The thick, soft carpet is a calming mauve in the hall's soft-edged twilight, He is nearly immaculate, but within the room he lurks outside is a man he - He is confused, but determined to meet this impulse? desire? need? Head on. The library is huge and warm and perfectly suited to the man in the chair by the fire. He ghosts toward the pleasant man all too aware of his childish proportions.
"I completed the mission." The firelight is kind. "That's fine. I'll hear your report in the morning." So easily dismissed is he? Despite the fire he shivers feeling cold. He wishes now that it had been a messier kill thinking maybe the blood would now be keeping him warm. The calm, appraising eyes studying him are warm enough and deep down a fire burns. His clan is of fire surely he can handle it and not be burned,
Carefully he steps forward and then he tosses caution to the wind, He sits in this man's lap. He can feel the latent force making him feel as though he were a kitten sitting before the paws of a lion. Safe only be the grace of this man,. He can barely feel the stiffing that means he has crossed an indelible line. Quickly he whispers something fervently unsure of what he means, but grateful to feel a softening in the posture. His head is on the man's shoulder as he rests his hand on what should be a 'fragile' mockery of a chest focusing on the strong, vibrant pulse. Carefully, madly he reaches beneath the cloth to gather an impression of silk stretch threadbare over unyielding heat and will and then he is immobile. Pinned and wantonly arching into the heat.
He feels the lips at his ear. Too close, not close enough - teasing? Even as he analyzes the words whispered in his ear he realizes how quiet they are. That realization is all that keeps him civilized and silent when he wants nothing more then to lose himself. It takes a moment to appreciate that the sandaime expects an answer. His fuzzy mind has to regroup and recollect. "What did you think you are doing?" There isn't a simple answer and besides his leader is speaking again. He struggles to turn his head in order to taste them on his lips. Intoxicated - has to be by this strength and power he feels and wants it now. Wants to be consumed by it now.
So little effort to take. It takes, tastes like apple cider and mother's silence. Gentle and bemused, this man is toying with him as is his due, but he will make him pay one day. These thoughts are less then chaff because he is lost and desperate to deepen this despite the skillful game of give and take. Almost and then that intoxication pulls back to stare at him. "It's time to go." The tone brooks neither reprise nor any allowance. Yet he knows his place and privileges well as a young clan genius. As long as he does what is expected he may be as strange as he likes. Besides those eyes dare him to leave this unfinished.
Snuggling closer he again reaches beneath the clothes reaching for it. It lies warm, soft and heavy at half-mast in his absurdly small hand. Holding like a talisman he ventures to sleep basking in the warmth.