The bass rolled down Morgan's shoulders like wet thunder, the steady, sticky beat just slightly out of rhythm with his heart. He didn't care for the place much-- it was too hot, the heat too palpable, full of the stench of twisting bodies and sweat. At least the music was tolerable. His eyes fell shut, fingers (long and elegant and perfectly suited for curling around small and dusty glasses of whiskey) resting easily on the bartop.

With a sigh, he shoved his fingers up and through his mess of hair, pulling his bangs back from his forehead and eyes. He was bored, as simply as that, and the thought angered him on some level. The move to the city had been to get away from the boredom, to put a fresh new slash in his life. Instead, the place was just like home, only bigger. The crowds had more faces and shuffled along more quickly, but that was about it.

Morgan downed the glass of amber liquid in front of him, before sliding from his seat with a pleasant sort of heady rush. Music was fine, drinks were good, but there was nothing original here. Fingers came up to curl around the charm dangling from the thin gold chain around his neck that stood in sharp contrast to his black, sleeveless shirt, head bowed down unconciously as he sifted through the small throng of people for the exit.

He wasn't exactly paying attention to where he was going, seemingly lost in thought, even though his mind was more blank than anything.

((Mine. So very mine. Just give me a bit to respond and by the way MINE. *duct-tapes self to thread*))

(( ..lmfao. *prods the duct-tape* Alrighty. x3; If you say so. XD ))

((Uh. *slinks* Absence? What.. absence?))

Boredom.

Boredom is contagious. Infectious. It's a plague, pustules of restlessness, person to person - and Di won't be having that. Not in here. Not tonight, when even the line he was given was cut with filler and the strobe light's faltering every few beats.

Flash beat flash beat. Flashflash.

Quick moment of illumination, and it's the easiest thing in the world to hook out one finger - too corporeal for the minimal stimulation of the night, glow a little dull, skin dry - looped fast around the slack of the man's necklace.

Gold is weak. Chains are inefficient. Dionis himself is both tonight - a god of little splendor, old jeans (manmade) and a tank he shoved together out of the stray energy of the back room's microwave oven. Bruises along his arms, little pricks of blood, injection marks into the elbow - messy. Hair tangled and short, smelling like myrrh, filth under his fingertips and body frame twisting dangerously every breath.

Only half of this is an act.

Beat. Flash. Beat.

They've both, the two of them, grabbed on to the chain and he can feel it, in the tensile details of his fingertips, this joint pull - the impending give of the metal, the forward momentum of the other man. Dionis isn't moving. He isn't, at the moment, breathing - he'll remember to, in a moment, after the wolfscent fades.

Flashflash.

( ooc; Argh. I've been staring at this for like. A day now. Trying to figure out how in the WORLD I could write anything and not be completely embarassed. *!!!* I'mma be away for about a week after tonight, but.. but.. I should manage to scrape together a post soon. :D

I WORSHIP YOU. )

The hair on Morgan's arms and the back of his neck stood up in a flash of something that mildly resembled terror, but he was the predator, not the prey, and he wasn't scared. He had halted almost immediately as he felt the tension on the chain, the steady pull against his grip, and he pressed the small charm tightly between his thumb and forefinger.

"Excuse me," he growled, just loudly enough so that his words did not become lost in the whirlwind of sound and color and light and taste around them, the same one that they, just for a moment, had ceased to be part of. "This is just a little awkward, you see."

He twisted his head to the side, recognition and not sparking his eyes, his mind. He could sense power, something slightly unnatural about him, but he had never seen anything quite like Di before and, of course, had no idea just what he was.

Had Morgan been the wolf, which he, fortunately, was not, he would have sneered and fled as quickly as possible. Since he was not, he wrote off this surge of surprised emotion as a trick of the light, a sudden rebellion of the alcohol in his stomach and veins.

He lifted his narrow shoulders, standing awkwardly, defensively.

There were too many damn crazies in this place.

The defensive position is what gives him away, because if he shows fear then that means Di can use that - man isn't a predator, barely a predator at all but he still knows the rules. Fear without acknowledgement means a fight. Alpha male. Dionis wins.

Shows this in his own loose fearless, chest pressed close to the other man, following, eyes bright and wild and desperately afraid of boredom. His hands are shaking, but that might be that last pill kicking in. Wonders why he has hands.

"Awkward?"

Breath smells like dried spices and clean saliva, warm and wet and a bit more alive than he is. Which is fine. He's reaching for the charm - wants to see, or rather, wants to be shown.

"Why awkward?"

Happy, feral grin.

"Because we're not, you see."

It was a mock-aristocratic tone, a warning, a 'get the hell away from me', though he wasn't sure what he'd do if this mottledwax man didn't leave him alone. The charm slid through his fingers, his hands falling to his sides and making tight fists.

He was not wholly sure if he would win in a fistfight, and then the idea startled him: why was he worried about fistfights when they'd barely exchanged three words?

