Archive of Our Own ^beta

Angela knows she’s wrapped around Amanda’s finger.

Completely whipped, Arasha and Courtney might say, if they were privy to the nature of their kinda-relationship. It's sticky-sweet, slow and hypnotizing like molasses if she were to describe it. The extent of how they blur the lines of their friendship is often found in each other’s apartments, in the occasional car, or even in rarely used storage closets—they tiptoe the line of friendship as much as they tiptoe hotel room floors late at night. Granted, they are friends, and still very much act like friends regardless if they’re on a video or not. Amanda’s one of her best friends, truly—but best friends don’t sleep with each other as stress relief, do they?

No, she supposes, best friends do not. But then again, the thrill of it all is addicting, and Amanda’s white-hot touch when it’s just the two of them was nothing short of intoxicating. Sometimes, it becomes a game between the two of them: of who can make the other loud when they shouldn’t be, what touch can they get away with. Angela was never one to back down from being goaded, and the challenge in Amanda’s eyes right now is one that is particularly irresistible.

“Dance with me?” Is all she asks, and Angela finds it hard to say no when radiance herself stares back at you.

She lets herself be pulled to the dance floor, noting that they stop at a spot that’s kind of crowded. She winds up with Amanda’s front pressed against hers.

(They’re once again playing with fire; they’re at a party, after all, and anyone can take a good look at them and figure out that there’s something beyond friendship that’s bubbling underneath. She knows the others are just around the edges, either mingling with the crowd or in their own, little worlds. She knows Courtney pulled Arasha to the dance floor a while ago, and winces a bit at how Kimmy’s probably dealing with that right now. She remembers Chanse hanging out by the bar area as soon as they entered the building too, no doubt flirting with any other guy that piques his interest. She wonders if that’s his way of coping with the fact that Shayne brought Damien as his date for the event.

Angela supposes they’re all going through their own Valentine’s woes right now, which is painfully laughable in its own right. There the others are—seeing but not being able to reach, always just a little behind with what their heart wants, while she’s over here seeing and reaching but not wanting to get what she really wants. Always looking behind her shoulder to see if people notice, if they understand what’s really going on between her and Amanda.

Because it’s always been that way, the blurring of lines—ever since Amanda pulled her into a drunken kiss after Smosh’s anniversary party, in some dark hallway where no one would catch them. After that, it’s been breathy sighs into a kiss, a hand on the thigh when she gets bored of the Law and Order episode they’re watching, and the quiet car ride she takes when she has to leave Amanda’s apartment early in the morning.

The last one—the last one she could do without, would rather spend her witching hours curled up next to her instead of closing the front door as quietly as she can. But Amanda doesn’t know that, and Angela’s not sure if she wants her to know that.)

Angela raises a brow. “I thought you wanted to dance.”

Amanda tilts her head. “Is this not dancing?” And proceeds to place her hands on the other woman’s shoulders and sway to the beat. Angela lets herself be moved, opting instead to rest her own hands on Amanda’s waist. She feels the sway of Amanda’s hips as the two of them continue dancing to the pulsing beat of whatever the DJ’s playing, gazes fixed to each other. Amanda’s warm—warm gaze settled on her and only her, warm smile never leaving her face, warm to the touch as she guides her around the dance floor. She gets lost in the warmth of her, all-consuming as Amanda grins and changes their pace. Somebody must’ve set her on fire and pushed her out of a plane at this very moment—feeling like she’s in freefall whenever she’s with her: freeing and exhilarating and absolutely dangerous, a different kind of inebriation . They must’ve been dancing for half an hour before the silence gets broken.

“You having fun?” Amanda coyly asks her, and Angela can only smirk as she grips her waist tighter. It’s as if there’s nobody else in the room but them. Eventually, Angela’s hands slowly drift up, and she sees the way Amanda’s eyes get darker when her hands stop by her hips.

“Now what are you doing?” She asks as she pulls her closer, hands winding around the back of Angela’s neck. The sensation of it is enough to burn her. She finds that she doesn’t mind getting burned.

Angela tries to suppress a shiver when she feels Amanda rub slow circles on her nape. “Bathroom?” She manages to ask, and pulls Amanda out of the dance floor as soon as she sees the other woman nod.

Her mind goes blank as soon as their lips meet. Amanda has her pinned against the bathroom door, hands looped around her waist as she presses into her closer. Angela has half a mind to lock the door, occupied with wanting privacy and making sure Amanda is left panting by the time she pulls away.

They go from the bathroom door to the wall near the sink, and Angela takes the opportunity to flip their positions and have Amanda’s back press gently against the concrete. She wastes no time in rucking Amanda’s skirt to pull her underwear down, the tantalizing drag of it making Amanda groan quietly. She looks delicious as sin; short skirt made even shorter by Angela’s ministrations, the flush on her cheeks as Angela nips at her neck. She drags her fingers through her folds, relishes at how Amanda gets louder.

She’s so perfect. Angela’s so in love. She can’t wait to drink her all up.

There’s truly no one else than Amanda, and maybe that’s why she lets herself be constantly pulled in. Even when she went on dates and hooked up with other people, she couldn’t help but compare their touch to Amanda’s, how they kissed her, how they held her at night. It’s the fact that Amanda’s the only one who can make her entire body shudder as she comes, her name formed around a choked sob. Amanda’s the only one who can make her lose all inhibition with just a simple “Please, honey?” , who can make her eyes grow dark and possessive.

