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prelude
Ava learns about the concept of masturbation from an episode of Seinfeld.
Being raised by television is like that sometimes. She learned about concept of lesbians and coming back from the dead twice from the Spanish dub of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and, well, look at her now. But that’s getting ahead of herself.
She’s 11 when that episode of Seinfeld comes on. El Concurso. The Contest. She doesn’t quite understand it, not really; it’s all innuendo and she’s pretty sure some of it gets literally lost in translation, but the gist is that all four of them try to go as long as possible without doing something. Something related to sex. So something not at all relevant to Ava.
Everyone says that puberty is hell, but she’s pretty sure puberty when you have no access to your physical body is a unique kind of hell. She starts noticing people, mostly on TV, noticing their bodies, the way they move. It’s not just jealousy that they can move, but something new, something sparking in her brain when the vampires take off their shirts, when there is a scene of people dancing in a club, hips moving in time with music, girls’ exposed stomachs.
Ava wishes she could move, wishes she could dance, wishes she could touch more and more as the months and years go on.
The episode of Seinfeld comes on again and Ava gets it this time. Presented through insinuation and laughs and the 90s, these four friends are just seeing who can make it the longest without touching themselves in a way that must feel so good that Kramer barely makes it a day.
And it’s another point to add to the laundry list of things she will never ever experience.
So she thinks.
one
When Ava finally gets her body back, she would love nothing more than to explore it. Find new parts of her own self, sensations she never knew existed.
Turns out she’s a little busy having superpowers (???) and not being dead (???) to immediately figure some shit out.
But moments present themselves. No. Ava takes moments. Forcefully.
Once she finally gets the shower to work in JC’s beach house, it’s absolutely incredible. A revelation. First of all, showers? Amazing. A top ten experience. Hot water cascading down on a tired dirty body in this fancy ass bathroom? Mindblowingly good. Ava’s honestly not sure if much could top it.
But she can think of some things.
Now that she can actually move it, Ava’s pretty sure she has, like, a really nice body. She looks down as the water flows over her tits, and grins.
Once, when a kindly cable guy came in to fix the TV in the orphanage, Ava used the paralyzed orphan card to get him to install premium cable, so she’s seen some boobs. Boy, has she. So she has some qualifications to say her own are pretty damn nice.
She reaches down, slowly, like she’s a fumbling teen boy on a first date, in awe of touching a boob. But it’s her boob. And it’s great. She can feel the warmth of her own hand, the comfort of it. But there’s something else too, something when she squeezes a bit, when she presses into her nipple just right… Jesus. Okay, great. Boobs. Wow. Love ‘em.
She spends a long while just there. On the way her breath catches when she presses her blunt nail into a nipple. The movement sends a shock through her whole system, down her chest to her stomach to where she’s starting to ache between her legs. God, having a body is so cool.
Her hand follows the feeling, shaking a little with excitement. She gets to do this, gets to feel the indescribable things she has been watching on TV for over a decade. Gets to feel this spark in her abdomen, the way her breath eagerly fills her chest, the way she knows she’s starting to get wet. Not just like, from the shower, but like, sex wet. And it feels phenomenal.
When her fingers finally reach their destination, Ava lets out a soft sigh that echoes off the glass walls of the shower. And then a slightly less soft sigh. Because she can’t help it. This is what a body was made for, she thinks, to be able to open herself up, to be able to feel her own fingertips, to touch the places that send shivers up her spine, that make her breath catch and her toes tingle.
It’s exploratory at first. She is boldly going where no man has gone before. Or woman. Or herself. It’s finding what feels good and what feels kind of weird, but still nice, it’s the concept of going inside or just going up and around, which actually, yeah, holy shit, points for up and around, that feels like a fire bursting through her lungs, through the new glowy feeling in her back, that’s the fucking spot, that is magnificent.
The water runs cold. Ava doesn’t notice.
two
It all builds up to a moment, allegedly. Maybe not a moment, rather a feeling, an experience, an it factor. An orgasm.
Ava’s familiar with the concept. There was an episode of Friends about it. Scrubs. Glee. Buffy. Every show teased it at some point, some big enormous pleasure you would experience. With some characters, it happened too soon, some too slowly, some not at all. This unique sensation in their whole body. Something Ava thought she would never be able to feel.
Tragically, she still hasn’t felt it. It’s not like she’s had much time to try. After that first blessed shower, it’s all been a little too hectic.
