A/N: OKAY so this is like, my first ever fanfic in literally years and I'm very nervous about posting it in the first place but I REALLY want to because I'm so obsessed with this pairing and I got this idea and I NEED to write it out. There's going to be a Chapter 2, I promise. Probably some smut down the line so the rating will be mature... I don't know what else to say but just... I was listening to Haunted whilst writing this so hence the name and I don't know.

So Beca's having a grand time, right? It doesn't matter that her outside is not exactly matching her inside. She's the type of person that's not very good at communicating her emotions through facial expressions. Or words, now that she thinks of it— but anyway; she's having a blast. Even if they lost, and even if Jesse left without saying goodbye, she's still enjoying this party. It's free booze in some old, creepy bald dude's basement but the music's good and as much as she hates to admit it, Das Sound Machine do sound amazing. That little Jump number they did straight after they won was… contagious, for lack of a better word. But that's not all they do amazingly. It doesn't really count as staring if she's watching them all dancing and laughing, right?! Maybe, just maybe, she's a little too focused on a particular six foot tall blonde who just happens to be wearing a shade of red lipstick that looks like she just murdered a man and conquered a country – and why, in Madonna's name that is attractive, Beca isn't really sure at all. Over all, the Kommissar (and really Kommissar can't be her real name, unless her parents were some army freaks) is an unwanted distraction and an overwhelming source of… confusion. Yes. That's it. She's a tall, hot, blonde mess of confusion that just makes Beca dizzy and flustered.

Beca Mitchell does not do dizzy and flustered.

It took her weeks to even admit to herself she had a thing for Jesse, yet it only took her seconds to admit that she felt very sexually attracted towards that damned German Goddess.

She's been pondering over that a lot, lately. She's had a few accidents with the coffee machine, just pondering that, actually— am I gay? Not that it mattered. She's cool with it, if she is gay. Or bisexual. It doesn't matter, right? Her father would be cool with it. Not that, that, mattered, either—but oh God, see?! That's what this woman does to her, and Beca is telling herself as she sips… what seems to be root beer in a plastic red cup, that she's not staring at the Kommissar and that funny robotic way she dances. She tells herself that she is not, under any circumstances, watching the way she moves her hips, the way her fishnet shirt moves and shows, no, teases the world with more of that pale, smooth flesh that Beca wants to- no, no. No, brain, don't go there.

Right. So she's having lots of fun.

At least the beer's good, and Fat Amy seems to be having fun. She can't find Chloe anywhere. The others seem to be dancing and drinking, scattered around the room— she's not even going to bother to try and find Stacie. They're all old enough to look after themselves, right? With the exception of The Legacy, but she seems to be clinging to Fat Amy's shadow and trying to avoid their creepy host, who seems to have some sort of personal vendetta after the poor girl spluttered out her original song during the riff-off.

But the only reason she's still here when she has to be up super early tomorrow is that she's enjoying the view. More than she's ready to admit, even to herself. And she found this amazing spot, where it's kind of dark and she's hidden from view, unless you're really looking for her, and this is how she likes to be at parties. Hidden and close to the bathrooms/emergency exits. Better safe than sorry, right?

She thinks she's safe and sound, here, that no one will find her or bother her… until she feels eyes on her. She knows who these eyes belong to before she even looks at her again. The last time she looked… she was busy dancing, her back turned on her… but now…

There she is. Her tormentor. Standing in the designated dance floor, staring at Beca as if she's the only person in the world right now, that teasing smirk playing on those full, red and deliciously inviting lips. Beca can hear that deep, sultry accentuated voice in her head: "Why do you hide, feisty mouse?" And that's what her smirk says, that's what her hips say as they move in a way that should be illegal, and Beca finds herself staring, hypnotized, at the way they move, the way she moves up and down, hands over her head, fingers going through her hair. She swallows the knot in her throat and grips her plastic cup so tight when Kommissar turns around and starts rolling her hips in the most sensual manner possible that she… gets root beer all over her shirt. Great. Perfect. Fucking fantastic. "Shit!" She mutters under her breath, putting the cup away as she looks down her shirt to assess the damage. Now she's going to smell like beer, but that's not even the worst part— it's the fact that when she looks up she finds those gorgeous eyes looking at her and she's laughing at her. Why is the sight of her laughing so… ugh!

Beca storms out of that stuffy basement, her pale cheeks flushing an angry red as she stomps her way up the stairs. She's in a corridor. Okay, she remembers it from when they came in… but where's the exit? Most importantly, where can she find a bathroom? This house seems huge, and she's too angry to go hunting for a bathroom right now, so she simply opens the first door she finds which happens to be some sort of storage room. Or laundry room? She's not sure. There's two washing machines, a drying machine and a shelf with various assorted items— but there's also a sink, and that will do, she presumes.

