Archive of Our Own ^beta

Angela had never been much of a woman for parties.

Having a break from work for the night was nice, sure, but not so nice was having to spend several hours dressed in expensive clothing and wearing a smile for a large crowd of people.

That’s if she didn’t end up having to treat a coworker for alcohol poisoning before the end of the night, of course.

None of that tonight so far, though. She hardly remembered what exactly the occasion was celebrating, and only knew that it put a few hundred people in a luxury hotel’s convention room, included alcohol and appetizers, and had pleasant music playing. That would have to do, for now.

She paced the large, crowded room, a token glass of champagne in hand for calming her nerves. For someone who had no problem sweeping through a battlefield and healing severely wounded soldiers, she certainly wasn’t the bravest person in the room. Even after all her years working with Overwatch, she had not learned to make herself truly comfortable in these very social settings.

After at least an hour of occasionally being stopped to greet some important person or other, a smile lit up on her face as she was approached by one Lena Oxton.

“Hey there ‘luv!” the girl chirped, the ever-present cheer shining through her voice. She was dressed to the tee in a tailored black tuxedo, complete with a comically fitting orange tie. “Great seein’ you!”

“It is great to see you too, Lena,” Angela replied, giving her the most sincere smile she’d offered anyone that night. “Don’t you look sharp.”

“Aw, don’t mention it! You’re not so bad yourself,” Lena said, extending her hand to Angela. “Go on, do a lil’ 360. Let me see that fancy dress of yours.”

Angela laughed, taking Lena’s hand and spinning around as she was asked to, showing off the form-fitting black dress she wore. She thanked the gods for Lena and her ability turn any situation into a pleasant one.

“Wow, ku-dos, ‘luv. Should see your arse in that.”

Angela laughs again, only mildly embarrassed. “Oh stop, you,” she chided. “Enjoying yourself so far?”

Lena shrugged, swirling the liquid in her glass before taking another sip. “S’pose so. These parties aren’t really my thing, but, if I weren’t here I’d probably be sitting at home in my knickers. Gives me somethin’ to do at least.”

Before Angela could come up with a witty response, an olive-skinned hand touched Lena’s shoulder. From behind her stepped an unfamiliar face that steals Angela’s breath.

The woman is tall, slender, dark hair pulled up into a complex-looking bun. She has hazel eyes that seem impossibly bright, and is wearing a violet dress that accentuate her ample curves. Though, Angela notices, she has strong, firm arms. Arms of an athlete.

The velvet smooth, French-accented voice is what snaps Angela out of her momentary daze.

“Lena, I was asked to tell you that Winston is looking for you,” she says quietly, leaning down to get closer to Lena’s ear. She must be at least a head taller, though it’s hard to tell given the heels she’s wearing.

Lena pouts. “Blimey. They bribe you with wine to come here an’ tell me that?”

The woman chuckles. “Right as always, chérie.”

Lena blows her bangs out of her eyes. “Oh, fine. Keep Angie company while I’m gone, would ya ‘luv? She looks like she might need it”. The last sentence comes out in a decidedly quieter tone, but Angela hears it nonetheless, prompting her to raise an eyebrow. She attempts to slow her heart, which has begun to race at the prospect of being alone with this beautiful stranger.

Stop that, Angela, she inwardly chides herself. Parasympathetic nervous system.

“Bonsoir,” the woman says, extending her hand towards Angela. “I am Amélie. Lacroix. Gérard’s—“

“Gérard’s wife, yes? I’ve heard of you,” Angela interrupts, in French. Amélie visibly relaxes. It must do her good to not need to use English.

“Oh? You know who I am, Doctor Ziegler?” she says, seeming surprised, but placing emphasis on the name. Angela chuckles.

“Oh, he talks about you all the time. If anything I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before.”

Amélie’s lip curves into an interesting sort of smile. “It’s the first time he has brought me to any work-related event. He…” she pauses for a moment, pondering. “He does not want to involve me. Says it’s dangerous.”

