Chapter Text
Unfortunately, Angela has always been a people pleaser. And to her very great displeasure, this character quirk of hers has a habit of affecting her every waking moment. The worst thing about it? It carries over to the bedroom. She’s a giver through and through, someone who derives pleasure from making others experience it, and there shouldn’t be any shame in that. There wasn’t, not for a long time. Sure, maybe her tendency to put her partners – or, in some cases, her one-night stands – needs so far before her own she forgot she had them too is something she should talk to a therapist about, but it hasn’t seriously harmed her. Yet. Until today. Or, like, tomorrow, because she really isn’t sure of the date. It’s one of the side effects of drinking until you black out and waking up in the lap of a pretty girl who looks a little too familiar for comfort but is so insanely hot there’s no way Angela could have freed herself from her hold.
She really isn’t usually in the habit of falling into bed with just any person she finds herself with, but there is something particularly alluring about this one. Her charm, the smooth honey of her voice that drips from her mouth and Angela wants to open her own to take it all in, let none of it go to waste. So, she does, because why shouldn’t she? She came to this party to have fun, and fun is the name of the tanned girl who is a good foot taller than her and has brown eyes that are so dark they look like molten chocolate. Molten is right, she thinks and giggles, because her stomach and mind both feel the same. It’s excitement and adrenaline; she’s sure of it. There’s nothing quite like the sensation of the hands of a hot stranger pawing at her body to make her feel wanted. Aside from theatre and movies, and the podcasts she’s on and all her work in general. That thought makes her halt her actions for a moment, a brief flicker of not quite recognition, but not not recognition surging up through the haziness of her mind. The girl whose lap she’s perched on blinks at her and says something, but Angela can’t make any of it out. There’s something about her- something that makes her heart beat faster in a way it doesn’t usually with strangers. But this is LA, where everyone knows everyone, even if they haven’t met yet. And she really doesn’t want to think about that any further when she could enjoy the other’s body in peace. So, she shoves the thought away and resumes kissing.
She tastes just how she looks: strong and warm. With an overwhelming amount of martini mixed in. It has her licking her mouth, chasing after the taste like a woman starved. Their embrace turns more desperate, roaming hands scrambling to find purchase in the denim of her jeans, as Angela tugs at the edges of her blouse, which are tucked into the woman’s skirt.
The fire burning inside her belly continues to grow, licking up her throat, spilling from her mouth in bursts of passion. She wants to ravage the woman and feels like she could. It gives her such a rush the alcohol takes a back burner. Angela groans when she feels the girls teeth snag on her lip and then again when she does it with intent. She lets her own nails scrape over the exposed skin of her back and draws a sharp breath from her, which Angela uses to catch her bottom lip between her teeth. She bites down, much harder than she intended to. She expects to be shoved back, thrown to the ground or something, but the woman doesn’t even flinch. Instead, her hips buck up, right into her crotch, and she lets out a moan so deliciously low it has her even wetter than before.
Finally, her attempts at undressing the woman are successful. Her blouse comes loose, and she draws back for only long enough to pull it from her body, then she’s back, clashing their lips together. The energy between them is downright explosive, so heavily charged Angela has a hard time breathing. Again, this detail tugs at her mind, calling into existence the vague shape of another woman, one she loves with all her heart, but the alcohol in her blood is plentiful, sweeping it away before she can even begin to grasp at it.
Beneath her, the woman pulls away from her lips. They are plump and red, smudged lipstick and the faint indent of Angela’s teeth making the sight so erotic she can’t help but chase after them. A hand against her shoulder stops her barely an inch from her goal. The blood rushing through her head is loud, but her heart beats even louder. Each breath she pulls from her body leaves her higher on tingling excitement than the last. Her chest is heaving, and she feels sweat pooling at the back of her neck. She doesn’t want it any other way.
The lips before her move, forming words, a question, maybe. She doesn’t hear it. Tries to shake her head, gain back some of her clarity, but only intensifies the swirling shapes that make out the room around her. Again, the lips move. They’re the only thing she can concentrate on; see clearly.
“-bed?”
Now that, she understands. And fuck does her voice really sound like honey. With a curt nod – not because she’s rude but because her body literally cannot come up with a more direct answer – she stumbles back, getting to her feet. Swaying, she takes a hold of the armrest of the chair. The other woman gets to her feet – swaying just as much, if not more than her – and pulls on her long sleeve. The fabric of it clings to Angela’s soaked skin. She doesn’t even understand why she’s still wearing anything.
They stumble to a bed shoved into the corner of the room. It’s big and covered with comfortable-looking blankets. Angela can’t remember whose bed this might be, let alone whose party she’s at right now. She thinks it might have been a friend of Chanse and that her friend had dragged her along, but those details are far from her mind.
Before her, the woman turns around and sits at the foot of the bed. Her dark hair falls in dishevelled waves over her shoulders. It looks so soft; Angela wants to bury herself in it. Her pupils are blown wide – from alcohol or attraction, but Angela lets both validate her – and nearly eclipse the pretty brown Angela can only call lovely. They soften when they lock onto her own, her head cocking to the side. She’d call it an inquisitive look – one shared between old friends when they laugh over an even older joke – but they are glassy and her neck looks tempting, exposed as it is. The moment passes faster than either can process, let themselves process, and Angela is on top of her in less than a blink, all familiarity gone.
