Sunday is for lady porn.
Apparently, it’s a series now. Shut up. Title from Gaga's Teeth. Eventually, I'll run out of lyrics to plagiarise but that day is not today.
Previous show me your teeth fics:
left my head and my heart on the dance floor
she ate my heart
take a bite of my bad girl meat - Beyoncé/Lady Gaga (Telephone AU) - 875 words - NC-17 (sex, some potentially disturbing themes)
There’s a spider on the wall. Gaga watches it crawl slowly across the rose-patterned paper, her head tipped over the back of the chair, everything upside down and shimmering around the edges like desert air.
The spider is huge; its fat black body wobbles and weaves, gravity pulling down with inexorable force.
“Go, go, go!” she cheers it on.
The spider goes, disappearing through the crack in the ceiling like a shadow withdrawing ahead of the noon sun. Gaga imagines the nasty surprise heading toward whoever is renting the upstairs room and grins.
The motel is old and nondescript, with an ever-blinking Vacancy-sign and a pool full of drowned insects. They’ve been staying here for a week; sleeping and fucking and eating gummy worms. It’s not hiding, not when there’s nothing to hide from. Gaga’s already been to prison and that was hardly the worst thing she’s experienced.
They could shoot her on the street like a dog or strap her down onto a table, stick a needle full of translucent death into her vein, and still it would not come even close.
She’s not delusional; she just knows that getting caught is not the same as losing.
“Penny for them,” Beyoncé says, appearing in the doorway like a mirage. She’s silhouetted by the golden afternoon light, her hair loose and soft.
“I’m not that cheap,” Gaga says, lifting her head and straightening her spine. The sudden rush of blood makes her vision swim, but when it clears she can see everything; the small rip at the hem of Beyoncé’s tank top, the fading bruise on the curve of her neck, the unnatural redness of the cocktail cherries she’s eating.
Beyoncé laughs; low and throaty. “Here,” she says, pushing one of them into Gaga’s mouth. “Will this do?”
It tastes like sugar and syrup and nothing like cherries at all. Gaga chews and swallows, missing the cyanogenic acids of the pit, but opening her mouth for another treat anyway.
Beyoncé obliges; her fingers sticky and lingering over Gaga’s lips before she drops unceremoniously to her knees in front of her chair.
It’s awkward the way it always is at first. Beyoncé licks at the bend of her knee, hands gentle but insistent as they travel upwards under her dress. Gaga lifts her hips because it’s good and she can have good things, it just takes her a while to remember that each time. She feels a little like a water strider; legs and arms stretched wide, nothing but surface tension to keep her from sinking.
Beyoncé hums in pleasure when her questing fingers encounter only skin, nails scratching lazily along the crease of thigh, dipping further.
“You like that?” Gaga asks. She can hear her own voice waver; bold and brittle like broken glass glued back together.
“Yes,” Beyoncé breathes, the word pressed reverently against her wet flesh.
Gaga spreads her legs further, digging the heel of one foot into the elegant bow of Beyoncé’s back. Underneath her the rickety chair groans in pleasure, Beyoncé’s tongue moving over her clit in long, steady swipes. Gaga imagines the glistening swell of her mouth; thinks about licking her face clean afterwards, tasting herself and the sugar of the cherries while Beyoncé rubs and writhes against her leg like a bitch on heat.
It’s easy then; easy to fist Beyoncé’s hair and hold her head still, easy to fuck her mouth with no rhythm or grace, just raw want that makes her hips stutter and her nipples ache, chafing against the fabric of her dress.
Beyoncé’s fingers tease her opening, pressing inside but only up to the first knuckle and then pulling out again. “You,” she says, muffled and moaning against her cunt, “You make me shatter,” and her voice is a smoking gun, a dripping knife, the rat poison in an apple pie, and Gaga loves her like all of those things and more.
“Now,” she says and Beyoncé pushes her fingers all the way in, a little too fast and a little too rough, her tongue darting after them greedily.
It crashes through her like a train wreck; taste of twisted metal and her muscles clamping around Beyoncé’s fingers, again and again and again, like her body wants to keep her there forever. She’s soaked, slick and open, Beyoncé’s mouth slipping over her as she laps it all up, makes her come again, sharper this time.
In the end, Gaga has to force Beyoncé’s head away, pulling her back by her hair. Beyoncé’s mouth is as shiny as she’d imagined and tastes even better. She pushes a leg between Beyoncé’s, pressing it tight against the damp front of her denim shorts. She sobs, face wet and make-up smeared, riding Gaga’s thigh like she can’t help herself, like it hurts when she comes.
Afterwards, they shower, cramped together in the tiny cubicle, sharing sweat and biting kisses. Gaga fucks Beyoncé against the tiles; soap-slick fingers buried deep in her pussy as she tells her about the spider and how to extract cyanide from peach stones and the way water pearls in the hollow of her throat like a jewel.
Gaga swallows it whole, Beyoncé’s pulse beating against her tongue, wild and strong like another day of freedom.