Work Text:
(1)
“Don’t think about touching the duvet cover with those filthy cheese paws of yours,” Deborah hisses without even looking into Ava’s direction, the sound of her hand going in the crisp package and her subsequent crunching enough evidence for Deborah to warn her.
They’re in Deborah’s bed watching SVU. While it was an obvious attempt from Ava at mending the relationship after the email fallout, Deborah had allowed it if only for adding productive working hours, something they needed with Ava’s warped sleep schedule.
“I figured out how we can connect the realtor bit with the gyno exam,” she barged in that first time, sounding concerningly out of breath for the short trek between her bedroom and Deborah’s. The thought occurred to her to invite her to join her morning exercise routine, but that would’ve meant listening to Ava’s incessant talking at six am, so she didn’t.
“Tell me you’re not going to compare examining a person’s uterus with a house viewing,” Deborah joked.
“Lady, do you not know me?” Ava responded while she sat down on Deborah’s bed. “But kudos for your use of gender neutral language.”
Deborah rolled her eyes. To Ava’s credit, the transition was witty, so she’d let it slide that Ava had positioned herself on Deborah’s bed all smug and proud. Instead, she simply made some room and peered over to check what Ava was writing on the laptop, adding her thoughts and ideas as they riffed.
If the forced proximity on the tour bus seems to serve as a punishment for Ava, her space on the bus an afterthought, or more likely a well-contemplated form of torture in that tiny space, Ava’s continued presence in Deborah’s bedroom is a constant reminder of her cutting words. Every person in her life is on her payroll, and would never be around her if their livelihoods didn’t depend on it. Myself included. No one in her life actually loves her.
She slapped the girl, hadn’t believed it when she told Deborah about her father’s stroke, and all Ava got for her honesty (because no matter how painful, the words in her email were true) was Deborah’s wrath, albeit in paid form. So she lets Ava come to her room night after night and makes sure every time those socked toes tiptoe to her room to remember that Ava is only here because she is paid to be.
The smell of fake cheese is a little pungent, but it’s no use in telling Ava what not to snack here. It would only make her comment snidely about Deborah’s (lack of) eating habits and she’s not in the mood for a pseudo-intellectual lecture on the workings of the patriarchy in diet culture.
“I wasn’t going to touch the covers,” Ava lies.
Deborah arches an eyebrow. They both know Ava runs cold (“Your A/C setting is the reason the polar caps are melting, but your bedroom will be where the polar bears will have to seek refuge once you’ve ruined their habitat”) and likes to settle under the covers, shimmying her body until she’s reached the perfect balance between warmth of the duvet while keeping mobility to gesture wildly at the television.
“Clean them,” Deborah insists.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ava matches her tone, then audibly pops a finger into her mouth.
It’s the sound that has her eyes shifting towards Ava, who locks eyes with her in a grin as she drapes her tongue around her fingers to lick the cheese dust from them.
Another finger disappears between her lips, slowly retreating and coming back out wet and (semi-)clean. Her mouth makes a popping sound as she releases her fingers from her mouth.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You want to lick them cleaner?”
She wiggles her fingers in front of Deborah, who swats them away.
“Gross.”
“So who killed the poor woman this week?” Ava asks, smiling, as if having won something.
“You would know if you ever paid attention.” Deborah barks back, gaze back to the screen.
(2)
“I’m not waiting in line with you at a fucking mall toilet,” Deborah grunts unhappily, tapping her foot while peering how many women are in front of them. “I’ll have Steve drop us off at the nearest hotel.”
The bathroom in the bus is temporarily unavailable according to Weed, and Deborah is not about to question why or how. She is, however, ready to leave Ava here.
“It’s just three minutes, Deb. Besides, you were the one to drag us here for that ridiculously expensive soap shop. It’s soap, you wash it off. It’s like flushing dollar bills down the drain.”
“I will not have that argument with you again. It’s Le Labo. It uses real vanilla.”
“Hmm, let me smell,” Ava steps closer behind her and audibly breathes her in.
