another thing i wrote. um.
Yeah, I know it's been done. But I was lacking inspiration. And then cosmic posted the vid again. I blame her. So should you.
left my head and my heart on the dance floor - Beyoncé/Lady Gaga (Telephone AU) - 310 words - R
The car smells like gasoline and yesterday’s perfume. Beyoncé drives fast and hard, the only way she knows how to, the only way it’s worth doing. On the passenger seat Gaga is asleep, her hands curled in her lap, long nails pointing up to the sky. The chopper is gone; ran out of fuel before they did.
It’s evening before she stops for gas and food - donuts and chips and as much coke as she can carry.
“Honey Bee,” Gaga says when she gets back to the car. “Did you get it?” Her mouth is whore-red and perfect when Beyoncé pushes a cigarette between her lips, lights it.
“Don’t I always get you what you need, Lady?”
Beyoncé calls her that sometimes, when it’s right. She calls her Lady when Gaga is tall and confident in her rags, when she’s shitfaced from cheap tequila, when she’s knee-deep in bodies and laughing. She calls her Lady when she has her on her back on the dirty motel mattress, fucking her to the steady four-four beat of their hearts.
“I don’t need much,” Gaga says. It’s not even a lie; most people are just too stupid to see that. She blows smoke out of the window as Beyoncé guns the engine.
The sun is setting behind the gas station. Inside it, the attendant lies dead, a crushed windpipe hidden under layers of fat. He’d looked at her like she was a victim and Beyoncé smiles, thinks of his eyes, that rabbit glint of fear in them when he’d realised how wrong he was.
“Honey Bee, you’re gorgeous,” Gaga says, her face marbled with shadows and smeared make-up. “Let’s never die.”
“Sounds good, baby.” Beyoncé reaches out and laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly. “Sounds real good.”
They drive on and around them the desert opens up like a secret; sharp and champagne-dry.
***
Sequel: she ate my heart
left my head and my heart on the dance floor - Beyoncé/Lady Gaga (Telephone AU) - 310 words - R
The car smells like gasoline and yesterday’s perfume. Beyoncé drives fast and hard, the only way she knows how to, the only way it’s worth doing. On the passenger seat Gaga is asleep, her hands curled in her lap, long nails pointing up to the sky. The chopper is gone; ran out of fuel before they did.
It’s evening before she stops for gas and food - donuts and chips and as much coke as she can carry.
“Honey Bee,” Gaga says when she gets back to the car. “Did you get it?” Her mouth is whore-red and perfect when Beyoncé pushes a cigarette between her lips, lights it.
“Don’t I always get you what you need, Lady?”
Beyoncé calls her that sometimes, when it’s right. She calls her Lady when Gaga is tall and confident in her rags, when she’s shitfaced from cheap tequila, when she’s knee-deep in bodies and laughing. She calls her Lady when she has her on her back on the dirty motel mattress, fucking her to the steady four-four beat of their hearts.
“I don’t need much,” Gaga says. It’s not even a lie; most people are just too stupid to see that. She blows smoke out of the window as Beyoncé guns the engine.
The sun is setting behind the gas station. Inside it, the attendant lies dead, a crushed windpipe hidden under layers of fat. He’d looked at her like she was a victim and Beyoncé smiles, thinks of his eyes, that rabbit glint of fear in them when he’d realised how wrong he was.
“Honey Bee, you’re gorgeous,” Gaga says, her face marbled with shadows and smeared make-up. “Let’s never die.”
“Sounds good, baby.” Beyoncé reaches out and laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly. “Sounds real good.”
They drive on and around them the desert opens up like a secret; sharp and champagne-dry.
***
Sequel: she ate my heart