Work Text:
I push my lips against his, immediately concerned by the integrity of my lipstick. He met me half-way, I note. No, a degree less. It’s close enough. If only I could be more concerned with winning, maybe it wouldn't grow the ache in my breast.
I hope the lipstick doesn't smear. Our lips move against each other — no, he and I both move them with careful deliberation, like we’re discussing a heavy topic. Less than a conversation, it is more of a military meeting — a resignation or a discharge. (That's how serious it is). Which one of us is leaving, I wonder.
My lips feel dry, probably a good sign that there won't be any colour transfer. To combat this, I invite him deeper into the kiss. He doesn’t resist and with steady encouragement, continues. I always thought Ensign ranked below Lieutenant in seniority. Maybe it's about time for a promotion with all these responsibilities.
The wetness reactivates the pigment. Tongue pushes against tongue in mock-wrestle, like a military exercise. My training here had been informal, his — undisclosed. Either way, there's no reason for him to hold back on a woman here. Neither of us scores. If only I had interest in victory.
I end it and so does he, cowering back until he's standing straight and out of reach, wide and masculine. There isn't a hint of carmine on his lips, but when I look into his shaded eyes, I see the smears around my mouth.