The wolf was getting antsy.

It didn't like how it was only allowed out during the night. It snuck through his personality, making him say things he never would, following people he would normally shy away from, attacking, fighting, fleeing, making him angry and fidgety and..

Well.

He looked at a mannequin. Stared at it actually—was it trying to look him down? Bared his teeth, fuck you, at least I'm not a stuffed, rendition of an anorexic woman!

So he was a little loopy during these times.

He wondered if Morgan was near. Smelled the air. Nearly whimpered, but growled instead.

People looked at him weird. He glared.

As luck would have it, Morgan was, in fact, near. Leaning against the outside archway to some fancy clothing shop, actually, a plastic bag full of clothes swinging from his forearm, his head tilted in half-amused curiosity.

Talk about PMS, but, then again, he had never had that much of a time controlling his inner demons, so to speak.

He stepped forward, movements light, feet rolling and shoulders held high, straight, and despite his perfect silence he knew that Conan would probably detect him anyway.

"Those fishnets'd look good on you," Morgan said as he halted behind him, not betraying his joke with even the slightest hint of a smile. "Shopping?"

He was startled. So intent he was on glaring the mannequin down again that he didn't even hear Morgan approach, or smell him, or whatever. His senses were keen, yes, but they were all currently focused on the stuffed woman in front of him.

The wolf stared at Morgan. Bristled, hackles up, wary and weary.

Conan stepped on its tail.

"No, not really," he kept his voice calm, thankfully. "Just looking around. Trying to distract my better half." Worse half. This wolf was going to be the death of him.

"By staring at mannequins?"

Morgan shook his head as he adjusted the weight of the bag on his arm, tipping his head back and observing the thing on display.

"Ugly fucker, though, isn't it?" He commented idly, ticking his gaze back down, following up with a: "Uh, the mannequin, not your wolf. Not that I'd know, yet. But distraction? There are better ways to distract."

He quirked an eyebrow suggestively at him.

"You know, you could always come over to my place." A long, lewd glance. "We could play Monopoly."

"I prefer playing cards."

Conan was really good at picking up innuendos. Completely. Totally.

Actually, he fucking sucked at them.

He let his gaze travel up to Morgan's face, and he smiled slightly. Nice looking guy, that Morgan. Actually, really, everything was nice about him.

"In any case, I suck at Monopoly. I always end up bankrupt." He was good at building, not finance. He reached up. Tweaked Morgan's hair, brushed his fingers against his forehead, just an idle touch, nothing spectacular. The kind of touch that was unconscious, that you do without realizing it.

"And mannequins are always a challenge." He turned back to it, as if to prove his point. "I mean, how does someone stare down a mannequin?" He turned back to Morgan.

The wolf hypothetically kicked him.

"—wait. Back to your apartment?" He blushed. Honestly blushed. A grin—sheepish.

Lust from the wolf. He was obviously all for it. Pheromones, could that be from him? He was almost embarrassed. Heat—from the wolf—this was bad. His wolf was getting a little out of control.

"In any case." He was desperate to jump to a different subject. "Fishnets are uncomfortable."

That wasn't a good subject to jump to.

"Cards. Right."

Morgan tipped his head back and laughed, a slight, dusty sound that was better suited to late night meetings and not the middle of a mall. Everything about him at the moment was a little scroungy, with a white shirt folded up on his arms, just a bit too long, faded and beaten denim pants with holes in the knees that were probably natural.

"We could do cards instead of monopoly."

His hand moved up, as if following Conan's, before he let it sag to the side again and shoved it back into his pocket. Surprising kid, really-- he was small, looked so quiet, kind of meek, naive, innocent.. sure, the same qualities Morgan would stick to a four year old girl who had just dropped her ice cream on the ground or something. But, wow, what a kicker in bedroom--

--..he figured he'd just leave those thoughts to the bedroom.

"But if you're busy, that's fine." Catching the blush, he laughed again ande reached up, returning one of those absent touches, letting the pad of his thumb play at the other man's lower lip. "Just a suggestion.. and, by the way, I've never worn fishnets." Morgan let his eyes jump from Conan's mouth to his eyes, one eyebrow quirked in a sort of challenging manner. "But at least buy a pretzel with me."

"A pretzel."

How did the wolf manage to maul that innocent word?!

He didn't even know if his imaginings were physically possible.

Shifted, uncomfortable, everything about Morgan was nice, yes, but also made him feel like he was crawling up the walls. He would be, too, if it were physically possible. Which it wasn't. Sometimes he wished he was Spider-Man, so that he really could climb up walls while he was feeling as antsy as he was.

"Yeah. We can get pretzels, I'm hungry anyway." For meat, but carbohydrates were good, in any case.

Conan's wolf was classy. He liked looking good, in a sort wild way. A faded bomber jacket. Loose pants that slung from his hips. A tight white shirt. Chokers—he'd always been fond of jewelry and couldn't figure out why it was only socially acceptable for girls to wear them. He liked chains and leather and jewels and whatnot.

His mind really needed to stop tricking him like so.

