A/N: The story is written in second person. Treat italicized statements as first-person inner monologue, "and quoted statements as verbal dialogue." Each chapter is written from only one particular character's point of view. Lines represent a (brief) lapse of time, or the story's beginning or end after or before a note from me.

2016 EDIT: Rewritten to make it just a tad more readable. The plot doesn't change though.


Fresh from your championship win at the ICCAs, you're currently joining your fellow nerds—because face it, you're one of them now—at a Manhattan club reserved for this particular occasion. Earlier, you had wondered how a celebratory party had been planned and prepared within minutes of the announcement, but Aubrey explained that it was yet another facet of a cappella of tradition: all finalist groups chip in for a huge party in New York.

To this day, it surprises you how a cappella singers are the biggest party animals you have ever encountered in your short life. Even your uptight captain ranked above the average.

Speak of the devil

"Beca!"

You put down your mostly-Coke Rum and Coke on the bar as Aubrey approaches you with an odd but familiar look on her face. You recognize it as the nervously excited expression she had that night you did the mash up at the pool.

Oh, yeah. It's the breaking-out-of-my-shrink-wrap face, only… a drunker version of it.

You were half expecting this, the clichéd ending to a rivalry where the traditionalist apologizes to, and thanks, the newcomer. You've already prepared your snarky but chill 'don't-worry-about-it' reply that hints at a future friendship.

Only, to your surprise, she's blurting out a string of insults instead—

"—arrogant, lazy, no respect for authority—!"

Gee, tell me how you really feel.

You raise your hands in an attempt to shut her up and get an explanation for her sudden mental breakdown, but she shushes you and gives you a glare that clearly says, "Let me finish," so you let her out of sheer exhaustion.

"—annoyingly talented, generous—and as much as it drives me up the wall to admit, seeing you take the lead tonight showed me how you, under the right circumstances, can be undeniably sexy."

Wait, 'sexy'? How drunk is she? Who even says 'sexy' anymore?

You can't say anything yet, because that wasn't the end of her rambling.

"I want to have my way with you in the bathroom of this club until I have you screaming louder than the shit this place calls music."

Let's review:

Good taste in music, check. Wants to have sex, check.

You're thinking it's just sex—and I'm only agreeing to it because I'm horny as fuck—and worse things have happened than succumbing to a momentary lapse of judgement. On the way to the bathroom, you hear her apologizing for being a bitch to you the whole year and saying something about you changing her perspective...

Or something like that... I can't really concentrate. Hey, blame my ten-month dry spell!

So you blame your ten-month dry spell.


What is happening?

An hour ago you were celebrating with the Bellas—well, alone at the bar, but you were with them in spirit—after winning the ICCAs. An hour before that, heck, you were kissing Jesse! And now, in the bathroom stall of some club in Manhattan, you're frenching the person you swore months ago you could murder. Like, actually murder.

Aubrey Posen.

Making out with two different people in one night? You dog, you!

Or, more appropriately, you bitch.

Again, worse things have happened...

But at this moment, with her tongue battling yours for dominance—no surprise there, she's always been a control freak—and your hands on that sexy curve of her waist, sculpted by years of cardio, you really couldn't care less for justifying what's going to happen tonight.

But this could really get messy...

You feel her hands move from your neck to your hair and tug indignantly, letting your hair loose down your shoulders. It tangles between her fingers.

Not the 'messy' I had in mind, but—ouch—okay.

Despite the potential for this to cause much drama—which I loathe—you find yourself just... letting it happen. You're not denying it feels incredible; so much hotter than the gentle, chaste kiss you had earlier with Jesse. Then again, the pent up frustration and tension—which I now realize is of the sexual persuasion—between you and the Bella captain may have something to do with how quickly things are heating up.

You go at it for a while longer until you both feel the urge to take "it" further. She's pulling your shirt out of its tuck and you're pushing her blazer off her shoulders when you suddenly stop for reasons you would hate to admit later on for fear of being called a softie.

"Wait," you gasp. "Not here."

God, I hate myself for being so damn chivalrous even when I'm this turned on.

As well you should.

She gives you such a hard look that you can practically hear the "Are you fucking serious, Mitchell?" but you nevertheless start fixing your shirt and motion her to do the same.

Despite your calm, robotic movements, you are still, to quote yourself, horny as fuck. A certain part of your body is throbbing angrily (presumably at you) but you sort of knew the moment you walked into the bathroom that this was not the ideal place to get off.

