#firefighter beca mitchell

[vampstaubrey]

i'm in mourning so i'm gonna try figure out a 9-1-1 bechloe au,,

i'm thinking it be kinda like madney or abby (ew ik shh) and buck? in the dispatcher x firefighter sense. chloe's the dispatch operator; bubbly, sweet and ready to help in any way possible.. but bad calls hit her hard and, while aubrey's somewhat helpful, she doesn't entirely get it. (or she's a policewoman so she does get it but isn't great at articulating it, i'm not sure,,) meanwhile, beca is a firefighter. resiliant, kind of cold while on duty but good at it - obviously.

i was thinking, at least some of the bellas could be firefighters too (stacie, namely. but flo and cr too maybe idrk - whoever you want really).

if aubrey was a cop, she could be real pissy with when bechloe happens. girl would be running background checks on beca, despite her literally being a first responder, and everything. (me saying this like jonah doesn't exist). she maybe even went to beca's apartment for a 'wellness check' to see what kind of den the firefighter was living in.

anyway, about the actual bechloe situation. they could meet - kind of - on a call. chloe's the dispatch officer on the line while some incident has drawn beca's firehouse out to a call. or maybe meet through stacie, being a social butterfly and somehow knowing chloe (*cough* through her wife *cough*).

idk all the detail yet tbh, this could go in virtually any direction,, but i feel like i'm too deep in both fandoms not to write SOMETHING along the lines so here you go.

and i apologise for being inactive on this app, i will try and do better istg.

[erasofswift]

The new chapter of my Bechloe fic is up!! Enjoy!!

[unholyhelbig]

Bechloe Apocalypse AU? I know it's been done before, but damn, do I love a good trope.

[A/N: This prompt has been in my inbox for a long time and I’m just now getting to it. But the main idea is from @auideas] 

Read on AO3 | Request Prompts here 

Beca was always the first to stir in the morning. It wasn’t by the light that streamed through the blinds, but her own biological clock that did it. A seven am on the dot, she would wake and stretch and feel her fingers met with the cold of the house. The blinds were drawn and a little slit of yellow, or sometimes gray depending on the weather, mapped itself on the wooden floor.

They hadn’t done much to the old Victorian manor at the edge of town. It came furnished and the only thing they bothered changing was the sheets on the four-post bed and the towels in the closet. They smelled so thickly of must that Beca made the begrudging trip into town for supplies.

Beca would pad down to the kitchen on the creaky wooden stairs and flicked on the coffee maker. She reveled in the darkness, in the cool relief from the South Carolina air. They kept the central unit on high and thick curtains over nearly every pane of glass in the house.

Chloe would stir an hour after her wife.

Maybe it was the absence of heat or her own lungs filling with dark roast. She followed the scent and grasped at the paper set on the kitchen table. She would skip to the sports section first but would always return to the front page for whatever story they deemed import enough.

“Ah, a firefighter with a cat.” She creased the paper “Charming and quaint.”

Beca grunted as she stood on her toes to grasp two mugs. They also came with the house, covered in dust until she scrubbed them. A cartoonish illustration of teddy bears dawned the front and she couldn’t bring herself to read the cheesy sayings past their first week in the Victorian.

She didn’t’ want to get to know the people in town. It was small enough that she got questioning stares from the gas station clerk whenever they ran out of allergy medication or on the rare occasion, milk. He bit his tongue but studied her face. Doveport South Carolina. Not even on the map.

Chloe figured that this is where people went to disappear. Not when they had fresh blood on their palms and dirt under their nails, but when the dust had settled, and they needed a place to ride out the storm. People lived on boats and deep in the swampy woods. They bought foreclosed homes with cash. They barely went outside, and hell- the air was too stiff.

“Did he pull it from a tree?” Beca asked.

“A storm drain, actually,” Chloe said.

The shorter of the two set down a steaming cup in front of her wife. It was loaded with French vanilla creamer and too much sugar for Beca to stomach. She swallowed two gulps of black coffee and cupped her hands around it to keep in the warmth. The house had to be cold. Though, her nose suffered the most from the stark temperature.

Chloe hummed into the steam rising from her drink “Coleman is supposed to drop of the sample today.”

“Coleman is s douche.”