“And he’s right,” Angela says. “We do work on several counter-terrorist operations, and Gérard is among the highest in his ranks. He means to protect you.”

Amélie’s eyebrows furrow, and she brings her glass of red wine to her lips. “Perhaps I do not want to be protected.”

Angela’s eyes widen for a moment, then she laughs a bit too much to be acceptable in the situation she’s in. “You are a funny woman, Amélie.”

“Is that funny to you?”

“Well, you say you do not want to be protected from potential targeting by terrorist organizations. What can I infer from that?”

Amélie steps closer. “There are a few things you can infer from that, chérie.” She sips her wine, and Angela blushes a deep red. She’s intimidated by the few, but all-too-noticeable inches that force her to look up at Amélie’s gaze.

But she collects herself. Be cool, Angela, be cool.

Just as she’s about the respond, the music changes. The band begins playing a smooth tango. Amélie leans her head up slightly, as if to listen better, then looks back at Angela with the subtlest of smirks, extending her hand.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

Angela’s (much paler) hand comes to join Amélie’s before she can even think. “I would like that, yes.”

Amélie leads her with uncanny confidence. Angela swallows as she’s pulled to the dancefloor, where several other couples are getting into position to dance. Couples.

“Something wrong, ma belle?” Amélie asks. Angela curses herself for blushing at the term.

“Will your husband be alright with this?” she asks, tentatively. She won’t admit it, but prays to all gods that it will not sway Amélie’s intentions.

To her relief, Amélie laughs, smoothing a hand around her waist and drawing her closer.

“Does it matter? Right now, I want to dance with you.”

It’s enough for Angela. Soon, Amélie’s hand is holding her waist, and Angela’s is on Amélie’s shoulder. They perform a slight bow before beginning their dance.

Amélie’s movements confirm Angela’s earlier suspicious that she may be a dancer. Her movements are smooth, graceful, carefully calculated, like she knows the perfect step to go with every note of the music being played by the concert band.

The tango music blesses her ears as two glide through the dancefloor, occasional spins and dips drawing a sharp breath from her as they move. Guilty as it may be, Angela is hypnotized by this woman, and how she seems capable of unveiling her every secret with just one look accompanied by a subtle touch of hands.

When Amélie pulls her back up after a dip, she whispers into her ear, “You are an accomplished dancer, ma belle.”

Angela chuckles. “So you say. Aren’t you a professional?” she asks, putting faith in her own judgment.

The music slows, the notes becoming lower. Amélie pulls Angela towards her, whispering into her ear, “I dance ballet. This is not my area of expertise.”

Angela bites her lip before smoothing her chest over Amélie’s, suppressing a moan as she feels their breasts pressing together. “This is a tango. Close enough, is not not? ” she says, not thinking much about the words leaving her lips.

Amélie does not reply, instead continuing to lead their winding dance. And for the moment, it seems as if all else in the world fades away. Angela knows of the circumstances. Knows that she is at a work event, dancing at the hands of a cherished coworker’s wife. But perhaps she’s had a little too much wine, because the fire coursing through her veins overpowers her. She allows this beautiful woman to lead her, to bend her to her will.

Amélie’s intense gaze follow her along as they dance. Their bodies flow along the dancefloor as though they were made for it. When the music slows a little more, Angela takes the opportunity, dipping Amélie down and daring to place a chaste kiss upon that beautiful, exposed throat. Amélie shudders, clutching Angela’s black dress.

Angela curses to herself ten thousand times. She’s getting turned on. Getting turned on because she’s dancing with a married woman. In front of all of her Overwatch coworkers.

Amélie’s clutching her blonde hair hardly helps the case. “Mhm…..” she moans in a low, quiet voice, certainly not audible to anyone but Angela.

But Amélie is cunning. She takes advantage of the moment, spinning Angela around and pressing her mouth to her neck, allowing her teeth to scrape lightly over the pale skin. She inhales sharply.  “You smell good, docteur.”

Angela shivers. “Stop that,” she orders, biting her lip as Amelie’s soft ones smooth over her neck.

