Electric Words

“Oh shit,” a voice breathed from behind you. Turning your head over your shoulder, you finally found him again. Sitting on a chair, hardly keeping himself upright, leaning to one side, was Sting. It was quite impressive that the glass he was holding hadn’t spilt over his hand as it slanted, liquid teasing the tip every few seconds. “Shit…you’re beautiful.”

Your body shifted, moving to face him. The most logical plan was to move him closer to the kitchen and fetch him some water, maybe even find him a chair he could slant to the side in and not look like he was going to tumble out of it at any second. However, logic was in painfully short supply tonight. He stopped you, holding up one lazy hand to keep you backwards, palm wobbling slightly as he tried to focus on it. His balance teetered, the liquid in his glass sloshed, but his focus stayed locked on you as his words fell out of his mouth. “There are twenty letters in the alphabet, right?”

You blinked. Once. Your brow quirked as you took a step backwards, observing where this was about to go. “Wrong. Twenty-six.” At least you could be proud to retain some basic knowledge whilst the world spun around you. 

“Right…” he drawled. His eyes dragged up your figure, pupils blown wide. “I forgot u r a q t.”

“That’s twenty-five.”

“Oh.” A laugh tumbled from him - warm and stupid. “I guess I’ll give you the d later.”

It might have been the heat - the press of bodies packed too tightly together, the air thick with perfume, sweat, a cloud of lynx, and the alcohol - but warmth spread across your cheeks all the same. Your eyes widened at first as his words settled under your skin. Then you let out a small scoff, a breathy sound pulled from your chest, and a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You are insane.”

“And you’re gorgeous,” he quickly retorted. Sting quickly downed whatever liquid was left in his cup before putting it down next to his chair. Not two seconds later it was clipped by a body dancing too close. The red plastic skidded across the floor. You both watched it spin, eyes tracking the journey of one abused red cup. The physics of it didn’t really register to either of you. - one second it was there, and the next it wasn’t. When you looked back over at Sting, he shrugged once, unapologetically. Then he shifted, leaning back slightly in the chair, legs spreading just slightly, and he tapped against one of his thighs - slow and deliberate. “Wanna sit on my lap and we talk about the first thing that pops up?”

An undignified burst of laughter tore from you before you clamped a hand over your mouth to curve the reaction. Truly, no one else cared just how loud you laughed at your boyfriend’s pickup lines, and there were people making just as much noise as you were. He grinned at your reaction, white teeth glinting in the dim flashing lights. He looked pleased to think he was getting somewhere. 

Slowly, you gave in. Turning just enough, you eased yourself down onto one of his thighs. One hand gripped at his shoulder to try and steady yourself - moving carefully at first and then settling properly. Your legs swung over his lap, dangling over the other side. The shift did little to sober him up, but he tried his hardest to focus. One of his hands slid to your lower back, warm and grounding, reminiscent in how he usually holds you in private. The other came to rest over your legs, fingers curling slightly into the softness of your thigh. 

He leaned in, closer than necessary, breath warm as it ghosted over the shell of your ear. The scent of alcohol clung to him, mixing with the cologne you bought him for his birthday. The concoction wafted under your nose - it almost made your stomach flip. 

“Are you from Mississippi?” He asked, words slow and slurred. He opened his mouth to try and finish the line but his face creased as he frowned and sat backwards. “How does that one end?” He muttered under his breath. “Fuck.” Still keeping his grip on you, Sting adjusted his head to try and glance out into the sea of people and he located the pink-haired mentor. “Natsu!”

Despite the thrumming bass and the fluctuating voices, Natsu somehow heard Sting. He stumbled through the crowd, parting it with an outstretched hand with his hand clasped around a sloshing drink. 

“How does it end?” Sting asked as Natsu drew closer.

“How does what end?” Natsu exclaimed, stabilising himself by leaning on the doorway.

Sting gestured vaguely up and down your form as you stay seated on him. “Pick-up line. For this hottie. Mississippi." A grin spread over Natsu’s face as he slurred out; “cause you’re the only miss I see pee pee.”

A hand clamped down over Natsu’s shoulder with a vice-like grip as Gray barrelled into the frame, shirt lost and chest glistening with either sweat or alcohol - it was a mystery yet to be solved. “That’s not,” he mumbled. Then he turned an inch, an apology tumbling out of him directed at you on behalf on Natsu. Then his eyes slowly dragged back to Sting, “it’s Tennassee. Cause you’re the only ten I see.”

Natsu let out a snort of disbelief. The protesting words of “I doubt…” starting to trickle out of him before promptly being dragged away.

Your boyfriend let out a small hum as he digested the words. Then his eyes flicked back up to yours, hand patting against your thigh, and he mumbled; “are you from Tenassee? Cause you’re the only ten I see.” A blush crept across your cheeks at how stupidly silly the whole ordeal was and there’s no way to deny the alcohol in your system either. The intoxication pulling at your limbs and making everything lighter. “Let me take you out on a date,” the words spilled from his mouth. “Like…” his voice ran soft like a velvet whisper, “you’re so hot.”

“Honey.”

“Honey?” He exclaimed, eyes almost rolling back in utterly gleeful disbelief.

“Honey, we are dating.”

“No way.”

Laxus:

- door remains unlocked - but when you walk in and ask - you get pushed out and the door gets closed on you - but honestly if you keep asking you might just wear him down enough for him to actually reluctantly accept

Gajeel:

- like a firehose - he lets you - and you regret it - he did warn you to be careful and you didnt listen

Bickslow:

- he's the one to ask if you wanna partake - and if you're with him chances are you're probably on the same level as fucked-up - so naturally you do - and then its like aiming a water-gun that you have to clean up after - becomes a drunk reoccurrence

Freed:

- he's confused - mostly - just as confused as you are - you only asked because you saw it as a 'thing' around that couples were doing - he has to talk you through it - the hand placements, to get steady, etc - you both hate it