"Right. Pretzels." He rolled his shoulders in what he hoped was an absent shrug, and offered a small grin. "Er. I would like to go to your place." He liked the idle touches. The grin widened slightly. "To play cards, of course. Go fish, or something."

Those eyes of his could be wicked.

"Yeah, a pretzel," Morgan echoed, leaning over and touching his hand to Conan's side, sliding his palm around and down into his back pocket. He stepped closer, letting his hand rest there for just a moment, as if making sure the world knew that this wolf was his. "But I guess I'll have to pay."

His hand pulled away empty; he hadn't really paid any attention to whether there was anything in the pocket or not, had just been looking for an excuse to put his hand there. "And you're always welcome at my house." The head dropped to the side, just slightly, an oddly canine gesture that he didn't notice from himself. "Especially for, er. Go Fish."

He licked his lips, wondering if he should feel guilty. Wasn't like he'd tainted or raped this guy, but there was still something about him. Made him smile when he saw him from behind staring out at the mannequin, and, no, it wasn't just the sight of the butt that made him happy.

Eh. Morgan guessed he could deal with slightly affectionate feelings.

"But the pretzel first. M'hungry, too."

He shifted closer to Morgan, unconsciously, nudging him gently with his shoulder. Liked the idle touches, they made him feel appreciated. He didn't mind the looks they were getting—let them stare.

His eyes lit up. Lips against Morgan's ear, provocative.

"Let's give them something to talk about."

He'd always been fond of that song.

An arm snaked around Morgan's waist, fingers splayed against his side, lightly, wiggling gently to see if he was ticklish (he liked when men were ticklish. Not many men were, and it made him gleeful when they had that small quirk. It was cute.). He pressed close, indecently close, reveled in the way people stopped and looked and whispered, and at the same time blushed and felt something akin to exhibitionism.

If a guy and a girl could be all touchy, why can't a guy and a guy?

He wouldn't even mind a full make out session (complete with the groping) against the ceiling to floor windows, the ones that advertised, in swooping letters, '50% Off! Sale! Sale!'.

"I hope they have cinnamon pretzels." A grin. The invitation was still there.

"I'm all for it."

Morgan turned his face to the side, trying to catch Conan's lips with his own, exhaling sharply in something that might have been a laugh as he slid his hand down and tried to bat Conan's away.

One arm pulled around the other's waist, too, pulling him closer yet, just wanting to be against him, and, hey, if they got kicked out of this mall, the stores here sucked, anyway. "Cinnamon pretzels?" He ducked down, kissing him again, the free hand coming up to touch through his hair. He wanted to say he tasted faintly like sugar and cinnamon, but that was probably just his imagation filling in for him. "I like the cheese. The spicey kind."

What a conversation to have.

As if reading his thoughts, he glanced up at the windows, quirking his brow and pondering, before wiggling his hips just a little against Conan's, more for the crowd they were gathering than anything else.

Conan, for purely theatrical sakes (no. really.), yanked Morgan against the window. His imagination, of course, supplied him with the image of the mannequin taking a good hard look at his arse, so he shook it a bit for good measure.

"I've always been fond of...spicing things up." He grinned wildly at that, gleeful at the play on words, proud at himself for the pun.

He dropped his hands down to Morgan's hips, gripping them, glancing at people over Morgan's shoulder, still grinning. He turned his attention back to the other wolf, caught his lips in a small kiss. His hands travelled again—theatrical purposes, promise—to his butt.

Eat it up, mates. This is the show of your lifetime, and you don't even need cable to view it.

"Spicing things up, heating things up, fogging things up.." Morgan's arm slipped back so that both hands could curl gently on his waist, holding Conan as much as Conan was holding him, touching his fingers into his side.

What a skinny boy, he thought randomly, absurdly, then focused back on the matter at hand.

Following the look of surprised he had assumed when the other wolf had oh-so-boldly grabbed his butt, Morgan leaned down and kissed him deeply, a kiss now that was still for show, even though he really, really enjoyed kissing the other man.

Almost as an afterthought, he pulled away, tossing a sort of frown over his shoulder at the small crowd.

"Huh, you'd think they'd get when we want some alone time."

"And yet with just a touch of sweetness that just makes it all worth it."

One of those treacherous hands travelled up to trace Morgan's bottom lip idly. He liked that look, the surprised one, because it meant that he was unexpected, that he was doing things out of the ordinary instead of being just the boring old Conan that everyone knew.

He liked that kiss even more, the heated kiss that felt like velvet and music, that sent rolls of dangerous pleasure sparking through his body. Atoms felt electrified, body felt alive, touches felt like fire—it was hard to accept this was all make believe.

He'd make them believe, all right.

"Alone time?" There was a glint to his eyes and a grin to his lips, wolfish and utterly wicked. Lips to his jaw, a gentle nudge of his nose that was reminiscent of a dog. "Let those voyeurs watch."

His wolf was certainly daring.

A tug. Kissed him again hotly. Tongue rough like silk, gentle like pain.

Morgan looked slightly dazed, gently biting the finger as Conan lifted it to trace his lip, not sure whether he wanted to smile or just roll them both down onto the floor.

