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and I believe it’s called ‘fan-fiction’.

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Grab Somebody Sexy (Tell 'Em Hey)
Title: Grab Somebody Sexy (Tell ‘Em Hey)
Pairing: Stacie/various Bellas, side Beca/Chloe
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Mild ones for Pitch Perfect
Summary: If she can’t let The Hunter go after any of the adorable Trebles, there’s really only one playing field left to roam in the aca-world. (Or, five times a Bella tried to teach Stacie something, and mostly just wound up sleeping with her instead.)
A/N: For Britt’s prompt, which I then accidentally let spiral a bit out of control.

Stacie can’t help that she’s a sexual being; her nana always says you should love yourself for you, no matter what, and you, where Stacie is concerned, just happens to like sex. A lot. Flirting comes more naturally than spelling; kissing is infinitely more fun than math. School is important, supposedly, but if she can spend most of her time either singing or getting down and dirty, Stacie will take that choice first.

The problem is, ever since Aubrey made that dumb rule about no Trebles—which is so freaking unfair, because how cute are they?—Stacie finds her pool largely diminished. She’s already burned through the really cool frats, and the football team, and honestly, playing sloppy seconds to herself really isn’t her style. She likes people because they’re new, and interesting, and because sex is the greatest way to get to know somebody ever. It’s the most fun she knows how to have.

If she can’t let The Hunter go after any of the adorable Trebles—and if she’s not willing to pursue the lazy-ass High Notes (who wouldn’t even try, let’s be honest), or anyone who thinks bursting into a Madonna medley mid-orgasm is actually sexy (she’s not. Seriously, what is up with those freaks?)—there’s really only one playing field left to roam in the aca-world.

She’s pretty sure Aubrey wasn’t intending for her to start sleeping around the Bellas’ circle, but hey—this is what she gets for trying to leash The Hunter.


Chloe isn’t the sort of girl who gets flustered often. She has her moments, of course—when her nodes are acting up, or when Aubrey is pushing her patience to its last limits, or when she spots Beca pretending not to smile at that Jesse kid—but on the overall, she likes to think of herself as a calming influence. Aubrey calls her a hippie. Her mom calls her chilled-out. She calls herself happy.

So, when she finds herself staying after to help Stacie with choreography, she assumes it will go well. The steps aren’t all that hard—even Beca, who refuses to put even an iota of effort into learning the Bella ways, pretty much has them down—and Stacie is talented.

Flaky, and a little spastic, maybe, but talented. Which is all that matters, if they’re going to take the ICCA trophy this year.

Talented, however, doesn’t necessarily mean on point. Though Chloe started this afternoon feeling optimistic and cheery, she’s just about at the breaking point by now, because Stacie? Cannot figure out how to keep her hands still.

Honestly, the girl gropes herself like she’s getting paid overtime to do it, and Chloe can just imagine what Aubrey—and the judges—will say if this is still happening by the time they wind up on a national-level stage.

(She can imagine it, but Lord, she does not want to. Aubrey isn’t keeping it together so well lately, between the Trebles’ constant Facebook taunts and Beca’s unmotivated approach to hand-hearts. This might just be the thing to nudge her over the edge once and for all.)

She presses her fingertips to the bridge of her nose and inhales noisily, watching as Stacie—for the zillionth time—rakes her palms up over her breasts and pulls a face that would be highly fitting for a B-grade porno. Which is great—on her own time. The Bellas are about class and poise and finesse, and oh my god, stop doing that.

“Stacie!” she snaps, a little more tersely than usual. Full lips puff out in an instant pout. She sighs. “Stacie, you’re doing great. If you could just…a little less with the boobage?”

Stacie widens her eyes. “Tone it down?”

“Just a little,” Chloe begs, trying to smile and not quite reaching the mark. All she can picture is what Aubrey will do if they aren’t absolutely aca-ideal by the time they hit competition season, and if Stacie can’t for the life of her stop grabbing at her own tits—

“It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?” Stacie asks knowingly, letting her palms slap against her sides at last. She’s got one eyebrow arched almost in challenge, her smile strangely lopsided, like she knows something Chloe doesn’t. Chloe frowns.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then why won’t you let me do it?” Stacie pouts. “I thought music was supposed to be about following your heart, and my heart really, really likes boobs.”

