An Encore for One [for GoingBananas]

[HotWheels]

Flick Sterling wouldn't call herself easily distracted. That implied a lack of focus. She preferred to think of herself as violently opportunist. If something shiny, dangerous, or interesting happened in her periphery, she owed it to the universe to investigate. But if someone else accused her of having the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel, she wouldn't exactly have it in her to argue the point.

She had put forth the genuine effort to do the normal, girly social thing tonight. Just show up to the LAW mixer, nurse a few overpriced cocktails, maybe find a pair of lips to occupy her time in a dark booth, and go home. She had dressed for the hunt, after all. Said dress - if one could legally call it that - offered a smattering of black and electric blue that mirrored her hair and featured a plunging neckline that showcased the heavy swell of her cleavage and a midriff completely exposed, because abs. The skirt slit all the way to her hips, because legs, fluttering dangerously with every step.

She looked fit. She knew it. And networking mattered. Networking got her sessions; sessions made her money; money funded the kind of deviant extracurriculars she truly enjoyed.

But then, about two lightweight fruity drinks into the evening, the inevitable happened. Someone asked if the "Knotty Duchess" could actually perform in such restrictive evening wear. She also owed the universe something much more important - an excuse to show off at any given opportunity.

"Restrictive?!" she had scoffed.

Ten minutes later, she had a small circle formed around her near the bar. She had already proven her point by folding herself into a standing split, bracing her heel against her own ear while sipping her drink, a feat that drew appreciative oohs and aahs as the dress strained to contain her curves. Then came the questions about wrestling in the outfit, which led to her dropping into a seamless bridge and kip-up that tested the tensile strength of her stilettos.

Now, the crowd had swelled to nine or ten people, and the stakes had escalated to martial arts.

Flick set her drink down on a high-top table and cleared a bit of space, shooing a heavy-set road agent back with a wave of her hand. She hiked up the front tail of her dress, exposing the entirety of her toned legs and the lethal, six-inch spikes attached to her heels. A mischievous, flushed smile played on her lips.

"Now, I ain't any black belt, alright?" she announced to her captive audience, a finger raised in warning. "I just picked up some shit- oops, proper place, no language like that... some... some stuff over the years. So don't go docking points for technique, yeah? You want to critique my form, you can take it up with my heel when it's stuck in your forehead."

She giggled, stepping back. While she had just enough of a buzz for a jagged part of the floor to stumble her, she nonetheless spun on one foot, hair and blue silk whipping around her like a vortex. She lined herself up with an invisible target in the air.

Her right leg flew up in a vertical kick, the movement far cleaner and more disciplined than her humblebrag suggested. Her flexibility allowed the heel to slice the air well above head height. She didn't wobble now. She dropped the foot, planted the stiletto instantly, and pivoted on the ball of her foot to unleash a vicious, snapping roundhouse kick with the left leg, the sheer fabric of her dress fluttering to reveal the white strap of her high-cut panties for a split second.

She dropped back into a poised, ready stance, pleased with herself. A smattering of applause broke out from her little circle.

"What? That's just the warmup!" she chirped, bouncing on her toes, hungry for more eyes on her. "I can do way more than that. Who wants to see a tornado kick in six-inch heels?"

Spoiler

[GoingBananas]

Valentina had arrived with a notebook tucked into her clutch and a practiced smile she’d worn through a dozen pitch meetings that went nowhere. The LAW mixer was meant to be a palette cleanser, a place to shake hands with producers, writers, performers—anyone who still spoke the language of spectacle fluently. Lately, she’d felt like she was shouting through glass. Her ideas were cinematic, textured, built to linger, yet they kept stalling in committee. So she came tonight not to sell, but to listen. To see what still moved people when the lights were low and the drinks were strong.

She noticed the shift in the room before she saw the cause. Laughter spiked. Bodies angled inward. That low hum of attention coiled tight, the way it did when something risky was about to happen. Valentina’s eyes followed the current toward the bar, where a small constellation of onlookers had formed around a woman who moved like she had gravity on a leash. Not frantic, not sloppy - confident in a way that didn’t ask permission.

Valentina leaned back against a column, observing. She had spent years studying how performers occupied space, how they invited the gaze and then controlled it. This woman did it instinctively. Each movement felt like punctuation, not filler. Valentina could almost see the beats, the internal metronome counting time between flourish and stillness. It wasn’t just athleticism; it was presentation. The kind that translated across mediums.

As the demonstration escalated, Valentina felt that familiar itch behind her eyes - the one that meant a concept was forming whether she liked it or not. Heels on polished floor. Fabric cutting lines through motion. The contrast alone was cinematic. She imagined angles, lighting, the slow realization on an audience’s face that this wasn’t a stunt but a statement. Her fingers tapped once against her clutch, resisting the urge to take notes.

When the final kick landed and the applause followed, Valentina pushed off the column. She didn’t rush. Timing mattered. She threaded through the edge of the crowd, close enough now to feel the heat of exertion in the air, the buzz of adrenaline that clung to skin. The woman at the center was radiant in that unguarded way performers got when they knew they’d just won a room.

Valentina waited for the noise to crest and dip before speaking. Her voice, when she used it, was low and deliberate, carrying just far enough. “If that was a warmup...” she said, one brow lifting as her gaze traced the line of motion still echoing in the space, “...I’d hate to see what you call a climax.” The word was chosen carefully - provocative, but professional, a hook rather than a shove.

Spoiler

[HotWheels]

Oooh, who had said that? That tone had a hook in it if Flick had ever heard one. She twisted on her heel to survey the crowd, and only one figure stood out among the rest - mainly because the first thing that echoed in her head happened to be a loud huh.

The outfit was... well, a choice, wasn't it? The woman stood draped in a floor-length crimson affair that looked less like a cocktail dress and more like something stolen from a vampire. The high collar, the billowing sleeves, the architectural cutouts. Looked a bit artistic even for Flick's taste, like it belonged in a modern art gallery rather than a wrestling mixer. It worked for her, sure - the tits looked fuggin' great in it - but in Flick's mind, where she liked to simplify matters, the outfit quickly had her registering the woman as "sharp and artsy."

But then she hit the face. The sharp features, the dark eyes. The somewhat judgmental assessment disappeared from her mind, replaced by a spark of genuine interest. She could definitely wear the curtains if she looked at Flick like that for any amount of time with those pretty eyes.

And then the word registered. Climax.

Flick’s grin widened, shifting instantly from performative to predatory. She liked a woman who didn't waste time with subtlety.

"Ooh, you'd hate to see it, ey?" Flick teased, stepping past a couple of onlookers to get a better look at the crimson vision. "Got an idea you'd love to see it. Why else bring it up in the first place?"

She squeezed through her little audience, drawing close enough that the two of them could share the scent of her perfume - expensive crap. She looked the stranger up and down, appreciating the way the red dress slit open to reveal leg.

"Thing is... a climax needs a bit more runway," she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial, husky purr. She gestured vaguely at the crowded bar. "Too many breakables, yeah? And too many people to get in the way."