And you kind of want to drag the whole thing out as tortuously and as pleasurably as you can.

When you're both decent, you open the stall door slowly to check if the coast is clear and you exit the bathroom as nonchalantly as you can. On your way out, you're also thinking that, if this is Aubrey's way of releasing all the tension and thanking you for the win—okay, maybe I'm reaching too far with the second one—then she deserves to do so in a place much better (and cleaner) than a bathroom stall at some club. This wasn't going to be a 'blowing chunks all over the front row' kind of release.

The two of you inconspicuously leave the premises, which proves easier than expected—no one can see us through these obnoxious strobe lights anyway—and head to the hotel for privacy. That doesn't mean you don't get to playfully kiss Aubrey's neck every now and then and let her dry hump you against the elevator walls.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is Aubrey Posen after more than a few Long Island Iced Teas.

"Not in my room. Chloe's studying for a test," she whispers against your ear.

Poor Chloe. Whoever scheduled the ICCAs on a Sunday should burn in hell.

So you lead her to the room opposite hers, your shared room with Amy. You assume the Australian is the type to be out partying most of the night, given the crazy stories she'd been sharing throughout the year, but you put on the 'Do Not Disturb' sign anyway. Funny. You remember joking with Amy about not getting any action earlier that night.

Oh, well.

A second later you're pushed up against your closed door and every corner of your mouth is being explored by Aubrey's tongue. The hot and wet sensations in your mouth start spreading (again) to the area between your legs.

Fuck. Aubrey is a good kisser. At this rate

In typical defiant fashion, you refuse to submit to the blonde and push her onto your twin bed forcefully. You climb onto, and straddle, her, trapping her arms above her head with one hand and sucking on her neck while slowly unbuttoning her jeans with your other hand. The position hurts your back and your abs are aching but it seems to work.

She moans loudly and you amuse yourself with the idea that, for once, it's not done out of frustration over your constant insistence that she change the set list.

You peel her jeans down slowly and trail wet kisses along every newly exposed bit of skin, like a 16th century explorer planting his flag whilst discovering the New World.

That's not really a sexy thought.

You find a use for the word 'sexy.'


You continue your shenanigans throughout the night, exploring every delicious part of your former 'enemy' and allowing her to do the same to you. You would have thought that after the second round of orgasms—I mean, you're welcome, Aubrey—that she would fall into a drunken stupor, but instead she'd sobered up and you are both now lying side-by-side, naked under the sheets of your tiny hotel bed.

If Aubrey had fallen asleep you could have at least sneaked out, maybe spent the night in Aubrey's room helping Chloe study instead, and just let things unfold on their own in the morning. But now, goddammit, you actually have to talk about what happened.

You risk a sideways glance and catch her doing the same. You both chuckle.

"So…?"

You began the word as a statement but it ends as a question.

"Yeah…" she nods, as though it's just an everyday occurrence, having sex with her... friend? Her... whatever you are to her at the moment.

Then you get to wondering why this doesn't feel as awkward as you thought it would be. It actually feels kind of nice. The sex was grade-A fantastic, there's no doubt about that, and the post-sex experience wasn't bad, either. It was just laying on the bed with Aubrey. No regrets, just... a hint of feeling like it wouldn't be such a bad thing to do it again some other time.

Beca Mitchell and Aubrey Posen, who would have guessed?

I guess all the bullshit about opposites attracting is true.

If this is how the night ends then you're at least glad it doesn't end with the predictable guy-gets-the-girl ending. You knew your 'apology' would eventually lead to that, but... sigh. That's precisely the word for it: "sigh." Not that you thought your life deserved better, nor that you wanted a more dramatic ending, it was just...

Sigh.

Now you wish you could have spared Jesse the kiss and heartbreak—what do you mean, presumptuous? That's believable! He's had a thing for me the entire year!—but you really don't regret Aubrey confessing her feelings tonight, even if it was in an aggressively drunk sort of way. You feel like it may have even saved you from—

Wait a second... did Aubrey actually even confess anything?


A/N: Writing in multiple first and second person is an easy way to get you to understand the personalities (and quirks) of each of the characters, while still allowing a plot to unfold. I tried to be as true to the franchise as possible but if I stray, then forgive me for injecting my literary interpretation of the character.

2016 EDIT: I really didn't like the way the first chapter came out and I think it's because I wrote Beca as being so out-of-character. (There's also another reason that I'll get to later.)