Chloe’s not entirely sure what to say to that one. She isn’t uncomfortable with Stacie grabbing at herself all the time; what’s to be uncomfortable about? A woman’s body is a beautiful, natural thing, and if guys can walk around adjusting themselves left, right, and center, then a woman should be able to do whatever she pleases. It’s not about comfort.

It’s about Aubrey skinning them both if the choreography isn’t one-hundred percent perfect, that’s all.

Stacie is looking at her with faux-innocent eyes, her smile still settled strangely upon her pretty face. She is pretty, Chloe thinks, and talented, and this would be going so much better if she could just control herself a little. A modicum of self-discipline, as Aubrey would say, goes a very long way.

“I just want you to follow the steps as they are,” Chloe tells her, slightly vexed when Stacie just shrugs and takes a step into her personal bubble. Personal bubble has always been a concept threaded very loosely together inside of her head; Chloe likes being near people, touching them for comfort’s sake and being touched right back. She likes the understanding that comes from a hug or a tightly-clutched hand in her own. She likes the contact.

But Stacie is supposed to be dancing, not edging her way into Chloe’s space. Contact is terrific, and they can absolutely cuddle up and watch a movie or something later, but if they don’t get this worked out, uh oh

“This isn’t the choreography,” Chloe points out archly, lifting an eyebrow down at the long fingers cupping her breasts through her shirt. Stacie grins.

“We would totally win if it was, though.”

She squeezes experimentally, more gentle than she’s been on herself all afternoon, and Chloe’s eyes flicker for a moment. “This is not toning it down, Stacie.”

“Sure, it is,” Stacie insists happily, her fingertips padding lightly across a nipple until Chloe sucks in air. “I’m not messing up the steps anymore, am I?”

“No,” Chloe sighs, leaning into the deft hands that have been so irritating all afternoon, “now you’re not even trying to do them at all.”

“True,” Stacie muses, and inclines her head like she’s going to tell some wonderful secret. Chloe isn’t sure if she’s annoyed or painfully curious; all she knows is, Stacie’s mouth is soft when it grazes her own, and her hair is thick and dark, and if Chloe closes her eyes and inhales just right, she can pretend for a second that she’s kissing someone much smaller and more obstinate than Stacie of the Grabby Hands.

“This does not mean you’re off the hook on the steps,” she pants as Stacie’s mouth sucks a patch of skin on her sensitive throat, a nimble hand flicking open the button on her pants. “We are so working on this tomorrow.”

“Right,” Stacie hums, plainly not listening at all. “You bring the sheet music, I’ll bring my boobs.”


Stacie needs a C-average to perform with the Bellas. It isn’t a Barden-mandated thing; it’s Aubrey-mandated, because a flunking team is a sloppy team, and the last thing they need to be right now is sloppy. The Trebles are holding firm to their number-one slot, and Chloe’s throat is all messed up, and Beca is a royal pain in the ass, and right now, all Aubrey wants is for Stacie to friggin’ pass algebra.

She’ll drag her across the line of comprehension, kicking and screaming, if she has to.

At least, that’s what she thinks on Friday morning, when Stacie responds to her would you like me to tutor you? text with, YESSS PLZ C U @ 8. She isn’t sure the horrendously improper grammar is necessary—or a very good sign about Stacie’s level of care about intellectual pursuits—but whatever; you have to start somewhere. And, as captain, it is her duty to whip these girls into shape, no matter what it takes.

Stacie has the cardio, the voice, and—mostly, thanks to Chloe’s tireless efforts—the choreography down. If Aubrey can wrangle her into a C, she will be as shiny as she’s ever going to get, and Aubrey can move on to molding another girl to perfection.

(Cynthia Rose, probably; Lilly is still overwhelmingly impossible to hear, and Beca is overwhelmingly impossible to be in the same room with without wanting to punch her in the nose. Cynthia Rose, however, shows promise, if only Aubrey can convince her to fix that atrocious hairdo.)

She’s actually pretty excited about the evening, especially when she opens the door to the apartment to find Stacie with a backpack and an earnest smile. Stacie is such a sweetheart—nothing like that jackass Mitchell girl, with her dumb ideas and her too-bold smirk. Stacie is a little goofy, and a little slutty, but Aubrey doesn’t mind. She’s sweet, like a retriever hopped up on a few too many doggie treats.

