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Ava is generally fascinated by all the things Beatrice does, but it’s all the fruit that finally sends her over the edge.
Beatrice, who slices her apples into perfect sixteenths and peels mandarins while keeping the skin in one piece.
Beatrice, who always rests the strawberry against her lips before taking a bite, as if in reverent prayer.
(It’s a look Ava has only seen when they’re in the throes of passion, and when Bea eats strawberries.)
Beatrice, who eats green grapes by peeling the skin off first, using only her teeth and tongue.
(and Ava makes herself come just by grinding her thighs together, panting hot into the corner of the pillow so Beatrice won’t wake up.)
Beatrice only buys things when they’re in season, so it isn’t until the first nip of October that she brings home a pomegranate. She actually brings home five—only one of which is going into the chutney she wants to try, but they were on sale—and as Ava helps put away the groceries she can’t help but drift towards them. Spending twelve years unable to feel has made her a glutton for novelty, even to this day; the chance to feel something new is still a shining golden treasure. Her sensory-hungry hands are immediately drawn to the pomegranate’s taut flesh, the healthy weight of it in her palm, the way something gives just a little under the surface when she applies the slightest pressure.
“How do you eat these?” Ava asks, her mouth already watering for some reason. “Is the skin good? Can I just go full apple, or is this another rambutan situation?”
Beatrice laughs, her joy like pealing bells on a Saint’s day. “Not quite, but there is a bit of a trick to them. Would you like me to show you?”
Ava nods. “Yes, please,” she says, voice low. She can’t help herself when Beatrice shows her things.
They have to finish putting the groceries away first—Beatrice, as always, is an edging queen—and then Ava has to do the dishes she left in the sink from this morning. But eventually things are to Beatrice’s liking (Ava would do a million dishes just to see that specific calm smile), and they stand together by the sink: Beatrice filling a bowl with lukewarm water, and Ava with her chin planted on her hands like a brat.
“Watch this,” Beatrice flashes the tiniest smirk, twirling a paring knife between her fingers before stabbing it into the top of the pomegranate, cutting a neat circle around the calyx and removing it as casually as she might kill a man with her bare hands. “Now, do you see the white pith inside, in between the seeds? You have to peel that off, and it’s often easiest to do in water, like so.” She slices a few straight lines down the pomegranate before submerging it in the bowl and cracking it open like a spine, which sends a delightful shiver down Ava’s own back.
In Beatrice’s hands, everything becomes holy. The water bath is a baptism, the squirt of juice blooming blood-red like a temple crowned with thorns; the pith floats to the surface like clouds as the arils sink to the bottom of the bowl. They don’t pop out of the pomegranate easily; Beatrice has to coax them off the pith, her thumb stroking the seeds until they submit. She pulls up a handful—tiny seeds, once held in bondage and now freed, pearly pink and nearly translucent around the edges. The water runs through her fingers in rivulets.
“Here,” Beatrice breathes, as if speaking too loud might shatter the moment. She takes an aril from her cupped palm and raises it to Ava’s lips, her fingers lingering as Ava’s tongue darts out to receive it. “Close your eyes.”
Ava obeys, eyelashes fluttering as she bites down on the tiny seed. There’s a burst of tart-sweet juice on her tongue, a gentle crunch—refreshing and intriguing and gone far too soon.
“Delicious,” she groans with pleasure.
She wants more—she wants, more—but in that moment, like so many others, words fail. There simply aren’t enough of them to properly describe the breadth and depth of Ava’s desire, especially when it comes to Beatrice. So instead she silently opens her eyes, sees the look on Beatrice’s face—studied fascination clashing with feral need, all of it threatening to spill over the restraint she holds in her cheekbones—and swallows the lump that’s formed at the crux of her throat.
