Boredom's Lethal Cure [for Lightman]

[HotWheels]

Brigitte’s blue eyes brightened with a sudden, voracious light at the mention of a challenge, the spark of an addict recognizing her fix. The curated existence of the ultra-wealthy - the life she had been born into and married into - offered no friction. None she cared about, anyway. No obstacles in her world couldn't be dissolved by her name on a check. Comfortable oblivion, she had once called it. To feel the texture of life, she had to go out and find resistance. She had to break things, or people, to satisfy herself. And she had certainly lived a full life thusfar in that pursuit.

"Ah, but the challenge makes it all the more savory, does it not?" Brigitte purred, her posh tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that could start wars. "The world is full of people who believe they can obstruct me. Watching the realization dawn on them... seeing just how wrong they were... ah, that is a satisfaction that money simply cannot buy."

She left Madeline's little warnings about "dangerous expectations" and "poor endings" unacknowledged and entirely dismissed. The small talk had served its purpose - the appetizer - but now Brigitte needed action. She gazed at the brunette with a bemused intention, a look that stripped away the pretense of the gala, the gowns, and the etiquette between them, leaving only the raw, predatory interest underneath. She conveyed without a single syllable that she had locked onto what mattered. She intended to be dangerous. She intended to be entertained. And she could see, quite clearly, that Madeline would indulge her.

With that all but confirmed, Brigitte chose simply to further establish her boldness at least once more. "Well, I disagree on one point," Brigitte murmured, a wicked glint in her eye as Madeline gestured toward the shadows. "I don't mind the 'walls' listening, certainly. Not even an audience. In fact, I rather enjoy making a scene. It reminds the observers of their place - on the outside, looking in." She paused, something cruel playing across her purple-painted lips. "But I won't make anyone uncomfortable. I certainly don't mind them noticing us leave, though."

With that, she made her move. Brigitte shrugged the violet silk jacket from her shoulders with a fluid, confident motion. As the heavy fabric slid down her arms, it revealed the truth of her physique - not the soft, pampered skin of a socialite, but the sleek, dangerous topography of a fighter. The warm lighting caught the definition of her upper back, the cut of her deltoids, and the elegant, powerful lines of her neck and collarbone.

She caught the jacket and draped it casually over one shoulder, holding it by a single finger. As she stepped past Madeline, the sharp click of her heels on the marble accompanied her; she cast one final, heavy-lidded look back at the woman - appealing, challenging, and utterly confident - to bring her along for the tempest surely to come.

[Lightman]

Madeline watched the change come over her without comment. The brightening of Brigitte’s eyes, the sharpened focus, the unmistakable pleasure taken in the idea of resistance. It was a familiar look, though it wore a different costume here. Some people chased comfort. Others chased sensation. Madeline had long since learned which kind were dangerous and which were merely loud.

“And that…” she replied calmly, “…is where we differ slightly.” Her tone was mild, almost conversational, but there was steel beneath it. “You speak of challenge as something to be conquered. I tend to view it as something to be endured. Broken things are rarely interesting once they stop pushing back.”

She did not rise to the provocation, did not mirror the hunger in Brigitte’s gaze. Instead, she held her own ground with quiet assurance, eyes steady as the other woman stripped away the last of polite pretence. Madeline recognised the intent immediately. Not flirtation, not mere dominance, but appetite. The kind that fed on reaction. She offered none.

“You mistake spectacle for power.” Madeline continued, unbothered by the dismissal of her earlier cautions. “An audience only ever flatters the performer. It does nothing for the one who intends to remain standing once the noise dies.” A faint smile touched her lips. “But if making an impression is what you require, I will not deprive you of the satisfaction.”

Her gaze dipped briefly as the jacket slid away, not out of surprise but assessment. The truth of Brigitte’s build was plain enough now, written in muscle and control rather than silk and wealth. Madeline noted it all, the economy of movement, the ease with which she occupied space. A fighter indeed. Interesting. Still, her expression remained composed, her posture loose and unthreatened.

“And for what it is worth...” she added, voice lower now, “...resistance is far more rewarding when it is informed. Blind force tends to exhaust itself.” She met Brigitte’s look without blinking. “I would hate for you to be disappointed so soon.”

When Brigitte stepped past her, claiming the lead without asking for it, Madeline did not hesitate. She turned smoothly, the red silk of her gown following with quiet purpose, and fell into step just behind her. Heads turned. She did not care.

“Very well.” Madeline said, her voice carrying just enough to reach Brigitte alone. “Lead the way. Let us see what you do with all that appetite once the audience fades.”

[HotWheels]

The transition from the ballroom to the corridor proved abrupt. The murmur of the crowd and the clinking of crystal faded instantly, replaced by the hollow, rhythmic echo of their heels against the stone floor. Here, the air seemed cooler, quieter, with the building itself seeming to breathe rather than be overwhelmed by the dull clientele. Brigitte let the silence linger for a few paces, digesting Madeline’s lecture. Blind force. The accusation danced on her nerves, irritating her more than the dismissal of her showmanship. It implied a lack of control, a lack of technique. It implied she was a brute and not an artist.

She stopped.

