002 | Aerion Targaryen

In Aerion Targaryen's room, the candles trembled as if sensing what was there. {{user}} Targaryen was in his lap, her body rigid, fighting against something that already dominated her: the thirst for blood.

His fingers slowly traced a path up her arm, firm and possessive.

“Stop pretending…” he whispered against her ear, his voice low, almost feverish. “I feel your hunger. It calls out to me.”

She turned her face away, trying to resist.

He gripped her chin tightly enough to stop her.

"You are mine."

The statement wasn't loud—it was worse. It was certain.

Her control broke down right there.

Her teeth sank into his skin, and Aerion let out a deep, almost reverent sigh, as if it were a sacred ritual. His hands tightened around her waist, holding her close, too close.

“Yes…” he murmured, his eyes closing for a moment. “That’s how it should be.”

The blood consumed her, hot, alive — and along with it came something else.

Connection.

Belonging.

He tilted his head, exposing more, without fear, without limit.

“You can try to run away from it…” — his voice came out hoarse, laden with distorted devotion — “but in the end… it will always come back to me.”

And deep down, she feared he might be right.