“Your turn,” her mouth forms the syllables, but Ava can’t be sure any sound actually comes out; her vision has narrowed to the ruby-bright arils still delicately cupped in Beatrice’s hand, and Ava watches herself reach out and take one as if moving through a dream. Beatrice stays still as Ava uses the edge of the seed to trace the swell of her bottom lip and up over her Cupid’s Bow, her expression suspended between vigilance and surrender. Her mouth parts, Ava’s name already escaping with her breath.
(more)
Something jolts through Ava’s body—lust, sin, the Devil himself—and the aril bursts between her fingers, coating Beatrice’s mouth with a splash like a bloodstain. Beatrice flinches, her eyes going wide, but Ava snags her chin between sticky fingers, leaning in to chase a droplet of juice as it cascades down the line of her pretty neck.
There’s a sharp flare of Beatrice’s chest as her breath explodes out of her, and Ava grins against her skin as she feels Beatrice’s pulse point flutter.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, just before she bites down hard enough to leave a mark.
There’s a splash as Bea drops the rest of the seeds back into the bowl, her hand hitting the edge and threatening to spill the whole thing. Ava moves slower, relishing the rare opportunity of having caught an esteemed sister warrior off guard; her hand slides by Beatrice’s to grab some of the arils, nuzzling into her neck all the while.
“Ava…”
“I said sorry,” she murmurs with a smirk, pulling back to admire Beatrice’s wide-blown pupils and the flush painted across her cheeks. She pops the entire handful of seeds into her mouth at once, water cascading down her wrist. “ Oh ,” Ava feels her eyes roll back in her head as she experiences the ecstatic sensation of pomegranate, but amplified; her tongue seeks each pocket of sweet juice, running over her teeth as she chews and swallows, and she has to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand to catch an errant drop or two. She recovers just in time to see Beatrice looking even more awestruck, and flashes the wickedest grin she can manage.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” she dips her hand back into the bowl and pulls a single aril out, guiding it once again towards Beatrice’s mouth. Ava watches in slow motion as Bea’s eyes flutter shut, her lips parting obediently to receive it, and it’s suddenly a holy moment as well: a communion, a benediction, a transformation from the human to the divine.
Beatrice swallows, her throat bobbing, and lets out a thrillingly shaky breath. Before she can open her eyes Ava closes the distance between their mouths, raking her wet hand through the stray hair that’s escaped from Beatrice’s bun as she chases the tart echo of pomegranate on her tongue. Bea moans softly into the kiss, arms winding around Ava’s neck, and in a moment of inspiration Ava bends to scoop her up and deposit her onto the kitchen counter, slotting herself between her legs, hands moving greedily across muscular thighs.
“Ava, the counter’s wet!” Beatrice squeaks against Ava’s mouth.
“Oh no,” Ava responds, catching Beatrice’s lower lip between her teeth. “Can’t have you getting wet on my account, can we?” She punctuates this with a dramatic splash of the water from the bowl still in the sink, so it’s even messier, dripping and spreading all over the place. For a moment it seems as if Beatrice might try to pull away and clean up, but Ava shoves her back against the cabinets, grinning as she hears the dishes rattle inside. The sudden movement seems to break something inside of Beatrice’s fascinating mind, and the change is almost instantaneous: her posture sags, mouth goes slack, and all the forethought vanishes from her eyes. A needy sound escapes her—a desperate and whiny and impulsive thing, freed from the cage where Beatrice normally stores the parts of herself she considers imperfect—and it reverberates through Ava’s own lips, cascading down her spine like lightning. Her hand finds Bea’s hair and yanks, again, so she can rake her teeth along the line of her jugular vein, seeking the mark she made before and biting back down as hard as she dares.
(—and if she could she would, she’d devour Beatrice like the Eucharist, would split her open and coax her out from all the places where she hides herself away, would chase the flavor of every tart-sweet seed on her tongue, would peel back the layers and pull her out of the water—)
Beatrice starts to pull Ava’s shirt out from her waistband, hands clumsy and trembling; Ava takes over for her, tossing the shirt over her shoulder with no regard whatsoever for where it might land. Her fingers fly to the collar of Beatrice’s blouse, flicking open the first two buttons with ease but snagging stubbornly on the third. Ava growls with impatience, gripping the edges of the seams—
“—I like this shirt,” Beatrice breathes.
