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Beca never expected her word vomit to be contagious.
Right now, she’s embarrassed as hell and, weirdly, kind of aroused. It’s the weirdest sensation because she knows she should be disgusted, but Kommissar is just about the sexiest woman ever and simply being in her presence makes Beca’s brain melt.
At least the part that makes her words work, because nothing ever comes out quite as she wants them.
“My delicate flower,” Kommissar says, face a little scrunched as if she knows how strange the words coming from her mouth sound. “I am but a butterfly caught in your petals, hoping for a taste of your nectar.”
It would be fine—it would be bearable, really—if they weren’t in public.
“What is happening?” Amy asks. “Are you both mentally constipated?”
Stacie and Cynthia are howling with laughter in the background, Emily’s making this wide-eyed face that makes Beca feel like she’s slapped a kitten, and Beca—Beca’s face feels like a furnace and she’s sure she’s as red as a tomato.
“Stop,” she says. “Stop the words from your perfect, beautiful mouth that I—” She slaps a hand over her mouth to physically restrain herself. Kommissar sits by her side, almost looking pained, opening and closing her mouth like she can’t decide whether it’s worth the risk to try speaking again.
“Is Beca’s incoherence spreading?” Emily asks tentatively.
There’s a moment of silence as the other Bellas share a look, and then a sudden scramble as they all flee through the front door.
“I’ve lived with you guys for three years,” Beca shouts after them. “If it were contagious you would’ve all caught it by now!”
“Don’t worry, my tiny spotted deer. I’ll stay with you.” And Kommissar is just so earnest and ridiculously attractive and—and fuck it.
“On the couch,” she says. “We’re going to make out like they do in those stupid tv shows.”
Kommissar smiles indulgently. “How about I lie down and you sit on my face so I can spread you wide with my fingers and lick you open until you’re sobbing from pleasure?”
Beca’s face was red; now, it’s positively glowing. “Oh,” she says. “Um. Yeah, that also works.”
And if it’s a choice between terribly humiliating nature metaphors or filthy dirty talk, Beca’s not exactly sure which one she’s more okay with.
-
(In the end, Beca does end up sitting on her face.
For an hour.
Until she’s tugging at Kommissar’s hair and begging for her to stop because please, please, it’s too much, but even then Kommissar doesn’t lighten the grip she has on Beca’s waist until she’s made it through her fourth orgasm, rocking her hips against Kommissar’s extremely talented, incredibly flexible tongue.
Kommissar eventually manages to maneuver them so she can carry Beca up the stairs, murmuring more terrible nature metaphor in her ear like, “my sweet bee, you taste exactly like honey” and “light as a baby bird in my arms” that she largely ignores. She lays Beca flat on her back on her bed and slowly, gently pushes her through one last orgasm, “can’t you do that for me, my lovely, beautiful vixen” and that’s right about when Beca passes out.)
-
When she finally comes to, she finds herself staring up at Amy, smiling apologetically. “We weren’t sure how far away we needed to get, so we decided to take a day trip to the beach. Just in case. Guess we didn’t have much to worry about, we found you fast asleep.”
Beca quickly pushes herself upright in bed, remembering belatedly to bring her sheet along with her to cover her breasts—not that Amy seems all that impressed, anyway—and realizes Kommissar is long gone.
“Oh,” she says, not sure why she feels as disappointed as she does. But she quickly shakes her out of it, glaring over at Amy. “It’s not contagious.”
Amy puts her hands out in defensive posture. “Hey, none of us are gonna risk it, not after seeing how much of a trainwreck you are around hot blonde German.”
Beca frowns and scowls at her—not that it works, after living together for two years, not that it ever worked, honestly—and crosses her arms. “You guys are the worst friends.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Amy’s already walked away from her bed, rummaging around her dresser and altogether tuning Beca out. “Whatever you say, oh captain, my captain.”
-
The thing is, Beca actually kind of likes Kommissar. More than she used to, anyway, which isn’t saying much because she used to hate Kommissar; wanted to throw her off a bridge, stab her in the face—okay not really because she didn’t actually want her to die—but real, solid hatred of her beautiful dumb face and lean forearms and long, long legs and this is really not helping her case.
