A/N: Greetings! You can call me euro.

First time venturing into the M category, so be gentle. Otherwise: enjoy!


They say you're a freak when we're having fun,

Say you must be high when we're spreading love

But we're just living life and we never stop

We got the world


The Kennedy Center resonates with the Bellas' sound, but Jesse only has eyes for Beca as she moves across the stage.

He grins when they switch seamlessly from Icona Pop to Ke$ha, the fast-paced rhythm of the song kicking up applause from the audience. As much fun as it is to listen to Beca sing, he loves listening to the Bellas harmonize, and it's even better because Beca never releases the entire set list before the competition, keeping him on his toes. He claps politely from his seat six rows back, reserving applause for the finale.

They're killing it, and his chest swells with pride as he watches Beca dance in perfect sync with the other Bellas. It doesn't matter how many times she's claimed to dislike them; he can see how much she enjoys being with them on stage. The energy radiating from her is palpable, her perfect comfort being front and center visible from every seat. He's especially aware of it as he watches his girlfriend rock out to the hottest mash-up in town.

This should be on the radio.

A tiny smile crosses his lips as he imagines Luke's face when he hears their performance. He may even be listening to it live. Becky-the-intern still works at the shop on weekends alongside Jesse, but Beca – captain of the Barden University Bellas and three time national a cappella champion – dedicates every ounce of herself to the stage.

His cheering increases exponentially as the music builds, anticipation racing under his skin as they approach the finale. He's well outside polite clapping range and openly whistling when the songs swell to a crescendo, Fat Amy descending from the ceiling in a silk sheet as she belts out the chorus to Wrecking Ball, the Bellas matching pitch below her.

You did it, Bec, Jesse congratulates as the applause swells to a thunder, almost drowning out the Bellas. You did—

The rip is loud enough that for one comical moment Jesse wonders if it isn't just feedback from a lousy mic. Then he sees – and hastily un -sees – Fat Amy's situation above, his heart sinking rapidly as horrified muttering erupts across the audience.

Shit, he thinks, wanting to jump out of his seat and help, especially when he catches a glimpse of Beca's horrified look as Fat Amy spins slowly and the audience screams, cameras flashing and commentators shouting into their mics.

This can't be happening.

Just before the curtains finally fall, Beca vanishes off stage, Chloe chasing after her as Jesse gets up and makes a bee-line for the stage.

Thankfully, most of the cameras have turned their attention on the president, providing ample distraction. Slipping unnoticed past the curtains, Jesse watches the girls set up Fat Amy with a ladder before he catches sight of Beca pacing a hole into the floor several yards away, Chloe looking close to tears as she turns to face him.

"Jesse," she says, and Beca's face is ashen when she stops and looks up.

Jesse's heart aches.

"Hey," he says, and then, seeing the devastation on both of their faces, adds, "it's okay."

"Jesse," Beca says. There's a bite to her voice that he recognizes immediately, animal pain at abject failure, and he's across the stage and tugging her into his arms before she can catch a breath to protest. The will to fight drains out of her, visibly deflating. She crumples his shirt in her fists, tucking her face against his shoulder and breathing out raggedly as he hugs her hard and insists that they'll fix it, it'll be okay.

"You were amazing," he whispers, kissing her temple. "Accidents happen."

He half-leads, half-drags her farther backstage, helping her out of her blazer and shoes and into a more comfortable t-shirt and booty shorts.

Amid the professionally dressed Bellas, she stands out like a sore thumb, but her command is unquestioned and easy as she crosses the stage in her bright white socks, the lump in her throat only noticeable when she looks right at him. She brings Fat Amy a fresh set of clothes and only closes her eyes in mild exasperation when she tells her about silk burn, pressing the outfit on her before turning to help Chloe and the rest of the girls dismantle their stage.

In awed silence, Jesse watches her reassemble her team and tell them the game plan. "Whatever happens," she says, "tonight we're going home and regrouping and that's it. Okay?"

They nod, equal parts subdued and dismayed, before following her lead off-stage. Beca shoves her feet back into a part of worn sneakers and tucks an arm around his waist as she passes, taking him with her, neither body guard nor shield but a comforting presence as the cameras flash and follow them the whole way back to the Bellas van.

There aren't any seats to spare so Beca sits in his lap, encouraging him to drape his arms around her belly as Chloe takes the wheel, her defiant posture daring anyone to comment.

She relaxes as the ride goes on, settling until she's light and loose in his hold, sleepy by the time they pull up to the Bella house. They empty out of the van with yawns and sleepy promises to fulfill other obligations – including laundry and unloading the van – in the morning. Jesse, to his credit, shoulders three bags at random and carries them inside, returning six times to unload the car while the girls disperse throughout the house, kicking off shoes and blazers along the way.