Before Deborah can comment on Ava being in her aura (Ava’s vocabulary), Deb would just call it personal space she-needs-to-vacate-stat, Ava’s fingers grab hold of Deborah’s hips before her body crashes into Deborah. Someone on fucking roller skates whizzes past them, shouting their apologies as they attempt but fail to brake on the marble tiles of the mall.
Ava’s hands dig into Deborah’s flesh to steady herself and prevent them from falling (but mostly herself), her forehead colliding with Deborah’s shoulder blade.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” Ava shouts, rubbing her forehead with her left hand.
Deborah’s face flushes with irritation. Ava’s right hand still digs into her hips.
“Do you not have even an ounce of spatial awareness?” Deborah scolds, turning around to Ava.
Deborah is awarded with an eye roll spinning faster than those fucking roller blades. “Sure, because I clearly orchestrated that little roller derby stunt just to annoy you. Calm down, Deb. Ouch,” she whines.
Deborah ignores the attention-seeking wail.
“You know what’s ridiculous?” Deb gestures at Ava. “Your lack of bladder control. We wouldn’t even have been here if you could just hold it in like a normal person.”
She glances at the painfully slow-moving queue ahead.
“You know drip coffee makes me pee. I think the dripping sound begins a process in my brain that peeing is on the schedule in the next hour.”
Deborah arches an eyebrow, but can’t help but let out a chuckle.
“If we’re still in line in two minutes, we’re leaving. I refuse to be held hostage by a restroom line. You can pee in a bush.”
She shifts on her heel again, annoyed by Ava’s faux hurt face.
“Hmm, I have to admit I was wrong,” Ava says, taking in a deep breath. “That vanilla is to die for.”
Ava’s right hand is still on her hip, her finger now looped into her belt.
(3)
“I just think that out of all the sexual experiences you worked into the set at least one should have brought you to orgasm,” Ava whines, crossing her legs on the sofa of Deborah’s couch. Her knee touches Deborah’s thigh.
Somehow Ava is convinced Deborah is missing out by not experimenting or examining her sexual encounters, as she put it on the cruise. But Deborah has had sex for longer than Ava is alive, thank you very much, and is sure she could teach Ava a thing or two about good orgasms (she lived through the 80s after all). Not that she feels inclined to, obviously.
“It’s more relatable this way,” says Deborah. “Plus, nobody wants to hear about a sixty-something year old and her orgasms.”
Ava raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, I am sure they do.”
Ava starts typing again. “So, tell me about the best orgasm you’ve had in the last year.”
Fingers hovering over the keyboard, Ava shoots her a mischievous smile, licking her lips in anticipation.
“I’m not telling you that!”
“Deborah, shame doesn’t become you.”
“It’s not shame, it’s called having personal boundaries. You should look it up.”
“Don’t change the subject, but I could definitely tell you about my best orgasm if you asked nicely.”
Ava pushes her leg out. Her thigh is hot against her own.
“So the best one I ever gave was in the summer of 2015, in a Floridian beach house of all places—”
“I was not asking.”
Ava ignores her. “There was this girl I knew from college, before I’d dropped out, she was drop dead gorgeous; strawberry blonde hair, a real bombshell, you know?”
And there she goes in one of her voracious monologues, gesturing wildly and definitely not waiting to see if Deborah even wants her to continue her story. It could be adorable how enthusiastic she gets if it weren’t so annoying. The notebook is thrown on the side table to fully commit to making storytelling a full-body performance. Her thigh bouncing against Deborah’s slacks causes friction between the silk and cotton of Ava’s sweatpants.
“It was her parents’ cottage, or whatever you call it when it’s situated in the dunes of some private beach. Real nice place—”
Deborah imagines a house not unlike her own beachfront villa, with sunset streaming through the windows. Ava sitting on the countertop, popping a raspberry in her mouth, a lazy smile on her face—
“—which, now in hindsight, probably was one of the first realizations I had of wealth inequality. Which in itself kinda says enough about my own privilege.”
The daydream ends.
“But the point is: we had the place to ourselves.”
“Hmm.”
“Before this moment, my sexual experiences always involved sneaking off or hurrying before roommates returned. But in this instance, I could take my time.”
Ava turns looks at Deborah as if to make sure she’s still listening. Deborah feels obligated to make a joke, make it obvious she’s not that interested.
