Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~2600 words. For this prompt on glam_kink, wherein Adam and Tommy are undead circus stars. I know. Contains consensual eroticised torture for entertainment.
Just because you’re undead doesn’t mean shit don’t hurt. That’s lesson number one.
Just because you’re undead doesn’t mean shit don’t hurt. That’s lesson number one.
When the theatre goes pitch-black, and anticipatory gasps rise up from the crowd, Tommy’s silent heart starts to stir. It gives one sluggish beat in answer to Adam’s hand squeezing his. It gives another as Adam leads him out into the centre circus ring, and another when the floodlights flare, bathe them in harsh-edged light. Leather gleams, spikes glint, and Tommy presses close to Adam’s side, blood-red lips parted and shadowed eyes sly. He’s hard already, thick and hot, and he likes Adam to know it.
The first show they did, Tommy was cuffed to a rough wooden plank, and he seriously loved that shit. The cuffs were old, rust-splotched iron, so heavy Tommy could barely lift his arms. It felt like everything that had ever been missing from his life. He had no choice as Adam kissed him, soft and sweet, couldn’t offer anything in defence as Adam’s hands circled his throat. And it hurt. It was slow, and cruel, and it hurt so fucking much, so fucking good.
Their second show, as Adam led him out to the crowd, Adam whispered to him that he wouldn’t get the cuffs this time. He wanted Tommy to struggle. He wanted Tommy to fight. There isn’t anything left on earth or in hell that Tommy wouldn’t give Adam, so he gave it a shot, but he wasn’t really into it until he saw the wild light spark in Adam’s eyes. Then, he fucking fought. He bucked Adam off, pawed desperately at the dirt trying to scramble away, screamed when Adam slammed him into the ground. He fought and he choked and he died anyway.
He came back to life with Adam’s tongue in his mouth and Adam’s hand on his hard dick, the crowd going absolutely fucking crazy, and he rasped, “Sold,” just to hear Adam laugh low and sexy for him.
Tonight, the theme is fire and ice. Adam’s costume is the sick black and blue of fresh bruises, Tommy’s red like blood, scraps of raw leather black and spindly like scorched twigs framing his bare chest. There’s a brazier to their left, burning away, and a metal tub of steaming dry ice to their right. Tommy takes his kiss from Adam, cheeky and quick, before he sinks to his knees at Adam’s feet, his back to Adam’s legs. He tilts his chin up to watch as Adam lights a cigarette, the sharp smell of cloves winding through the air. Adam holds the smoke between his fingers and blows a saucy ring, winks at the crowd’s applause.
“C’mon,” Tommy says, reaching up to hold onto Adam’s hips. “Or I’m not gonna suck you later.”
The mics circling the ring pick up his quiet whisper, push it all the way to the shadows at the very back of the house. Tommy can feel how it makes the audience shiver. Like they’re watching something they shouldn’t, voyeurs in paid seats.
“You will,” Adam says, full of calm self-confidence. He cups Tommy’s chin in one hand, thumb smearing his lipstick, and tips Tommy farther back, spreads him out so he’s fully exposed, vulnerable. The glowing red cherry of the cigarette is right in front of Tommy’s mouth, and he thinks about licking it, biting it off and spitting it into the sand. “You’d be on my dick right now if I let you.”
“Fucker,” Tommy says, as wicked and sharp as the edges of Adam’s grin. “Burn me already or I’m dumping you for Taylor’s jailbait ass.”
Adam laughs, so fucking dark and sexy, says, “Oh, sweetheart,” and grinds his dick against the back of Tommy’s skull as he grinds the cigarette out in the hollow of Tommy’s throat. Tommy can’t help his sharp cry at the searing pain, can’t help jolting, shying away from it. He could probably hold back the whimper building up his throat as Adam brushes ashes away, but he doesn’t want to. It feels too good to let it free, watch the way it lights Adam’s eyes. “You’re always so good for me, baby.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, hissing when Adam’s nails scratch over the raw burn. Adam frames the wound in his hands, highlighting it for the crowd as it slowly heals, from angry red to pink, to pale, unbroken skin in seconds. “Don’t you fucking forget it.”
Adam bends over to give him a loud, smacking kiss on the mouth. “I won’t, as long as you’re a good boy and fetch me that,” he says, and points at the branding irons ready and waiting in the brazier.
“Fetch you a fuck off,” Tommy says happily, and nuzzles at Adam’s dick a bit since it’s there, before he crawls over to root around in the embers. He’s not really in the mood to get branded tonight. Instead, he unsheathes the dagger strapped to his thigh, gives it a quick flip, blade over handle, and jams it down in the coals. He cocks an eyebrow for the camera projecting them up on the big screens flanking the circus rings, but his smile, slow and impish, is all for Adam.
