Good luck, tiny Maus.
Without warning, Beca burst into the part of the impromptu dressing rooms backstage at Worlds of which she—for reasons she didn't even want to think about—knew it belonged to Kommissar (there was no door to knock on, anyway, so whatever).
"What kind of sick mind games are you playing, you gorgeous German Goddess?"
Wow, real smooth, Beca; great job with being imperious and all. God, this was so stupid. Why did the blonde have such an effect on her?
She couldn't even properly insult her, although, normally, she was a level ten master insulter, and never really gave a fuck about anything, anyway.
Except, apparently, she had a thing for tall, scary, perfectly mysterious German chicks, who were trying to destroy her a cappella group at Worlds; no big deal.
What had her so riled up in the first place was what she'd found in her own dressing room a few minutes prior. On the mirror, someone had written a few words of encouragement; with bright red lipstick and a lip print in the same color next to it. Seeing that—and being absolutely sure that there was only one person in the whole world who would even think of something as cheap as that—she had, despite Chloe calling after her where the hell she was going so shortly before their performance, and Fat Amy hollering to "go get her, tiger," stormed out of the room, down the hall, and right into Das Sound Machine's part of the backstage area.
Because this was a whole other level of completely fucked up, and definitely not okay. Beca could take a lot—punches to the faces, insults, death threats—but suggestive little messages with a definitely flirtatious undertone from the hottest, most intimidating German person the Bella had ever met was just too much to handle (and made her even more sexually confused than she already was, thank you very much).
Kommissar was sitting in front of one of the vanities, all alone in this part of the weird, tent-like construction next to the stage; not even Pieter, who was normally glued to her side, was there, Beca noted with some satisfaction. This was her chance to finally corner the blonde alone (though she already sensed that, probably, she would end up being the one who got cornered here).
Without batting an eyelash, the taller woman lowered the brush in her hand, and focused her gaze on the petite woman in the mirror behind her.
"Excuse me, but I have no idea what you are talking about," she all but purred with her usual (totally not super hot) German accent. Her tone was completely even, yet teasing (or maybe that was just how she spoke all the time, since she thought he was better than everybody else, or something), and Beca almost exploded, because of course she would deny the whole thing.
"That nice, little message you left on the mirror in my dressing room?"
It was an accusation more than an actual question, and she had her arms crossed in front of her chest to appear at least somewhat more confident and intimidating than she actually was right now (or ever, for that matter).
"Doesn't ring a bell, sorry."
Beca didn't believe her flam for a second, though, because—while she might not be on top of things when it came to witty insults right now—her ability to call bullshit was still one hundred percent on point.
"Oh come on, don't fucking play coy with me. I know it was you," she said again confidently because she just knew (or at least really wanted it to be her, because—of reasons).
"And how, bitteschön, are you so sure about that?"
This was when she finally turned around to actually face the other woman. In one swift motion, the blonde got up from the chair she had been sitting on, before she walked toward the Bella like a predator ready to devour its pray. Shit.
She was wearing a shirt that was half mesh, showing off her very toned, very attractive arms, and—also considering her bare, muscular legs—she looked so hot that Beca almost forgot why she'd stormed over here to confront the other woman in the first place.
"Who else calls me 'tiny Maus,' for starters? Yeah, no one. And you're the only one I know wearing that specific shade of red fuck-me lipstick," she argued, proud of her flawless logic, before she realized her mistake (a moment too late).
"Seems like you're paying awfully close attention to my lips, ja?" Kommissar inquired with a coy smirk, and Beca wanted to kick herself in the face for her absolute idiocy. Of course the blonde would exploit comments like that to abase her even further. Great.
"That's not even the point right now; stop changing the topic!"
"I am really just stating the obvious truth here," she purred, and sounded so extremely smug doing it that the Bella was momentarily taken aback.
Yes, self-confidence was sexy, and, yeah, she had a thing for chicks that had the potential to completely make her their bitch, but the blonde woman was taking all that a little too far right now.
"You are a fucking pain in my ass, you know that, right?" Beca sighed. At this point, she was just so done with everything—gorgeous blonde giants, singing a cappella songs in some park in Copenhagen, boyfriends who were more of an emotional burden than an actual gain.
"Need me to kiss it better?"
That gave her a pause.
"What?"
Kommissar was still smiling that way too big, way too fake smile when she answered (which made Beca feel both completely inadequate and vulnerable).
"Isn't that what you do when something hurts? Kiss it better? Or am I using the wrong words here?"
She sounded so sincere that, for a second, the Bella actually believed her words. But then she remembered it was Kommissar she was talking to here, and, therefore, it couldn't be genuine confusion—the other woman was way too scheming for that.
Truth to be told, though, Beca wouldn't mind Kommissar kissing her ass—in both the metaphorical and the literal sense. Also, she would gladly return the favor—she'd seen that ass in leather, it was as perfect as the rest of the German Goddess. (Not fair.)
"Why are you so confusing and tall and perfect?" Beca whined, because this was seriously exhausting. No matter what she tried, she apparently just couldn't win in any situation that involved Das Sound Machine's leader.