“So what, you made the poor woman wait for hours?”
“No, I simply made her come over and over again.”
“Lucky girl.” It comes out offhandedly, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “Let’s focus on that marriage transition instead of talking about what your gigantic hands did when you were barely legal.”
“Oh, it wasn’t just my hands,” Ava deadpans. “I used my mouth, too.”
Deborah makes the mistake of looking at Ava’s mouth.
She gets that uneasy feeling again, right after that disastrous set on the lesbian cruise. The knowledge that Ava knows more about this topic than she does, the open way Ava communicates about sex and desire and needs and fulfilling them.
Part of it is envy, the way she exudes sexual confidence at not even thirty years old. Something Deborah didn’t learn until much later in life, after Frank, when men were no longer considered as potential partners and thus kept at an emotional distance yet were easily sought out physically. She sometimes used them to gain an advantage. Better dates for her Palmetto show. Or to alleviate some boredom, hoping to get inspired. But sometimes it was just nice to remember how it feels to be wanted.
There’s something else, too. It’s the exhilaration of being actually desired. Want is born from scarcity, a transaction to fulfill; a need. Desire is marked by an overflow, fueled by purpose, like a compass pointing toward the horizon. Once want is fulfilled, the feeling briefly stops until it appears again, but desire is expansive. Not a quick fix, but a gravitational pull getting stronger and stronger.
On the cruise it had come crashing down, her performance misaligned with the audience (these women had seen through her) and she was pushed back by those same gravitational forces, an anti-desire of some sort, further and further away until it was out of reach.
Deborah doesn’t like to dwell on the absence of being desired.
“I’m amazed you could even shut up long enough to do that.”
“I can be very task-oriented if needed,” Ava waggles her eyebrows.
Needless to say, Deborah doesn’t indulge Ava in a good orgasm story. She stands up from the couch, walking across the office in an effort to find new perspectives on the joke they’ve been trying to write.
When she sits down again, she leaves space between them.
(4)
It’s mere coincidence that Deborah can’t sleep the same night Ava is on a date. She is thirsty and the kitchen has tap water which is superior to that of her ensuite bathroom, which is, according to Ava, a well-known fact. She had even tried to convince Deborah by bringing different glasses of water for a taste test. She’d wanted her to close her eyes for the testing, bringing the glass up to her mouth, which Deborah definitely refused. She had been nice enough not to have Ava mop the floor as half of the contents sloshed out while she brought over the glasses. The difference between the drinks was minimal.
The soft thud of the door closing almost makes her jump from her spot behind the counter in the kitchen. Footsteps echo closer until Ava’s voice pierces the silence.
“You’re still up,” Ava says.
“Wow. Excellent observational skills.”
“Jeez, didn’t know you were in a mood.”
“I was working.” Deborah curtly replies. “How was your date?”
Ava walks past Deborah toward the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of sparkling water.
“Good. She was really nice. Nice girl.” Ava leans her hips against the countertop.
She’s wearing her ash-colored jeans and Doc Martens. Casual if not for the, albeit oversized, burgundy satin shirt complementing the outfit, whispers of effort. Sophia is the name of the nanny of some classmate of Luna’s Ava met while picking her up from school. Apparently, Sophia is a lesbian and on the lookout for an obnoxious redhead.
Ava screws open the bottle and gulps its contents thirstily, some water spilling around the sides of her mouth, leaving a trail of moisture down her throat, mixing with the sweat of her skin.
Deborah averts her eyes, traitorous.
“She was very amiable.”
“And that’s not what the millennials look for these days?”
“Zillennial, Deb,” Ava remarks. “But it wasn’t that, she almost feels too kind.”
“You would say that,” Deborah retorts while gesturing at Ava. “You’ve never been sweet.”
Ava beams, then affirms. “I would trample all over her.”
“So you have problems with people being nice to you now?” Deborah asks.
“That’s not what I was saying, but like, it’s nice to get some pushback, you know?”
“You want to work for it.”
“Exactly. Way more satisfying.”
They’re standing closer now. From a distance, Ava’s eyes are monochrome, a golden caramel hue similar to her hair, a field of wheat in a summer breeze. But up close the blue flecks on the periphery of her irises become visible, encroaching the center of the hazel like a tidal wave coming ashore; inevitable.