Adam’s body language instantly changes. He expected to be obeyed tonight. They fucked before the show, Tommy’s legs spreading easily as Adam pressed between them, pushed into him, took every one of his hard, slow thrusts and asked for more. But Tommy’s in the mood to play, and when Tommy wants to play, it’s predator and prey.
So Adam prowls around the scored metal tub with its clawed feet, snatches the iced-over cane from it, and stalks to Tommy. He rams the blunt end of it into the centre of Tommy’s chest, making him gasp and double over, and shoves Tommy down by the shoulder while he’s hurt, kicking his legs apart and resting a boot threateningly heavy on Tommy’s dick.
“Ice or fire,” Adam demands, silky-smooth, pure sin shivering down Tommy’s spine.
Tommy can’t find his voice. The pressure on his nuts slowly increases. It’s not really much incentive to work up an answer when it feels so good, makes his cock throb, but he flicks a glance at the dry ice.
Adam’s smile turns to a smirk, grimly pleased. “Sadist,” he accuses.
“Right back at ya, babyboy,” Tommy says, biting at the corner of his lip.
Planting the cane in the dirt, Adam holds out a hand to haul Tommy to his feet. Tommy staggers, exaggerating it a little when the crowd cheers. With a laugh, Adam guides him to the metal tub, making him stand a few feet back from it so the audience has a clear view. A tap of Adam’s cane to the insides of Tommy’s ankles has him spreading his legs wide, then wider still. He looks up, wishing there were cuffs to support him, or a bar to hold onto, anything.
“Hold onto me,” Adam says, “and you can have the cuffs.” Tommy reaches for Adam right away, earning himself another fond laugh, and the brush of knuckles against his cheek. “Next time, baby.”
“Damn it,” Tommy mutters. He knows he’s lazy, and with the cuffs he can be as lazy as he likes. But Adam likes to make him work.
The crowd won’t notice, but Tommy catches the slight breath Adam takes, bracing himself, before he plunges a bare hand into the dry ice. He flexes his fingers around the tiny chunk he pulls out, flashing the vicious burns for the camera, the way they turn to frostbite as he takes his time coming back to Tommy. The slow shit is always the worst. A knife is quick, clean, beautiful sharp sting, but all these hurts are the horrible, creeping ones. Ones that burrow bone-deep and nest there, aching for hours after the show. “Gonna be feeling that later,” Tommy says, twisting to watch Adam circle around behind him.
“So are you,” Adam says. He settles a hand on Tommy’s hip, close to where the costume cuts low over his ass. If Adam had his way, Tommy’s costume would be a few scraps of mesh and some leather buckles. Tommy likes making Adam work for it in his own way. “Still wet?”
Tommy’s breath catches. The dry ice is evaporating fast, barely the size of a golfball now, held up in Adam’s palm in front of Tommy. “Why?” he asks warily, eyeballing it.
Warm fingers trail across the small of Tommy’s back, push down between the cheeks of his ass, find his hole slick and soft and open. Tommy grabs onto Adam’s arm, anticipating the blunt shove inside but not getting it, holding on all the tighter for it. “You’re not fucking serious,” he says, staring at the ice steaming away.
Adam brushes the ice with his thumb. His skin’s healing almost as fast as the ice is freezing it. “You’ve taken bigger.”
The crowd gives a nervous, eager laugh. Most of them don’t really believe Adam would do it. Even more believe that even if Adam does, it doesn’t matter, because they’re already dead. But they bleed, and they burn, and they love so fucking hard, Tommy’ll let Adam do it if he wants. Nobody warned Tommy that finding his soulmate meant he’d live and die forever. People don’t find their fucking soulmates anymore. The world’s too violent, too sick and twisted, too hungry.
But him and Adam, they’re a freakshow.
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath in, lets it out easy as he rests his head on Adam’s shoulder. “Do it.”
There’s a shuffling wave as the crowd leans forward in their seats. Their lust for the bizarre laps at Tommy’s skin. Their want to have Adam tear him down, break him, own him. Maybe they think he and Adam are so different from everybody else, but they’re not really. Everything the crowd wants right now, that’s what Tommy’s got rattling around inside his chest, clawing at his heart. He doesn’t need the crowd’s desire, Adam’s is always the sweetest, but it still tastes so very good.
“Put it in me,” Tommy says, the audience’s impatience leeching into him. “Hurt me where you can’t see it if you want. I’ll take it. I’ll let you fuck me with it.”
