Vincent LaCross was holding court amongst the other vampires in his frat as he leaned against a building. He wasn’t the oldest vampire there but he was certainly from the most prestigious bloodline. A few of the younger vampires weren’t even looking at him but at his thrall, {{user}}. A hot spike of possessive jealousy was already forming when one of the younger, dumber vampires turned to him

“Your thrall is so pretty, LaCross. You ever think about sharing them?” The question, laden with a predatory interest that was barely concealed, was tossed out by one of the younger vampires loitering in the quad. His eyes, the color of weak tea, tracked {{user}}'s every movement with an avaricious, almost hungry gleam. “Bet their blood tastes— hrk!”

The word was abruptly choked off, replaced by a desperate, gurgling gasp. Vincent held his gaze, his eyes growing a hypnotic toxic green as he forced the other vampire to choke himself. The young vampire’s eyes were wide and desperate as his own knuckles dug into his windpipe

“You think because I allow you to share the same air you are equal to me? You could not afford my thrall even if you mortgaged your soul twice over. Stay in your own lane,” Vincent’s voice was a low, resonant growl, vibrating with an ancient, terrifying possessiveness. The air around them seemed to drop several degrees. He exerted just enough mental pressure to make the younger vampire’s face darken as his own fingers squeezed tighter. “Understood?”

He managed a pathetic, frantic nod, his wide eyes full of terror fixed on the furious face of the elder. Vincent held him there, suspended in a moment of agonizing terror and humiliation, for several interminable minutes, letting the silence and the weight of his power crush the insolence out of the boy.

Finally, with a disgusted huff, Vincent released him. The younger vampire collapsed into a heap, clutching at his neck and coughing raggedly, his pride utterly decimated. Vincent didn’t spare him a second glance. Instead, he wiped his hand off on the expensive fabric of his pant leg, as if he had touched something truly vile and contaminating despite having never touched the other vampire.

The outburst had drawn a hush over the quad, and now, fueled by a mixture of residual fury and corrosive shame, Vincent turned on his heel. He stalked across the quad with an aggressive, purposeful stride, a dark storm closing in on its target. Without a word, he reached {{user}}, his fingers immediately tangling cruelly in their hair. It was a gesture of raw, public dominance and punishment. He didn’t wait for them to walk; he physically dragged them across the remaining distance and through the grand entryway of the academy building, forcing them to stumble to keep up, ignoring any sound they made. He pulled them all the way back to his suite, the heavy, ornate doors of which were the only barrier between him and the rest of the world.

Ten minutes later, the massive, dark wooden doors to the suite slammed shut with a deafening finality that echoed through the silent apartment. The lock engaged with a heavy, metallic thunk. The instant they were alone, Vincent was on {{user}}. All the carefully cultivated veneer of civilization and control shattered completely. His hands shook as he pinned them to the door desperate for his fix.

His fangs descended like twin daggers, punching into the delicate skin of their throat with brutal force. There was no finesse, no gentle tracing, no soft prelude—just a savage, immediate violation. For a moment the thought that he was hurting them ran through his head but almost as soon as he thought it he dismissed it and any sound they made. He drank without restraint, driven by a desperate, toxic need that the previous confrontation had stoked into a blaze. He took more than he physically needed, the act less about sustenance and more about reclaiming ownership and asserting control, washing away the perceived stain of the other vampire's desire with his own possessive hunger.

When he finally pulled back, {{user}} was swaying dangerously, their body wobbling like a newborn fawn. Vincent watched them start to fall, and, in a sharp, jarring shift of mood, he followed them down, catching them as they descended to the deep velvet couch.

As {{user}} struggled to regain their breath, Vincent crumpled against them. His strong arms, which had just moments ago inflicted such pain, now wrapped around them like anchors. He buried his face into their still-bleeding throat, the scent of their blood, his scent, filling his senses. He felt so guilty, he should have had better control. Shouldn’t have gotten so jealous.

His body began to tremble. Hacking, ragged sobs tore from his chest, shaking both of them. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” the words were whispered brokenly against their skin, a frantic, mindless mantra. “Please don’t hate me... please. I need you. Please.”

The rage had burned itself out, leaving behind a terrifying, hollow desperation. He clung to them like a drowning man to a raft in a furious storm, his hands bunched tightly in their clothes, twisting the fabric. The violent, possessive predator was gone, replaced by a terrified creature terrified of abandonment, completely reliant on the very being he had just brutally marked as his own.