“A douche with a sample. And besides, he won’t even come into the house. The light is too much for anyone to handle, much less the test slides. He’ll drop it by the greenhouse and be on his way.”

“I don’t even want him in my vicinity, Chlo. His male testosterone permeates the air.”

Chloe didn’t’ dignify Beca’s dramatics with a response. It reminded her of the days when she would run around on playgrounds, crunching over mulch and trying to get away from the boys with cooties. But then she had become a biochemist and even well before that, knew that that’s not how things spread.

Not cooties anyway. Maybe the flu or a common cold, but the only thing men were good for in this century was transporting what they needed. People in Doveport never gave a man a second look. Not when they dawned a hat and had grease on their hands. They wouldn’t question his duffel bag or the scent of gunpowder.

Beca went to take another sip of her coffee but stopped mid gulp when the familiar hum of the central cooling system sputtered to a stop. They had grown so used to the noise and the icy atmosphere. She exchanged a worried look with her wife and lowered the cup. “Well shit.”

“Was it supposed to storm today?”

“No. I checked.” Beca tapped the paper absently before pulling herself from the kitchen table. They didn’t’ have much time before their backup generators would kick on. But those hadn’t either. Not yet. Why hadn’t they? Fuck.

Chloe must have had the same thought. Worry crossed her features before she padded across the kitchen and pulled the door to the basement open. She creaked down the steps and was instantly overwhelmed by the heat that had already begun to fill the sod-coated room.

There weren’t basements in the south. Not usually but they had chosen the old Victorian because it had one in the first place. She walked towards the line of tables that were usually lit by a bluish-purple light. Those had gone off too.

In the stumbling darkness she grasped the samples carefully and placed them in the large freezer under the stairs. The ice that incrusted it wouldn’t’ last long but hopefully this power outage wouldn’t either.  She sealed it. She prayed about it too but wouldn’t’ let Beca know about that.

Science was magic and magic was science and religion fell somewhere in between but it eased her mind to speak to a higher power regardless.

“Chlo! I think you should see this!”

She didn’t waste any time sprinting up the slotted stairs and leaving the musty basement behind. Sweat had formed against her cheeks and made her skin tight when it hit whatever cold air was left in the nearly empty living room. Beca had peeled the blackout curtain back and the light stung her eyes.

“You opened the window?” Chloe asked.

“I was curious.” Beca Said.

Chloe sighed and squeezed close to her partner before she herself pulled back the dark cloth just an inch. Her heart rushes faster and there was a heat leaking through the windows. She hated the south and the lack of silence that it held onto.

It was the same street that she saw once or twice a month when she ventured from the house. There was another house across the way that had been empty since they arrived. There was a cop that lived next door and a nice family adjacent to them. But right now- there was blood.

The patrol car that usually sat in the driveway was turned on its side and a mass of guts and blood and teeth stirred in the front driveway. She saw fingers flick and smelled fire, or gas, or a mix of both. It made her throat burn.

A stranger, a man in fishing waders had half of his face missing and a dead look behind his yellowed eyes. He limped and groaned tepidly, continuing like he was going on a stroll. His jaw swung back and forth as a clock and Chloe grimaced.

“Well damn.” She let the curtain fall, “This is bullshit we were so close.”

“I know, but someone else was closer.”

Beca walked back towards the kitchen and grasped her now chilled cup of coffee. She finished it off and grabbed the newspaper, looking at the smiling face of the firefighter with a burnt-looking cat in his arms. It was filthy and its fur was matted. She frowned and placed it back on the table.

“Damn government funding. If I could have just gotten my hands on the Amscope.” She grimaced “we’re going to buy you a whole house but you can use a magnifying glass to create a zombie virus.”

“The institution is counting on you, Miss Mitchell.” Chloe mocked.

“Doctor Mitchell, I swear, they always forget that part. You know what we can’t forget? The nine years of our life that we spent getting degrees in science and then another three years held up in this place creating a bioweapon that we didn’t even get to release.”

Chloe lifted her eyebrows and leaned against the adjacent kitchen wall. She had to admit, it was a little disappointing. A letdown after all of this time. But she felt a bit of relief well up inside of her. They would send an extraction team for them at some point and then maybe they would be directed to create a cure. Maybe.

“I think we should get a cat,” Chloe said, picking up the paper and wiggling it towards her wife. “Look at his cute little face.”