The woman – Angela decides to call her Honey in her mind, because it might be dorky, but it fits – lets herself be pushed backwards, back meeting mattress. She gasps, but Angela swallows the sound with lips so hot they burn. Each new intake of breath she steals from her, keeps it in a place that is dangerously close to her heart.
Her hands wander along Honey’s ample curves, gliding over smooth skin, digging into the bra that keeps her breasts contained. She needs the fabric off now, or she’ll go insane. Her insistent tugging doesn’t get her far, both growing frustrated by the second. Honey groans, tries to reach for her, but Angela acts faster. In one move she pulls them both up, Honey gasping at the display of strength. Angela might be small, but she has been doing musical theatre since she was a kid and with it comes an impressive amount of both stamina and body strength few would expect from her. Honey trails a finger along her right bicep, marvelling at the limb despite the flannel covering it.
Using her chance, Angela reaches a hand around her body, finds the clasp of the bra and pinches two fingers together to open it up. The garment falls, but Honey doesn’t seem to notice at all, still entranced by her wiry muscles. Taking charge of the situation, Angela slips it off with one hand, throwing it somewhere behind them. She takes only a moment to marvel at the two round breasts presented before her, both full and peaked with erect, brown nipples. Then, she pushes Honey back on the bed, hands sliding down to her skirt and pulling. With a little manoeuvring, she manages to get them off the stunning woman. It joins the bra in whatever corner it landed. Without blinking, Angela crawls forward, leaning over the sprawled woman.
Honey’s chest rises with uneven breaths; her face and neck are flushed a deep red. It makes her look like a goddess. Angela wants to worship her.
Leaning down, she catches her mouth in a quick kiss but pulls away soon enough. There is no prize to be won in sex, but she does crave the release of her partner like nothing else. Cocking her head to the side in imitation of Honey’s earlier move, she latches onto her neck. Taking the tan skin between her teeth, she lets her tongue glide over it. Bit by bit she works her way down, nipping and sucking as she goes. Beneath her, Honey’s burning hot body bucks into hers. Clad only in a pair of black panties, she grinds up, searching for any kind of friction. Though she revels in taking her time, she isn’t mean. Angela repositions herself, using the left hand and right leg to hold herself up while pushing her left knee down.
Head thrown back, Honey moans at the contact. Her hands shoot up, grasping at her back. They claw into the flannel. If there was nothing between them, she’s sure she would have drawn blood from the seer intensity of it. Moans and mewls leave Honey. Angela uses her unoccupied hand to grasp one breast. Gently kneading it between her fingers, she pulls high keening sounds from her. Pearly teeth glint in the low light of a lamp while her tongue darts out to lick over her lips. She calls out something, but Angela doesn’t hear what. Her name, maybe. The raspiness in her voice parred with the high pitch make her grow even wetter in her boxer shorts.
Her senses are focused solely on bringing Honey as much pleasure as possible. Despite being unable to understand any words being spoken, she picks up on every little hitch of her breath, each change in pitch, all the different ways she squirms under her ministrations and changes them to draw out the most in her.
One of Honey’s hands is holding onto the blanket for dear life, while the other keeps tugging on her shirt. Angela isn’t stupid; she knows what she’s trying to do. But she isn’t really in the habit of undressing for her one-night stands. She isn’t self-conscious about her body in any way, but there’s something about the missing trust that makes her hesitate. This one plea, however, she can answer. Sitting back, she shrugs off her shirt and drops it next to both of them. It might come in handy later. Beneath it, she’s clad in the white tank top she always wears on Smosh. Like thunder, a thought rumbles through her mind at the mention of her work. She looks down, really looks, and comes to a breathless halt.
“Amanda?”
It’s like her system is flushed clear of all the martinis and margaritas she drank. In their place a heavy stone settles, taking her breath and heat away.
Honey- Amanda looks at her. Blinks. Looks. Blinks. Then-
“Ange?” it’s somewhere between a squeak and a yell.
Trying to put as much distance between them as possible, Angela scrambles back and falls flat on her ass. The impact shakes her not nearly as much as the realisation that only moments prior she was straddling – about to fuck – her best friend. She feels cold. So cold. A part of her wishes back for the warmth she had felt in Amanda’s arms, but the bigger part (the one that has kept her feelings for her friend in check for the past year) screams at her to get the fuck out. Find Chanse, make him take her home, then lock herself in her bathroom and never come out.
She’s already halfway to her feet when the sound of her name makes her stop mid-movement. Freezing, she contemplates which choice would ruin her life less. Leaving her best friend – almost hookup – naked on a bed at a party she doesn’t even remember or turning around and actually seeing what she has done. Go, the responsible part of her urges. This situation might be fucked, but maybe they can salvage it. Not now, though.
She doesn’t.
Turning slowly, she prepares herself to look her friend in the eye. She isn’t ready to face the consequence of her actions.