Even when she had sex for the first time, it didn’t happen. Not that she’s complaining. It wasn’t bad at all, it was just in a ferry closet and also her first time and also she doesn’t know her own body yet. Also, she kind of thought it would be the first of many, not a quick thing amidst all the being hunted and the demons and the being chosen and all that jazz.
So yeah, no orgasms for Ava, just a lot of life or death stakes. She’s the only person on the planet who can phase through 20 feet of concrete but hasn’t fucking come yet.
But there’s no time like the present.
She’s currently in some convent on the outskirts of The Vatican before the big ol’ mission tomorrow and she miraculously has the room to herself. She absently wonders how many nuns past have used these private rooms to jerk off, or if they thought it was too sinful.
Imagine. Imagine being able to touch your own body, to feel the miracle of its senses reacting to your own hand, and believe it was wrong. She thinks, unbidden, of Beatrice yesterday, of the way her voice shook, the way she felt that a part of herself wasn’t something to be proud of.
A thought itches in the back of her mind and then immediately overtakes her. Would Beatrice be one of those nuns who thinks touching herself is against God? Did Beatrice ever lie awake in a convent like this one, stare up at the high ceilings, and let herself feel good? Did Beatrice think about other women, did she let herself have that pleasure, even if it was only in her mind?
Ava feels warm all of a sudden, her own version of sin, like even the thought of Beatrice masturbating will send her straight down to hell.
But now she kind of can’t stop thinking about it. Beatrice is crazy efficient and talented at everything, if she does actually touch herself (and Ava really hopes she does, that girl deserves to feel good things), she probably has it down to a T what gets her off.
Ava’s breath is coming a little quicker now. Her hand is resting on her stomach as her thoughts swirl thinking about a nun masturbating. Sorry, God. It’s just—Ava’s not blind, Beatrice is obviously beautiful, but it’s not just that. It’s been these past couple days of constantly having her voice in her ear, Beatrice’s smooth accent alternating between reassurance and motivation.
“Ava,” she’d say if she were here, “concentrate.”
So Ava does. She closes her eyes, lets her hand stroke over her stomach, lets it slowly move down to graze over her hipbones, lets herself remember how good her own fingers feel against her skin, that her body is beautiful, that every second she can feel is one to savor.
“Good,” the imaginary Beatrice says in her mind, “just like that, Ava.”
And fuck her, if that’s not what does it for her. The fake voice of a real nun in her ear.
Ava dips her hand under her pajamas, under her underwear, feels that she’s wet, almost surprisingly so. She gasps a little at the contact, but then smiles. She’s got this.
She still kind of can’t believe how good this feels, how heat spreads through her whole body when she starts in earnest, how a single brush of her fingertips against her clit radiates down to her toes and up through her abdomen to her chest and her lungs, breathing coming faster and harder as she keeps going, as her whole body ignites.
“Ava.” It’s Beatrice’s voice in her head still, guiding her through this like she guided her through walls again and again. “Ava, keep going.”
Her eyes are screwed shut and her mind has fixated too hard and it’s all too easy to picture Beatrice looking down on her, dark eyes wide and wanting, hands stroking her face like they did yesterday. Ava’s own hand moves faster, almost desperately.
“You’re so close,” Beatrice is saying, “just a little bit further. I’m right here with you.”
And Jesus Christ, maybe it’s because Beatrice actually said those words to her earlier (granted, in a very different context), or maybe because she is really getting the hang of this, but Ava feels it start to burn in her chest, in her lungs, in her hand pressing pressing pressing.
Her breath stutters and catches and she’s hot everywhere and her toes are curling and Beatrice is in her head saying her name and it’s like every cell that had been dormant for 12 years is alight inside of her.
The noise she makes echoes in the rafters of the convent, but she can’t stay silent. Not when she’s still finding out what wonderful things her own body can do, not when she’s accidentally floating about a foot above the bed. Oops.
She’s grinning when she comes down, hand soaked, body relaxed. One more thing checked off the to do list.
The next morning, as Beatrice helps fit her for a habit, her fingers graze over Ava’s neck. Ava feels her face flush, feels last night come rushing back to her.
“Was that alright?” Beatrice asks. Always observant, that Beatrice.
“Yeah,” Ava breathes. “You’re good. You’re great. Perfect, actually.”
Beatrice shoots her a look but still manages to smile. God, she’s pretty. Like, she’s always been pretty, but apparently having someone’s voice in your head when you come for the first time can really do things to a girl.