She looks good sitting at Aubrey’s desk, her back straight and her hair neatly brushed. She looks like a scholar, even if her mouth does keep rambling on and on about Kardashians and Ryan Seacrest, spouting all sorts of nonsense about celebrities Aubrey doesn’t have time to keep up with. It doesn’t matter; the textbook is open in front of her, and her handwriting is pristine, and Aubrey just has this thing about women who hold themselves in such a dignified fashion.

(Beca Mitchell, it goes without saying, would be sprawled with legs going every which way, her hair sticking straight up in the back, her eyes glazed and careless. Beca probably wouldn’t even have bought the textbook. Stupid Beca.)

It goes well for an hour or so; Stacie’s less than fascinating E!-inspired tidbits never dry up, but she obediently leans over her notebook and carefully scrawls digits into the page as she speaks. She’s wrong on almost every problem, which is unfortunate, but Aubrey has hope. At least she can add.

“Ugh,” Stacie groans when the clock strikes nine, “this is so boring.”

Aubrey cranes her neck from her secondary desk chair, eyes skimming across the notebook page. “Hey, you got that one right!”

“Really?” Stacie wrinkles her nose at the equation, then brightens. “Yay me! Does that mean we can be done?”

“Well, no.” Aubrey is proud of how calm her voice comes out; she sounds just like her eighth-grade geometry teacher, all patience and smiles. “But we’re getting there. A few more hours, and—“

Hours?” Stacie groans again, the sound vibrating through her chest. Aubrey winces. “This is math. No one should be doing math for hours except, like, teachers.”

Okay, maybe she’s not as dedicated as Aubrey had hoped, but that’s not a problem. All she has to do is find something Stacie really likes, and bring math into it. It’s a classic trick for educating problem students. She’s almost positive.

She’s just trying to figure out how to make a word problem out of a handful of drunken celebrities and the probability of them finding their way into a comfortable jail cell on any given night when Stacie throws her pencil aside and sweeps herself dramatically out of her chair.

“This is dumb,” she announces. “Let’s do something fun.”

She’s seated on Aubrey’s lap before she can blink, and while Aubrey doesn’t like to think of herself as a prude, exactly, she finds herself going dry-mouthed in surprise all the same. Stacie is tall, and leggy, and looping her arms around Aubrey’s shoulders like she was invited here, and all Aubrey wants to do is teach her the quadratic equation.

“What are you doing?” she sputters. This isn’t like when Chloe flops down to take a nap on her shoulder. This isn’t like anything she’s ever known. Stacie is so weird.

(Still sweet, yes; the way she smiles down at Aubrey is so innocent, like she doesn’t understand what’s odd about this. She’s very sweet. She’s also a little bit heavier than Aubrey expected, and her breasts are heaving against Aubrey’s chest, and this is not algebra, thank you very much.)

“I’ve got a math problem,” Stacie says, her voice low and surprisingly husky. Aubrey’s stomach gives a pleasant jolt, her head spinning. “If you have one brunette and one blonde sitting on the same chair, and they’re both totally hot, how long until they make their way to the bed instead?”

It’s not a math problem; it’s a very real problem. Stacie is grinning down at her like the cat that ate the canary—or the one prepping it with salt and pepper, stuffing the poor little bird into the crock pot, and yes, Aubrey is certain that she is the feathered one in this scenario. Stacie is on her lap, her nails (perfectly manicured, smooth to the touch; Aubrey is impressed) drawing tiny designs on the back of Aubrey’s neck. Stacie is—

“This is highly inappropriate,” Aubrey huffs, seconds before Stacie rolls her eyes and kisses her, soft and wet and nothing like her long-term high school boyfriend used to.

She was supposed to be dragging Stacie across the line of comprehension, come hell or idiotic Beca Mitchell.

Instead, she winds up on her back on her clean pink bedspread, her hands fisted in Stacie’s thick dark hair.

They might have to settle for a C-minus, at this point.


Stacie doesn’t like to light fires.

Stacie doesn’t like to TP houses.

Stacie has never seen a Tarantino movie, or stolen a goldfish, or traded her brother’s Pokémon card collection for some dumb fifteen-year-old’s moped.