Her heels planted firmly as she whirled around. In the same motion, she stepped into Madeline’s path, locking the woman between her and the damask-lined wall of the corridor. Brigitte raised a hand, planting her palm flat against a column right beside Madeline’s head, effectively caging her. The movement caused the muscles in her bare arm and shoulder to ripple under the warm sconce lighting - a visual testament to the "force" Madeline seemed so skeptical of, much like everything, it seemed. Her eyes grew dark and bored into Madeline.

"You wound me, dear," Brigitte purred, the tone suggesting anything but a wound. "To mistake decisiveness for 'blind force' suggests you haven't had much experience with women of my stature. A butcher uses blind force. I am a surgeon. I dissect."

She leaned in, the deep plunge of her purple attire offering Madeline the most appealing view yet, down the inviting trench between Brigitte's breasts.

"And as for the audience..." She tilted her head, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder, brushing against the skin of her arm. "They are gone. The noise has died. It is just you, me, and the walls."

Brigitte dropped her gaze to Madeline’s lips, then back up to her eyes, her smile sharp and predatory.

"So, Miss Christiansen. You have your privacy. You have your silence. Prove to me that your 'endurance' is more than just a pretty word for passivity." She pressed closer, daring the woman. "Push back."

[Lightman]

Madeline did not startle when Brigitte stopped short. She registered the shift in pressure, the sudden occupation of her path, the arm braced beside her head, and accepted it all with the same composure she had carried from the ballroom. Her eyes lifted to meet Brigitte’s, calm and intent, as though this were precisely where she had expected the evening to turn.

“And you have mistaken restraint for absence.” She replied evenly. “A surgeon does not cut until the anatomy is understood.”

Her eyes flicked once to the planted arm, to the angle of shoulder and elbow, then returned to Brigitte’s face. Nothing overt. Nothing dramatic. Just a private note taken.

“But since you asked...”

Madeline shifted. Not away, but into. A half step that slid her front foot just inside Brigitte’s stance, toe angled slightly outward. At the same time, her near hand rose, not to touch Brigitte, but to rest lightly against the column beside her own shoulder, palm open, posture mirroring without matching. It looked like nothing, but it changed everything.

The pressure of her hip displaced Brigitte’s line by a fraction. Her knee brushed Brigitte’s calf. A small interruption of balance, subtle enough to pass as incidental. The cage became a choice instead of a certainty.

She held the position for a breath, then eased the pressure just enough to prove she could remove it as easily as she had placed it.

[HotWheels]

Brigitte stared.
For three full seconds, she simply stared at the woman who had just... shifted her foot? Mentioned anatomy?

The predatory smile on Brigitte's face flickered, then died entirely. She blinked once, slowly, as if trying to process whether this woman had genuinely just responded to a blatant sexual advance by... adjusting her center of gravity and giving a lecture about understanding anatomy before cutting. "You..." Brigitte began, then stopped. She pulled back slightly, her hand dropping from the column. Here she'd been, trying to seduce or at least provoke some kind of visceral reaction, and this woman had responded by... discussing surgical precision as if they were in an operating theater?

"Curious," Brigitte said flatly. The heat, the intensity, the seduction - if she had tried to push this to simmering, she found herself once more in a cold pan. "I was propositioning you, not asking for a seminar on leverage points. Did you plan to draw me a diagram, next? We could have talked about these matters in the room, love. That would have scandalized no one save for the ignorant ones."

It did occur to her to wonder whether a complication existed here - a block, something that meant the woman couldn't let her guard down with even someone of Brigitte's beauty before her. Maybe she was deliberately being obtuse. Either option was disappointing. Brigitte crossed her arms under her breasts and studied her, willing to let her confusion bleed into amusement for the moment that quirked at her lips.

"Tell me, Miss Christiansen, when someone leans in close and tells you to 'push back,' do you always respond with a physics lecture? Or is this special treatment reserved just for me?" She waited, watching the woman's face for signs.

[Lightman]

Madeline watched the confusion settle in, unhurried and attentive, as though she had deliberately changed the rules of a game Brigitte thought she understood. She did not chase the lost heat. She let it cool. Her expression softened just enough to suggest amusement rather than dismissal.

“But you did ask me to push back.” She replied lightly. “I assumed you would appreciate something more interesting than the obvious.” A brief pause, eyes flicking over Brigitte with calm appraisal. “You do not strike me as someone who needs things…simplified.”

She shifted closer, not away, closing the space again without the theatrics Brigitte had favoured earlier. One hand rose, seeming to brush past Brigitte’s crossed arms as if adjusting her own sleeve, fingers gliding briefly along the inside of Brigitte’s elbow. Polite. Incidental. The sort of touch no one would clock as anything more than careless.

And then she stepped in. Just enough. Her hip aligned, her shoulder angled, her forearm slid into the shallow pocket of space beneath Brigitte’s arm as her weight dropped a fraction. Not quite a shove, although it would feel like it. It was an invitation her body answered before her mind did, subtly compromising the compatriot's balance, centre drawn forward and down as Madeline’s leg threaded behind one of Brigitte’s heels with almost apologetic grace.

She'd eased the pressure before it completed, withdrawing just as smoothly as she had entered, leaving Brigitte upright but newly aware of how close she had been to the floor.