What happens within the next minute is a daze. Amélie whispers in her ear, viens avec moi, and promptly drags her outside of the hotel’s lavish convention room.

It takes the sound of an oversized door slamming closed to snap Angela out, and force her to realize what is happening. What she’s doing.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

Amélie bites her lip, saying nothing as she intertwines her fingers with Angela’s, pinning her against the wall.

“I…” she begins. Angela’s eyebrows go up, demanding the rest of the sentence, hoping it will give some insight into the subtle, yet noticeable torment on Amélie’s countenance.

“You’re beautiful,” Amélie says. It isn’t an answer at all, Angela thinks. But perhaps her mind, altered by the wine and the raw excitement, fails her. 

“And?” she asks.

Amélie does not satisfy her with a valid answer. “And nothing, ma belle,” . And before Angela can register it, cool lips are enveloping her own.

Angela forgets how to breathe. Those lips are so soft, fitting so perfectly against her own. Amélie tastes absolutely irresistible. So Angela doesn’t resist. Sensation overpowers her judgment. Her arms wrap around Amélie’s neck, submitting her lips to the kiss. She parts them, allowing Amélie’s tongue to take her mouth. Amélie lets out a low growl into Angela’s mouth, clutching the thin fabric of the halter of her dress.

“Mhm, chérie—“ Amélie moans, pulling carelessly at Angela’s intricate ponytail. Being called by that particular pet name awakens something in Angela. Awakens her sense that the entire situation is very decidedly wrong. She pulls her lips away.

“Amélie,” she breathes, her voice hardly able to come through. “We shouldn’t.”

Amélie looks incredulous for a moment, then chuckles. “No, we shouldn’t,” she says. And Angela wants to hit her, because she is teasing; daring Angela to continue in spite of all the infinite reasons why it’s wrong.

Angela’s hand lunges for Amélie’s throat, eliciting a gasp that’s too lurid to be just of surprise. Her fingers stay there for a long moment, taking their time before decreasing their grip. They then stretch out over Amélie’s tanned skin, smoothing down her collarbone and across to her shoulders.

As a doctor, Angela is impressed by the smoothness of that skin - not a single imperfection in sight. But as a great big lesbian, she gets shivers because of how soft it is. Her mind wanders, pondering if the rest of Amélie is equally as soft.

“Did you plan this all along?" Angela asks absentmindedly, her fingers continuing their movement, which has turned into a gentle, explorative caress of Amélie’s collarbone and shoulder.

Amélie smirks at her. “No, I did not. Don’t forget it was chère Lena who brought me to where you were,” she says, a vaguely amused tone to her voice. “But I could not resist asking a woman as beautiful as you to dance with me.”

Angela flushes in spite of herself. She feels like a girl again, melting at the flirtations of another. “Your husband,” is all Angela manages to say.

Amélie’s hand reaches for her chin. “That is for me to worry about, not you.” She leans in, and kisses Angela again.

And Angela absolutely loves it, relishes how perfectly Amélie’s plump lips surround her own. She berates herself inwardly, calling herself a pushover and a hypocrite and a whore. She is awful, awful for doing this to Gérard — who is her comrade and a good man — and awful for defying everyone’s perceptions, even her own, that she is a decent person.

But it doesn’t make her enjoy herself any less. She allows her tongue to brush over Amélie’s, over and over; for her fingers to grip her throat again; her other hand to envelop Amélie’s waist, pull her closer.

Amélie kisses her hard and hungry and demanding, her tongue pushing deeper into her mouth with every swipe. Her hand is strong around the back of Angela’s neck, manicured nails digging into the skin. Both women let out groans and moans into the other’s mouth, leaving their desire clear as day; as if their intense making out weren’t enough.

When Amélie finally pulls her lips away from Angela’s, they are both breathless. Angela leans her head against the wall, needing a few seconds to let the slight dizziness fade.

“Leave with me,” Amélie says.