“Mm, before or after the apocalypse?” Beca asked.

“During, probably,” Chloe said. “I’d consider a dog.”  

[perseus-vii]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pitch Perfect (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Emily Junk/Beca Mitchell Characters: Beca Mitchell, Emily Junk, Chloe Beale Additional Tags: Firefighter!Emily, Bemily Week, Bemily Week 2020, bemily Series: Part 1 of Bemily Week 2020 Summary:

When, for the third time that week, the building’s fire alarm goes off, Beca is ready to throw her neighbor into the goddamn fire. Anything to stop her from trying to cook. It had all started when Beca’s 98 years-old neighbor, Mrs. Morris, had finally kicked the bucket. Mrs. Morris had been the perfect neighbor, and Beca had been sad to see her go, mostly because she knew for a fact it would be nearly impossible for her next neighbor to be as perfect as Mrs. Morris had been. And yet, nothing could have prepared her for the girl who moved in next door.

[erasofswift]

I updated my fiiicccc. Hope you enjoy!

[erasofswift]

Chapter 3 of my Bechloe Firefighter fic is up!!!

[erasofswift]

I sorta kinda made a Bechloe firefighter/paramedic fic. Check it out!?

[erasofswift]

Ohhhhh look. I updated my bechloe firefighter fic. Wanna read?

[unholyhelbig]

Mitchsen, carnival maybe? Something super cute.

Check out more Mitchsen one-shots here 

Ice cream dripped against the edge of the girl’s palm, the creamy liquid pooling under the heat of a summer night. The minty color separating each time a new track ran against her elbow. She wasn’t the least bit bothered, not ever deterred by the way it created sticky grime against her.

Beca Mitchell felt her stomach lurch.

Something about kids being sticky, and entering the fairgrounds seemed like a given. There were grease coated fries and powered covered batter that was weaved into an intricate web. It was almost a given that hundreds of messy kids would show up to her booth- and each time, she would force through her disdain and place a leathered softball into the palm of the awaiting player.

The tin cans were rigged; weighted down with little magnets that didn’t’ exactly give away at the small toss from a child. The brunette knowing from the start that all she had to do was manage the tickets- wear the stupid little black t-shirt with the carnival’s logo on it, and make sure that she never had to take down the big prizes.

It was a simple job, one that let her travel up and down the coast. She had constant board and constant companionship, but she always found herself growing exhausted five hours into the night. The small Alabama town that they had settled in didn’t captivate her attention with the type of families they produced.

Her favorite stop so far was in North Carolina. It was a mix between the classic southern folks that yelled too loud at their kids and kept their money in little clips that were decorated with a Confederate flag and the conservative families that looked out of place at a traveling carnival. People who were uptight and wanted to let “loose” by trying their calculated hands at some games.

But in Alabama, it was straight up and simple.

These were people who would get in your face and scream at you the second the heat got too much, and the tin cans didn’t fall the way you wanted them to. The type of people that would offer up money to get the pink horse hanging above the booth because their kid only wants that one.

“This shit is rigged.” The man spoke, his voice gruff.

His daughter barely flinched. She had heard the language before, and Beca did nothing but lean further into the side of the booth, her hands shoved into her pockets as she lifted her eyebrows. “Sorry, sir?”

“I said, this shit is rigged. No way in hell these cans are that hard to hit.”

“Want to give it a shot then?”  

She didn’t’ give him a chance to respond, instead tossing him the leather pleated ball that was in her grasp. She was bored- she would charge him later depending on her anger, but right now she wanted to stir him up, even with the sweat that dripped down her back.

He stumbled but caught it, eyeing her under the baseball cap that covered up his balding hair. He was sunburned where his t-shirt cut off, an uneven tan that was attributed to long days spent in the vast fields here. She thought she saw corn on the way in, or maybe it was cotton. It all looked too green. Too rural.

“I want the dolphin.” The girl finally spoke up, her voice leaking in twang.

Beca couldn’t help but scoff audibly at that. Even if the bottles weren’t plagued with tricks, it would take a near-impossible shot to get anywhere close to the neon sea animal. He seemed to squint his eyes at that and shoot off the ball with an even hit. It got down the top two, something with a little less pull.