“She has good taste,” Deborah says, gaze flickering (traitorous again) to Ava’s lips.
Ava tilts her head.
“The lipstick,” she clarifies. “I can see a Chanel rouge in the color Mademoiselle when I spot it.”
Ava’s fingers fly to her mouth, evidence of her recent activity visible on her lips, cheeks flush to match the color of her shirt. She rubs it a little.
“Yeah, we uh..” Ava begins. “Made out a little.”
“You missed a spot.”
Deborah takes a step forward, and Ava’s green apple perfume mixed with the remainders of her guest room soap fills her nostrils. Ava closes her eyes as Deborah’s fingers stretch to lightly brush her lips.
And then she’s swiping the skin under Ava’s bottom lip lightly with her thumb as she removes the remainders of the lipstick. Ava holds completely still. Deborah applies a little more pressure to wipe off the last traces of the creamy lipstick.
Her lip is plump under her thumb like a ripe cherry. If she presses harder the skin might break, leaking its juices over her fingers. She’s almost tempted to press and see what hides under the surface.
Ava’s throat bobs as she swallows. They stare at each other.
“All clean,” Deborah says.
Deborah walks away before Ava can reply.
(5)
Deborah Vance needs another orgasm. The set has been going well. It clicked after the performance in Memphis when Deborah went off-script revealing losing a late-night show was worse than the divorce.
Since then, she and Ava have been working almost non-stop, Ava coming to her room nightly now, even falling asleep in Deborah’s bed occasionally. It is purely practical that Deborah doesn’t wake her up. Ava is terribly grumpy if her sleep is interrupted, which would only interrupt their work flow.
Their back-and-forth, the Quality Riffs, as Ava calls them, are at their best when they’re either fighting viciously, tearing each other apart to break open their inner selves and pull out the hurt and vulnerability, or when they’re so completely in-sync, often touching, letting the truth flow freely from one to another, building each other up with each comment.
But now, three weeks later, the set in Des Moines doesn’t go smoothly. The audience doesn’t participate (she even gets a ‘you’re a dumb bitch’, which, honestly, feels fair). Ava is giving her the finger guns from the side stage, but her grin doesn’t reach her eyes. It is visible to her, too.
And there was one other thing which made the Memphis performance so exhilarating. She was running on post-coital hormones. It’s crystal clear; Deborah needs another orgasm.
“We’re going out,” she tells Ava as she walks past her to the green room of the comedy club. “Have Damien find us a good club.”
They arrive in a club that has too many neon signs, and they probably serve their cocktails with those paper umbrellas. Ava’s cheeks look pink in the light.
Damien and Marcus are off to the dance floor, Deborah chooses to sit at the bar.
Ava walks up to Deborah, seating herself on the adjacent bar stool. Deborah has already ordered them drinks, handing Ava the sugary frosé that she’s currently into; Ava’s new life as ‘good girl’ short-lived and only embraced when it suits her whims.
“Why are we celebrating?” Ava asks, fingers curling around the frosted glass gratefully.
“I felt like going out.” She opts for light, but it seems to come out unconvincingly by Ava’s following hum and arch of an eyebrow.
It is really annoying how Ava knows her well enough now to see when she’s lying. But she won’t give her the satisfaction of telling her that.
“What?” Deborah challenges.
“Normally you only want go out when the set went well.”
“Are you saying I bombed?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Rude!” Deborah playfully shoves Ava, her thumb inadvertently brushing over Ava’s collarbone.
Ava’s eyes gleam. Deborah retreats her hand.
“So……” Ava drawls, “Why are we really out?”
She’s now using her tongue to scope out the plastic straw in her drink before wrapping her lips around it and taking a sip.
“Oh,” says Ava, the realization dawning. “You need to get off.”
“Don’t say it like that!”
Another shove by Deborah, this time smacking Ava’s thigh.
“Excuse me, my lady,” Ava says in a terrible British accent, “but it seems you’re in need of a bone-melting orgasm.”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Deborah shrugs.