Maybe it was the air around him, or the fact that he was, and maybe shouldn't have been.

Morgan's fingers slid back up to the charm, a silly, simple cross that barely was, despite the fact that he really wasn't religious at all. "Mine," he said, simply, then shifted forward.

He already owed a favor to one god; he wasn't going to chance making it to two.

Follows him in the movement, pressed flush against him and smiling and fucking glowing, not any brighter than he's been before but, man, it's there, green and soft and radioactive under his skin and his lips, teeth white and clean and bared. Di's hand follows the kid's up, around the charm, his own hand cupping the kid's fist - grinning, grinning, laughing somewhere in the back. It's very ridiculous. The boy is in a club. Dionis is the god to pray to here.

"Can't we share?"

Di doesn't look like he could maybe win a fight with an eight-year-old, but he isn't budging and his lips are pressed tight and thin and glossed, arms and shoulders tensed and strong, eyes wild with the abandon of the very, very wasted. Even some humans could best a werewolf, with the help of PCP. Dionis is practically made of the stuff.

Morgan shivered, and it was a simple, everday thing that rocked to his feet and chattered his teeth. Geese were waddling, defecating and having sex all over his grave-- or maybe a god had just decided to grip at his fist.

"I don't like sharing."

It hurt his eyes, sort of, almost as if he were spying on a movie he was too young to watch, even though he was well into adulthood and there were few things he hadn't already seen, anyway.

"Anything."

He bared his teeth and ran the tip of his tongue over the top row, sliding his eyes shut and twisting his shoulders to the side, tightening the grip on the charm so that the sides of the cross nearly cut into his palm.

"So, like I said. Excuse me."

He'll let it. He'll let the cross dig in, skin hardy (werewolf) and even if it weren't, if it were the kid's wrists or neck or inner thighs (where blood runs warm and close to the surface), he'd let it. And he really is laughing now, letting his weight fall forward, crowding the man and invading the sober smell of his aura. Close enough to hear without trying, hear the scrape of tongue against teeth and watch that bit of flesh and saliva.

"That isn't very polite."

Voice low and cheerful and thick with something dark and drug-fed. He's almost scaling the man's leg, now, sliding up the guy and pressed deep and hard against his chest and shoulders even as he moves. The bodies around them don't sway or notice, and it's beautiful. Another inch forward, abrupt movement, and he offers a slow drag of lips over Morgan's neck, oily and black with gloss.

He heard the laugh, felt the movements (because he could feel more than see him now, feel the shifts and the breaths, feel the way he pressed his way into his space. Morgan's heart raced, blood thumped in his ears and splashed to the front of his face, so much headier and more panicked and more aware then ten seconds of alcohol could ever make him.

"This isn't, either."

Morgan groaned and rocked his head to the side, the ground lifted, the situation surreal, and he pressed back against him, an unwholesome mixture of steady, wanton pressure and a pleading 'get away', because there were consequences, he was sure there would be consequences, and he wasn't even sure of the crime he was committing yet.

Hearing pitched high enough to get the rustle of clothing and skin and the groan is a shock and reverberates heavy in his ribcage, and there's supreme power in that and Dionis seizes it, seizes Morgan, chest to back and arm wrapped tight around the kid's chest and pulling him into himself, muffling out his own low and steady laughter that fills and swells and aches and is fucking revelry.

"Yeah?"

Incredulous, cheerful word, breathy, mouth pressed to the jugular and tonguing the pulse-point there, fingertips up to the sternum to feel the breath and heart. Dion isn't subtle and he doesn't quit, but there is the implication of waiting as if for acceptance or permission. The music is horrifyingly loud but Di isn't San and if he were told to stop, really told to stop, he would, and this is gently evident in the loose, breakable hold of the arm around Morgan's chest.

Morgan ached. He ached at the sounds, the touches, the warmth closed on his neck and the arm around him, a distant sort of floating high. He arched his back, head thrown back again, one arm curled around Dionis's and the high came with an indecisive hovering.

His heart hammered in his ribcage, beat and flushed his body with blood, made his fingertips and toes tingle, and the werewolf was, momentarily helpless. This damn place that stank of sweat and alcohol and smeared lipstick became (for a few seconds) a tangy sort of heaven.

The wolf groaned again, the sound pained and almost feral as he stopped, just /stopped/ moving, save for the rapid breaths and the risefallrisefall of his chest.

"What are you getting out of this?"

Holds him upright, effortless, as if the man could liquify entirely in his arms and he'd hold him up through sheer force alone. The smell is.. the smell is bright, wicked, tacky, terribly interesting and not as human as he'd like it to be. Isn't anyone a human anymore? He misses them, somewhere in the back of his head and heart and groin. They were nice.

"It's fun, inn'it?"

