eh, this kind of disturbing thing I wrote *handwave*

[kat_lair]

Recently I’ve been experiencing an urge to write something dark.

This is a sequel of sorts to left my head and my heart on the dance floor.

Yes, the title is from Gaga’s Monster (with the requisite gender pronoun switch). Yes, I am lame.


she ate my heart – Beyoncé/Lady Gaga (Telephone AU) – 402 words – R – warnings: disturbing themes, eroticised violence



“Fuck, this is amazing,” Gaga moans, biting into a giant Snickers bar. “I love peanuts, don’t you?”

“I love you,” Beyoncé says. Behind her a fluorescent light hangs half off the ceiling, its wires out in the open, coiled like entrails. It swings back and forth, making everything flicker like an old movie reel.

Gaga grins wide, her chocolate stained teeth sharp with delight. She’s wearing a white trilby and a kimono with flowers on it, the split parting over her left thigh like the Red Sea.

“Same difference, baby,” she says, the heels of her strappy sandals banging against the counter she’s sitting on. “Now c’mere already.”

Beyoncé steps closer, broken glass crunching underneath her feet like cockroaches. She plucks the candy from Gaga’s hand and tosses it away. She kisses her sticky fingers, her palm, her wrist; the delicate knobs of bone like sugar plums against her tongue.

Gaga makes a noise deep in her throat, a little hum-giggle of pleasure, and hooks her legs around Beyoncé’s waist, pulling them together. The air is humid and unmoving, and the sweat dripping down Beyoncé’s back feels good, better than good. She laps at the skin on the inside of Gaga’s elbow, hungry and contented at the same time.

They are going to fuck. They are going to fuck right here, next to the debris covered till while the alarm button flashes silently under the counter. Somewhere not too far away the Sheriff of this shithole of a town is probably already getting into his patrol car, fully unprepared for what he’s about to find.

Gaga rocks her hips up lazily, like they have all the time in the world. Which they do. “I like it when they watch,” she says.

Beyoncé glances up to the corner, to the black beady lens of the security camera, and smiles. But Gaga is looking over Beyoncé’s shoulder instead, at the bodies littering the shop floor, staring sightless and reverent at the two of them.

She reaches behind her and twines her fingers into the shopkeeper’s greasy hair, wrenching his head to the side until he too is watching, eyes the smooth glass of death. “I like them to see what they can’t have,” Gaga says and Beyoncé bites her lips hard, both of them so wet she can smell it even over the metallic tang of blood.

When they kiss it tastes of victory.