Previously on my oneshot fic called Competition Isn't A Thing, It's Everything.
Enjoy.
Or cry.
As an angst writer, I prefer both. ;)
They're up against the wall in a bathroom, Beca and Kommissar, and Beca swears the world is on fire, because all she feels is hot, just everywhere.
Kommissar's lips are burning on hers, whether from alcohol or desire Beca doesn't know, but she's too busy to care.
Everything's blurred and Kommissar's hands never stop moving along her body.
It's sinful.
Beca never wants it to stop.
Lips are bruising and swelling and bleeding from biting teeth.
Murmured praise escapes from Beca's lips every time she breathes, and it's appreciated on her neck.
Clothes are loosened, not enough, and bodies clash even closer together.
Teeth on Beca's earlobe, a tongue licking around an ear stud only to bite the abused skin again.
"I could get used to this." Beca mumbles against the oh so soft skin of the Kommissar's neck.
"I'd love getting used to this." She says as the blonde moves her focus to the Bella's collarbone.
Perhaps she's drunk, or too melted in lust to think straight, but her brain loses its filter even more than usual.
"I could get used to loving you." She whispers softly.
She surprises herself with just how true her statement is.
The lips on her collarbone freeze.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Kommissar's hooded eyes meet those of the shocked brunette's.
"Alberne maus," she says clearly, suddenly composed.
Suddenly icy.
"This is just sex. What's love got to do with it?"
She pats Beca's cheek gently.
It stings.
She straightens out the mortified girl's disheveled clothes, the tenderness of her gesture like salt on a wound.
Raking her fingers through her hair, she checks her lipstick in the mirror.
Satisfied, she walks out of the bathroom, leaving Beca alone and gaping after her, her words still ringing in the air.
What's love got to do with it?