By the time Jesse carries in the final load, they've made themselves comfortable in Beca and Fat Amy's room, sprawled across the floor and mini-couch and the two double beds. No one speaks and Jesse feels briefly intrusive until Beca holds out her arms and he enfolds her in his embrace, willing every ounce of reassurance into his hold.

When she pulls back, he lets her, and the girls disperse with murmured good nights, each taking a turn to hug Beca or Chloe – it doesn't seem to matter which, a sentiment Jesse knows reflects their dual leadership – until it's just them left.

Then Chloe hugs them both and shuts the light off, plunging the room into darkness.

"Come here," Beca orders softly, shuffling back until she's comfortable against the headboard.

He crawls between her legs and leans down to kiss her, humming when she tangles her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. The unspoken nature of their relationship has always been one of his favorite things, even if it meant months of side-eyes and glares that could scarcely be interpreted as affectionate. It was worth every minute of uncertainty and heartbreak to arrive here, listening to the soft noises she makes and savoring every one.

It's unfair, really, how hot she is in attire that could practically be workout clothes, her hair slightly mussed from the ride but her lips soft and smooth against his. Her teeth dig in to his lower lip gently and he moans, hips flush against hers and grinding steadily. She breaks away from their kiss to pant into his ear, tugging at the bottom of his shirt when he offers no resistance.

They shouldn't, but her body is persuasive, arching to meet his and responding so, so beautifully to every touch. He slides a hand under her shirt before dragging the back of it gently across her ribcage, relishing the way she shivers and presses against his jean-clad hips.

God, she's so beautiful.

It's easy to get lost in her skin, mapping every curve and pressing her shirt steadily upwards until she shrugs out of it. She writhes slowly when he presses kisses down her throat, his chest pressed against hers as he finally reaches back and unclips her bra, carefully easing it aside as she encourages him with soft moans.

She's musical in bed and she'd never let him near her if he said it out loud, but he loves how she sings for him, how she gasps and pants and whimpers as he reacquaints himself with her body.

Everything she does is irresistible to him, from the way she bites her lip when he pushes into her, so, so carefully to the way her nails rake lightly down his back. He kisses the tiny crease between her brows and asks what she needs, prompting her to curl her fingers more firmly around his back and hold on, keeping him close as he picks up a slow, steady rhythm.

They're quiet, quiet enough that he thinks that if no one is listening in they won't even hear them, but it doesn't matter to him, nothing matters except Beca and the way she gasps and digs her fingers into his shoulder blades when he manages the right grind.

It's different, like this. It's always different with her, and he loves that, how in control yet relaxed she is, totally confident but equally trusting.

It's a gift, and he knows it and doesn't take it for granted.

Which is why he's careful not to overstay his welcome slow burn to soreness. Her legs must be killing her from rehearsing all day before being on stage, but she doesn't complain at all until he shifts, the tiniest whimper offsetting their balance as he hushes her and glides his fingers up and down her ribcage, easing some of the pain.

Knowing that he'll push it too far if he lingers, he kisses her as he pulls out, a tiny oh escaping him when she slips a hand down before he can even ask if she wants to stop and jerks him off, the clipped pace at odds with the slow kisses she presses against his mouth, increasingly sloppy as he pants, open-mouthed, against her lips. She knows him too well and he'd be embarrassed (as he was for days after their first time when he came in less than five minutes, practically untouched) if he wasn't so in love with her and how effortless and easy and awesome she makes it, shuddering and spilling onto the sheets with a groan.

More laundry, he thinks without caring, reaching down to get her off, grinning easily as she lets out a soft moan against his mouth.

She's nowhere near quiet as he works her over, careful to keep his pace steady as she pants open-mouthed against his throat, unable to speak. At last, just when Jesse thinks the soreness in his wrist might overcome him, she gives a single full-body shudder, whimpering and writhing as she rides out her high, shivering compulsively.

When at last she comes down, Jesse kisses her closed eyelids, feeling warmth and contentment radiating from her. They're both sweaty and exhausted, but he still manages to drag the messy sheet out from under her, a lazy smile greeting him as he kisses her before whispering, "I'll be right back."

Eyes still closed, she hums in acknowledgement as he slips out of bed and cleans himself up in the bathroom, returning seconds later and dragging a sheet over them both.

Without a word, she curls up against his chest, groaning softly at the movement before he rubs her back in deep, soothing circles.

"You are so, so amazing," he tells her, because it's true and he doesn't need to qualify it with on stage or when you produce music.

She smacks her lips a little, her breathing heavy in that halfway asleep realm that he's used to and smiles fondly at, pressing a kiss to her cheek and adding, "I love you."

"Love you, too," she murmurs, breathing evening out in seconds as she rests her cheek against his shoulder, his fingers drawing soft patterns against her shoulders as he dozes off.

It doesn't matter, he decides, eyelids heavy and sleep pressing down on him as the night settles slowly around them, what happens in light of the competition.

Beca is all that matters.