Dance All Night

by Asymmetry

Tags: #cw:noncon #dom:female #drugs #microfiction #pov:top #t4t #f/f #f/m #sadomasochism #urban_fantasy

A witch challenges a god in order to claim his power.

This story was originally posted as microfiction on my twitter account. Formatting quirks are largely unchanged from the original.

You've been a student of the arcane for six years now, and a postergirl for the edgy atheist teenage boy to witchy trans girl pipeline.

In that time, you've learned so many hidden truths about the world, things that shook your worldview to its core. In particular, that the gods were real, and that each and every one of them used to be human.

It was pretty common knowledge that there were invocations one could perform to commune with a god and ask for their blessing, but those didn't interest you. No, the question that drove you was something more fundamental: how could you become one too?

Your initial research was disheartening. As it turned out, gods have conceptual domains, and while a newly-ascended divinity could challenge a more established one for its metaphysical territory, this tended to turn out poorly for the inexperienced godling.

Most domains were already taken. If you wanted to ascend as something entirely new, you needed to design a grand ritual around something truly obscure, like the guy twenty or so years ago who became god of autocannibalism.

You've seen pictures of his ritual, the Ouroboros. It was *super weird*.

What's more, gods can't be challenged except on their own terms. No challenging a war god to a bakeoff for its domain, that could only be won through some manner of combat. Which, of course, any war god would be impossibly skilled at.

There was, however, another option - rather than challenging a god in all its power and glory, one could contest the person underneath's right to their mantle of divinity. Prove that you embody the god's domain more than the last schmuck, and you ascend, leaving them mortal.

You considered possible targets. Inanna had been close to your heart ever since you came out, but something about fighting a goddess who meant something to you didn't sit right. Goddesses of wisdom were on the table, but enlightenment wasn't quite what you were passionate about.

Passion! Yes! Of course! You've spent the better part of the last decade coming out of your shell, discovering who you are, trying new things, becoming bold and confident. You have reveled in your reshaped body and your new life. Why not keep the revelry going?

You were going to become Dionysus.

Divine mantles aren't gendered, you made absolutely sure of that first. You'd still be *you*. But the time for research was past - you needed to prepare. Communion with the gods requires an offering. For your bait, you'd need one hell of a party.

You drew on your magical studies to line things up. You arranged a meeting with the owner of the largest nightclub in Berlin, and... well. It wasn't quite a will-binding spell, but once she understood how good it felt to give you what you wanted, she begged you to take it.

You hopped from country to country, city to city, club to club. At each one, you found the people who were always down for a good time, who knew how to handle their high, who didn't take too much and freak out on the dance floor. 

You gave your pitch. Most had the same initial reaction: a month in one nightclub? Sounds like Fyre Festival with less sun. But a few mental nudges and a baggie of the best shit they'd ever had slipped into their pockets and they were in.

From partygoers, to live music, to suppliers for food and drink and an array of substances that even Timothy Leary would probably call 'a little much', you spent months tracking down the right people and making sure they were on board.

Maybe you felt a little bad about being more forceful with some of them, but they'd thank you in the end. This was going to be the best month of their lives. As for after, well, what is a goddess without worshippers?

And then, as suddenly as your whirlwind of preparations began, the hour of your ritual was at hand.

The Bacchanal had begun.

You kicked things off, of course. Just a few whispered incantations to activate the enchantments on the building, a perfunctory speech from atop the DJ booth, and you vaulted onto the dance floor, your supernatural charisma drawing everyone in.

It wasn't all grinding and feeling up strangers for you, though. You handed out wine, gave a cute baby punk her first dose of molly with your tongue, you kept the music fresh and upbeat. You kept moving, kept their eyes on you. You were the center of the room, of their universe.

And every drop of wine, every pill, every inch of the dance floor, hell, even the bottled water and condoms were blessed with the sign of Dionysus. Your Bacchanal was divine catnip. How could he resist a summons like this?

Some things started to fray at the edges as the hours bled into days. You heard a heart beating out of time with the pulsing throb of the music and found a woman passed out after one too many.

You climbed into her lap and took a fistful of hair into your hand, whispering the words that would sober her up *just* enough to have a good time again. 

There was a moment as her consciousness returned when she realized that this wasn't normal, that she hadn't slept or showered in days apart from her brief blackout, and that the knowing glint in your eyes indicated that you had done something to her, to all of them.

Her eyes lit up with fear for the instant it took for the pounding rhythm of the party to reassert itself in her mind before her expression melted into an easy smile and she kissed you, long and deep, and danced away, diving back into the celebration.

It didn't take long for you to stop counting days, for the passing of time to lose all meaning in a blur of revelry. Sweat-slick clothes were discarded, forgotten, as your celebrants lost themselves in the energy of the room.

Dancing turned to grinding turned to fucking and back, condoms and toys and lube flowed freely, tongues and hands and teeth explored. Some partygoers preferred other delights, pain and pleasure harmonizing and bleeding into that omnipresent rhythm.

And then He arrived and for the first time in unknown eternities you felt eyes somewhere other than you. Not all of them, you observed, leering at the new arrival. His gaze found yours immediately and you were drawn to Him by His impossible, intoxicating magnetism.

"I was starting to wonder if You were going to bail," you said, somehow still appearing confident in His overwhelming presence. 

"Me? Nah, how could I miss this?" His voice was somehow both pitched for the room and just for you. You felt giddy, drunk.

