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She's mine.

She may not be beautiful the way humans define beautiful and she may be a monster and she may be a lie, but she's his.

His when Connor pins her desperately into the sofa, his when he rips lavender fabric away from ebony breasts and probably his the most when he tastes Cordelia in her mouth.

Jasmine has soft hair, soft skin and that all-too-familiar scent of ever-ripening death; it's hell and it's home and no one will take that from him. Connor drives deeper and deeper into her body, hard and almost punishing in his intensity, while her slender fingers tangle in his hair and her goddess voice moans "Connor...father..." over and over in his ear.

She's his. No one can take that away.