She feels disgusting already, and terrible, and just a minute ago she was fine and dandy and somewhat enjoying this despite hating social gatherings and being in a room surrounded by people. Despite all her DJ gigs. She likes the music, not the environment or the people. But well, these a capella nerds aren't so bad, really. But it's not them that's the problem. She turns on the sink and starts to pull her shirt over her head, muttering: "Fucking German as—"

"What was that, little mouse?"

Oh, fuck me. Beca's first reaction is to lean against the sink defensively and to hold up her shirt over her bare chest as she's met with the most arousing sight she's ever seen. Kommissar is standing on the doorway, leaning against the door frame, a hand on her hip and a finger twirling around a strand of golden hair. She's chewing her bottom lip, or more… sucking it in, and her eyes are focused on Beca. They move up and down her body like she's measuring her up, but there's more than just superiority in those heavenly blue eyes right now. "You said German. And fucking. In the same sentence. I wonder where you were going with that… what was it— aaaah! Train of thought?" She quirks an eyebrow at Beca and smiles mockingly at her, which only frustrates Beca further. The water's still running and the environmentalist inside her rages at how careless she's being, at how she's acting like this is the first time she has a crush…

And isn't it? Has she ever, truly, ever felt this unbearable, animal attraction towards anyone, in her entire life? But it's also more than that— there's this magnetic force around Kommissar that Beca can't fight. It breaks down all her shields, wrecks her walls. She feels vulnerable, exposed, and it's not only when she is shirtless and holding a shirt over her chest in a laundry room in some stranger's house. They only met twice, and yet Beca feels that this… attraction thing is only going to get worse. "I— I— err, I— no. I— what are you doing here?! You were— you were doing… you were dancing!" Kommissar chuckled; a deep, beautiful sound that sent shivers down Beca's spine. She moves slowly, slower than she did at that car show, stepping into the room, shutting the door behind her. Beca can't help but compare her to a cat, as she takes slow steps towards her, and Beca steps to the side, until she feels her naked back against the wall. To break away from those intense eyes she closes the tap and is glad at least not to have the background sound of the water running. It was driving her mad. Her knuckles are white because she's got a vice grip on the tap. This tap is the most interesting thing in this room, she tells herself.

Oh, but sweet naïve Beca…

Kommissar is like a predator. A strong, vicious cat cornering the scared little mouse. Her soft but rather large hand rests atop Beca's, and she grins a particularly toothy grin because it's just so amusing to watch the tiny girl whimper. Her breath hitches in her throat, and her eyes close as Kommissar's thumb brushes over the back of her hand. "Ya, little mouse," she begins, as if she has all the time in the world. Slowly, stepping closer, closer… "I was dancing. Then I saw that you scurried away… I thought: Hmm, what is the little mouse after? Cheese, perhaps." Her thumb moves over Beca's knuckles, and like she's butter her body melts and she struggles to remain standing right now, thankful the wall is there for solid support. Her grip on the tap relaxes, but Kommissar is not satisfied. She takes another step closer, Beca presses her back against the wall, hissing as she feels the cold bricks against her warm skin.

"I got beer on my shirt." Why is it so difficult to say the simplest of things around her? "Your… your breath smells like mint… and damn it. Why are your hands so soft?!" That laugh again. Damn her. Damn her to hell.

"I moisturize often," Kommissar purrs, her voice lower.

"What do you want?" The question is more like a bark, and Beca's eyes are burning hot coals as they look up into those icy clouds of calmness. It infuriates her even more. She steps forward, forgets she's holding her shirt over her bare chest and moves a hand to push Kommissar away— but it's not enough for her to be physically flawless, she has to be perfect in every sense. She catches Beca's wrist just in time, her hold soft yet firm, and the hand that had been on top of Beca's has now her other wrist in hold and before she knows it, Kommissar has both her arms above her head, has her pinned to the wall.

There's an exact two inch distance between their bodies. Beca's chest is moving up and down rapidly, her rather… lacking chest area far too close to Kommissar's. The taller, older woman is staring down at Beca like a cat who's very curious how the tiny mouse is still alive after their rough play time…

"What do I want?" Again with the mocking, but even when she's mocking her, Kommissar sounds seductive. "What do you want, little mouse? You think I did not see you watching me dance? But like a little mouse… you run away…" Beca makes an undignified sound and struggles against Kommissar's hold, which she only now starts to notice is tight. "I do not run away!" But her hands end up finding Kommissar's, and somehow, in her anger and sexual frustration, she's…

Fucked; because Kommissar opened her mouth, probably ready to say something sassy and rude and which Beca would try to reply with an insult that was really a confused compliment, but she decided that somehow, it was better to just avoid the embarrassment and… kiss her.

It's not like she hasn't been thinking about doing that ever since she first hear little mouse from those full lips at the car show. It's not like she hasn't been daydreaming about touching said lips, feeling their texture, the taste…

She tastes like strawberry bubblegum.