in every universe (one shot-s) | JENLISA

live just to taste it

again supergirl!lisa

In August, Lisa kisses Jennie to save her life.

A surfer at Locarno Beach loses control on a particularly vicious wave and his board slips free of his grasp, clocking Jennie square in the back of the head where she's bobbing happily in the surf.

The next thing she knows, there's hot sand at her back and a hot body against her front. She's laid out on the beach, head spinning, ears ringing, and Lisa's mouth is on top of her own.

"Breathe, Jennie," she gasps in the split second before the salty softness of her lips covers the girl's once more. "Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe."

Lisa's mouth is open, and it's moving against hers, and it's searing and insistent and delicious as the sun beating down on them from the cloudless sky. Jennie registers, slowly and with great difficulty, that the purpose of her best friend's lips upon her own in this moment is, ostensibly, mouth-to-mouth. Rescue breaths. Not a kiss.

That being said, the fact that Lisa has neither pinched Jennie's nose nor tipped her head back à la the accepted technique, the fact that her hands are not tilting Jennie's chin up to open her airway but are instead cupping her cheeks, the fact that Jennie is already breathing— none of these things seem to matter to Lisa.

Her best friend's only concern in this moment appears to be the accuracy with which she can slot their mouths together again and again, the exploratory nudge of a tongue between plush lips, the salty, gritty press of their swimsuit-clad bodies on the damp sand.

This is the first time Jennie has ever felt her best friend's mouth upon any part of her body. Her head pounds. Her pulse races. Her mind reels. She maybe doesn't handle it as well as she could. If Jennie is still breathing in this moment, it is in spite of Lisa, not because of her.

When Jennie's weakly flailing fingers connect with Lisa's hips, when her eyes flutter open and her chest continues very definitively rising and falling all on its own with no external assistance, a throat clears loudly above their heads.

"Lisa," Rosé says tightly, a shadow against the blazing sun. "I, uh. I think you got it."

Lisa draws back at last, their mouths separating with a wet pop that sets Jennie's heart racing for reasons utterly unrelated to her latest near-death experience. Strong arms lift her gently, propping her torso – wet, hot, covered only by a skimpy bikini – against Lisa's chest – wet, hot, covered only by an even skimpier bikini.

"You're alright," Lisa coos against her temple, bulging arms closing protectively over Jennie's stomach and ribs. "You're okay, you're alright."

Jennie is not alright. In this moment, with the memory of Lisa's mouth fresh on her tongue and the indent of a surfboard fresh in the back of her skull, she cannot recall ever being alright in her life, not for one single second.

Lisa's attention, thankfully, is not on Jennie's thundering pulse or clammy hands or sapphic overload. Her attention has turned to the circle of people surrounding them, peering down with anxious eyes.

"She's okay," Lisa reports on Jennie's behalf, rubbing soothingly at her hip. "She's breathing."

"After that performance?" Joy gets out, a little strangled. "I should hope so."

Jennie feels Lisa's posture tighten against her, prompting a tensing of firm forearms and biceps that her already spinning head really doesn't need right now.

"Performance?" Lisa asks, slow, a challenge.

"Was that supposed to be CPR?" Wen asks, brow furrowing. "Because I'm not sure—"