Ava sighs playfully. “Fine,” she grins, giving Beatrice an extra kiss for good measure. “Will you help me, at least?”
Bea’s hands are already flying through the bottom buttons as if it’s a race, so it isn’t long before Ava has the distinct pleasure of yanking the cloth away, kissing at every inch of newly bared skin she can reach. Beatrice’s arms encircle her, pulling her closer, until Ava is all but standing on tiptoe against the counter. She grabs Beatrice’s waist and yanks her to the edge; Beatrice, ever ready, lifts her hips so Ava can slide her shorts off, pushing Bea’s panties to the side and dipping her head to lightly taste her. There’s a hiss of air escaping through gritted teeth as Beatrice throws her head back, legs widening so Ava can get a better angle.
“ Delicious,” Ava groans against Beatrice’s thighs, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin, collecting and coveting every hitched breath and shuddering sigh. Her tongue finds Beatrice’s clit and circles it, her fingers already slick as they push inside her.
“Ava…” it’s a whine this time, heavy on the first syllable as Beatrice rakes her fingers into Ava’s hair and grips on for dear life. Normally this is when she would tell Ava what to do next, but she doesn’t; Ava’s gaze flicks up momentarily to see Beatrice positively trembling in the throes of wild and unbridled pleasure, her shoulders seized up around her ears as she arches against the cabinet door and grinds her hips. It’s a shatteringly vulnerable moment, a fleeting glimpse of an unobservable holy relic, a crack in the rind revealing the seeds inside—Eve, at the precipice of all knowledge, reaching for the most beautiful fruit in the garden. It drives Ava into something like an ecstasy and she intensifies her ministrations, silently speaking in tongues as she worships, desires, adores .
“Ava—” and now it’s a wail, a keen, a cry aimed at the resonance of divinity, and Beatrice’s legs clamp shut around Ava’s head as her whole body seizes at the height of the wave. She doesn’t have to say don’t stop, keep going, please because Ava knows; she’s heard all the prayers, and she is the sort of God who understands the power of her love. She slips a third finger inside Beatrice, her eyes slipping closed again as the world briefly narrows to contain the sweetness of arousal on her tongue, to the earthquake shudders of thigh muscles overstimulated beyond conscious control, to the way she can feel each gasping breath Beatrice takes as they increase and shorten and—
When Beatrice comes, it’s something like transcendence, something like perfection, something like heaven. The entirety of all knowledge, unforgettable once tasted, sparking an eternity of agony and ecstasy in pursuit of divine grace. Ava buries her tongue deep inside her, drinking her in, until Beatrice’s thighs finally relax from around her ears. Then Ava looks up and grins, her chin still glistening.
“How you doing, Bea?”
Beatrice’s chest is still heaving as she fights to regain her breath. “That was—” she exhales shakily, her face bright red between her freckles, collarbone shiny with sweat. “Ava, that was…”
“I think I like pomegranates,” Ava quips, wrapping her arms around Beatrice’s waist and burying her face into her torso. Beatrice returns the embrace, her soft chuckle resonating through her chest to nuzzle Ava’s cheek.
“I think I do too,” she breathes, and Ava can’t see her face but she can tell Beatrice is smiling—true, wide, dimpled, the sort of smile that Ava will spend the rest of her life in a religious crusade to evoke.
“Wanna open another one?”
Beatrice’s idly wandering hands suddenly clench into the bare skin of Ava’s back, pulling an octet of scratch marks across where the Halo beams its divine glow.
“Come to think of it,” she murmurs, voice already tinged with wicked delight, “I do believe it’s your turn.”