Amanda sits at the foot of her bed, still half naked and not even attempting to cover herself. Angela looks down, then back up again, because she doesn’t want to miss even a flicker of emotion on her face. She tries to ignore her heaving chest. This isn’t the moment to find her friend attractive.
“Angela,” Amanda says her name again. She sounds so small and scared. Her face is void of clear emotions. Her eyes are naturally big, but now they seem caved in, like they sank into her skull so as not to witness what they were about to do.
Without thinking about it, Angela approaches her. The smell of arousal still lays heavy in the air, but it’s changed now, charged instead with anxiety and a looming sense of dread. Heart going into overdrive, Angela reaches for her shirt. It’s oversized on her, so it barely fits Amanda. Careful not to touch her – she isn’t sure if either of them could handle that right now – she drops it around her shoulders. As if on instinct, Amanda pulls it closer. It’s so small on her, but she seems to disappear into it. Angela doesn’t like how she’s shrinking right before her eyes. This isn’t the Amanda she knows. How’s big and strong, passionate and whose laugh is so bright it makes everything better. She wishes she would laugh right now. She doesn’t deserve it, however. Angela knows that. She fucked this up.
The moments leading up to the hook-up are all a blur in her mind’s eye. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to conjure them up. Only the faint trace of Amanda’s perfume and the softness of her fingers remain as phantoms on her skin.
Amanda opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. Her eyes flick down to her left hand. The ring. Tears fill her eyes as she hiccups.
“Fuck, Amanda,” Angela starts and wants to kick herself for it, because now she cannot stop. Words just tumble from her mouth, and she resents the fact that she has no filter, “I’m so sorry. God, I’m sorry, you have to believe me! I didn’t know it was you, I never would have-” touched, kissed, undressed, nearly fucked “-done any of this if I had known. I was wasted, and I couldn’t think straight.”
Her eyes are heavy and hot with the burden of unshed tears, but she can’t bring herself to let them fall. This isn’t about her. This is about Amanda. Her best friend. Her best friend, whom she has been in love with for the better part of a year now. Kind Amanda, gentle Amanda. Amanda, who always puts a smile on her face, who teases her with kisses in front of the cameras and calls her babe and honey. Amanda who said ‘I’d try’ when asked about having a relationship with a woman. Amanda who is married.
This is all going too fast. Her brain doesn’t catch up with the barrage of words leaving her mouth. She doesn’t even know if she’s making the situation better or worse, because Amanda isn’t reacting to anything she’s saying and even thinking about listening to her cues closer makes her nauseous because it reminds her of her high-pitched whines and her silky skin between her teeth.
“We can fix this, I swear. I’ll find a way, and then we can- we can just forget this ever happened. I won’t tell anyone, and no one will know. You’ll be fine, they’ll have no idea.” She tries to come up with anything, but all that leaves her are nonsensical rambles. A voice in the back of her head that sounds suspiciously like Chanse tells her that she’s ignoring her own feelings right now, that she needs to consider how she feels about this too, but she tells it to fuck off. This isn’t about her. Sure, she’s involved too, but she isn’t the victim here. It’s Amanda, who’s sitting before her, pale as a ghost.
Without saying a word, she slowly brings up a hand. It’s too slow, but Angela really kind of wishes she would just hit her, anything to show her where they stand right now. She brings it up to the flannel and pulls it even closer. Then, she clears her throat. Tears are still streaming down her face, but she avoids looking at Angela at all costs.
Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Angela wants to reach out and comfort her, but she can’t. She’s pretty sure she’s lost that right forever. Her chest squeezes, she can’t breathe. Her eyes are fixed on Amanada. Her next move.
Getting to her feet as if she is in trance, Amanda stumbles past her. It’s no longer the alcohol that has her unsure on her feet. Angela makes to steady her, but Amanda pulls back as if she had been burnt. With an audible gasp Angela shrinks back. Her tongue thumps against the roof of her mouth (the taste of Amanda’s skin remains), her hands ball into fists, nails digging so deep they draw blood. She doesn’t unfold them.
Leaning down, Amanda picks up her blouse and skirt. She drops her flannel and pulls both items on with a lethargic haste only one in deep shock can manage. Words of comfort and reassurance are on the tip of her tongue, but Angela can’t bring herself to say them. The longer the silence between them stretches on, the harder it is to gather the courage to say something. Anything.
Maybe she should stop her from leaving, hold her back and explain herself. She does not. She stands there and watches as the best friend she has fallen in love with dresses herself with shame. Feels their connection breaking, piece by piece. With it, her heart crumbles too. She can feel it happen in real time. It’s like someone has reached inside her chest and is beating it with a hammer. She swears she can taste the blood. (It’s only Amanda.)
Without giving her another glance, Amanda leaves. All energy is sucked from the room with her and as the door falls closed, Angela does too. Her knees make contact with the carpeted floor. Tears start to cascade down her cheeks as she leans forward, both hands pushing into the ground. Nausea builds in her, cocktails and charcuterie threatening to spill out. Dry heaving, Angela sinks down, turning on her side, pulling her legs to her chest. Crying into the denim of her jeans, her mind empties itself until nothing but the sting of her heart remains.