Guess that’s something to unpack if Ava doesn’t die today.
three
They settle into a routine in Switzerland. It’s nice. Too nice, almost. Like sometimes, waking up in the middle of the night with her face in Beatrice’s hair makes Ava feel like she might combust and the first time she sees Beatrice’s bare stomach, she can barely speak for a couple minutes, and Beatrice pinning her to the ground during training makes every cell of Ava’s body throb.
It’s getting ridiculous, she’s aware.
But at least now she’s very capable of taking care of it.
When she wakes up at 3 a.m., face buried in Beatrice's once always covered hair, she can smell it, she can see moonlight reflected the slant of Beatrice’s neck, the soft way her breath rises and falls, Ava softly and silently presses a kiss to Bea’s forehead then goes to the bathroom and shuts the door, locks it. She sits on the toilet and breathes through her nose, feels her heart beat faster than it should and lets her hand slip under her underwear.
She imagines what it would be like if she woke up in the middle of the night and kissed the side of Beatrice’s neck, if Beatrice would turn around and kiss her, if Beatrice would sigh into her mouth, if her hands would touch Ava the way Ava craves, earnest and precise in the way only Bea can be.
Ava’s learned how to keep her voice down when she comes, so it’s nothing but a soft sigh and a light glow of the halo this time, as she leans her forehead against the tile and pants until she can go back to bed.
Once she’s there, she settles in beside Beatrice, softly puts an arm over her waist. Bea’s body moves back against her just slightly, but enough. Enough for that thread of hope to strengthen, enough for Ava to grin against Beatrice’s hair, and enough for her to maybe have to go back into the bathroom.
It’s hotter than it has any right to be that summer.
“Climate change,” Beatrice remarks when Ava complains about it. They’re on a run and Ava is lagging behind, sweat coating her shirt, the hair clinging to the back of her neck.
“Do nuns even believe in climate change?” Ava asks. She’s being petulant, but it’s hot out and her lungs are screaming.
Beatrice turns around to glare at her while still somehow keeping up her pace.
“I’m religious, not a fool,” she says.
“See I’m a fool and not religious,” Ava counters with a grin.
“Ha ha,” Beatrice says, straight faced, but her eyes are shining.
“You think I’m funny!”
“The heat’s gone to your head, Ava.” Beatrice’s voice is smiling, though. It does that sometimes, her inflections slightly less measured. Ava is obsessed.
Beatrice beats her back home by 15 minutes, and Ava barely makes it up the stairs when she finally catches up.
But when she swings the door open, she’s greeted with the sight of Beatrice in shorts and a sports bra, chugging from a water bottle.
It’s like a hot Nike commercial. Bea’s all hard muscle but soft skin and her throat is moving with the water and her arms look like a Greek sculpture and holy shit her abs are crazy, Ava didn’t know people actually had abs like that outside of Love Island.
Beatrice meets her eye and wipes her mouth and Ava thinks she’s going to pass out from a combo of heatstroke and simply being horny.
“Sorry,” Beatrice is saying with her perfect wet mouth, “I thought you’d be longer getting home.”
“Rude,” Ava manages to breathe, though her mind is moving a mile a minute. Is this how Bea lounges around the house when Ava’s gone? Or is it just from the heat and the run? How does Ava make it always hot enough out for this to keep happening?
Beatrice throws on a shirt. Ava wants to scream at her to please don’t, but that would be insane behavior.
Instead she mumbles, “shower,” and heads towards it.
Beatrice, seemingly misinterpreting Ava being out of her mind attracted to her with something else, stops her with a hand to Ava’s shoulder. Her hand is calloused but soft, and Ava wants it everywhere.
“I’m sorry if that was harsh,” Beatrice says, very genuinely. “It’s just that you ran much faster than last week. Your timing is really improving.”
“Thanks,” Ava breathes. She’s glad she has the cover of heat and exercise to excuse how red her face is. “I, um thank you. Gonna go now. Bye.”
She can barely wait till the water is running to put her hands all over her body. It’s the image of Beatrice’s bare forearms, the curve of her side, the water dripping from her lips, the look in her eyes when she told Ava she was improving.
Ava ungracefully and all too quickly comes under a stream of cold water, with Beatrice’s skin imprinted on every part of her brain.
She lets out a long breath, lets the shower wash her hand clean. Well, Beatrice is right about one thing, her timing really is improving.
