Fic(let): Not a Costume, Bandom + Rockstar RPF
So I was teasing on twitter earlier this week that you'd never believe me if I told you what I was writing. While that comment could have applied to multiple stories, this tiny little thing is the actual story in question. It's short enough that you won't have much time to believe or disbelieve.
Title: Not a Costume
Fandom: Bandom and Rockstar RPF
Pairing: Gerard Way and Lady Gaga
Rating: PG-ish?
Author's note: Thanks to
ataratah for beta and for asking for this in the first place.
When Gerard is asked to present for for the VMAs, it’s a blessing and a curse. It's not like they're on tour so he can't beg off with a thank-you-maybe-next-time, but he also doesn't need a publicist to tell him that it's an opportunity to reach out to his audience. He accepts and adds it to the calendar on the fridge where they keep track of Bandit’s play-dates.
Then of course he gets word that he’s presenting with Lady Gaga, which means he might as well not be there at all. That woman eclipses everything for miles around. It’s still an honor to be up there, a certain kind of recognition, more from his peers than from the industry. He’s just disappointed, is all. He vows to do the show with grace.
Until Lady Gaga calls him and says, "Hey man, I have an idea, you in?"
It's graceful to say yes, and even if it’s a crazy idea.
He's totally fine with it, it's good, it's not like he's never done a stunt before, never had a point to make. He's uncertain, though, quite how to make it work until Lindsey starts pulling things out of her closet for him, until he's shifting in his loosely-laced knee-high leather boots in the green room, wondering what the flutter in his stomach is. He fluffs at his flat-ironed hair, thick with hairspray, to get it just right.
Gaga walks in and he forgets everything. She's wearing jeans, which he hadn't expected, and cowboy boots; a gorgeously cut suit jacket, a sharp stiff collar, a tie. She has stubble. Her hair's a rusty orange, slicked away at the temples with a few curls falling forward over her face. He is surprised by the urge to want to touch it, to push it back from her forehead.
"Hi," he says, stupid and breathy. He feels like a fucking teenager.
"Hey," she says. She doesn't hurry her gaze, up the boots, over the wrap skirt that Gerard thought looked like a towel and Lindsey assured him was very expensive silk, over the cut of his shirt, which he feels the best about, just enough of his collarbone to distract from the fact that he has no cleavage to show, set off by the sparkle of a necklace.
“You look....normal,” he says. He realizes how judgmental the statement is before it’s all the way out of his mouth.
Gaga laughs it off. “It’s drag, it’s not a costume,” she says.
He’s said just as much before to himself, it's just something he likes to do sometimes. He looks at their reflections in the wide wall mirror. They look good.
"This was a good idea," he says. "We'll make a statement."
"That's not all we'll make," Gaga says. She has sunglasses low on her nose. There's a country vibe about her, like Gerard could reach into her pocket and find the keys to a pick-up truck.
"Are you sure you don't want to do all the talking? I'll ruin the image with my voice," Gerard says. He's smoothing his hands down the front of his skirt exactly like he's not supposed to do.
"Oh honey," Gaga says. "No one will think you're anything but a lady tonight."
They get a stage call, twenty seconds. Gaga steps into his space, rests her hand on the small of Gerard's back.
"Especially if you keep blushing like that," she says, low in his ear. He shudders and knows she feels it. "That's right, baby, you blush for me. Let's go play," she says as the heels of Gerard’s boots clack across the stage like the sharp snap of a ruler in the palm of a hand.
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comments)
Title: Not a Costume
Fandom: Bandom and Rockstar RPF
Pairing: Gerard Way and Lady Gaga
Rating: PG-ish?
Author's note: Thanks to
ataratah for beta and for asking for this in the first place.
When Gerard is asked to present for for the VMAs, it’s a blessing and a curse. It's not like they're on tour so he can't beg off with a thank-you-maybe-next-time, but he also doesn't need a publicist to tell him that it's an opportunity to reach out to his audience. He accepts and adds it to the calendar on the fridge where they keep track of Bandit’s play-dates.
Then of course he gets word that he’s presenting with Lady Gaga, which means he might as well not be there at all. That woman eclipses everything for miles around. It’s still an honor to be up there, a certain kind of recognition, more from his peers than from the industry. He’s just disappointed, is all. He vows to do the show with grace.
Until Lady Gaga calls him and says, "Hey man, I have an idea, you in?"
It's graceful to say yes, and even if it’s a crazy idea.
He's totally fine with it, it's good, it's not like he's never done a stunt before, never had a point to make. He's uncertain, though, quite how to make it work until Lindsey starts pulling things out of her closet for him, until he's shifting in his loosely-laced knee-high leather boots in the green room, wondering what the flutter in his stomach is. He fluffs at his flat-ironed hair, thick with hairspray, to get it just right.
Gaga walks in and he forgets everything. She's wearing jeans, which he hadn't expected, and cowboy boots; a gorgeously cut suit jacket, a sharp stiff collar, a tie. She has stubble. Her hair's a rusty orange, slicked away at the temples with a few curls falling forward over her face. He is surprised by the urge to want to touch it, to push it back from her forehead.
"Hi," he says, stupid and breathy. He feels like a fucking teenager.
"Hey," she says. She doesn't hurry her gaze, up the boots, over the wrap skirt that Gerard thought looked like a towel and Lindsey assured him was very expensive silk, over the cut of his shirt, which he feels the best about, just enough of his collarbone to distract from the fact that he has no cleavage to show, set off by the sparkle of a necklace.
“You look....normal,” he says. He realizes how judgmental the statement is before it’s all the way out of his mouth.
Gaga laughs it off. “It’s drag, it’s not a costume,” she says.
He’s said just as much before to himself, it's just something he likes to do sometimes. He looks at their reflections in the wide wall mirror. They look good.
"This was a good idea," he says. "We'll make a statement."
"That's not all we'll make," Gaga says. She has sunglasses low on her nose. There's a country vibe about her, like Gerard could reach into her pocket and find the keys to a pick-up truck.
"Are you sure you don't want to do all the talking? I'll ruin the image with my voice," Gerard says. He's smoothing his hands down the front of his skirt exactly like he's not supposed to do.
"Oh honey," Gaga says. "No one will think you're anything but a lady tonight."
They get a stage call, twenty seconds. Gaga steps into his space, rests her hand on the small of Gerard's back.
"Especially if you keep blushing like that," she says, low in his ear. He shudders and knows she feels it. "That's right, baby, you blush for me. Let's go play," she says as the heels of Gerard’s boots clack across the stage like the sharp snap of a ruler in the palm of a hand.
You can also read this entry on Dreamwidth (
comments)