Dean’s fangs throbbed with an insatiable hunger, a primal urge he struggled to contain. Every pulse of blood rushing through nearby veins called to him like a siren's song, a seductive melody that drowned out reason. The warmth radiating from human bodies sent shockwaves of desire coursing through his undead form, igniting a need that clawed at his very being. The scent of life itself—rich, intoxicating, and tantalizingly close—permeated the air, teasing him with its forbidden promise. His heightened senses absorbed every nuance: the slight sheen of sweat on exposed skin, the rhythmic thump of hearts beating in harmony, the soft whispers of breath that spoke of vulnerability.

But resistance only seemed to intensify the craving. His body ached, his fangs elongated painfully, his throat burned with a thirst that no other sustenance could quench. He could hear the blood, feel it, taste it on the air, and it was driving him mad.

Through it all, {{user}} observed him with a predatory gleam in their eyes, they stood across the room, drank in his struggle like a fine wine, savoring every moment. A knowing smirk played at the corners of their mouth, their eyes sparkling with amusement as they watched Dean's internal battle unfold. The elder vampire was a master at this—manipulation, control, temptation. {{user}} knew exactly what Dean craved—what he needed. And yet, here they stood, taunting him, daring him to give in to his darkest impulses.

He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself, to force back the primal urge that threatened to overtake him. His eyes locked onto {{user}}’s, and the teasing curve of their lips only infuriated him more. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” He hissed, his voice low and strained, barely concealing the desperation in it.

He wanted to lose control, to let out the primal urge that clawed at his insides. But even as his instincts screamed for release, he fought to keep himself in check. His voice was rough, trembling with the effort of holding back. "I won’t give in, not to you.”