All the same, Lilly likes Stacie. Stacie talks a lot, which is helpful when Lilly isn’t feeling up to the task of shouting to be heard, and Stacie is fantastic at brushing the knots of your hair so you barely feel them at all. Plus, she’s got Daddy’s credit card on her side.

If only Stacie were just a little bit more focused, she would make a pretty decent sidekick to Lilly’s dastardly plans.

Focus probably isn’t one of those things that can be taught any more easily than growing vocal cords meant for reaching audible human levels, but Lilly figures it’s worth a shot anyway. She needs a secondary partner in crime for when Fat Amy skips back to Australia and sets to work on their dual world takeover from that side of the globe. Aubrey is obviously out, being a prim little stick-in-the-mud; Chloe is too nice, and too into Beca, who is just a little bit too stuck on her own goals to immerse herself in Lilly’s. Jessica, Ashley, and Denise are too bland, and Cynthia Rose has too much debt to slip away into the shadows for months at a time. They’re all hazardous.

Stacie is the best option she’s got.

It’s just too bad Stacie is so wild.

To be sneaky, and sly, and at all good at the things Lilly is good at, you have to be quiet. Very quiet, and very aware of your surroundings. That’s Lilly in a nutshell; it’s how she likes her world. A fire here, a salt packet dropped surreptitiously into someone’s coffee there. No harm, no foul, just a lot of fun to keep the world from fizzling into a predictable, monotonous cycle.

Stacie’s not good at being quiet, or sneaky, or at thinking up the kinds of pranks that will win Lilly world domination someday (starting with Tasmania, because Fat Amy knows people, and knowing people is the first step to any good not-so-hostile takeover scheme). Stacie isn’t good at that at all.

But Lilly can teach her.

She’s pretty sure.

Lilly knows patience.

She doesn’t speak while training Stacie in ninja techniques, partially because that would go against the whole point of being a ninja—nice though it is sometimes, Stacie talks way too much anyway, and giving her extra conversational topics just seems idiotic—and partially because Stacie has already proven she can’t hear her even on good days. In fact, out of all the Bellas, Amy is the only person whose ears seem tuned just right for Lilly’s pitch. Which should work out quite nicely when it comes to sharing plans without being overheard by enemy ears.

Instead of talking Stacie through her style of walking smoothly and not saying a word, she uses sheer body language. Her hands match with Stacie’s hips, her skinny body pressing in behind Stacie’s curvy one until they’re walking in perfect time. Stacie glances over her shoulder, mouth wide in a Cheshire grin.

“This is fun,” she chirps, all smacking red lipstick and pink cheeks. Lilly shakes her head, pressing a finger to her own lips. Stacie nods quickly, miming a zipper across her mouth.

It lasts for about thirteen seconds; as soon as Lilly’s hands slide back to cradle Stacie’s hips, easing her this way and that in an effort to lighten the heavy stomping steps she delivers to the ground, Stacie is at it again. “This is just so neat. I feel like a girl scout on a bear hunt. Have you ever gone bear hunting? Are there bears in Japan?”

Lilly doesn’t have the patience to even begin to deal with the race thing with Stacie. Not that it matters; Stacie seems to believe she is above tact, and basic geography, and just about everything Lilly doesn’t care much about anyway. None of that will matter when they rule the planet. She and Amy have already decided that they’ll be renaming each country after their favorite foods, so who cares?

She fixes her attention on Stacie’s posture: not a slouch to be seen here, which is good. It would be better, if Stacie wasn’t all boobs and ass and distracting curves that are bound to capture the attention of absolutely everyone. But Lilly supposes you can’t have everything.

She releases Stacie and swivels around to stand in front of her, gesturing for Stacie to watch closely and follow her lead. She lifts her left foot slowly and replaces it on the ground with all the grace she can muster, toe first, heel gentle as it follows. Stacie’s eyes glue to her boots, her tongue between her teeth as she takes mental notes.

“So that’s how I never hear you coming,” she says approvingly once Lilly has made it across the length of her room more or less soundlessly. Lilly shrugs, accepting the applause as it comes. Stacie might never get the hang of this, but at least she’s good for the ego.