"Damn voyeurs," he answered, and his voice was grating, husky, utterly pleased before he was kissed again, pressing a hand tightly to Conan's shoulders. Oh, well; the people watching were half the fun, weren't they?

Vaguely, he wondered if any rent-a-cops were going to toddle along and pull them apart. Morgan pulled away, just a bit, leaning down and nearly attacking the side of his neck with sharp, biting kisses, going around the choker and tugging down at the collar of his shirt.

Yup.

He was getting down to business.

As if reading Morgan's thoughts—

"We're going to get ourselves arrested.

But his hands trailed down his back, over his spine, and his fingers bravely worked under Morgan's shirt and traced the area where his tail would be if he had one, and his head tilted to the side and back to allow Morgan more access to his neck.

thump.

He grimaced very slightly at accidentally hitting the back of his head against the glass, but there was no other way around it. If you were going to do things (or have things done to you) against a wall or a window, then you better be willing to make some sacrafices.

Distractedly, he ducked his head down with an almost animalistic growl, catching Morgan's lips with his own, insistantly, the wolf trying to dominate—harsh and heavy and so fucking hot.

He pulled back, slightly, eyes shining and challenging and amused and nervous.

"..I hope they put us in the same cell."

Morgan had laughed, really, a warm, shaking sound against Conan's throat as he had pulled back, and he'd felt the vibrations and heard the sound. He restrained a comment about him being a clutz, which was partly swallowed when he was caught with a deep, surprising kiss.

"They will if they know what's good for them," he growled back, reveling in the touches and the kisses, every sound and shift of skin against skin, and suddenly, in a motion that really /looked/ planned, he had pulled away, snagging part of Conan's hand and part of his wrist, dragging him from the windows.

"Pretzel before we land ourselves in prison?" Amazing how well he could mask a raging sextitude, though his face was flushed and his lips were swollen and there was a rather pleased look in his eyes.

Scattered applause rang from behind them.

"Pretzel?"

That was the last thing on his mind, and he had to grapple helplessly with his wandering thoughts. More like speeding. Thoughts on drugs, drug of choice: adrenaline.

His wolf writhed with disappointment.

"Oh, yeah. Pretzels." Cinnamon, right?

He followed helplessly after Morgan, feeling like one big walking erogenous zone. Damn. He wished the mall was empty, or that there was a free dressing room. Right there. Cramped, sure, but very useful.

"In any case, I heard that prison food wasn't tasty." From who? "Might as well stock up on those."

Edged closer to the other, more to his side, if slightly behind him. Follow the leader—he was rather good at that. Instincts, even.

The applause startled him, but he ignored it. Senses were going fucking crazy right now, pupils huge with lust and breathing heavy, man, he sounded like he'd just almost had some rockin' sex.

Heh.

"We should play cards later."

"Go fish?" Morgan murmured, tossing a slightly wild look back at him, the grin of his lips mirrored in his eyes. "Crazy eights, maybe?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to slide his hand up to grip his arm or down to grip his hand, but decided on down, because it was easier to drag him along with tangled fingers.

He took another sort of heavy breath, pausing helplessly just at the edge of the food court, as if not sure where exactly to go, tugging Conan gently to the side and against him in an absent, wide-eyed movement.

Maybe the pretzels /weren't/ such a good idea.

"So."

He had to work to swallow another suggestive grin.

"Do you..play cards often?"

"Often?" The question puzzled him. "Sure, every other night, at least. Me and a bunch of friends get together and play a couple of hands—"

Unless..

He flushed. Horribly. How silly of him, he was the one who had started the innuendo in the first place.

"That's not what I meant." His tone was embarrassed, this was obvious enough. "I meant literally play cards."

Bit his lower lip—that sounded so bad. A slightly accusatory glare, after all, Morgan was the reason for the slip up.

"As for the other thing—" He flushed again, moving so that he was facing Morgan. Pulled their hands to his lips, gently biting the tips of Morgan's fingers.

"It depends on who my opponant is."

"We can play cards.." Morgan had laughed at that, relaxing slightly, the playful look still on his face. "Real cards, fake cards, whatever kind of cards you want.. doesn't really matter to me, to tell you the truth."

He wiggled his fingers just a little bit as Conan brought them up to his mouth, stepping toward him, closing in the small bit of space between them just marginally. "Invite me over to play sometime." He leaned down, just a bit, not wanting to merely repeat the actions of minutes ago. Well, not that he'd mind kissing him again, but..

"And this opponent likes you. I win all the time."

He grinned, then squeezed the fingers. "Must mean you're losing. You don't mind so much, do you?"

"All the time?" Conan snorted, but his eyes were dancing with amusement. "I think I've had my fair share of victories, and bragging rights to them."

He laughed lightly, then acted as if he were holding a hand of cards. "Pretend cards? Right! Do you have a two?" Glee caused him to sparkle. He leaned up to kiss him momentarily, just a brief thing.

"You're welcome to come play cards whenever you want." He paused, then grinned. "Though if I come home to find you playing...'solitaire'," innuendo here? thank you muchly, "..I might have, 'butt' into the 'game'."

Euphemisms were entirely too enjoyable when they were so goofy.