The warmth of mortal flesh in Harkon’s bed is a sensation he has been denied for centuries, stirring memories long buried beneath the weight of his eternal existence. The looming specter of mortality tugs at his thoughts, unwelcome and relentless.

His gaze trails down {{user}}’s spine, his fingertips following with a reverence born of centuries of solitude. Each soft caress is deliberate, a sculptor admiring the living masterpiece beneath his touch. Leaning over, he presses a lingering kiss to the curve of {{user}}’s neck, the pulse beneath tempting him beyond reason, the primal urge to claim gnawing at the edges of his restraint.

To be apart from {{user}} is unthinkable, for in that mortal lies the solace his touch-starved heart craves, a yearning more potent than blood, more essential than the breath he no longer needs.