---]] b.eat

[fαllεη •]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,589,true][atrb=background,http://i234.photobucket.com/albums/ee203/tigertron56/Warriors/HtB/Flynn-post.jpg,true] [scrolly:h(300),w(450),sy] Like a fang, the music pierced something inside her, something that made her head bob and sway in time to the music. It coursed through her veins like the worst kind of poison, the kind that caused muscles to spasm, tails to lash. She'd die down here, one day, and the thought was strangely comforting: even in death, her heart might be persuaded to beat in time to the rich drum beat; her ears might find the voice of their yowler. But for now, something drummed in her chest, kept her legs bouncing and her head pounding in time, like the mess of hot forms around her. They were playing one of her favourites, an old rock piece with a little more screaming than she was used to, one that made you want to scream along side them. And, as always, they made her feel as if the world could travel the nine lengths to hell and burn in fire for all she cared, as long as the swingers kept up their frantic strumming. Flynn was, if not in her element, then certainly as close as damn it. Under the strobing lights, bodies around her thrashed, deafened by the glory of their bodies moving in time. Somewhere on stage, the singer was taking a breather from singing to yowl at the crowd, and she felt the ripple in her bones as they roared something back. Whatever it was, it was what he wanted, and the beat stepped up again. Many joined in with the chorus, notable only as a slight burst of white noise over the yowler's rich cadences, and Flynn soon realised that she was singing along with them, almost unable to hear her own voice inside her head. But that was what the music was for, wasn't it? It kept you safe from the darkness outside, made your kits grow up strong and singing, made your parents grow old dancing. She lived for this feeling of oneness, this mystic joining of singer and listener. It was, after all, what had persuaded her to become a singer in the first place. Well, quite apart from her discs, safe once again at her place, backed up on the local computed her request to one of the tech gurus. Cody, his name was... something like that. 'Back at her place' - it made her feel both independent and, somehow, as if she were betraying those who slept here. But the pulsing of the floors and the bodies and even the air around her made whatever fears she had melt away like snow. Some tom roared something about dancing in her ear, and she flashed him a brilliant, pointed smile before rising onto her hind legs and offering him a paw. He rose to join her, and their forepaws pressed together, her face leaving so close to his that his musky scent overrode any other. She smiled at his ridiculous dancing, tried to show him that he was trying to play her like an instrument. Swingers often made the best dancers, but this tom was clearly an exception to the rule. His methods were crude - look, sweetie, you're not supposed to use your claws when our paws happen to be touching. Still, whatever his skill, the boy had guts, and she was enjoying the clumsy attempts at twirling; even the way he tried to use his tail as an extra hind paw (planting it on the ground, like it would provide any support at all!) And then, while yowler and drummer tossed themselves into a frenzy, he leaned in to lick her check. She laughed, dropping to all fours before he could taste her. "Stick with your girls, Cassanova," she yelled above the noise. It didn't matter whether he'd heard her or not; she simply pushed her way through the seething mass to the edge. The drummer was bringing the rhythm up, the yowler was reaching his crescendo; swingers, their claws flashing, plucked out their melody. Up, up, her heart singing with them... and then the crash, as everything went silent. The screaming applause filled it rapidly, every voice in the club joining in the any. On stage, Flynn grinned, showing white fangs, as the yowler took his bows and the drummer gave a final drum-roll. [/scrolly]