Ebb and Flow
Posted on Sat Jul 19th, 2025 @ 4:14am by Lieutenant JG Zinaren
Edited on on Sat Jul 19th, 2025 @ 7:43am
764 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
Prologue
Location: The Green Kiss lounge
Timeline: 0135 hours
|| ON ||
The Green Kiss wasn’t just a lounge tonight—it was a slow, seductive riot of light and sound.
Starfleet regulations had been left politely outside the door. Inside, gravity flirted with the idea of letting go, and the air shimmered with scent-neutral atmospherics and the faint tang of ozone from the overworked plasma beat-syncers overhead. Pulsing strobes cast every body in shifting tones of ultraviolet and electric jade.
From the DJ booth came a relentless stream of classic Earth techno—deep, analog synth pulses layered with crisp snare and atmospheric loops. A remix of “Age of Love” transitioned into something darker, heavier. The bassline hit like a heartbeat.
In the middle of the floor—undisputed center of gravity—was Lieutenant Junior Grade Zinaren, and they knew it.
They moved like sin in zero gravity. Hips precise. Shoulders loose. Their top—a daring slash of asymmetrical silver mesh and black synth-weave—clung to their lean, toned frame like it had applied for special permission to stay on. A swirl of metallic tattoos winked beneath the sheer fabric with every motion. Their trousers were sleek, high-waisted, and unapologetically snug, tucked into ankle-high boots that clicked just loud enough to announce intent.
And Zinaren had intent.
They danced solo at first, arms up, spine arched, sweat gleaming at their temples under the low pink light. Their smirk came and went like a solar flare—flashing just long enough to catch someone watching before vanishing again into mystery.
And oh, they were being watched.
At the bar, a dark-eyed Human pilot leaned forward so hard he nearly spilled his drink. Nearby, a Rigelian nurse whispered something to a Caitian medical tech and both turned in unison. A trio of junior officers from Tactical had been pretending to dance for ten minutes, but none of them had taken their eyes off Zinaren.
The first brave soul was a Trill ensign—young, sweet-faced, trying too hard. He approached as the tempo slowed into a slinky, hypnotic loop.
“Would you care to—” he started.
“I always care,” Zinaren purred, turning mid-beat to face him. “But can you keep up, sugarspot?”
The poor Trill stammered something affirmative. Zinaren took his hand, twirled him in, and used him like a dance partner and prop for thirty perfect seconds—before spinning away and blowing him a kiss over their shoulder.
Next came a bold Human woman with a holographic sleeve tattoo of roses climbing one arm. “You’re trouble,” she said, half-drunk and fully interested.
“Sweetheart,” Zinaren replied, circling her like a cat, “I’m the reason they invented red alert.”
The woman laughed, flush with thrill. Zinaren leaned in, whispered something that made her blush and bite her lip—then walked away with a wink and a drink in hand that they hadn’t ordered.
They found themselves leaning casually against the bar just in time to be approached by yet another admirer—Lieutenant Shress, the tall Andorian from Cartography. He looked impeccable, glacial, confident.
“Lieutenant,” he said smoothly. “You’re dominating the room.”
“I always do,” Zinaren replied, dragging their eyes down his frame. “What’re you offering, Snowflake?”
He blinked—flustered but game. “A drink. And maybe… a star chart or two.”
Zinaren threw their head back and laughed—a warm, wicked sound. “Darling, if I wanted to get lost, I wouldn’t need a map.” They reached out, playfully tapped his antenna with a manicured finger, and slid away into the crowd.
Back on the floor, Zinaren didn’t dance anymore—they commanded. People followed their lead, stepped into their orbit, tried to match their heat. A Vulcan ensign actually removed his jacket—his jacket!—and joined them, eyes sharp with curiosity.
They brushed past him like starlight, lips grazing his ear. “Careful, Ensign. Logic is so… fragile when things get sweaty.”
The Vulcan didn’t blush—but he lingered.
Eventually, Zinaren made their way to a back alcove lined with low couches and ambient starlight projections on the ceiling. They dropped into one with a fluid motion, letting their head rest back against the cushioned wall. Their pulse was still racing, and they sipped something neon green from a wide glass like they were feeding on attention itself.
Around them, the lounge still swirled with light, desire, and longing glances.
Zinaren smiled, utterly at ease. Their hair was damp with sweat, their collar askew.
They didn’t need a date.
They were the date.
And the Green Kiss would still be buzzing about them long after the music stopped.
|| OFF ||
Lieutenant JG Zinaren
Operations Officer
USS Guinevere
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