It’s worse when they physically fight. When there is contact. Beatrice is fast and quick and intuitive, twisting and turning and dodging until Ava inevitably ends up on her back.
Ava’s not exactly complaining, not when the unique weight of Beatrice presses into her hips, her chest, sends heat down her whole body.
“You lasted longer than usual,” Beatrice says, offering a hand to help Ava up.
Ava almost laughs, but keeps it together. “You flatter me.”
“Sorry, did you want me to wax poetic about your form?”
“You know what, Bea, it would be nice!”
Beatrice laughs, a beautiful sound.
“I’ll consider it.”
Five minutes later, Ava’s back on the ground, Beatrice on top of her, grinning, and it’s so devastatingly hot Ava needs a breather. Then, Bea leans a little closer and says, “have I told you what absolutely gorgeous form you have?”
It’s a joke, Ava knows, continuing their bit from earlier, but Beatrice on top of her saying she’s gorgeous sends Ava to another level. She has to actively prevent the halo from going off.
That afternoon Bea clocks in early at the bar, thank God, because Ava needs to be able to lie in their bed and smell Beatrice’s scent, to slide a finger to herself and picture Bea on top of her, like it felt today, but in Ava’s fantasies, the word gorgeous falls from Beatrices lips as she fucks her.
To clarify, Ava doesn’t have to go jerk herself off every time Beatrice does something that Ava finds hot. There aren’t enough hours in the day for that. It’s just that they live together and they work together and they train together and sometimes Ava swears she can see Beatrice looking at her lips, and part of her aches to do something, to reach out and touch her, to close that distance. But there’s a looming specter of a mission and a harsh fear within Ava’s chest that if she makes a move, then there is the chance the person who she cares about most in this world will no longer be by her side the way she is now. And Ava doesn't think she can handle that.
She also knows Beatrice now, in a way she’s not sure anyone else does. Cracks in Bea’s perfection present themselves, moments of vulnerability that are so precious Ava almost can’t bear it. Some nights she ends up with her arms around Beatrice, holding her, letting her know she is loved, she is wonderful.
“Be good to yourself, yeah?” she whispers into Beatrice’s hair, whenever an insecurity falls from Beatrice’s lips, whenever a story about her past sneaks out, something that makes Ava want to fly to England and kick the shit out of Bea’s parents. “Be good to yourself, please. You’re my favorite person.”
And Beatrice will sometimes huff out a breath of laughter to dismiss it, or sometimes stiffen and change the subject, or sometimes—the best of times—she will let herself fall further into Ava’s arms, let herself relax, whisper a soft “thank you,” into Ava’s neck.
And Ava can’t ruin that. So she does what she has to do on her own time. She excuses herself to the bathroom or presses her face into Bea’s pillow when Bea rises earlier than her or takes an extra long shower so her mind and her hand and her fully functioning body can imagine a world just a little different than this one. And for now, the imagining is enough. She has Beatrice in her bed and in her space and in her heart, she can wait a little longer to have her in this one way.
She would wait years.
four
Time doesn’t really exist down here. Not the way she knew it. Nor does space. She sleeps, she eats, she fights, she heals, she asks how much longer. How much does she need to do before she can go back?
Some nights (there aren’t really days and nights, but the moments of resting count as night), Ava doesn’t feel like she’s human.
When that happens, she squeezes her eyes shut, anchors herself. She wraps her arms around her legs and feels her own touch, her own body, that it can move. The halo is stronger down here, it fuels her, it makes every cell active. She touches her fingers to her lips, remembers what it felt like to have Beatrice’s lips on hers, remembers the soft way she would breathe. She remembers the way she would say “Ava,” sometimes exasperated, sometimes laughing, sometimes reverent.
She is Ava. She is human. She is alive. She is coming back.
Months go on like this. Maybe years. Ava doesn’t know. Sometimes, all Ava can hold onto is a memory, but those memories are stronger than anything surrounding her. When she’s lucky, a memory comes to her in a dream, then expands further. She’s kissing Beatrice again, but instead of being surrounded by battle, they are back at their apartment in Switzerland, Bea is kissing her with everything she has and whispering in her ear I love you and I miss you and you’ll come back to me. Then her mouth is everywhere all at once, on her lips, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, between her legs, kissing her sweetly and desperately all at once.
When Ava wakes from those dreams, she chases the feeling, chases the humanity of them. She presses a hand between her legs, touches herself with desperation to remember. Tears fall from her eyes as she reaches further in herself for her conviction.