She starts looking around the bar, scoping it out for men she might find. Preferably ones who don’t know her, so she won’t have to perform, can just be a woman looking for a good time.
Ava starts laughing. “You do realize we’re at a gay club right now?”
“What?” Deborah turns head around to really look at the place. There’s a pride flag on the wall, which doesn’t really mean anything.
“You asked Damien to find a club for three queer people and one straight person—” Ava gestures at her by way of explanation, “of course we’re at a gay club.”
In one of the booths situated on the side, she sees two women making out. She downs her glass of white wine and flags the bartender for another.
“Maybe this is a sign to try it with a woman this time,” Ava says.
“You offering?”
“Uh,” she starts stumbling, “yeah,” she plucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I mean, if you want to.”
Hearing Ava’s willingness to act upon some (misguided) infatuation feels too vulnerable. Plus, it’s not real. So, she shields herself the only way she knows; by being mean.
“God, Ava, you’re pathetic.”
“I’m pathetic?” Ava asks, her face indignant. “You’re the one asking your employee for sex to improve your set.”
“I wasn’t asking, I’m just gathering information.”
Deborah long knows Ava to have no personal boundaries; she is an entitled, overconfident people pleaser. She bets she could make Ava do almost anything. It’d be a lie to say this doesn’t tempt her.
“Whatever you want to call it, lady.”
Ava turns away, too headstrong to face Deborah. Perhaps because she’s scoping out the place to find someone to have some fun with herself. Deborah isn’t ready to lose her attention yet.
“You’d just go along with it because you were asked?”
“Depends,” Ava answers, not yet giving her the satisfaction of facing her.
“On what, exactly?” Deborah asks.
“If they’re hot.”
And then, Ava’s eyes are back on her, her gaze dropping to Deborah’s lips, and then even a little lower. It’s nice of Ava to pretend to be actually interested in Deborah in that way. It makes her feel young, when she was still beautiful. Guilt builds in her chest. She’s seeking validation, grasping at Ava’s fleeting attention (given so freely) to soothe her insecurities.
“Lucky you, there’s plenty of hot women you can use your gigantic hands on here, you have my blessing.”
She shoos Ava from her stool.
The harsh scrape of Ava’s stool against the wooden floor cuts through the sounds of the bar, and then there is Ava right in her face, her breath a warm, sugar-(frosé)sweet whisper against her cheek. Ava leans in.
“You’re the most beautiful woman in this goddamn bar, Deborah.”
With that, she leaves her spot and walks over to the dance floor to join Marcus and Damien, swaying slowly to the music. The coil inside Deborah, always tight and locked away, now expands, ignited by Ava’s words.
Ava closes her eyes in her movement, her hands falling on her hips before traveling north to her sides, as if caressing herself, her head falling back. When her eyes open, they land on Deborah. Who was already watching.
With hurried strides, she crosses the dance floor in search of some privacy. She ends up in the bathroom. She looks in the mirror, hoping to find some answers as to why she’s suddenly so affected. Well, not suddenly, if she’s being entirely honest with herself. Somehow Ava had been creeping up to her. When she flew across the country to attend a funeral of a man she had never met, just to apologize to his daughter. No, that was obviously the moment when she already had affected her. Before that, the little things: when Ava had responded with too much understanding to her opening up about her past, when she had FaceTimed her to witness her daughter’s wedding, when—
“So.”
Ava stands behind her. “Ready to admit you think I’m pretty irresistible, too?”
Her fingers go white from clutching the sink hard. A shaky breath escapes her as she meets Ava’s eyes in the mirror.
“Go away, Ava.”
Never doing as she’s told, Ava steps closer into her personal space.
“Just tell me the truth.”
Her fingers playfully trace the edges Deborah’s hands which are still gripping the counter, as if saying: I am definitely onto you.
Deborah turns around, and kisses Ava.
It’s hard and fast, Ava going still for a tiny second, which makes Deborah aware and pull back, but then Ava’s hand on hers travels upwards to her neck, holding her in place, swiping her tongue to Deborah’s upper lip seeking entrance.
Deborah exhales, a soft moan escaping her, and then Ava’s touch is everywhere, her other hand on her waist, pulling her closer, finding bare skin underneath the layers of clothing she’s wearing.