He pulled you close and the energy in the room shifted, raw divinity pouring into the room. The dancing was fevered, the fucking orgiastic, the sadomasochism somehow sharper. You danced with Him and the world fell away.

"I know what you're trying to do," His breath was hot on your ear, His cunt was grinding into your thigh, His musk was *everywhere* "You won't win, child. I've been doing this a long time." His hands were on you and kept dipping perilously close to the base of your cock but-

But you wouldn't give in that easily. You turned the tables on Him, caressing His body from behind. He moaned theatrically as you whispered, "And I know that You could have ended this the moment You arrived, but the mantle wouldn't let You."

You pulled Him against you forcefully, and you knew His gasp wasn't feigned. Your cock pressed into His back, hot and throbbing in time with the music. "I can't wait to make You my supplicant~" You could feel His erection twitch at your words, without even touching directly.

He turned, meeting your eyes, and *laughed*. It wasn't spiteful or competitive, it wasn't a play for dominance - He was *loving* this, and His joy flowed through the room in waves. You stood there for a few beats, eyes locked in mutual understanding, and smiled.

It was you who broke the silence. "You've been away a while, old man," affectionate, playful as you led Him to the bar and grabbed drinks along with a few tabs of the stuff you'd been saving just for Him. "Here's a little something mortals developed in the sixties."

You slipped the tabs under your tongue, all of them, took a drink, and pulled Him in for a deep kiss, and it was all you could do to force half the tabs into His mouth before you melted into the feeling of His rough skin on yours and the heady, spiced taste of His lips.

You knew, then, that you could surrender and there would be no hard feelings. He would fuck you, His power would fill you, and you would become the first of His new order of priestesses, building Him a vast following of worshippers.

You realized that you could accept this, if you lost. You could live for this, the feeling of His hand on your neck, His tongue dancing with yours, the oily hazy buzz of this high that would never, ever fade.

But both of you knew that that would be *boring*, that anyone worthy of eternal revelry would never let this glorious anticipation end on an anticlimax. You separated wordlessly, each setting off to gather as much energy as possible before the finale.

You could feel the building tension in the room, a rising wave that had yet to crest. You glided from person to person, grinding and groping and licking and sucking, never spending more than a few moments with one person but completely capturing each one's attention.

Your essence and His suffused the room, flowed through everyone, growing ever stronger without ever reaching a peak. It was only the pure, divine distillation of Having A Good Time that made it merely overwhelming rather than unbearable.

And through it all, you could feel the steady creep of the psychadelic cocktail overtaking your mind, bending and twisting the corners of your vision, making the music and the crowd's touch and the strobing lights ever more intense.

For anyone but you and Him, it would be a terrible party drug, especially such a high dose. But here, that sensory overload merely heightens the experience. The ambient contested divinity let you push through physical and mental limits and find only pleasure on the other side.

And then it was time. The revelers had all gathered, absently continuing to dance and fuck but unable to take bloodshot, unblinking eyes off the two of you. You faced each other for a long moment as the club melted around you.

Neither of you approached the other - rather, your awareness simply *shifted* and suddenly you were pressed against one another, slick with sweat, mashing tongue against tongue as the rest of the universe dissolved into kaleidoscopic cacophony.

Your awareness became like a slide show, transitions lost in a mutual overstimulated haze, the sex becoming a slideshow of eternal instants.

He was on His back as you teased His cock out from its hood with your mouth and before/after/simultaneously He was on top, pressing into you, filling you with His fist, and you were inside Him, fucking Him hard and deep. Orgasms came and went and lingered and repeated.

The barriers between your bodies and minds seemed to melt away, everything both of you felt radiating into the crowd, reverberating through them and back to you, every heart palpitating to the rhythm of your lust.

There were moments in your manic, fevered fucking that felt oddly human. Little awkward things like leg cramps and weird sex noises that seemed strange next to your divine, inhuman lust.

But, you realized, this was part of what made your shared joy *real* rather than some sterile perfect replica of lovemaking. You were human, and more than human, and you were cum-drunk rutting *beasts* and you loved every strange, flawed, beautiful moment of this.

It no longer mattered to you who won, nor to Him, if only you could keep feeling this and sharing it with your moaning, captive audience. You were born for this, you remade your body and reinvented Your life for this, all You wanted was him and for this to go on forev-

Something fundamental shifted in the universe as the power of Dionysus recognized You as its rightful bearer. It came to You like a heady, stimulant rush that magnified and multiplied Your euphoria. 

Joy and catharsis and lust lit Your makeshift temple like a hundred blindingly-bright beacons in a hundred hearts, and the brightest of them all was the one grinding his cock against Yours, his glazed eyes gazing into You, through You, into the light of Your divinity.

You loved him, You realized. It was heartening to know that You weren't above such things, despite Your newfound power. You could feel his devotion to You coming off him in waves and knew he'd gladly be Your high priest and consort.

Perhaps he'd one day challenge You for the mantle, but after experiencing *this*, even as power-hungry as You once were, You knew it was now against Your nature to deny him the chance.

As for the others, they were as thoroughly Yours as D- hm, You'd have to ask his name later - as the man riding Your face. Some of Your revelers would need time to recover and accept what they'd experienced, some would deny that they'd touched divinity, but all would return.

The lure of this perfect haze of pleasure would be too great. They would be the first of Your new cult, spreading Your promise of impossible delights to all corners of the world.

Next year's Bacchanal was going to be even better.


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