Under The Sun
i. the shoot
Britney's done movies before, and she's dealt with freaky-ass shoots for music videos, but this is some hybrid in between. Standing ankle-deep in sand, she's squints up at the crowds above, and imagines she's really doing this. That she's really a gladiator, and she's about to go into battle. To the death.
Sneaking a peek at her fellow warriors, she decides it's better this way. They could probably kick her ass seventeen different ways between them.
The sun rains down on them, and even through the sturdy cotton of her scanty underwear, she can feel the burn of the metal, hot as fuck and twice as sharp. When the machinery next to Enrique breaks down again, she takes it as a sign. Retreats around the corner, into the shadows of the arena, where only echoes hint where people might be.
Leans back against the wall, spreads her legs, and slips her fingers in between. Smiles.
It's been a while since she's done this, gotten herself off on set. With all the tech and extras for the last video, she never had a moment to herself. This time, it's just her, the sun, and the open air.
She indulges herself, allows a tiny moan to escape, lets the pump of her hand follow the rhythm of it, the quick, scratch, stamp of it.
The quick...scratch...stamp?
Then she realizes.
It's just her, the sun, the open air, and Beyonce.
They freeze. Britney, metal-clad, back arched, thighs wide. Beyonce, picture perfect and glinting in the sun.
The crowd roars again, practicing, shattering the moment. It's almost time.
Beyonce is still standing there, and it doesn't look like she's going to move. Britney's achingly close, and the clock is ticking.
"Screw it," she mutters. "Keep watch for me?" Jerks her head toward the arena.
Beyonce arches an eyebrow, nods, and walks back to the set.
Britney's got her eyes on the hem of Beyonce's costume when she comes.
ii. the downtime
Britney isn't sure when "grabbing a couple of beers after the shoot" changed to lying on her back while Pink employs the Best of Good Vibrations to maximum effect, but she's not going to complain.
Well, she would have preferred a bed to the floor of balcony, but that's the only complaint she can come up with while she has a knee hitched around Pink's shoulder. She's good at multitasking, but not so much during sex, she's discovered.
It's baby blue and sparkly, and she had giggled when Pink pulled it out of her suitcase, wanting to make a joke about Justin's balls. She remembers now, mid-moan, that Pink was in that movie with fucking Cameron, and decides she's not going to care.
Pink's much better at this, anyway.
The sun coats her with sweat, and her back stutters against the cement. It's going to hurt in the morning, but for now, it's worth it. She braces her other leg against the frame of the door, craves a little more leverage against the relentless shimmy of Pink's thrusts inside of her.
"Britney." Pink sounds a little breathless, unsurprisingly, but Britney quivers.
"Yeah?"
The tip of Pink's tongue grazes over her lips. "Your tits."
Britney glances down at her body. Yeah, they're there.
"C'mon, Brit," Pink cajoles, and then Britney gets it.
She raises her hands, previously clenched in the way-expensive rug, and brings them to her breasts. Cups them first, and gauges Pink's reaction. Circles inward, then pinches her nipples. Giggles at the obscenities that spill from Pink's mouth.
Someone honks on the street nearby, and she wonders if anyone can see them, idly fucking on the balcony. She wonders if anyone has a camera, and what the headline would say.
Britney gives up boys for good! See what happened on her Roman holiday!
It has a ring of truth to it, she thinks, but then Pink grunts, her brow crinkles, and Britney realizes that she's coming.
They both are, actually, and she lets out a wail unheard since she last performed "I'm A Slave 4 U" live.
When she comes down, she pushes Pink off and stretches her legs with a grin. "Damn."
"Yeah." Pink laughs, unstraps her harness and tosses it inside. "Want another beer?"
"Sure." She stands up and preens under the sun. "Why not?"
iii. the premiere
"I don't get it." Pink's mutter is a growl to Britney's ears. "It's just a fuckin' commercial." She's slung herself on a low sofa in the bathroom, heedless of how high the slit of her dress hikes. Britney's demurely perched on the counter, and she decides that she's not going to look.
Yet.
Beyonce slides into the bathroom and bolts the door. "It's crazy out there."
"Tell me about it." Britney watches Beyonce toss her fur coat onto the counter, gazes into her cleavage for a second. Uncrosses her legs. "Think they'll miss us?"
"Nah." Beyonce kicks her heels off and sits on the arm of the sofa. "Brian and Roger are giving a speech about something. Could take a while."
Pink sits up, looks appreciatively at Beyonce's thighs. "Like, an hour?"
"Maybe a little less than that."
Pink grins, tugs on Beyonce's arm, pulling her into her lap. "Long enough." Kisses her, and Britney catches her breath.
Pink's dress is pushed up around her hips, and Beyonce's shoved down to her waist, before Britney is able to speak. "Guys?"
Beyonce raises her head, and Britney tries not to stare at the purpling mark above Pink's right breast. "Yeah?"
"What are we--" She clears her throat, ignores the wet between her legs and tries to think. "What are you--"
Beyonce squeals, and Britney loses her train of thought when she sees where Pink's fingers are pumping.
"Brit." Pink sounds amused, and Britney's got two fingers inside herself.
"Yeah?"
"Get over here."
So she does.
They get back to the party one hour and fourteen minutes later.