Your name is Sollux Captor and you love FF for bringing you here.
But not as much as you're loving the way her half-brother is grinding against you. He had announced his desire to lead but after promptly falling off his bar stool, he let you take that role. That was probably a good thing. He's too drunk to keep to any sort of rhythm, but he follows the sway of your hips against his.
He's also too drunk to see the weird looks people are giving you.
Apparently not many tall scrawny nerds are seen grinding on drunk wanna-be hipsters.
And you couldn't care less. The bass rings your ears, making you dizzy. But the way Eridan's hips rock with yours, the way he pushes back into you a little more each time, the way the friction is making this almost unbearable is making your head spin wildly. You can't even see straight anymore. All you see is the guy in front of you and the way he keeps glancing back over his shoulder at you with half-lidded eyes, gasping for air.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you're about to murder someone.
That someone being, specifically, one past Karkat Vantas. One Past Karkat fucking Vantas who was a total retard for thinking this wouldn't work. Obviously you didn't think things through. Like the fact that, well...
It was John Egbert.
Agreeing to dance had meant something close to actual dancing, not the mindless grinding happening in every other part of the room. Including, apparently, Sollux and some guy with purple in his hair.
It's quick, fast-paced, lots of spinning and twirling on your part. Your ears ring with the sound of the unfitting music and the laughter coming from John as he spins you into his arms, smiling his dorky buck-toothed grin. It was like a scene from a rom-com.
It was cheesy. It was so cliché.
It was perfect.
Your name is Tavros Nitram and you don't know what's going on anymore.
The guy from the bar-top, Gamzee Makara, drug you off onto the dance floor. But you keep your distance from the mob of people in the center by the speakers. You're afraid that he's just going to want to dance like everyone else. You really don't want to do that. He sets his hands on your waist.
But stays in front of you.
And keeps you a little ways away from him.
You don't know what he's doing, but on his suggestion you set your hands on his shoulders. He's skinny, almost unhealthily, but is oddly strong. He starts swaying side to side, guiding your hips along in a rhythm that doesn't match the music and never stays the same. But he never looks away. Never looks around in search of another dance partner.
He just keeps swaying to his own beat and smiling right at you.