Angela blinks. “What? Are you insa—“

“Leave with me,” Amélie repeats. She takes Angela’s chin in her hand again, thumb slowly smoothing over her bottom lip.

Angela’s heart races, her lips attempting to form words while her thoughts stumble over one another. “Gérard—“ is what she manages.

Amélie’s thumb holds Angela’s lips closed. “I’ll find him and say I am retiring early. He…will probably be relieved.”

She pauses, and Angela’s brow furrows. For just a fraction of a moment, Amélie’s expression had turned to something resemblant of sorrow.

But Amélie quickly shakes her head, leaving Angela no time to ponder any further. “Grab your things,” she says. “We can take my car.”

Angela doesn’t know what depraved forces compel her, but she obeys. Amélie leaves in the other direction, and she resolutely makes her way to the room’s entrance to grab her coat and bag. She tells herself that it’s better to take advantage of the alcohol in her system, and not think about what she’s doing. There will be plenty of time for hating herself in the morning.

When she she arrives at the door with her belongings, she finds Amélie already waiting for her, nothing but a small black clutch in hand. Amélie smiles in her direction, extending her arm for Angela to take.

She gently touches her nose to the side of Angela’s face as they step out. “I told him I am giving you a ride,” she whispers, as if reading Angela’s thoughts about how risky it would be to be seen leaving together.

Amélie hands a set of keys to one of the valet workers, then reaches into her clutch to take out a lighter and pack of cigarettes. She grins in Angela’s direction when she looks up. “I doubt I need to ask if you would like one, docteur.”

Angela teasingly raises an eyebrow. “Only because I have been drinking.” Amélie laughs after blowing out the smoke. “Oh? A hotshot doctor like yourself, smokes? Incroyable.”

Angela glares at her, but whatever response she may have thought up dies on her lips as she pauses to really look at Amélie. Her fair skin is covered with goosebumps from the contact with the chill night breeze, a few strands of hair flying about her face. The shine of the nearly-full moon lights up her dress in a way entirely different from the artificial lighting of the hotel. She is almost too beautiful to believe. In that moment, Angela thinks all social and ethical rules she is about to break will be worth it, so long as she gets to spend the night unraveling this woman.

Amélie quickly puts out her cigarette as her car arrives. A sleek black Citroën. How very fitting, Angela thinks. It’s like she can’t get any more French.

When the valet opens the passenger door, Angela pauses, watching Amélie step down to get in.

“You’ve been drinking,” she says. Amélie gives her that chuckle.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, docteur. I’ve only had one glass of wine. I promise you will be safe with me.”

She steps into the car, and Angela thinks that she most certainly will not be safe with Amélie, for reasons entirely unrelated to drunk driving.

“So,” Amélie says as the starts the engine. “Where are we going, ma belle?”

It takes Angela a moment to register that she’s asking where she lives. With a quick shake of her head, she tells her, and Amélie steps on the pedal.

The first few minutes of the drive are fairly silent; partially because of how tense Angela is, being  in a car driven by someone she knows has had at least some alcohol. The lights of Zurich rush by the window in a blur of colors and motions. It distracts her from the anxious thoughts about the ordeal she is currently partaking in.

Amélie’s voice interrupts her momentary stupor, but she’d been too lost in thought to make out any words. “Pardon?”

Amélie breathes in before repeating herself. “I did not think you would agree.”

Angela tsks, almost wanting to laugh. “Your confidence certainly suggested otherwise.”

Amélie smiles, taking a moment to respond. “That confidence is a mask, ma chére. Though I am not sure just how I often I’m wearing it, nowadays.”

Angela ponders that for a moment. It seems perfectly fitting. She’d heard endless stories of Gérard Lacroix’s elusive wife — a woman who never had a hair out of place, always knew what to say, and whose expressions were unreadable. It’s satisfying, almost, to know that she might be an enigma even to herself.

Sooner than she may have expected, the car pulls up to the side of the road, expertly parked in front of Angela’s discreet apartment. The street is well-lit, but the silence of the night gives it an almost eerie atmosphere.

