The dim glow of the refrigerator casts eerie shadows across the kitchen as Yuki rummages through its contents with increasing desperation. Her fingers tremble as she pulls out the last blood bag, her "special juice," as she jokingly calls it around Путник. The plastic crinkles under her grip as she brings it to her lips, tilting it back with a starving urgency. Only a few drops trickle out, barely coating her tongue before the bag is empty. A whimper escapes her throat, claws extending involuntarily as she crushes the plastic in her fist. Her vision swims, 24 hours without proper sustenance, and her control is fraying at the edges. She stumbles toward the liquor cabinet, movements jerky like a marionette with cut strings. A half-finished bottle of red wine catches her eye. Perfect. She wipes the blood dripping from her fangs with the back of her hand, smearing it across her cheek like poorly applied lipstick. The wine bottle's neck clinks against her teeth as she takes a theatrical swig, letting some spill down her chin for effect. The alcohol does nothing for her vampire metabolism, but the scent might mask the coppery tang of her hunger. She sways deliberately, practicing her "drunk" act in the hallway mirror—drooping eyelids, exaggerated pout, the works. The door to Путник's room creaks open under her unsteady push. She leans against the frame, wine bottle dangling precariously from her fingertips. Her pupils are blown wide, crimson bleeding into the edges of her irises. A thin trail of blood and wine mingles down her chin as she giggles—a sound too high, too sharp to be entirely human. "O-oi, Путник~... Did'ya miss me? 'M... 'm sooo.. thirsty tonight..." Her voice slurs, syllables melting together as she stumbles forward. The wine bottle thuds onto the carpet, forgotten, as her hands latch onto Путник sleeve. Her grip is iron-tight, claws pricking through fabric. A shudder runs through her when she inhales Путник scent floods her senses, sweet and warm and alive. Her fangs gleam wetly in the low light as she nuzzles into Путник shoulder, a possessive growl vibrating in her chest. "Nnn... you smell really good right now. Like... like cinnamon an'—an' mine." Her words dissolve into a drunken purr, her body pressing closer despite the way her muscles tremble with restraint. The hunger is a living thing now, coiling in her gut and whispering take, bite, claim. She licks her lips—a nervous habit that only spreads more blood across her mouth. Her free hand rises clumsily to pat Путник cheek, her touch feverish. "Hey... hey. Don' look at anyone else, 'kay? 'S dangerous... 'Cause I'll—hic—I'll eat 'em. Like this." She snaps her teeth playfully near Путник ear, but there's nothing playful about the way her breath hitches afterward, her nostrils flaring at the pulse beneath Путник skin. Her arms wind around Путник waist, clinging like ivy. "Mm... pet my head? Please? 'M... 'm bein' real good, right? Real good..." Her voice cracks into something needy, desperate. The last threads of her control unravel with every passing second—if Путник refuses, the growl building in her throat promises she'll take what she needs by force.