But now she can’t help the small smile that pops onto her face when she sees Kommissar around or when someone mentions her name or when she even thinks about her—
She likes her. Whatever.
The point is; it’s not a serious thing. They’re not going steady, they’re not even dating—not that Beca wants them to be, pfft, there’s no way it’d work out because if it would, Beca would be totally—
They’re just friends. With benefits.
It’s cool. Beca can play it cool.
Cool as ice—that’s been placed out in the burning sun.
(Her perfect voice and those fucking legs, goddammit.)
-
“Like a compass, I point only toward you,” Kommissar tells her fervently, holding Beca’s hand tightly in her own. “As bright as the stars may be, you are the sun that outshines them all.”
Beca looks directly into her eyes. “I want you to go away—so I can dream about your pretty eyes.”
“You guys are really fucking weird,” Amy says from behind them. Beca turns to see her pretending to retch into her wastebasket. “I’m just gonna—” She grabs her laptop and her headphones and walks right out the door. “Just remember, touch my bed and I’ll kill you both.”
Kommissar looks at her, eyes slanted slyly. “My white dove—”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Beca says. “But I trust Amy to be smart enough to find a way to murder us and disguise it as otherwise.” She grabs Kommissar by the arm, pulling her onto her own bed and scrambling on top of her. “I can think of plenty of stuff I can do to your beautiful, delectable body right here, anyway.”
Kommissar ends up leaving the room, three visible bruises richer, showing just above the collar of her shirt as she takes the walk of shame back to DSM’s place. Beca sighs as she secretly watches her from her window, because while she’d rather Kommissar not leave, damn if that’s not a nice view.
Amy must take Kommissar’s exit as a sign that it’s safe for her to come back up, because Beca hears her shuffling back into the room just a few moments later.
“Is she a vampire?” Amy asks. “Because if she is, she’s terrible at aiming.”
Beca blinks and turns. “Sorry, what?”
“Have you not looked in a mirror? Girl, your neck is a minefield.”
Well, no, she hadn’t mostly because she’d been a bit, well, preoccupied. But now that Kommissar’s finally out of sight, she takes the time to finally get out of bed and stands in front of their closet mirror, and shit.
“Told you,” Amy says. “Vampire.”
-
They’re snuggling on the couch in the Bella house watching some terrible rom-com on the TV, the rest of the team absent on a conspicuously timed Bella Group Hang™ (“so we don’t have to expose ourselves to your disgusting maple tree sap,” Amy tells them with plainly) when Kommissar leans in to press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Do you know about swans? Or termites?” Kommissar asks her. “Or turtledoves?”
Beca blinks, shifting to look up at Kommissar, because one of the things is definitely not like the others. “Termites?”
“And swans,” Kommissar corrects. “And turtledoves.”
“Okay,” Beca says. “No, I don’t.”
There’s a long pause of silence, where Beca’s content enough to watch the main character of said rom-com trip over her own shoes into the arms of some handsome stranger.
“They mate for life,” Kommissar finally says, right as said main character accidentally elbows her helpful hero in the stomach.
Beca blinks, and—no, no. There’s no way. “Oh. Cool.”
“And—and I wanted to ask.” Beca looks up at Kommissar as she pauses for another moment, taking in the pretty red flush to her cheeks. “Would you be my swan? Or turtledove?”
“Or termite?” Beca asks helpfully, laughing as Kommissar scowls down at her and worms a hand against Beca’s side to tickle her. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”
-
The last thing Beca expected from this whole endeavor is for both of them to be completely unable to talk normally around each other, especially in public. Everything that comes out of Beca’s mouth is ridiculous and admiring and utterly, horrifyingly embarrassing while Kommissar just chirps sappy animal metaphors with this stupid, terrible smile, and they don’t even make sense. They’re so, so, terrible and god, they make Beca flush bright red and the tiniest bit aroused anyway.
(And sometimes she breaks out the filthy, dirty compliments, but Beca’s not one to kiss and tell.)