They sit quietly for a moment, neither moving to get out of the car. For the second time, it is Amélie who breaks the silence, but without looking at Angela in the eyes.  “You can go if you like. Alone, that is. And I’ll go home.”

Angela turns to face her. “Is that what you want to do?”

“It is what I should do.”

Her eyes meet finally Angela’s, and Angela’s stomach drops. She’s beautiful, so beautiful, and it’s like the world’s greatest prize is being dangled right before her eyes and everything inside her is screaming at her to take it, even if her conscience knows that she absolutely should not. It is the cruelest test of self control.

“But I will admit,” Amélie says, her voice a tone quieter. “It’s not what I want.”

Scheiße. Whatever, I’m going to hell anyway. Fuck it.

Her restraint crumbling, Angela lunges for Amélie, swinging one leg over to straddle her in the driver’s seat. Their lips crash together, arms desperately wrapping around each other.

Angela is thankful for the space Amélie’s large car allows them. The last thing she’d want is to be restrained by a lack of space when, heavens above, she’s on the lap of possibly the most gorgeous woman she’s ever met, and their lips and tongues are clashing and their hands are frantically touching anything and everything they can.

The thought that they’re technically outside and in plain sight hardly even crosses Angela’s mind. The windows are tinted, and the door was heavy enough that she has reason to believe the car is bulletproof. Fuck it, no one’s ever out at his hour anyway.

That, and everything else, is blown out of Angela’s mind when Amélie’s lips enclose around the skin of her neck. She kisses, then bites, sucks, and Angela moans far too loudly than she would have liked.

“Oh yes,” she breathes, fumbling with the elastics and pins that keep Amélie’s bun in place. She doesn’t have much of a clue what she’s doing, but Amélie’s hair comes down nonetheless, straight and dark and thick. She weaves her fingers through it, grabbing fistfuls when Amélie’s teeth scrape at her neck.

“You sound so beautiful,” Amélie mutters, almost breathless. Her hands reach around for the halter of Angela’s dress, and Angela instinctively lowers her head to let Amélie pull it over and then down, exposing Angela’s breasts to her.

“Lovely,” she says, both hands cupping Angela’s breasts with an impatient grip. Angela bites her lip hard, closing her eyes, and losing herself to the exhilaration of being exposed before Amélie’s onslaught.

Angela leans back, using whatever surface is available for her to put her hands on, raising her breasts for Amélie’s scrutiny. Amélie mumbles something indiscernible before leaning down and taking one of Angela’s nipples into her mouth.

Angela gasps, one hand yanking at Amélie’s hair again. “Fuck.”

Amélie does not waste any time being gentle or explorative. Her lips surround Angela’s hardened bud, her tongue swiping over it in long, drawn-out lines. And Angela can’t stop her hips from moving, grinding into Amélie. She needs something, anything, to alleviate the ache between her legs.

“Do you like this, chérie?” Amélie asks between licks, her gaze like fire as it looks up into Angela’s.

“Yes,” Angela answers, desperate. “Oh yes.” She doesn’t even care how wanton she must sound. She has much bigger concerns at the moment.

Amélie’s hand cups Angela’s ass, pulling it against herself in sync with the movement of Angela’s hips, urging her on. Angela curses again as she grinds, unable to ignore the absolute mess she’s making of her panties — and probably of Amélie’s dress.

Amélie’s tongue makes circles, occasionally pushing Angela’s nipple against her teeth, creating a delicious pain-edged pleasure. She quite obviously knows what she’s doing, but that is a thought Angela can save for later.

Their position becomes a problem when Angela tries to reach down to touch Amélie’s thighs. She grumbles in frustration, and must look pretty stupid trying so hard to feel more of Amélie. Her movements are enough to be noticed.

“Back,” Amélie blurts out, and Angela understands. She kicks off her heels, and (very very clumsily) climbs to the back of the car, somehow managing to not hurt herself in the process. And Amélie joins almost impossibly soon, sitting across from her on the seat, back turned. Her hands fumble with the back of her dress.

