"Ahh, little maus, are you finding victory to your liking?"

Beca started, looking up from the washbasin to meet the magnificent German's eyes in the bathroom mirror. "Uh, I mean yeah- of course," she paused for a moment, sternly fixing her lips in only a small smirk of triumph. "How are you finding being a loser? Got the hang of the language yet?" Yes, score one for Beca!

The brunette managed to keep her vigorous fist-pumping wholly inside her head. Just.

Kommissar frowned slightly, head tilted to the side.

Beca turned to face her nemesis, jumping in at the imposing woman's evident lack of comprehension. "Because you don't speak loser? Remember? I was saying... something, and you said 'I don't speak loser' and..." she trailed off, shifting uncomfortably under the cool grey stare of DSM's lead. Why does she turn me into such a babbling loser?

Kommissar, sensing weakness in her prey, slowly closed the distance between them."Oh. That. Well, with eight languages already uhh – under my belt is the term I believe? - one more should be no problem. Not that I expect I will need it for long. I assume your group will reassemble for next season? We will crush you then."

Beca shifted back, subconsciously trying to find more personal space, and finding only the cool ceramic edge of the washbasin. "Next season? The Bellas are... over. Well, for me I mean. And the others. We've graduated, we're all moving on to the next stage of our lives." Babbling, Beca. You're babbling! Stop it!

"Just because you will no longer be the Barden Bellas, that does not mean you cannot continue to compete," Kommissar pressed further into Beca's space, looming over her with searching eyes.

Beca's breath caught in her chest, the feeling of being trapped, being prey, being vulnerable - and yet oddly secure - making her limbs heavy and her heart race. The German's eyes were wide and guileless, all mocking superiority vanished for the moment. Beca's neck ached from looking up at such an angle but she found herself unwilling to break eye contact. This moment was strange, pregnant. Potential here, racing across tingling skin and thudding with every heartbeat.

Kommissar leaned down, her gaze trailing a hot line from eyes to lips, where she lingered for a moment.

Beca swallowed heavily, waiting, waiting, licked her tingling lips.

"...a pity," Kommissar murmured, her breath ghosting warm over Beca's cheek, before straightening abruptly and marching away, stride measured, posture perfect, as she exited the bathroom.

Beca snapped out of her stupor, anger and disappointment warring in her head, and called out after the blonde- "Well... your breath smells like... strawberries and mint!"

Beca dropped her head into hands and groaned. "God I suck at insults."