Excellent, even; though she stumbles over her own heels on her way to join Lilly by the window, Stacie is grinning all the while like she can’t wait to get there, and when she reaches the other side, her arms slide comfortably around Lilly’s waist.
“You’re quiet,” she observes, straightforward and just a little pointless. Her eyes have gone dark, her grin edged with mischief. “Just curious—are you always quiet? In everything?”

The answer is yes, but Lilly is cool with Stacie figuring that one out by herself. It turns out that, even if she’s crazy amounts of clunky when she walks, and even if she can’t shut up to save her life, her hands are deft and her tongue is warm. So maybe she won’t be the greatest super-villain sidekick the world has ever seen.

She’s still pretty damn handy to have around, Lilly thinks as her head hits the windowpane and her knees set to shaking.

Cynthia Rose

Cynthia Rose is quitting women.

Or so she tells herself every morning, even going to far as to set the alarm on her iPhone with text like “today’s the day you turn to dick” or “you know what’s awesome? Nunhood.” She is absolutely, without a doubt, no-questions-asked done with the female species.

Women are evil.

And she has had enough.

Maybe throwing herself into a card addiction isn’t quite the healthy alternative she was looking for to having sex with horrible cheating bitches who smash hearts as recklessly as they please—but it does make her feel better. Not as great as a decent orgasm from a beautiful woman who wouldn’t make her feel like trash after the fact, but you can’t have everything in life. A good royal flush feels pretty amazing in its own right.

When Stacie pokes her head into her room and asks what she’s doing with all those cards, Cynthia’s first impulse is to push her right back out the door again. Stacie is everything Cynthia Rose does not need to be dealing with. She’s hot, and she knows it, and that makes her flirtatious, and flirtatious is just deadly. But the thing about Stacie is she’s got a good heart under those ginormous, fluffy boobs—Cynthia Rose has a real weakness for fluffy boobs; after the gambling thing, it’s probably her worst problem to date—and she genuinely seems to like Cynthia Rose. She doesn’t even seem to care (most of the time) that Cynthia wrinkles her nose in disgust whenever boys come up between them.

Having a best friend who is boobalicious, and sexy, and totally straight is a total fucking bummer, but whatever; Cynthia’s dealt with worse. And from the way Stacie is batting those baby blues at her, she knows she isn’t getting out of this. Stacie is in full Friend Hangout Mode, no dodging free.

She waves Stacie into the room, motioning for the door to close behind her, and sets to work explaining the basics of poker. Stacie’s crinkled expression lets her know she isn’t following at all, but that’s okay. Stacie isn’t the kind of chick who should be falling into the gambling world, anyway. She should be messing around with nail polish and Victoria’s Secret sales, not card sharks.

“I think they should get married,” Stacie is saying, totally proving her point as she presses the Jack of Spades up against the Queen of Hearts. “They could be the Brangelina of Poker Land.”

Cynthia Rose smiles thinly, gathering up the remainder of her cards. “What about the king? Won’t he get jealous?”

“Jealousy,” Stacie says coyly, flicking the cards into Cynthia’s lap, “is the flame beneath any good relationship.”

That’s a crock of shit if Cynthia Rose has ever heard one; she knows firsthand how shitty it feels to get all jealous and aggravated over some dumb girl. But this is Stacie, who has practically made a career of boys drooling over her, so how could she even begin to explain?

Stacie’s shoulder bumps into her, her head flopping back to rest against Cynthia’s chest. “What?” she asks. Cynthia shrugs.

“Girls are dumb,” she replies, not really meaning to. Stacie’s eyes blink slowly up at her, her hands reaching for the deck Cynthia has started mindlessly shuffling.

“Are not. Girls are pretty. And smart. And we smell nice.”

With Stacie’s hair tickling her nose, Cynthia Rose can’t dispute that point. “Maybe I just have crappy luck,” she mutters. “The girls I deal with are dumb.”

“You deal with me,” Stacie points out, tracing the swirl design on the back of a card with one fingernail. “Am I dumb?”

She can’t pass math, and she doesn’t understand poker, and she never seems to realize what she does to Cynthia just by being in the same damn room—but, no. Stacie is not dumb.

She’s staring up at Cynthia Rose with a strangely seriously expression, her lips parted slightly. Cynthia shrugs, uncomfortable.