Stripping each other out of their dresses becomes a task, but it’s what happens once it’s finished that makes Angela loses her breath: seeing Amélie in nothing but expensive-looking black lace lingerie, thigh-high stockings, and garters. Heilige mutterfickende Muttermaria Gottes—

Amélie leaves her no time for admiring, though, because in a blur of a moment, she lunges forward, pushing Angela to lay on her back. All of her movements are so quick, so agile. She bites her lip, admiring a naked-save-for-panties Angela from above. A smirk forms on her lips as her hand draws a vertical line down Angela’s body, starting at her neck and going to her hipbone.

She marvels at the softness of Angela’s pale skin. At how the taut muscles tense underneath her hand. How goosebumps spread out along its surface. How much she wants to kiss and bite every single inch of it.

“Amélie,” Angela calls between heavy breaths. “Do not tease me, Amélie.”

Amélie leans down, swiping her index finger gently across Angela’s bottom lip. “Why not? Are you in a rush, docteur?”

Angela presses her thighs together in frustration. Her torture is sweet, yes, but arduous nonetheless. The heat between her legs is closer to an inferno, now, that threatens to consume her entire body and soul if left to burn.

“I want you,” Angela declares, voice low and coated with desire, as her body tenses underneath Amélie’s too-gentle caresses.

“I know that, ma belle,” Amélie begins, tactfully pressing her thigh between Angela’s legs as she speaks, “Your body is not being very subtle.” She glances ever so slightly in the direction of the mess that has become of Angela’s panties, and Angela’s face turns hot and red.

“But I want you to be specific. What do you want from me?”

Amélie’s words trigger an unhindered boldness in Angela that she didn’t know she was capable of. Perhaps it’s the heat of the moment, or the alcohol, or the fact that her body is screaming for relief lest it explode; but whatever it is, she takes advantage before it can fade. She takes Amélie’s narrow face in her hands and pulls her close, whispering in her ear,

“Everything. I want everything. All that you can give to me, I want it.”

Amélie groans, just as much from Angela’s words, as the heat of her breath that tickles at her ear. She kisses Angela again, hard and bruising, as her hand follows a languid path down Angela’s abdomen. It feels carefully for every little inch of skin over muscle; paying special attention to the indent of the hipbone before finally, finally slipping into Angela’s soaked-through underwear.

“Fuck,” Angela mutters.

A moan escapes Amélie’s lips because Angela is dripping, her cunt is eager and hungry and Amélie can almost feel it pulling her in.

But she controls herself; she cannot have Angela come undone too soon, not when she looks and sounds so perfect. “Mmm…”

Her lips vibrate against Angela’s as the muffled little sounds escape her. And Angela writhes underneath her, her spine contorting and her legs folding and unfolding as Amélie’s slender fingers draw patterns on her lips, spreading the wetness to coat the entirety of her in its heat.

“Amélie,” Angela moans, a hand grabbing at Amélie’s dark hair. “Please.”

Amélie’s fingers trace different shapes and follow different motions, feeling for what draws the prettiest sounds from Angela. Soon she finds that what works best are small, quick spirals right at the center of Angela’s clit. She draws them, an infinite amount of them, soaking in every little reaction.

“Yes, oh, yes, Amélie, that’s good,” Angela whines, shifting her hips into Amélie’s touch in tiny thrusts, desperate to draw out every sensation to its maximum.

“You’re so wet, ma belle. Do you like this? Like me making me a mess of you?”

“Y-yes, I—“

“Like the way my fingers feel on your needy little clit?”

“Yes! Mein Gott, Amélie, don’t stop— don’t you stop—“

Every sound that escapes Angela’s lips is music to Amélie’s ear — every little moan and whimper and plea for her to keep going. She could drown in them, and in the image of the pretty doctor’s body quivering for her; in the back her car, no less. The entirety of the experience feels otherworldly.

Yet still she concentrates, focusing on keeping her movements consistent and precise, marveling as she feels Angela get closer and closer to the edge.

