Work Text:
Lipstick
Fingertips against your chapped skin
Smudge the red blush across the twins
I’ve assumed they taste like rose petals on my tongue
Pink, purple and fiery red
Plump they are, your lips
And I wish to soak them
Prey to my void
One touch and they are mine to taste, even when its chemicals bloom on yours.
HER LIPS ON MINE IS A FORBIDDEN dream I never let myself wake from. Every time I set my eyes on her visage and let my eyes trail down to those twin soft skins clipped to one another, the thought that stays in my mind is one that makes me a sinner. A sinner I am to her beautiful self— a predator awaiting a chance to indulge on her whims and have her fill of a precious flesh.
I am no woman who dares lay a touch on someone or something unprovoked, but my darling is a temptor, always pushing and pulling, tugging at my strings, whispering delicately in my ear–come, my darling, have your fill.
I have always resisted the temptation of succumbing to her sweet coaxing, but a weak woman I am, for my resolve is crumbling, and I am falling victim to my games. With her legs nuzzling between my thighs and eyes shut close as her face nears mine, I can only hope that god will pull her back, for I am no saint and will always remain a sinner.
My fingers twitch, and the strain I put on my elbows makes my whole arm ache with longing. Touch starved I am for her and she isn’t making it any easy for me.
Eyes linger on those sweet petals pursuing after me, and I gulp, the grip on the stick in my grasp tightening by seconds. Guilt blemishes my tendril, climbing up the shield of her heart, smothering her. I shouldn’t do it. Not now. Never. But selfish I am by core, etched on my DNA like a stain, and nothing would satisfy my predatory hunger like her sweet nectar.
I want her. My body whimpered, cells aching for just a facade of a touch. I need her. My mind bellowed, desperate for her mind and heart to be desperate for me. Every flutter of her dark curly lashes and her vivid green eyes falling onto mine, I can think of nothing but an aching thought— I want to infiltrate her mind with images and thoughts of me, her breath and taste and touch to be stained by me.
Oh my sweet angel, would you look at me the same with those stars and moons hanging up in your eyes when you hear my thoughts, see those images that I have plastered on the walls of my mind?
A bitter smile forms on my lips, painting her eyes beet red with a foreign emotion. No. The lipstick on my hand is a heavy burden similar to my conscience, and nothing I do would lighten the weight of my sin. With steady hands, I guide the red paint to your parted lips, eager and waiting for my touch, and I fixate the sight in my mind for I know, in no life would I be able to witness the same. I smear the redness across the pink of your skin, feeling the softness of those petals underneath my touch. A part of me dies. I would not be able to feel them on my own, for they belong to some other— a man.
Wetness smears across mine as you press and smudge the chemical fully on your lips. I hand you the mirror as your eyebrows raise in voiced doubt, ‘Does it look good on me?’
I watch as your eyes glimmer softly underneath the scattered beams of the moon and the soft golden rays from the table lamp that we have hidden underneath the blankets along with us. “It’s perfect.” You say, and I nod because it is true. You are perfect.
You take a moment to admire yourself before stealing the lipstick bottle from my grasp. I blink in astonishment as you turn open the bottle with a grin playing on your lips. “Your turn,” you say as you open it with a soft pop. “Close your eyes,” you say softly while nearing me.
I follow your commands like how I always do because my love, you are all the warmth, all the joy I’ve known in this vacant world of mine.
There is a pause. I don't think of it at all. Not until I feel your warmth cradling my cheeks. I gulp. My heart hammers and plays a thunderous melody in my throat, and I pray to my saviour that you wouldn’t hear me at all.
“Hey,” you whisper into the space between us. It is midnight, and the rain is pouring outside the shut doors of your windows. “Can I try something?” you ask, and I ponder whether it is hesitancy that I heard in your voice or something else, entirely different, incoherent to my mind and senses. “Yes.” I answer blindly. Because my dear, you need not ask for everything you want me to do, voiced and unvoiced, is a yes.
The soaring rain outside is the only sound I can hear before they are deafened by a pair of warm palms clasping my ears shut. A pleasant weight sits on my lap as a soft breath mixes into mine, and my heart comes to a complete standstill.
You wouldn’t. I tell myself. You have no reason to.
Yet when your softness falls prey to my lips, eager but shocked, all I can think of is that you would. You did.
They leave mine like they never grazed the skin, and it doesn’t take any longer than a second for me to come searching for your searing warmth and claim them as mine.
Before, I was content with the thought of me being the lone sinner in our world, desperate for your touch and your gaze, but this moment of ours, where our breaths interconnected with the slippery warmth of your sweetness and mine, I cannot help but think of a possibility.
Tell me, my dear, my angel,
Would you soar into the plunging depths of my darkness and be a sinner to this sin that I call love?