She is Ava. She is human. She is alive. She is coming back.
She laughs a little bit, unable to help herself. She is coming. Back. She’ll have to tell that one to Beatrice when she’s home.
interlude:
When Beatrice was 10 years old, her parents took her on one of their diplomatic trips to Berlin. She remembers sitting in the lobby of a five star hotel while her parents talked to their contacts, eyes glued to a couch across the room.
On it were two women, probably in their 20s or 30s, laughing together, talking over one another so quickly that even Beatrice, top of her class in German, couldn’t quite understand them. But still, Beatrice could help but notice the way that they only had eyes for one another. The way one of them ran her hands through the other’s hair, the way their legs were touching at several points.
Beatrice couldn’t look away, couldn’t bear to take her eyes off them. Something warm was growing in her chest, something big and bright that these strangers were lighting.
“Beatrice,” her mother called sharply. “Come.”
Beatrice went to her mother’s side as she always did when beckoned, but couldn’t help looking back at the women, who now had their foreheads pressed together, something beautiful passing between them.
“You shouldn’t have to see that in public,” her mother whispered to her, glancing back at the women, and Beatrice’s stomach churned and ached and fell through the ground. ”This city is full of sinners and ingrates.”
So Beatrice chooses Berlin. Her first city to explore fully, without her family, without her mission, without… Beatrice chooses Berlin.
She walks the streets, reads every placard she can, looks at every brick in every building. She passes restaurants and bars and nightclubs with music spilling from them. She knows that some of these places would welcome her in, their patrons smiling and laughing and dancing, taking Beatrice into the fold.
But she doesn't go in, she can’t yet. She can’t smile and laugh and dance with people who aren’t her. She can't bear it.
She’s renting a small flat in Motzkiez for the month. It’s modest, but it’s still nicer than their place in Switzerland. (Yet nothing is nicer than their place in Switzerland. Beatrice would trade the most ornate palace in the world for their place in Switzerland.)
There’s a claw foot bathtub in the bathroom that is tempting yet impractical. It takes over a week for Beatrice to finally give in to it, on a surprisingly chilly night in August when she has a crick in her neck. Hot water could help. Plus, she supposes that allegedly living her life would include indulging somewhat.
So she runs herself a bath, sinks into the hot water and sighs aloud with it, a relaxation in her muscles she hasn’t felt in weeks. (Months. Years. Certainly not in the seemingly endless days since the woman she’s in love with floated away from her.) Beatrice leans back, lets her head fall into the water, her ears covered so there is no sound but her own breathing.
“Good job Bea,” Ava would say if she were here, “You’re actually doing something for yourself.” She would say it with a tease in her voice, yet an unmistakable affection.
Beatrice closes her eyes, pictures Ava’s smile, the glint in her eyes, the way they softened when she looked at Beatrice, the way Beatrice tried to ignore it, the way she was a fool a fool a fool for trying to ignore any part of herself that Ava intensified.
“Hey now,” imaginary Ava says, “be good to yourself, yeah?”
It was a phrase she used on the daily back in Switzerland, when Bea would grow frustrated or too quiet or make a (admittedly quite rare) mistake.
“Be good to yourself.”
Beatrice pictures it now. Ava here, leaning on the edge of the bathtub, hand stroking over Beatrice’s cheek.
“Be good to yourself. Please. Please, Bea.”
She is trying. She is trying so hard. Yet she does not know how to be good to herself, how to give herself things she wants, when the only thing she wants is a person who is literally worlds away.
If Ava were here, she would flick Bea’s arm, would grin at her, playfully tut her tongue and say, “ah ah, no excuses.”
Honestly, if Ava were here, in this fantasy that the warm water and the harsh longing is bringing out of Beatrice, Ava would keep going, keep encouraging Beatrice with her smile and her words until Beatrice would break, until her smile would have to echo Ava's, unable to resist the way Ava's eyes lit up, the way Ava's dimples would pop when Beatrice smiled back.
More than that, if Ava were here, in this bathroom in a flat in Germany, if she saw Beatrice here, warm water covering her naked body, well, logically, Ava would join her.
Beatrice goes a little red, not just from the heat of the water, but from the image that now won't leave her brain, Ava grinning at her, Ava stripping off her clothes, gracelessly stepping into the bath, water splashing over the sides.