Her hips dig into the sink, but the tiny spasm of pain only intensifies the pleasure in the sensation of Ava’s lips on hers. Her hands find the soft slope of Ava’s back. Ava grinds into her.
Ava’s trails urgent, feather-light kisses down Deborah’s throat, while her fingers find their way underneath her shirt, creeping upwards. She hopes Ava doesn’t notice her heart beating in her throat; how much this is affecting her.
A shuddering sigh escapes Deborah, her fingers trembling as they ascend to weave through Ava’s hair.
Another person enters the space, causing Deborah to break the kiss. Ava looks at her, questioningly.
“It was the most effective way to shut you up,” is what she lands on before walking away.
(6)
They don’t speak of the kiss. Or, perhaps, Deborah has wrapped herself in business, QVC and otherwise, to avoid any of the talking Ava is so fond of. Besides, they’re now on a mission: to sell the special to the streaming services.
While Ava has made no real effort to provoke Deborah, it doesn’t make her less aware of Ava’s presence, or lack of it. Ava doesn’t spend the night at the house, stumbling in wearing yesterday’s clothes and tousled hair around midday, only minutes before their scheduled departure for the meetings.
Ava gazes defiantly, daring Deborah to comment on the situation. She doesn’t.
They go to the meetings. Ava rigorously defends the special as being too good for thirty minutes (which it is), her professional support unwavering. Entangling business and pleasure (love?) has unraveled her before, Frank and Marty’s betrayals still echoing loudly. Ava, a tempest in her own right, has already shown her sharp edges, too. So Deborah comforts herself with this truth: it is better this way.
Maybe she cuts down a tree in an effort to shed some pent up energy. But the view really was abysmal.
The following night, Ava is absent once more. It hardly matters, Deborah is preoccupied. An earlier argument, the fall-out before her last Palmetto show, returns. For Ava, the work with Deborah is temporary, a stepping stone to a large career of her own. She is young enough (and more importantly, talented enough) to find her own way. But for Deborah this is definitive, and having tasted a sliver of respect during the last tour, she will not be silenced again. She cannot bear it.
But it all goes to shit (again), the possibility of it finally going her way fleeting and ungraspable. No platform wants her. Financing her own show might be possible; but they don’t have a venue, no people to invite, and the power goes out. Elaine calls it a bad sign.
Deborah lies awake, the sheets tangled around her legs from twisting and turning. When she hears the knock on her door, she doesn’t have to guess who it is.
“Can I come in?” Her voice is tentative, unsure. The soft light of the hallway casts Ava in an angelic glow. It doesn’t fool her.
“You already have, so it seems.” Deborah doesn’t mean to be so defensive, but it feels impossible through the exhaustion and bleak prospects.
Ava moves hesitantly, her gaze fixed to the floor.
“Oh, for God’s sake, come here already,” Deborah says, impatient now.
Ava sinks onto the edge of the bed. The space she leaves between them is wider than usual, a chasm, but her words are encouraging. It’s an unsettling juxtaposition.
“It’s going to be alright, you know.”
“Of course it is.” The words lack conviction, even to herself.
“You will make that special. It’s going to happen. It’s too good of a set.”
Only then do Ava’s eyes find Deborah’s. It breaks something of her resolve.
“I’ve waited too goddamn long for this,” Deborah admits on a whisper.
“And I’ll do anything to help you get there,” Ava whispers, her fingers grazing the silk of the bed spread. “Or, I should say: I will refrain from doing anything if that’s what you need.”
She says it as if it’s a sacrifice.
“I have so much to lose here, Ava.” Deborah begins, hoping Ava will understand. “I can’t risk losing the ounce of respect I do have. ”
“Would you, though?” Ava asks. “I mean, who are you worried about being a joke to?”
“I just don’t want anything to overshadow the work that we’ve done. It’s too good for that,” Deborah says. “You’re too good for that.”
She cups Ava’s face with her hand, tracing her cheekbone with her thumb. “You have a whole career in front of you. I won’t taint that.”
“I’m right where I want to be, Deborah.”
