Accepting defeat, her upper half dropped towards the floor and the palm of her hands landed against the cool ground, as she tried crawling away.

"Damnit, woman!" Jafar took an arm from her stomach and put it around her chest, pulling her up off the floor as she tried walking on her hands, "You're trying my patience, little girl! This is bullshit!" He really hated drunks.

Jasmine kept trying to walk away from him, and he growled, unloading several curse words, finally bending at the knees Jafar picked up Jasmine and tossed her over his shoulder. Jasmine made a "Woo," sound and he smacked her ass as hard as he could, making her moan softly, before giggling again.

Back inside his chambers, Jafar kicked the door closed behind him, stalking towards the bed still muttering under his breath. He threw Jasmine down carelessly, half hoping it would hurt her; but she bounced once and started smiling again.

Blasted woman. She's relentless.

Jasmine licked her lips wiggling on the silk blankets under her, eyes closed tiredly, as she squirmed to get comfortable. She peeked from lengthy lashes, seeing a dark man at her feet, and he looked rather handsome. He was dressed in red, and strong, and so, so, blurry. Her knee was propped up and fell to the side, legs parting as if in subconscious submission. Her clothes were itchy and she wanted out of them, to be naked in the dark smooth sheets, and she hiked up her dress clumsily.

Jafar watched as Jasmine bit her lip, and her legs fell open. He couldn't resist any longer. He helped her out of the dress, pulling it over her head, freeing every ounce of her mesmerizing body, as she offered herself to him like a sacrifice. Jasmine moaned into his mouth and his cock twitched, straining under the tightening pants as he traced his tongue over her neck, down to her collarbone and around her soft tits. Then he rubbed the pad of his thumb against her clit, sliding one finger in and out of her tight folds as he kissed the jut of her hipbone. She tasted so fucking delicious, and Jafar left little bites marks along the flawless skin, inhaling her, as he worked his mouth over her navel and down to the trimmed soft hair of her womanhood. He nuzzled the silky curls, inhaling their musky scent. He wanted her for eternity. Needed every drop of her. Desired to lap up her sweet fluid as she came around his digit; when she moaned, "Mm – Aladdin."

"Fuck," Jafar snapped from the fantasy panting in deep disturbed breaths as he focused in on the sleeping girl. Fully clothed. Sound asleep. Had she actually said Aladdin's name in her sleep? Or was that too all in his mind? It would figure. Even in his darkest imagination Jasmine still didn't want him – would choose that urchin over him. Allah, how he wanted to do those things to her. Had wanted to rip that blue dress off and discover every trace of pleasure she had to offer him. But he remained frozen at the foot of the bed, chewing on his lip until there was blood on his tongue. Forcing himself to be distracted with anything besides this overwhelming temptation. He'd wanted to caress her awake, kiss those soft lips and ravage the sweetness of her supple curves. He wanted all of her, all for himself.

Albeit, as easy as it would have been to take advantage of a drunken girl, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was his right, technically, to do whatever he damn well pleased. Jasmine was his wife now, and there was no need to show restraint. However, something deeply seeded in him protested against it. A part of him, that he'd abandoned a lifetime ago, now reared its intrusive head, forbidding Jafar to act on lustful selfish instincts.

He growled at himself, trying to force quiet his conscience – it usually worked in the past – but this time decency won out, and Jafar stomped away with an awkward boner between his thighs. The cobra staff was in a far corner and Jafar went to it, greeting it like an old friend. He'd not had it since before the wedding, and missed his companion. At least with this he felt slightly more dominant and powerful, but not by much. He pulled the dark familiar robes from a drawer, draping them over his arm, and left the room quietly. Taking skeleton keys from his waistband, Jafar locked the door from the outside, keeping Jasmine in, and any wondering guests out, and would release her first thing in the morning. Luckily, he avoided any more interruptions while making his way to the private tower, locking himself inside so he could finally be alone, and have some fucking quiet, as he slept.

In the event, someone feels compelled to ask me this question, let me stop you here and answer to everyone. (Jasmine doesn't recognize Jafar as himself, but thinks he's probably Satan or some random stranger. But then she recognizes Cruella immediately.) But – having my own fair share of complete intoxicated moments – shit happens. Jasmine might be repressing Jafar, after all he put her through today. He is more accurately, in her mind, a resemblance of pure evil, and maybe she doesn't want to acknowledge she's stuck with him, but finds escape or comfort to believe she died instead of being here with this crazy fucker. Cruella and her haven't formed that type of fearful "bond" and rather sees Cruella as a fun loose cannon. And in this moment Jasmine just wants to remain in her escape, and have fun. So. That's my take on it. If it doesn't make sense enough to you, I apologize. But when your drunk, all rational is out the window, and a little silliness and therapy type crap is probably going to unfold. Whether it's logical or not.

P.S. I love you all and appreciate the reviews, the views, and all the good stuff. Hope you're still enjoying our tales of dysfunction which include, sex, alcohol, morbidity, murderers, and lots of cursing. See you next chapter where things move forward and Jasmine decides to be an amazing Queen for her people.

P.S.S I know this chapter is a little more silly and lighthearted, hope that's alright.