“I just have a bad track record,” she’s halfway to explaining when Stacie surges up and catches her in a clumsy, bruising kiss. It’s the last thing Cynthia expects from a girl who lives for male contact, and a reeling part of her brain is screaming that this is probably going to demolish their friendship once and for all, but Stacie is kissing her. Stacie is kissing her, with hands cradling her face, nails skimming across her scalp. Stacie is kissing her, fervent and pleasant and sending her blood rushing through her veins at breakneck speeds.

Stacie kisses her, and leans her back on the carpet, and straddles her hips, and Cynthia Rose can’t think. She can’t make sense of a world where a girl like this—a sweet, hopeful girl who treats her well and doesn’t act like she’s doing Cynthia some huge favor in spending time around her—is grinding gently against the front of her jeans, but all the same, here they are.

Stacie believes the Jack of Spades should shack up with the Queen of Hearts, and can’t keep flushes and pairs and full houses straight in her head, and doesn’t seem to get that Cynthia Rose is just bad at this dealing with women thing—but Stacie is good with her hips. She’s good with her hips, and she kisses like she’s got a goddamn PhD in the art, and when her hands skate under Cynthia’s shirt, she knows it’s all over. She is going to sleep with her straight best friend, right here on the stained carpet of her freshman dorm room.

And then she is going to promptly lose every bet she makes tonight, because how do you rein your head back in after that?


Stacie makes Beca nervous. Not the way Chloe makes Beca nervous, either, because even though Chloe has seen all of her naughty bits on full display, she never acts all freakish about it. Or, okay, no more freakish than Chloe is on a typical day. Which is cool; Beca actually finds it charming. Chloe is pretty great, for someone who sees no harm at all in storming into someone else’s shower.

Stacie, on the other hand, is absolutely awe-inspiring—in some terrifying, not-sure-how-to-handle-this, feeling-like-I-need-a-chaperone sort of way Beca can’t quite wrap her mind around. She seems older, more experienced in the ways of the world, and Beca, who doesn’t much care for human interaction or anything resembling girl talk, is blown away by it. Stacie is only a year her senior, but she carries herself like a full-blown adult woman—something Beca can’t imagine being in a million years.

It’s amazing, how someone so dippy can make her feel so young.

When Chloe asks her—for Aubrey, because Aubrey is not speaking to her; what a novelty—if she’ll show Stacie her computer equipment, Beca can’t for the life of her figure out why. Stacie has never showed an inkling of interest in the technical aspects of the musical world. She seems solely interested in flirting with the audience as she pushes her breasts out as far as they can humanly go, and for Beca—who has boobs, thanks a whole lot for noticing, but doesn’t feel the need to send out extra advertisements about that fact—that just seems…

“She’s a little crazy,” she whispers, glancing cautiously around to make sure Stacie isn’t lurking in the wings. Chloe laughs, pushing at her shoulder until Beca’s stomach knots.

“Oh, she is not. Just…” Her face contorts awkwardly, her brow furrowing. “Maybe keep a bit of distance between you?”

Beca doesn’t ask what she means by that; if Chloe is going that red, she’s pretty sure she’s better off not knowing. Grudgingly, she shrugs and says she’ll let Stacie into her inner sanctum (and actually uses the phrase “inner sanctum,” which makes her think she really needs to stay away from Jesse and Benji’s room for a week or two until her brain cells regrow) for a little DJ 101. Not that it’s likely to do any good for either of them, she thinks, but Chloe throws her arms around her neck and squeals in excitement, so. There’s that.

Stacie looks out of place in her bedroom, now that it’s just the two of them. When the whole team was hanging out, that was one thing; Beca could make sense of that, the mismatched glob of lunacy that is the Barden Bellas, spread across her couch. But Stacie on her own, with her top stretched laughably tight across her breasts and her eyes fixed on Beca’s every move?

She makes her nervous. Nervous enough to wish Kimmy Jin would actually stick around tonight. Nervous enough to tap half a message to Chloe before her pride gets the better of her and she decides it’s absurd to ask for help in dealing with the perfectly nice, ditzy girl in her room.