"Ava," Beatrice would scold, but she wouldn't mean it, she wouldn't mean any of it if she got to be close to Ava in this way, got to hear Ava's laugh, got to feel Ava's form as she would settle in with her, her back to Beatrice's front, so much skin that Beatrice wouldn't be able to think of anything else.
If this had happened a month ago, Beatrice wouldn't have let herself look, wouldn't have let herself touch. But now, alone in a bathtub in Berlin, Beatrice would trade everything to look, to touch, to go back and tell herself last month that it's okay, that their time on this earth is so finite, that if you want to look, if you want to touch, you can. And it would be beautiful.
Hypothetical-Ava-here-in-Berlin-and-not-in-a-hell-dimension reaches up and touches Beatrice's face.
“Be good to yourself.”
And right now, when she is so very alone, being good to herself means indulging in this world in her mind for just a little longer. In ways she never let herself before. It means picturing every detail of how it would feel to have Ava in here with her.
She pictures the slope of Ava’s neck, beads of water dripping down it. She pictures the curve of Ava’s breasts, semi-submerged in the water, beautiful and flushed. She pictures Ava’s legs, thighs that had grown strong in their months of training, relaxed and slotted between Beatrice’s own thighs, nothing separating them from each other.
She imagines what it would be like to touch all of those places. The way Ava’s eyes would darken, the way her breath would catch, the way she would lean back further into Beatrice. Ava has always been so reactive, even when Beatrice would casually brush against her arm, or less casually cup or face, or very forcefully pin her to the ground, Ava would react. Her breath would catch or her eyes would light up or her lips would curve upward, making the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.
So Beatrice can only imagine what it would feel like to have Ava in intentional close proximity, not even clothing between them. How Ava would breathe quicker if Beatrice kissed the side of her neck, how Ava would let out a gasp, soft, then louder if Beatrice cupped her breast, how Ava would moan her name if Beatrice hands sank lower, under the water.
Beatrice is red all over, flushed and out of breath, these thoughts she never let herself fully indulge in consuming her, taking over her. Beatrice is always in control of her own body, always, but she can’t help her hand from wandering between her legs. She’s done this before but only sporadically, in secret, with a heavy blanket of shame around her.
But now the shame is gone, disappeared into whatever world Ava is in, and now there is only hot, heavy wanting that takes over her body.
Her fingers work faster on herself, imagining it’s Ava under them, imagining Ava’s body is curling up with pleasure, splashing water on the ground, reaching back so she can hold onto Beatrice, chanting Bea’s name like it’s a prayer, building and building and building until—
Water does splash onto the ground, Beatrice’s body arching with the force of her own pleasure, Ava’s name falling from her own lips, and it’s not the same if Ava was here, of course it isn’t, but in one suspended moment in time, Beatrice can forget that she is alone, she can only feel, feel things she never would feel if Ava hadn’t burst into her life.
She lets out a sigh, heavy and light all at once. The water is now lukewarm, splattered on the floor. Beatrice is panting, coming down from a high. She looks around at the disarray of the room of the patchy flush on her own body, feels her heartbeat slowly going back to normal.
She closes her eyes, tries to stay here just a little longer. She is living. She is being good to herself.
five
For very understandable reasons, Ava absolutely doesn’t think there’s anything so clear cut as Heaven and Hell. After all the shit she’s seen, hell no. Literally.
But. But lying here on a bed in a flat in Berlin, late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, Beatrice’s thighs on either side of her head—this is the closest to heaven Ava will ever know in however many lives she gets.
Beatrice is looking down on her, eyes hooded and intent, and Ava thinks this angle is something that no one other person has ever seen, will ever get to see, if she has anything to say about it. That she is the luckiest person in the world to be able to see Beatrice like this, her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, her mouth, wet and open in anticipation for what’s to come.
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Ava tells her, reverent.
Beatrice huffs out a breath that would almost be a laugh if they weren’t both on the edge of something. “You’ve said that a dozen times today.”
“And I’ll say it a dozen more!”
Beatrice looks down at her again, in a way that makes Ava press her own legs together with new desire.
“Don’t you think,” Beatrice says, low and strained all at once and oh, Ava is so fucked, “there are better things you could be doing with your mouth right now.”
Ava grins, though she is immensely overcome with something that bursts out of her chest (not just in the literal way, even though that’s also happening, there has been a pretty constant glow the whole time they’ve been in this bed). She is overcome with how Beatrice can look at her and say that, the same Beatrice who spent so long trying to cover up these parts of herself, now naked in the sunlight, fully visible in all parts of herself, quite literally baring herself open before Ava.