Ava turns her head into her hand, her lips grazing the skin, before she encloses her hand in her own, moving Deborah’s hand to her lips and kissing her wrist.
“And you will get everything you deserve, the set is good enough. Hell, the set is the best work of comedy I’ve ever seen. They won’t ignore you. They can’t.”
It hits Deborah then; not merely her unconditional support, but Ava’s unwavering faith in her creative abilities. No one has ever believed in her talent like that. Maybe Frank, but he was too intimidated by it to support her, putting his name on their first script as proof.
A laugh escapes her, her body moving as if shaking all the puzzle pieces together.
“Oh, shit,” she laughs. Then, while studying Ava’s eyes: “Oh, fuck.”
Ava moves in to kiss her, tender yet determined, sucking at her bottom lip.
“Ava,” she says softly, tugging gently at her head. “We shouldn’t. Are you sure?”
“That’s better,” Ava says, kissing her lips once more.
For a moment, Deborah gives in. Ava’s lips are soft, soothing, while her fingers ghost over her collarbone before finding a home on her neck, pulling her in deeper.
“Why’s that better?”
“I think it means you want me,” Ava remarks, intertwining her fingers with Deborah’s. “I want you, Deborah. Do you want me?”
A shiver runs through Deborah, the open desire in Ava’s eyes directed at her.
Ava runs her tongue over her upper lip, eyes glossy with desire. She is wearing an oversized band t-shirt (The Cranberries, a band Deborah actually knows and even enjoys listening to), and shiny basketball shorts, undoubtedly polyester. Her lips are a little plump from kissing.
She steps out of her bed, walks over to her bedroom door.
“Deb,” Ava calls out.
She turns the lock and turns around.
“I do.”
Ava makes her way over to Deborah in two big strides. Her smell (the now familiar green apple perfume), her glittering eyes filled with something darker than mischief, her skin so invitingly soft. She presses Deborah against the door, the collision marked by a stifled grunt which Ava swallows as she kisses Deborah.
She sinks her teeth into Ava’s bottom lip, tethering herself. Maybe it’s a form of punishment for Ava for daring to yearn so brazenly. Perhaps it’s Deb’s own wrestling with the truth that Ava knows her beyond which she lets people know her. She seeks to carve her way inward into Ava, to unveil her like Ava has unveiled her.
If anything, this doesn’t stop Ava, who grinds against Deborah even harder.
“Can I take this off?” Ava asks, fingers lingering on the buttons of Deborah’s shirt.
Deborah nods, and Ava kisses every newly exposed skin, licking along her collarbone before lowering her lips to Deborah’s breasts, giving an open-mouthed kiss on her nipple.
Ava has the fake decency to offer to fold the silk pajama top Deborah is wearing. Deborah rolls her eyes, but takes pleasure to see Ava is affected, too.
“Let me see you too,” Deborah whispers.
Ava lets her go, and pulls her shirt over her head.
“You are beautiful.”
She descends her lips to Ava’s breast, mirroring the attention she just received. Curious to taste Ava’s skin, she encloses her lips around Ava’s nipple, swirling her tongue around to wet the flesh before moving on to the other, the mixture of cool air and moisture (and hopefully, Deborah’s touch) hardening them instantly. She playfully bites one, and then Ava walks her back to the bed.
“Take off your pajama pants,” Ava says.
“Take them off yourself, mister.”
Ava grins widely, probably both at the title and the command, and replies “Yes, ma’am,” before falling to her knees, opening Deborah’s silk pants with deft fingers (of course Ava’s clumsiness doesn’t extend to her ability to take people’s clothes off), putting her hands inside the garment, covering Deborah’s ass to slide them down.
“Up.” Ava taps her leg, and Deborah holds Ava’s shoulders to step her left leg out of the clothing, before doing the same with the right.
Ava presses a kiss to the seam of Deborah’s underwear, who now is breathing hard, the cold meeting the wetness that is rapidly accumulating between her thighs sending shivers down her spine.
Ava’s next kiss is right at her center, and Deborah presses her nails into Ava’s shoulders.
Ava looks up, hooded eyes glazed over with want, and asks to take off her panties while hooking her fingers into the material.