She hits a particularly good spot, she figures, when she feels Angela’s entire body jolt.

“FUCK Amélie, there. Right there, right th— fuck I’m going to come—”

“Are you? Are you going to come for me? Are you going to say my name?”

Her fingers move faster, faster, pressing against Angela’s clit harder —

“Amélie, Amélie, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck, AMELIE—“

Angela comes hard, her limbs thrashing about in all sorts of directions, her hips bucking into Amélie’s hand, and her voice being reduced to a high, drawn-out whimper. She rides out the aftershocks, and Amélie, damn her, applies just enough pressure to her over-stimulated clit to keep it sweet without being excessive.

By the time the last spark of electricity has waned, Angela’s body feels light as a cloud — she almost loses sensation of her surroundings. But she does manage enough motor control to lean up and see Amélie taking three of her fingers into her mouth, one after the other, sucking on them until they are wet and glistening, but otherwise clean.

Angela bites her lap and lays her head back down on the seat of the car, breathing in deeply. Amélie crawls over her, smirk grin on her lips. “Bonjour,” she says.

“Bonjour, beautiful.” Angela sits up, cupping Amélie’s face and drawing her into a kiss that’s deep, but much slower than most others they’d shared that night. She can taste herself on Amélie’s tongue.

When they pull away, Amélie looks as if she is about to make a snarky remark, but Angela shushes her with a press of her finger to her lips. “My turn,” she whispers.

Amélie doesn’t protest. Fucking Angela and watching her come like that had gotten her too worked up. She lets Angela lean over her, this time being the one who lays down on the seat.

Angela takes advantage of the moment to really drink in the sight of Amélie in that lingerie. Even with her hair a mess and a good amount of smeared makeup, she’s a work of art. Perfection.

Perhaps she lingers a bit too long, because Amélie implores her to please, hurry up. Under different circumstances, Angela may have laughed; maybe even dropping some snark of her own. But there’s no sense in delaying. She needs this just as much as Amélie does.

Her fingers work in knowing movements to unclasp the garters from Amélie’s thigh-highs — this much, she can do without a struggle. She wants to strip Amélie out of those damn black lace panties; but not, she decides, before placing a lingering kiss to Amélie’s belly. It, like the rest of her, is so incredibly soft, like it was made to be worshipped.

“Please, ma belle,” Amélie asks again. But Angela didn’t need to be told twice. She smoothes her lips downwards, grabbing at the top of the panties with her teeth before using her hands to pull them down Amélie’s slender legs.

She touches her cheek to Amélie’s inner thigh, moving languidly towards the center. Then, she draws in a deep breath, and licks a long, straight line down Amélie’s slit.

Amélie makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl, her hand immediately shooting up to grab at Angela’s hardly-there ponytail. And Angela places her hands at Amélie’s hips, holding her there so that she can bury her face into the aching cunt that awaits her.

Amélie, she quickly learns, is much less coherent when voicing her pleasure. She murmurs syllables, beginnings of words in at least two different languages. But her body does the speaking for her: the entirety of it tenses, her fist closing in Angela’s hair and holding her in place.

“Mm, ah— fuck—“

Angela applies more pressure, pressing her tongue flat against Amélie’s clit, turning her head from side to side when she feels necessary. Amélie has already got her soaked down to the chin.

“I want you inside,” Amélie says. There’s a huskiness to her voice that she hadn’t showed at any other point during the night, and Angela feels its effect right between her legs.

She moves her hand from Amélie’s hip, and slowly pushes her index finger inside. Amélie whimpers, and Angela almost gasps because of how easily Amélie’s cunt swallows up the digit. And she’s so wet, so tight, Angela could die.

She goes slow at first, testing for exactly how she should curve her finger. Amélie helps her along, thrusting her hips to meet Angela’s movements.

Amélie’s sounds are delightful, and she tastes divine, but Angela is greedy. She wants more. Sooner than she may have expected, she sinks another finger into Amélie, pressing a particularly firm lick to her clit as she does.