Ava swallows, tries not to cry during sex again (it’s been an intense couple days), and simply acquiesces to Beatrice. Ava is pretty sure she was put back on this earthly plane to acquiesce to Beatrice. So slowly, softly, letting every breath linger, Ava spreads Beatrice’s legs just a little further, leans her head up and experiences yet another form of heaven.
“Fuck, Ava,” Beatrice sounds above her. And that’s another thing that is earth-shattering. Hearing Beatrice saying fuck and then her name in succession while Ava is tasting her, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s the best thing in the world.
She holds Beatrice’s thighs and keeps going. She wants to explore every part of Beatrice, wants every molecule of her on her tongue, wants to only taste the unique flavor of Beatrice for the rest of her life.
Ava has learned over the past few days that what lacks in practice, she makes up for in enthusiasm. Beatrice clearly agrees, showing appreciation with the way her spine arches, the way her hand clasps in Ava’s hair, the way she trembles on Ava’s tongue, they way a strained, “God, yes,” falls from her lips.
It’s the best thing Ava has felt in her entire life. An absurd thought flies through her mind that even if she somehow becomes paralyzed again, at least she can do this. Lie on her back and worship Beatrice with only her mouth.
But she’s very much not paralyzed at the moment, as evidenced by the want growing and spreading inside of her body with each of Beatrice’s movements, each of her sounds. Ava came a mere 10 minutes ago, but something about this position, something about Beatrice’s weight on her, on the way she is staring down at Ava with such naked desire, makes Ava unable to control herself.
“Ava, right there,” Beatrice groans, and okay, that’s it, Ava is only human. (Well, she's technically a little more than human at this point, but whatever.)
So, because she honestly has no other choice at this point, Ava anchors Beatrice with her left arm, and reaches her right hand town to relieve some of the tension that has coiled within her. She’s wet, absurdly so, but who can blame her, with this euphoria, with Bea moving against her mouth like this, strong thighs anchoring Ava, her lips open and chanting Ava’s name.
Ava’s hand presses into herself, and she sighs in relief, which causes Beatrice to move even faster against her and Ava can sense that Beatrice is close. Beautiful, precise Beatrice, growing reckless in her own pleasure, sweat dripping down her sternum, thighs clenched around Ava’s head—it’s better than every single fantasy Ava has had for the years she was trapped and the months she was in Switzerland all rolled together.
Ava’s tongue works faster, arm tightening around Beatrice, as Beatrice cries out Ava’s name and it’s perfect it’s perfect it’s perfect. Especially when their eyes meet at that very moment, and Ava’s own fingers are coated with her desire, and Bea’s eyes are wild and full of longing, her stare unbroken as she rides it out.
When she finally lifts herself off of Ava’s face, Ava actually whines. Beatrice laughs at it, relaxed and open. Her eyes trail from Ava’s face to the slope of Ava’s neck, her shoulder, then follow her arm all the way to where her right hand is still nestled between her legs.
Then her eyes meet Ava’s again, amusement playing out in her mouth.
“Uh, sorry,” Ava says, like an idiot. “Well, not sorry, I just, um, it was very hot what was going down—ha, going down—and I kind of couldn’t help myself. You were just so—you’re like the hottest person on Earth, Bea and it was kind of otherworldly—and hey, I would know about other worlds, right? So I to take matters into my own—”
“Hand?” Beatrice supplies. She’s smiling, and Ava grins back at her, Beatrice’s easy teasing making her nerves die down.
“That’s the one,” she says.
“Hmm,” Beatrice says, like she’s considering an interesting passage in a book, not Ava having zero sexual patience. “Well, don’t stop on my account.”
“What?” Ava splutters.
Beatrice leans a little closer, kisses the side of Ava’s cheek, her jaw, the edge of her ear.
“I very much think you heard me.”
Ava could fucking die. Again. Bea’s voice is soft and deep and sends a spark down her spine.
“I heard you,” Ava whispers. It feels like a sacred moment. Every moment with Beatrice is sacred, but especially this, especially the two of them sprawled out together, nothing between them but care and desire and sunlight.
“Well, then,” Beatrice says, “carry on.”
Ava grins. “I mean, if you insist.”