Deborah nods, closes her eyes as Ava’s mouth is on her instantly, her knees wobbling.
“Lie down,” Ava says.
Ava sheds her own shorts, pauses at her socks for a second, as if deciding what’s the fastest option.
“Those definitely need to go.”
In record time, the socks are lost, and Ava climbs her body, kissing her lips again. Deborah explores the valley of Ava’s back where it meets her hips, hand going in the waistband of Ava’s underwear. She swipes a finger along Ava’s vulva over her underwear, and shudders to find her wet.
“By the way,” Ava says between kisses. “Those nails aren’t going inside me.”
“Hmm,” Deborah murmurs noncommittally, distracted by the way Ava takes her breast in her mouth again. “I—” she whimpers as Ava sucks, “I probably have a nail file in my ensuite bathroom.”
“You want to touch me, huh,” Ava smirks confidently. “Let me taste you first.”
Ava drops kisses down her stomach, opening Deborah’s legs with her thigh before descending further. Deborah takes a deep breath in, but Ava stops just short of her center.
“Do you want me to?” Ava asks.
“Please.”
“If I’d known this would get you to be so polite, I would’ve tried to eat you out ages ago.”
“Ava!”
“What? It’s not like I haven’t thought about it.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” Deborah says, done with the incessant talking, and not ready to deal with the implication of Ava’s confession.
And Ava waits no second longer. She licks down the length of Deborah’s vulva before circling her clit with her tongue, then licking down the length again. Deborah’s hips buck into Ava’s face, who sucks and licks in an addictive rhythm until Deborah shudders under the weight of Ava’s tongue dipping in and out of her cunt.
She comes with a strangled cry, too fast, the most unsexy sound she’s ever made, but Ava doesn’t seem to care, continuing to press light kisses to Deborah’s cunt until Deborah taps her.
“That was really hot,” Ava says before kissing her lips again.
She tastes herself on Ava’s lips. Ava starts grinding against her, breathing in her ear. “I’m so close already.”
Deborah pushes her thigh upward, providing more friction. Ava undulates against her, never breaking eye contact.
Ava’s whimpers send little aftershocks to her clit, breath hitching. Ava’s eyes roll back into her head as she increases the speed of her movements, a bead of sweat on her upper lip. Deborah kisses it.
“Come for me,” Deborah says, hand now squeezing Ava’s breast, pinching her nipple a little.
The encouragement seems to excite Ava, who comes within minutes, her slick coating Deborah’s thigh before she collapses on Deborah.
She strokes Ava’s hair, the laugh from earlier returning to her, now light and satisfied.
“Let me get that nail file for you,” Ava says after a minute, both gentlemanly and selfishly. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
(+1)
“You ready to go home?” Deborah asks, finding Ava on the deck of their rooftop streaming party, celebrating the success of the special which they sold to a female-owned network, since the multiple ones owned by the big media conglomerate headed by Bob Lipka gave Ava psychopath vibes. She didn’t have the heart to burst Ava’s bubble by noting Lipka would probably buy the independent streaming service in a few years and inadvertently own the special anyway.
“Just waiting for you,” she replies, walking toward her. Ava extends her arm, inviting Deborah to hook hers in.
“You look stunning, did I tell you that?” Ava says as they settle in the elevator, kissing Deborah’s jawline.
“Only about three-hundred times.”
Deborah rolls her eyes, reminiscing the moment when Ava had seen her on the steps of her house in the red dress earlier this evening. Safe to say, Deborah had calculated well by getting ready an hour before they actually needed to leave. The mark on her inner thigh is felt with every graze of fabric in each step.
“Well, you do.”
Deborah turns to look at her, her sweet Ava, who proudly wears the dress Deborah had bought her even though she was pretty sure Ava hated it. But upon telling her she could wear her new velvet suit if she wanted to, Ava had said she enjoyed dressing up for her. And the plus side of dresses were the easy access, said with a wink so obvious that it left nothing to the imagination.
“You sure you don’t need any more time networking with those execs? You have your own mountain to climb, you know.”
“You should really know by now that mountain climbing is no solitary pursuit,” Ava laughs.
She pulls Ava closer, breathing in the scent of her perfume, now mixed with hints of her own.