The New Stars
by Kate Bolin

"Eatin' out? This pussy got 4 stars in Zagat attack it
I'm a cunning linguist twist words 'round my tongue"
- Princess Superstar

Life was fucking good sometimes.

Spend a few years slaving away or stuck somewhere waiting and then all of the sudden -- bam! -- all the demons and the vampires are out of the closet and into the limelight and one badass slayer and a higher being with some visions and her own set of headlights are bank.

Sure, there was a bit of animosity when they came back together, but a couple of nights on the town and realizing that Buffy and the Sunnydaliens were too wrapped up in their private psychodramas and Angel was convinced that this was all a hallucination while he was playing under the sea... Well, you can see where this is going, right?

And it was fantastic. Late nights, glittering parties, the queens of the underworld slipping and sliding through club and bar and celebrity life. The women who run with werewolves, saving the world before closing time.

It was another Saturday night, and they had each other's body, moving slowly and nastily to the beat of old-school hip-hop in the whitest club in town. Barely an inch of air between them, barely an inch of space left in the pants of the men around them, the vibrations of the bass throbbing all over.

Cordelia's miniskirt was practically a belt by now, her bare legs riding against Faith's thigh, covered in skin-tight rubber and shiny with silicone and Cordelia. Faith's cheek rubbed against the shirt barely covering Cordelia's breasts, and they danced danced danced, bringing forth the revolution while people sat at tables and pointed and whispered.

The music changed, the beat slower as a woman's voice moaned out obscenities. Cordelia began to thrust her hips against Faith in time to the rhythm, her eyes half closed in sex and sin, sax and violins, when Faith stood on her tiptoes, leaning up to lick at Cordelia's perfect diamond earrings and whisper "Look over there."

Cordelia turned, entwining her arm around Faith's waist as she moved. She followed her gaze and grinned, slouching just enough to nibble on Faith's earlobe. "Be still my heart," she purred.

"That is Britney over there, right?" Faith mumbled.

"Unless her drag queen fan base is bigger than ours..." Cordelia's hand crawled up Faith's back, tracing over elaborate prison tattoos. "You know..." she said, pausing only to drag a fingernail over the dahlia on Faith's back and toy with the ties of her top. "Despite what the tabloids say, we really haven't fucked a superstar yet..."

Faith chuckled, low and dirty, her voice coming from the belly or even lower. "Thinking about her? Queen C and Queen B, fucking hard against a hotel bed with 'Oops I Did It Again' in the background?"

Cordelia smirked. "I'm not that innocent," she sing-songed as she straightened, her eyes flicking over to Britney's, catching those wide still-virginal (the only thing about her that was, if you believed the rumors) eyes with her jaded ones and holding her in the spell.

Snake charmer, bull tamer, a million other soother of animals flowing through her instincts and Cordelia could charm the knickers off of anyone. A feather-soft smile on her golden bronze lips and a razor sharp one matching from Faith's ruby-red as they pounced on their fresh prey.

"Hi!" Cordelia said with fake cheer, smiling widely and disarmingly. No knives behind her back, no ulterior motives in the beginning, no sir. "Want to dance?"

Faith just smiled and let her eyes trail down Britney's body, barely contained in leather and silver, an intergalactic space princess beamed down onto earth for the ritual fucking between planets.

Britney looked at both of them, recognition suddenly hitting, and promptly slid into the proper celebrity status deferment. The hot new thing meeting the tried and true, and you know the new is always on top.

She lowers her head and nods sweetly, then allows herself to be taken out on the dancefloor.

Faith takes behind, Cordelia takes the front, both of them keeping the 12-inch rule at first, but as the music keeps getting raunchier and raunchier (a c-note passed to the DJ by one of their tagalongs, just for the sake of the show), they get closer and closer, until their arms are wrapped around Britney, trapping her in the spiral of lust.

Slow slow slow and it's all about Faith's hands on her exposed stomach and Cordelia's hands trailing against her neck, super moisturized skin smelling of ylang ylang and sandalwood, scents of a girl not yet a woman who desperately wanted to be one.

The music changes and suddenly Faith growls "Let's get off this dancefloor," dragging them into the ladies' room and into the nearest cleanest stall (no easy feat in a club where even the coke snorters give up after one try).

Before Britney can protest, there are lips against hers, lemon lip balm soft and gentle, reminding her of Justin (before he dropped her for being not femme enough). She slumps against the stall wall, the graffiti streaking from the sudden sweat on her back, and Cordelia continues kissing her, pushing her further and further as another mouth latches onto her neck and two pairs of hands find their way under her clothes.

A tie there, a button here, slow unzip, and everything's exposed, raw and wet and being possessed, hands in places not even the wildest of groupies dared. Cordelia's still kissing her, her tongue taking account of everything in here, perfect caps and the scar from a failed tongue piercing. The imperfection of that tiny scar drives Cordelia even madder, and she pins Britney's arms to the wall, spreading her legs with a quick swipe of a thigh.

Faith grins and watches the two of them before getting down on her knees. She kneels behind the two girls, enjoying the view, then runs her tongue quickly over the heart pattern on Cordelia's soaked knickers before yanking down Britney's and sticking her head up that little leather skirt.

Hot and damp and tasting like the finest honey or the sweetest juice and playing with Britney's clit is such a fucking headrush that Faith thinks she'll come just from the licking, each stroke hitting her right where she needs it.

And goddamn, does she need it. Britney's already moaning and crying like a cat in heat and Cordelia's trapped one of Britney's hands in her own and is pulling her towards that heart shaped box. Faith undoes a couple of snaps, just enough to slide two fingers down, and it's all about that rocking motion on her hand, the one she learned she loved when she was five and she ain't ever givin' it up.

Britney's liquid gold and Cordelia's liquid bronze and Faith's just steel, continuing to fuck them raw and ready, over and over, until, finally, Britney uses those pop star lungs to shriek out a chorus and slams against the wall hard as she fucking gushes all over Faith's mouth. Cordelia shouts out "FUCK!" and grabs onto Britney's hand like it's the lifeline aboard the Titanic and that brings Faith to the gentle moaning rocking that she always enjoys.

They're limp and sweating, extensions weighing down on their heads as they slump against any parallel surface. Faith's laughing and Cordelia's grinning and Britney's in a world of her own, learning what the world is like. The lovers-warriors help her up, an arm each around her waist as they drape her over them, and slowly pull her away from the club and into the limo.

Once they set her down she's dozed off, knickers slipping down around her knees. Faith looks at Cordelia as they both slid opposite her, and Cordelia smiles sharply as she reaches for the bottle of Stoli she makes sure is kept in here. "You always did want to fuck a popstar, darling," she says in a mock British accent as she finds her vodka.

"Yeah, but do you think it's different when you are one?"