Adam closes his fist on the dry ice with a loud crunch, shattering it. Most of it flakes away, peppering the sand, but there’s more than a few slivers clinging to Adam’s skin when he squeezes Tommy’s jaw open, stuffs the thick knot of three fingers in his mouth. And oh fuck, that burns, and it tastes fucking disgusting. Forehead scrunching, he sucks hard, searching for the taste of Adam’s skin beneath the acidic tang.
He gets to it at exactly the same time Adam’s other hand skids down, cups his dick. He grunts in surprise and sucks harder, his cheeks hollowing, a hand slapped over Adam’s so he can grind. Adam squeezes, and squeezes, turning his moan to a whine. “You really wanted it, didn’t you?” Adam asks, voice pitched low. “You’ll take anything up your ass, as long as I’m the one giving it to you.”
Tommy can’t answer with his mouth full. He tries anyway, and all the audience gets is the tail-end hiss of a yes as Adam’s fingers drag free.
Adam gives his cheek a chaste kiss. “Get the knife.”
It takes Tommy a second to get his feet to move. The crowd’s a dark, seething thing at the corners of his vision, their want notching higher and higher as he grabs the dagger out of the embers. It sears his palm, and he gives them the hiss of his pain, lets it wind them even tighter. He skids into the sand at Adam’s boots, jabbing the knife between them before he falls back, knees bent and splayed wide, arms flung out to the sides.
Adam slowly drops to one knee, taking hold of the dagger to pull it free. The blade glows red-hot and vicious, dancing in the dark as the lights dim. Tommy digs his fingers into the sand, granules biting beneath his nails. He’s so thankful he doesn’t have to ask for what he wants. Adam reads it in his face, the desperate part of his lips, and places the very edge of the blade across them, shushing his cry as it burns. A low whimper seeps free. The crowd goes dead-silent, as dead as they believe he is.
Before his lips have a chance to fully heal, Adam kisses him. He pushes roughly into it, smearing Adam’s mouth with what’s left of his lipstick, straining for the knife’s cruel kiss as well as Adam’s. He gets it in a quick slash to the side of his throat, another to his shoulder, black, bloodless wounds a perfect match to his costume. Adam pulls away to drag the flat of the blade down Tommy’s belly, making him twist and writhe in the sand, the noises building up in his throat finally bursting free when Adam swings the blade up to angle the point above Tommy’s groin. It bites in, bit by bit, and Tommy wants to thrash, wants to kick and scream, but his chest’s tight, suffocating, and all he can do is gasp, high-pitched and shallow.
“Beg me,” Adam says, a demon’s purr.
Tommy’s heels dig into the sand. Hard, unyielding metal isn’t what he wants burning him up on the inside.
“Beg me for this,” Adam says, switching his grip on the knife as he grabs at the back of Tommy’s thigh, pushing it up close to Tommy’s chest like they’re about to fuck. But it’s the dagger between Tommy’s legs, not Adam. “Beg me to bury this inside you, and I’ll give you my cock.”
The audience knows what happens next. They always know, but they always gasp when Tommy whispers, “Kill me.”
“Again,” Adam says, eyes bright, avid, tracking the swipe of Tommy’s tongue over his lips. Tommy wants the kiss Adam’s dying to give him, wants it so bad he can taste it. But the knife’s still poised, waiting.
Tommy swallows hard. “Please kill me.”
“Louder,” Adam hisses, the tip of the knife biting through Tommy’s costume.
“Please kill me,” Tommy groans, grabbing at Adam’s hair, blue swept through it like flames. “Please, Adam, fucking kill me already, and fuck me. You know I’d do it. I’d die for you, for fucking real. Let you shove it straight through my heart while you’re in me.”
The crowd’s silence breaks on a roar. Adam slashes through Tommy’s costume, not worried about catching skin. The dagger flashes in the light, swooping down, and Adam’s going to do it, Tommy can feel it, see it in his gaze locked with Tommy’s, and Tommy tightens his hold on Adam’s hair, tilts his head back and pushes his chest up to meet molten steel.
He screams when it bites into flesh, screams again when Adam wrenches it free, drives it deeper. The crowd’s surging now, a black, craving thing beating at Tommy’s senses, slavering after his death. But it’s Adam he’s listening to, Adam’s soft, hurried praises, Adam’s ragged groan as he shoves into Tommy on only the slick left behind from before. Tommy holds on until Adam’s buried deep, all the way, as deep as Adam had driven the knife into his chest, and Adam says, “It’s okay, baby. Let go,” and Tommy gives up, gives in, the starving darkness taking him.
The crowd is just as hungry for Tommy’s life, for the way his chest heaves with fresh breath long minutes later, but Adam’s still above him, still inside him, fucking him hard and deep and perfect, and every sluggish beat of Tommy’s heart belongs to him.