A continuation of my little drabble named What's Love. You didn't think I'd leave it like that, right? We need Kommissar's perspective too. The ending shan't change though. ;)
They're against the wall of a bathroom, Kommissar and Beca, and Kommissar swears the little Bella undone in her arms is a divine gift.
She doesn't deserve such a gift, she's not good with beautiful things.
So she promises herself that she won't open her mouth.
Unless it's open because Beca's lips are devouring her.
But she won't let her black words poison this little mouse.
Not this time.
"You're so good at this," Beca murmurs. "And you taste like vanilla."
Kommissar smiles at the brunette's words before kissing her graceful neck.
Beca's pale skin is now peppered with purple marks, Kommissar would be proud of her artwork if she wasn't too busy making more.
She wraps herself further around Beca, pulling her closer.
She nibbles on her earlobe, delighted to find studs and piercings puncturing through the creamy skin.
It's deliciously naughty.
She licks around it, the metal leaving a taste on her tongue.
Then she bites it.
"I could get used to this." Beca mumbles, her lips tickling against the blonde's neck.
Those words make Kommissar nervous, so she focuses on the ridges and dips of Beca's collarbone instead.
"I'd love getting used to this." Beca says, louder this time.
The utter confidence that this heated mess will happen again pushes through the Bella's gentle voice.
It buzzes in Kommissar's mind, unsettling her.
Beca's head falls back as Kommissar keeps up the assault on her clavicle, but try as she might, Kommissar can't go back to the blissful lust she'd been in from the beginning of their impromptu lip lock.
Angry voices shout over themselves in her mind, stirring her into a panicked frenzy of doubt and anxiety.
She just hopes Beca doesn't say anything else. Maybe then she'll stop thinking so much.
"I could get used to loving you." Beca whispers softly.
And she sounds absolutely sincere.
Shit.
Kommissar freezes, her eyes squeezing shut.
It's too bad, as her view had been quite lovely.
She nearly blacks out from terror at such genuinely pure emotion falling from the brunette's bleeding lips.
Then the darkness sharpens and flows through her veins like ice. Her body reacts in defense.
And her best defense always was offense.
She lets her eyes drift over the precious present she'd only been able to hold on to for too short a time, already mourning the absence of the girl's soft curves under her hands and the flustered hands ghosting over her skin.
She finally looks into Beca's eyes. Shock and vulnerability both look back at her.
It's too much.
She has to get out of here.
Now.
"Alberne maus," she says slowly.
The words drag to the ground from her lips, leaving invisible cuts in their wake.
It's excruciating.
"This is just sex. What's love got to do with it?"
And with that, the metaphorical axe drops.
The look of horror in Beca's eyes burns itself into Kommissar's memory.
Now to say goodbye.
She pats the smooth cheek for the first and last time, and for the sake of her sanity she ignores the wetness pooling in her mouse's eyes.
She can't resist fixing Beca's clothes, they're so adorably mussed.
She finishes that, but she can't bear to tear herself from the brunette's presence, as masochistic as that is.
Dragging her fingers roughly through her hair, she steels herself to leave.
In the mirror, her lips look positively ravished.
She wipes off Beca's lipstick.
She really has to leave now, truly.
The stare on her back is suffocating.
So she leaves.
Her words repeat themselves in her mind. She tries to rationalize her cruel response to such an honest slip of tongue.
If she repeats it to herself enough times, she'll believe it, right?
It was just sex. Nothing more. Love doesn't exist.
She doesn't need it.
Damn.