The blonde, on her part, just accepted the insult-compliment with a knowing grin.
"Annoying, isn't it? Especially when all you are is tiny and mediocre."
Beca gasped. Okay, this was definitely crossing the line between playful banter and just plain defamation.
"I am not mediocre," she declared forcefully, because she wasn't. Right? True, her self-confidence wasn't on fleek most of the time—especially when she was around a certain gorgeous specimen—but still; she was more than mediocre. She was an aspiring music producer, a good singer. She was smart, and cute, and funny. She was kind of gay, moody, and liked to complain. She was aca-amazing.
"We'll get back to that after we beat you later. Because, Schätzchen, there is no better a cappella group than Das Sound Machine."
The worst part was that the smaller woman couldn't even really argue with that, because—no matter if she liked to recognize it or not—they were amazing, really, and all of them were crazy hot for some reason, and it was just really unfair.
"I hate you," Beca huffed, and had to seriously hold herself back in order to not stomp her foot like a five year old throwing a hissy fit. Jesus Theodore Christ.
"Gleichfalls," the blonde answered in (supposedly) German, which—Beca hated to admit—was pretty damn hot, although she had no clue what the taller woman had actually said (something mean, and witty, and super clever, probably).
But she wouldn't be Beca fucking Mitchell if she didn't put up a fight, so she decided that two could play at this game.
"Schmetterling."
Well, close enough.
Her German wasn't perfect—ok, it was complete crap, and she only knew about 5 words (4.7 of those being names for various food items)—but she was still going to try, because she seriously had nothing to lose here.
Ever since their first encounter, she had completely embarrassed herself in front of the tall beauty any chance she'd gotten, and while, yes, she would totally tap that—God, she was definitely so much less straight than she'd always thought she was—that would never (ever, ever) happen, anyway, so whatever. Maybe she could at least win this round of the little sass off thing that was going on between them—and then crush them at Worlds because Das Sound Machine's leader was crying like a baby backstage (ok, who was she even kidding here; if anyone came out of this crying, it would two thousand percent be her).
Kommissar only chuckled.
"That doesn't make any sense."
At some point, the blonde had gotten closer, somehow—much closer—so now she was literally towering over Beca, which was a little less intimidating than she'd thought it would be, and, instead, a little more arousing than it should be. Fuck.
"Kartoffelsalat," the Bella tried again (although she was pretty sure what she'd just said meant "potato salad," and that was just—well, not her best comeback ever).
"Neither does that."
The smirk on her face was somewhere between amused and predatory now, which did things to Beca she didn't even want to think about (because, seriously, how could a single damn look make her that aroused).
They were closer than they'd ever been, even considering Kommissar's earlier efforts of invading the smaller woman's personal space. She could smell the blonde's perfume—because it had to be perfume; there was no way in hell a person smelled that good without cheating—could see her perfectly smooth skin, and those big, blue-grey eyes.
"Oktoberfest," the Bella muttered stubbornly in a last, weak attempt at saving her face. Right now, she felt a dangerous combination of mad and aroused, so she couldn't tell if she was more likely to kill the blonde, or kiss her.
"Du ergibst keinen Sinn, Mäuschen. Versuch lieb—" Kommissar started, but before she could utter any more digs, Beca made a snap decision regarding the whole kiss-or-kill thing, and shut her up by surging forward and pressing their lips together.
It was scary as fuck because, for a moment, the German didn't move, didn't reciprocate, and Beca already thought she had a big storm coming (goodbye world, it was nice to be alive for twenty two years; love you, mom and dad), but, then, Kommissar gripped both sides of the brunette's face to pull her even closer.
Suddenly, there was tongue involved, and teeth nibbling at her bottom lip, and, fuck, this felt so good, Beca never wanted it to stop again.
As soon as she felt Kommissar's hand on the bare skin of her stomach, something inside Beca snapped, and she basically savaged the other woman. There was no way of actually getting underneath the blonde's clothes in return, though, because she was wearing this weird skirt-shorts hybrid and a tightly tucked in button up, so the Bella just awkwardly clawed at the thick material around her torso, until, suddenly, a voice with a thick Danish accent sounded through the room.
"Germany on in one minute. Das Sound Machine on in one minute."
The speaker crackled once more, and Beca groaned against the blonde's lips in frustration—because, of course, they would be interrupted during their impromptu make out session—which earned her an affectionate chuckle.
The German woman looked different than before. More relaxed, somehow; a little softer around the edges. Beca liked it. It seemed way less scary, and, instead, a lot more appealing. This was a person the Bella actually wanted to get to know to see where things could eventually go, not just a quick (almost) backstage shag during an a cappella competition in Denmark, because the other woman was hot, and she (apparently) had a dominance kink.
They were still close, wrapped around each other in a loose embrace, and both a little breathless. Kommissar's hands were on the smaller woman's jeans-clad ass now, and, in return, Beca's forehead rested against the blonde's collarbone.
"Good luck, tiny Maus," Kommissar whispered into her ear, before she pecked Beca on the lips once more, and left the room.