“I do. I’ve always—” Beatrice pauses, considers her words. Ava loves the way her face looks when she’s thinking. “I’ve always admired your freedom, envied it even. The joy you inhabit in your own body. And this is a very opportune moment for that to occur. I’d very much like to observe.”
“Only you could make the phrase ‘opportune moment’ sexy.”
“I think you’re biased.”
“I think I’m just in love with you.”
Beatrice smiles, leans down to kiss Ava’s mouth. “Well, that’s obvious.”
Ava kisses her back, mouth falling open, letting Beatrice taste herself on Ava’s tongue. Their breaths both start to come fast and hard, but neither of them rush. It’s languid afternoon love and Ava is overwhelmed with it. As she tastes all of Beatrice’s mouth she can, she slowly starts touching herself again, trying to go slow, to extend this moment for as long as she can.
Beatrice keeps kissing her, soft and easy but still devastatingly hot, mouth moving down to Ava’s jawline, her neck, her collarbone, tongue licking in the dip of it.
“Bea,” Ava breathes and Beatrice leans up to smile at her, eyes flicking down to Ava’s hand, fingers pressed to her clit. Beatrice takes it in with such concentration and awe that Ava almost breaks right then, but she forces her pace to stay slow, to give Beatrice a little something of a show.
But then Beatrice is kissing down to Ava’s breast and her perfect mouth is closing around a nipple and Ava can’t help herself, her fingers move faster, needing relief, needing something to break.
“Fuck,” she whines, “Bea, I can’t take this much longer.”
Beatrice leans up, looks Ava dead in the eyes.
“Of course you can,” she whispers, so soft but firm at the same time. Her hand strokes over Ava’s arm, thumb brushing the sensitive skin inside her elbow, down to the veins of her wrist, until her hand is covering Ava’s, palm flat on the back of Ava’s hand, forcing Ava to slow down.
Ava lets out a guttural noise at that, overcome with Bea touching her but not touching her, of Bea’s hand gentle and firm, guiding Ava’s hand to be slower, gentler, of Bea’s eyes on hers as she does this, watching Ava like she’s the most precious thing in existence.
“Just like that,” Beatrice whispers and Ava can’t look away from her, can’t form any coherency, can only stare into Beatrice's eyes and let her hand be guided over herself, let the sensations wash over her.
She’s on the verge, she knows it, the simple pressure of Beatrice’s palm sparking something so visceral in her, the heat of Beatrice’s eyes, the way she can see this affecting Beatrice too, her breath getting shallower, her grip on Ava’s hand growing stronger.
“I love you,” she croaks out, because even though she can barely form a sentence, Beatrice needs to know. She needs to know that her being here, now, them being here together, is worth everything. Needs to know that Ava’s pleasure, her safety, her home in her own body is all because of Beatrice.
Beatrice strokes her hair, so tender at the same time her other hand is absolutely destroying Ava.
“I love you,” she whispers back and oh, Ava said she wasn’t going to cry during sex anymore, but here she is, eyes watering from the sheer force of this affection, of the miracle that she can be here in the first place, of Beatrice reveling in this specific intimacy with her.
She grabs onto Beatrice’s back, holds her closer, not wanting any space between them, ever. The act makes both of their hands press harder into Ava, and she cries out into the crook of Bea’s neck.
Beatrice just holds her through it, whispering a soft, firm. “I’ve got you,” into Ava’s ear. “I’ve got you, my love.”
And that's what finally breaks her, clutching onto Beatrice for dear life as her body crests up against her, as fire burns so hot in her it engulfs them both, as she sobs with the relief and the pleasure and the joy of it.
Beatrice keeps holding her, for long minutes after. She strokes Ava’s hair, her back, the side of her face, every movement infused with intentional tenderness until Ava’s breathing returns to an even pace, until the light falling over them grows orange, the impending evening approaching.
Ava hasn’t slept much since she’s been back, too busy hunting down Beatrice then finding Beatrice then overflowing with how much she needed to tell Beatrice, then overflowing with a different need, for contact, for touch. Sleep hasn’t exactly been a priority.
But with the setting sun, and Beatrice's arms warm and stable, Ava lets herself drift, lets herself be truly held, her whole body content and relaxed in a way she never thought was possible. The last thing she hears before she fully falls asleep is Beatrice’s voice, soft and crisp in her ear.
“I’ll be here when you wake.”
“Promise?” Ava asks, knowing the answer in her bones, but wanting to hear it anyway. Because she can.
“Promise.”