“Oh, good job” She smirked, reaching behind the counter as she pulled out a little clear bucket filled with fake spiders and other Knick Knacks. They were little games, a couple of sticker sheets, scented markers. Certainly nothing worth the time and energy. “Better luck next time.”

The man puffed up his chest, crossing his arms before nodding at his daughter to grab one. She quickly snatched up a little ring and shoved it in her pocket before the two of them stalked away. Beca smiled softly to herself before kneeling to pick up the fallen milk bottles.

“So how much for the dolphin, anyway?”

Beca rolled her eyes, breathing in the soupy air without even bothering to turn around as she placed the glass expertly. “Look, like I told your friend back there, you’ve got to knock down all the bottles in order to get it.”

She turned to face the voice: the woman who stood in the place of a want to be cowboy was far different, far more intriguing. Her smile was what Beca noticed first. It was easy going and simple- and then her hair, golden and framing her delicate features that held their curls even in the humid weather. A real southern bell with emerald eyes and damn… Beca Mitchell would take that stuffed dolphin off the hook and give in with little conviction.

“Oh, he’s not my friend.”

“Husband? Brother?” Beca lifted her eyebrows “Oh my god, is he both?”

The girl let out a laugh at that, nothing shy of a giggle. She was in the South now, and part of Beca resigned to the fact that maybe it wasn’t just a joke. Either way, she was eagerly awaiting an answer.

“A Jackass, I’m assuming.” She answered quickly, leaning onto the counter of the booth. She had an easy five-dollar bill under her grasp, one that was crinkled with wear. “I’d like three balls, please. Best ones you’ve got.”

Beca grinned and took the outstretched dollar, tucking it into her apron along with other tickets and stolen money. She produced the items in exchange and took a step back from the area of fire. Part of her felt a twinge of guilt for lying, for once, after this long edge of time.

She had never once felt any malice from the game. These were people that would show up at a fair to have some fun, but they knew they would be spending money too. If it wasn’t at her little booth, then it would be the next: a little sticky hand, a goldfish that wouldn’t live past three days, and even an mp3 player that had a few songs on it. All worth nothing but the thrill of saying you could knock down a few things or get the firefighter to the top of the burning building.

The beautiful stranger threw the first ball, and like Beca expected, nothing. The bottles wavered and she furrowed her brow over dark green eyes. It was endearing.

The second ball didn’t’ bode well, either. This time it knocked down one of the top milk jugs and it fell to the dirt floor with a slight clang- never shattering, but always making enough noise to satisfy the player.

The third ball hit the tent behind the formation, and Beca had the sudden urge to tell the girl that it was fine. That no one really hit the bottles, and even if they did, they wouldn’t fall over. The magnets were too strong.

“I totally just wasted your time,” she said.

“Oh no, a lot of people do,” Beca flushed at how the words sounded “I mean, not that you actually did. Because you didn’t’. It was a valiant effort, and you… you gave it your best shot.”

Her smile was radiant and well earned, those blue-green eyes of her lighting up like the Ferris Wheel that cast its neon glow against cars parked between spray-painted lines. Their tires were sunken in dirt, kicking up near the rims.

She leaned forward and squinted at the nametag that was pinned to a lanyard. There were different things traced onto the fabric by the more creative crew- glitter and simple little drawings. “Thank you, Beca.”

Beca thought it was unfair for the woman to know her name without giving hers, but she breathed in the sweet strawberry scent that she carried and considered it okay for now. Even though she wanted to close down the booth and walk the rest of the fairgrounds with this stranger.

Beca fumbled easily with the plastic bucket. “Anyway, you get to pick a prize.”

“Right,”

The woman scanned her eyes over the different little toys for a few moments before grabbing a purple scented marker. It was one of those artificial ones that reminded Beca of grade school, the kind that one kid that sat up front would always lick, staining their tongue violet. Beca pondered the choice, but not for long before she dug in her pocket and set a dollar bill down on the table.

“ah, it’s actually five dollars to-“

She uncapped the marker with her teeth, letting it pop open as Beca watched with patience. She scrawled something on the money, something the carnival worker couldn’t exactly see before standing up straight and sliding it across the table.

“This shit is so rigged.” She said, grinning ear to ear before stepping away from the little booth and vanishing into the crowd of people pushing to get to greasy snack food and dripping ice cream.

Call me sometime, Aubrey.