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This Candidate Clearly Supports WIP Amnesty, Jon.

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The floor is shaking, the Lady Gaga techno mix thumping, and so much alcohol flowing that it's a wonder nobody's passed out yet. Kristen drains the last of her red plastic cup and leaves it on the kitchen counter, sauntering out into the living room to prove that yeah, women's studies kids can dance.

She gyrates and slinks, rolls her shoulders and tosses her curls, and figures she's doing great until she takes a step back and nearly knocks someone over. "Someone" turns out to be Olivia Munn, who's already sort of wobbly even when nobody's bumping into her, and wearing a backless dress that appears to be made entirely out of sequins. She doesn't actually fall, so Kristen curves red lips into a growl and takes a muted swipe with imitation claws, playing it off as a joke.

Olivia laughs, teeth flashing in the low light, and swings her hips until suddenly she's dancing in tandem with Kristen, all elbows and long legs and seriously, what's holding that dress on, tape? Girl's got rhythm, but if she knows any actual dance steps they've gone the way of her balance, leaving only a charming kind of geek flail that meshes weirdly well with Kristen's sultry hottie-in-a-little-black-dress, just-ignore-the-voice prowl. Face-to-face, Kristen kind of wants to get her hands on Olivia's hips, only what if she accidentally tears those sequins? That would suck.

Turns out Olivia's not worried. One minute they're just breathing each other's air, the next Olivia's hips are grinding against Kristen's, Olivia's hands cupping her face to pull her into a hot, wet kiss. Kristen's hands find the relative safety of her back, bare skin veiled only by long black hair, and hold on. She tastes like cheap alcohol and whipped cream.

Some guy a few feet away wolf-whistles, triggering smattered clapping from the couches shoved against the wall. Olivia yanks away from Kristen like she's been burned, but pastes on a genial smile before flipping them the bird.