“So,” she begins, eyes fixed on the screen of her computer. “Basically, all I do is find songs that have similar chord progressions, and match together their—“

She’s giving the same spiel she once gave to Jesse, back when she thought he might be something. Maybe he is something, but if he is, it’s too much to dwell on right now. She can’t make sense of it all: Jesse’s puppy dog honesty, the sizzle of Chloe’s hands on her skin, Jesse’s open desire for something true, Chloe’s vibrant smiles that seem designed for Beca alone. It’s too much. She’s never been this person before, with other people actually wanting to spend time around her.

She’s giving the spiel, and paying next to no attention to her own words, so it doesn’t really shock her when Stacie’s hand lands on her arm. Stacie isn’t listening, either. Beca supposes she can’t blame her.

“So what’s the deal with you and Chloe?”

She jerks without thinking about it, nearly upending her equipment from the edge of her desk. Stacie doesn’t budge, her smile unnervingly knowing. Like there’s anything to know. Like even Beca knows. She shakes her head.

“She’s my friend. We’re—we’re friends.”

Stacie whistles. “Woah, every lie detector in the state just went bing.”

Beca wonders how many lie detectors could be just meandering around the great state of Georgia. “I don’t know what you—“

“I kissed her once,” Stacie informs her briskly, with the air of a dentist letting you know you need a root canal, but at least you’ll get a free toothbrush along with the expensive agony. Beca stares back, mouth slightly agape.


“And other stuff,” Stacie adds, waving it off before Beca can begin to consider what other stuff might mean. “Don’t worry about it, you’re like the only one in the group I haven’t fooled around with.”

It’s dumb—the dumbest thing in the world, maybe—but all Beca can think is, Why not? And then, as an afterthought:

“Oh Jesus, even Aubrey?”

“She’s a screamer,” Stacie informs her. Beca wags her head back and forth until her skull aches, striving to clear that image away before it can really settle in.

“She didn’t look at me much,” Stacie goes on, “if that makes you feel better.”

Why would that make me feel better?” She feels dizzy. And confused. And slightly irritated. Stacie just keeps smiling, like she thinks she’s actually doing Beca a favor by spilling all of this.


“So, what?” Swear to god, if she asks about Chloe again, Beca can’t be held responsible for whatever leaves her mouth. She’d really rather not have agreed to this whole DJ 101 deal in the first place, all things considered.

“So, do you want to do it?” Stacie asks. Beca realizes that hand is still on her arm, drifting slowly north. Stacie is looking at her like she’s just asked if Beca wants to grab a cheeseburger in the caf or something, and she’s really starting to wonder when the crew of Punk’d is going to make its way out of her closet.


It, duh.” Stacie rolls her eyes. Her nails gouge gently into Beca’s arm, a little too abrasive to be sexy. She winces.

“Um. Look, I’m not trying to offend you or whatever, but—“

“I knew it,” Stacie crows. Beca jumps again, retracting her arm and wrapping it safely around her own body. Stacie is a sweet girl, but she really is a little loco in the headspace sometimes, and it’s just best not to risk integral limbs with a person like that.

What did you know?” she demands, inching backward toward the wall when Stacie leaps off the couch and grabs both of her hands.

You won’t sleep with me because you’re—“

Straight, Beca thinks, which might not even be accurate anymore, but as long as Stacie believes that, this night might go just a little more smoothly.

“—banging Chloe,” Stacie finishes happily, and yeah—why didn’t she see that coming?

“I’m not banging any—“

“It’s okay!” Stacie announces, and puts on the most deliriously awkward wink Beca has ever seen. “Your secret’s safe with me. Like Lilly’s plot to take over the world.”

“Like—I’m sorry, what now?”

“Shhh.” Her arms have enveloped Beca tightly, crushing her against enormous breasts and the overwhelming scent of what might well be that creepy Justin Bieber perfume. Gagging, Beca angles her head to the side and groans.

“Stacie, did you even care at all about my mixing techniques?”

“Oh, God, no,” Stacie replies cheerfully. “It sounded super boring. I was thinking about streaking my hair pink. You think Aubrey would kick me out for that?”

Beca isn’t sure she’s ever going to be able to follow this insane, intimidating-ass girl. Who seems to believe she’s secretly in love with Chloe. And who has transformed her comfortable nest of a bed into a pop-star-smelling tween dream.

She is never agreeing to teach Stacie anything again.

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This was fantastic and hilarious and hot. You've really got their voices down and I loved it.

Also Stacie is a sexual predator. It's amazing.

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