They always come back to each other, somehow. It should be serendipitous, should be a sign of fate, but Angela’s not the one to seek out false hope.

Angela plunges two fingers in her, wastes no time. “Good?” She asks, settling on a fast pace already.

“Perfect,” Amanda moaned out, canting her hips in time with Angela’s thrusts. “It’s perfect, honey.”

She smirks and goes faster, if it were possible. Revels in the way Amanda completely loses her composure in front of her; the bead of sweat trailing down the side of her neck, her tongue peeking out, little gasps and moans that come out of her sweet mouth unprompted. She could have Amanda like this forever if she was given the luxury.

“You look so pretty like this, princess.” Angela mused, voice laced with something guttural and needy. Amanda’s whimper at the nickname doesn’t escape her notice. “Love how you take my fingers so easily.”

(She knows she’s threading a dangerous line; adjoining the word love in all this heady mess, like saying she loves the way Amanda submits to her is any more detached than saying I love you, like grinning smugly would hide how utterly besotted she is. 

She wants and she loves, a terrifying concoction of emotions, and it’s the same mixture of love and want that makes her blood freeze at Amanda’s words.)

“I love you so fucking much,” Amanda whispers in a frenzy, fisting the back of her shirt. “Harder, please—”

Angela’s heart thunderously beats against her ribcage as she hears it, the noise around her fading into a quiet save for their quickening breaths. 

It wasn’t like there were any hard rules to their situation when it started a few months back, if she was speaking from the bottom of her heart. But shouldn’t all hook ups start that way? Don’t develop feelings. Sex should just be sex. Don’t fall. Angela failed those three rules with flying colors on month two, and she still sought out Amanda’s inviting gaze whenever she could. And if she was still speaking from the bottom of her heart, she wouldn’t have minded, still. Because what a way to have your heart completely devoured, by Amanda.

But now—

Now, it doesn’t matter and it wholly matters at the same time. She was willing to be burned by Amanda, to be consumed by her, but now she wants nothing more than to drop her own charade of just-desire. Angela wants to drown in her love. 

Because they are best friends; best friends that have been dancing around their feelings for each other for a while now, and decided that hooking up was easier than saying those three words. Angela has to laugh, really. They decided to go with the hardest route when they could’ve had love all this time?

(Or maybe—maybe this was the correct path. Maybe Angela from a few months back would’ve ran the second Amanda told her she loved her. Maybe they weren’t ready for that at all until now.)

“Say it again,” Angela tells her (begs her, really), and pushes her fingers deeper. “Please.”

Amanda hisses at the roughness and clutches at her, knuckles almost white. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much. God, Ang— baby— ”

She whispers ‘Ang’ and ‘I love you’ in her ear like a litany as Angela trails kisses from the base of her neck to her jaw. Angela keeps her pace brutal, pulling all the way out before going knuckle-deep back in as Amanda lets out a whimper with every thrust. Eventually, Angela feels her clench around her fingers, and she looks at Amanda to see her half-lidded gaze, the intensity and pure want of it driving her to pull the other woman into a kiss.

Angela pumps one, two, three times before curling her fingers and grounding her thumb down her clit at the same time, and that’s the moment Amanda comes undone. She pulls her closer with the leg that's wrapped around her waist as she comes, and Angela swallows down the other woman’s loud moan by snaking her tongue in her mouth, hungry for the taste of her. The weight of Amanda’s thigh around her waist is enough to drive anyone mad, and so Angela squeezes at Amanda’s upper thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re good, you’re good.” She whispers in her ear as Amanda comes down from her high. The moan turns into a whine in her throat as Angela pulls her fingers out, Amanda burying her face in her neck as she shudders at the loss of contact.

When she feels her pull away, Angela brings up her hand to Amanda’s mouth. “Open.”

The taller of the two obliges, and Angela’s breath hitches at the feeling of Amanda’s tongue sliding around, savoring every drop of her own release. Angela’s transfixed at the way Amanda’s lips wrap around her fingers, the wet heat of her tongue. Watching Amanda taste herself should be its own type of devotion, and Angela’s her very own disciple. It’s almost too obscene, too intimate, for this to just be a bathroom quickie, but Angela can’t find it within herself to care that much as her lips find Amanda’s once more.

“I love you,” She rasps in between kisses, feels Amanda’s lips curl into a smile. “Oh my God do I love you so much.”

“Yeah?” Amanda chuckles breathlessly, runs hand up and down her side. There’s that look in her eyes again, and Angela feels so, so stupid for thinking that it was only desire that was simmering underneath. She can see it as clear as day that it’s love—unbridled and unguarded, and she couldn’t be luckier. There’s a moment of peace where they just stare at each other, ignorant once again to the world outside. Amanda puts a hand to her cheek and Angela nuzzles into it, pressing a soft kiss to her palm.

“You make me feel so fucking stupid, you know that?” Amanda confesses, moving her hand to cup Angela’s jaw. “Can’t get enough of you, Ang.”

She feels lightheaded, hypnotized by the way Amanda’s grip feels and the way she forms her name around her lips. She’s completely stripped raw by the woman in front of her, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Can you show me just how much, princess?” Angela asks. Amanda’s eyes go hungry again, and she pulls her underwear back up and smooths down her skirt.

“Wanna leave?” She suggests, and Angela blindly follows once more.

She’s sure it won’t be the last time.