Voice bright but monotone now as the wolfscent floods him and it isn't as appealing as it could be. There's something acrid and grungey dissolving in his stomach, something time-released that's just now releasing, warm and thick and seeping into his joints and knuckles and his hold slackens, arm twitching. The muscle jumps are in tune with what is apparently passing as music.

It was bad, when this being had taken hold of him, had pulled an arm around his middle and had seemed to halt time in the tiny area they occupied. It was scary, thrilling, a number of things that Morgan really wasn't willing or able to form with words, because the feelings ran deeper than that, as steadily and as thickly as blood.

It was worse when he started to pull away, when the grip around him went slack, and his eyes flashed in something like offense. What, was he not good enough for him? Had he done something wrong?

What a hypocrite.

The werewolf pushed back, shoulderblades against chest, rocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes in a gesture that was pointed but not challenging.

"Chickening out?"

The words rolled from his tongue easily enough, but the phrase didn't feel complete, as if he'd left something hanging, unfinished.

"Dance?"

Somewhere between a command and a question, because as much as he would have liked to command him, there was still the feeling, the sickly glowing aura that pushed him back, made him bow his head.

Yeah. King of hypocrites, even.

Pointed is a challenge, everything's a challenge. Right now every time Morgan breathes Di is feeling it and the word 'dance' is every battle cry ever called. Or at least all the ones Di can remember.

Roll of his chest and vocal chords and it comes out 'Yeah', which is fortunate - it hadn't started in English. Some Universal Translator in the music, maybe, or the push of the kid's head against Di's shoulders. Willing submission.

All right. Yeah. Okay.

His joints are still milky and slow but Christ, he's a god slow is.. slow is nothing, and the strength is there, and his hand's up over the kid's chest and over his neck and Dionis is moving, what might be dancing, an older primal sort of dancing with movement all in the hips and thighs, fingernails jagged and dull and pressing into where he can feel wolfboy's pulse which is everywhere. The strobe lights are ancient and crackling and fucking bright and they light up every challenge Dionis is throwing back, challenges mostly like 'Can you -' and 'harder', 'faster'. 'Stronger'.

Morgan could, and he did, awkward at first as he threw himself into the uncomfortable sort of dance, shifting back against him and tossing his head up, shuddering hotly as the fingers grazed his chest, dug into his throat. Things highlighted around him, the others in the club slow, smeared in slow-motion dust.

"Yeah," he answered back, his voice just as dusky as his face, his eyes, light shocking bright behind his eyes, searing his nerves, locking his knuckles and his mind, and despite how much he thought he might just collapse backwards, his body remained faithful, kept moving, didn't stop.

Words were a challenge, now, required too much thought, too many ideas strung together coherently, and he was thinking on a level a little more animalistic than 'coherent'.

Fast contradiction of creation over true input - the nerve endings in the body, Di's, real signals of hot and soft and hard, the lower (brighter) singing of Morgan's skin which Dionis can feel above and beyond and through what he's calling his - it is his, Morgan is his, the room is thick and acrid with sweat and heat and the sweet incense-smells of smoke and this means little, these many observances of 'here' and 'now' when really the truth of it is in the movement.

Human bodies are meant to bend in certain directions, joints and muscles positioned to pivot at just an angle, turn to such a degree, and the knowledge of all these prescribed movements doesn't stop Di from leaning back, pulling the kid with him, stretching out his own shoulder and spine before the arc must transfer to Morgan.

"When you're in the wolf -"

Light further tug, a grind of hips and thighs - Dionis, now, bent back over his own center of gravity, inviting the kid with him and back into new shapes, new designs and figures and blueprints of bodies that can do this. What he's doing. Not much more than a deep chiropractic adjustment, the way Di's holding him, but with every incremental shift the potential of a wrenched ninety-degree angle is more obvious.

"- how far can you go?"

Forward, again, enough to balance them easily on their own weight, smile pressed deep into the back of Morgan's neck. Waiting.

Nearly enough to make him toss his head back and shut his eyes to it, to plead to be let /go/ again, before instinct halted and it clicked soundly, warmly, thickly in his own mind that he wasn't natural, either. Not human, not normal, not typical, not accepted.

He arched, stretched as far as he could go, limber and glad to be a dancer, glad to be a wolf, glad to be above the rest of these forsaken humans that danced and moved and shifted against each other like so many dogs in heat.

Thrilling, but it was a relief when support was there, was obvious again, and he could feel lips carving designs into his skin.

"I don't know."

A movement of the hips and the legs and he pressed back, straightening his spine again and giving a sigh that wasn't really of the relieved nature.

"I've never tested my limits."

((>< Shortpost. Sorry.))

Tighter, then, around his waist and teeth bared against his neck, the dull flats of them, slick and smooth.

"You should."

Hand, then, up to the kid's mouth, fingertips skating across lips and cheek, finding where the fangs would be and pressing, almost massaging.