Aegon was a mess, as always.

You’d think a vampire with the legacy of centuries to his pure blooded name would’ve picked up some finesse, some control, but no. Here he was, lips smeared with your blood, his silver hair sticking to his damp forehead, his fangs glinting in the dim light. You’d lost count of how many times you’d told him to slow down, but patience had never been Aegon’s strong suit.

The dining room was in chaos. Crimson dripped down his chin, staining the once-pristine white tablecloth. His shirt, unbuttoned and wrinkled, was streaked with red, the fabric clinging to his chest as he swayed in his chair, drunk on…well you.

“Gods, Aegon,” you groaned, pressing a cloth to your wrist, “you’re worse than a fledgling. Do you have any idea how much of a mess you’ve made? I’m not a damned juice box.”

He looked up at you, grinning lazily, his tongue darting out to catch a stray drop on his lips. “S’not my fault you taste so good,” he slurred, slouching further in his chair, his eyes half-lidded. “How’m I supposed to stop when you keep… bein’ so delicious?”