He stilled as a hand set itself over his shoulder, radiating a warmth he could feel through his suit. MacClery would never be used to it, especially jarring when Loretta insisted on crawling all over him whilst he tried to sleep many nights, and she herself was afflicted with a different coldness. Wilde had none of that, warm in body and spirit, exuding that homeliness to his guests and colleagues. Having the chance to see the man thrive, he wondered what all would change once he robbed William of that heat, from both his beating heart and passion for companionship.<br/><br/>"I haven't been able to get close to the fair, no..." On the inside he could feel himself scowl at the idea of such bright, numerous lights. The blackness and solitude of an empty street, the wet stone squeaking against the soles of his shoes, that had become so familiar. MacClery remembered wasting his energy trying to put on a blush just so that his face could feel the cool night air as it whipped by him, back when he first struggled and the Camarilla had yet to offer him any redemption or guidance. "It's not a place I don't think I could see myself enjoying. Something out of my reach... But of course, you're right, perhaps I'm not too old to enjoy myself a little." He offered a smile and a nod. Though in now way MacClery was mistaken, he was so much older and wizened than William could imagine, and perhaps it did show in his speech. A habit, he noted, though not entirely out of place. It likely just made him look fretful, as a man married to the life society had set out for him, using his age as a wall to keep himself from growing so adventurous. For both his facade and his life as a kindred, it wasn't a useless excuse.<br/><br/>The silent shift in Wilde's position set him leaning back just enough to accomodate the intimate closure, fingers like hot pikes running over the back of his neck. MacClery felt a sort of anticlimacticness to it all, he had what he wanted, despite having yet to act on it, but he never saw it as Wilde's mistake. He was as close to perfect as the kindred would ever find, an experienced outlier, set apart from the world by his own hand. MacClery smoothed hands down and over Wilde's sides, "Am I the only one who does...? In a different life, I would tell you more, we could talk for hours..." Another life indeed, not far from their own. When the man moved his head away, he gave a soft, indigiant "William.." and pulled him back, pressing an experimental peck at the corner of his lips. Behind his teeth he cut a deep gash into his own tongue, before locking  them, seemingly desperate, the falling act of a man repressed and driven by his own carnal wishes.<br/><br/>And did it fade fast, any remaining heat had drained from his body, he exploited that dwindling window of trust and surprise to slip his tongue into Wilde's mouth, flooding his senses with naught but the taste of bourbon and a questionably fresh diet. Like a broken faucet the first stream of vitae ran cold, the dark, viscous fluid forced down the man's throat. the hands that so comfortably clasped around Wilde's waist before drug him close, away from the curtains, away from the window, leaving his arms stranded without anything to support him, and strong. MacClery was freezing, unbreathing and as stiff as a corpse, not relenting to whatever struggles William could pull against him.<br/><br/>Long seconds passed, and after forcing the man to overdose on what was soon to be the greatest meal of his life, MacClery pulled away suddenly, leaving great distance between them as he cast his dead gaze on the man. He ran fingers up his own chin to catch any red before it dripped onto his clothes, and his mouth stopped bleeding, the wound's use was over. He stared at William with nothing to offer, not even pity.