A fragmented gasp escapes Amélie, her hand pulling shamelessly at Angela’s hair. Her body trembles, her hips pushing further into Angela’s mouth and fingers.

“God yes. Fuck me. Fuck me, Angela,” she implores.

Angela pressingly obeys, thrusting her two fingers into Amélie with expert precision while her mouth licks and sucks at the clit. And Amélie rides her hand, her hip’s movements perfectly synchronizing with the digits fucking her.

“That’s it, ma belle, just like that — oh, fuck me yes —“

The capacity to form words escapes Amélie soon enough, but she doesn’t need it, because as if able to read her mind, Angela fucks her harder, faster, hitting just the right place and god she can’t take much longer—

Angela groans against Amélie’s cunt when she feels wet walls tighten and constrict her fingers in pulsating motions, and all semblance of cognition escapes her; she loses herself, being nothing in that moment but the woman fucking Amélie —

“Fuck me, Angela, oh GOD—!”

Amélie comes, hard and loud and messy, not even realizing how strongly her hand shoves Angela’s face against her cunt. Breathy, broken-up gasps continue to leave her lips as she draws it out, tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes.

Angela needs several moments to regulate her breath. She wipes her chin with her left hand’s fingers, then brings them into her mouth, not wanting to waste a single drop of Amélie. Then, with an exhausted sigh, she crawls forward to lay against Amélie, shivering when their sweat-coated bodies fit together.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, no sounds within the car save for their heavy breaths and the gentle taps against glass by the light rain that has begun to fall.

Amélie cradles Angela’s head, fingers gently weaving through her hair, nails pleasantly massaging her scalp. She is about to close her eyes when she feels dampness against her hair.

“Amélie, are. Are you alright?”

Amélie sniffles quietly. “I am fantastic, chérie. You are quite incredible.”

Angela flushes, and smiles for a brief moment before her lips turn to a frown. She has questions, so many questions. Now that the pieces of the night are replaying in her mind, she’s able to see that there had been several subtle indications that Amélie may not be as well put together as it seems.

“We should get up,” Amélie says, interrupting her contemplation. “It would not do to fall asleep in a parked car outside your apartment.”

Angela laughs a little, nodding in agreement. She cherishes the last few moments of being in Amélie’s arms before beginning to sit up. She is sore all over, but that’s hardly a surprise.

The two women stumble out of Amélie’s car, praying that nobody will see them in such a state. Angela carries her heels in one hand while she fumbles with her coat’s pocket for her keys with the other. Amélie, of course, keeps her heels. Not even a messy orgasm in a car late at night could cause her to commit such a crime as taking them off before getting to privacy.

When they step into Angela’s (incredibly modest) apartment, their movements happen as if on auto-pilot. They are tired, sexed-up, and in need of sleep. Angela hands Amélie a camisole that she believes will be a good fit, but Amélie just laughs at her. Angela, oblivious for a good five seconds, blushes at the implication.

They both end up crawling into Angela’s bed in the nude. Angela turns to her left side instinctively, completely unused to having someone in bed with her. She sighs happily as she feels Amélie’s arm sneak around her waist, pulling her close.

“Did you…” Angela mumbles, already half-asleep.

“I texted him. Said we had food and ended up falling asleep. He’ll be alright,” Amélie assures. For the second time that night, Angela becomes suspicious at how certain Amélie seems of Gérard’s reactions, or lack thereof. But that, as with much of her other doubts, is left to be dwelt upon in the morning.

“Bonne nuit, ma belle,” Amélie whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of Angela’s neck.

“Guet Nacht, Amélie.”

There, on the bed of her Zurich apartment and in Amélie’s arms, Angela quickly falls into a deep, dreamless slumber. The aftermaths of the night would be there to haunt her in the morning, no doubt; but even so, peace overcomes her.

She would remember that night years later, when in the middle of the raging battlefield in Numbani, she would come across a tall woman with periwinkle skin, golden irises, and the emotionless gaze of an assassin.