The Coming Of Night
Title: The Coming Of Night
Author: lalalive23
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Explicit sexual themes, sexual violence, violence, discussion of murder, references to blood
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. This never happened. Could happen, tho. Bless the future.
Feedback: I LIVE FOR THE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE
Summary: (Rivals to Lovers Bingo Fill) Matt and Dom are kings of the drug and club scene in downtown LA, respectively. Unfortunately, they need each other. Unfortunately, they get high off of taking risks. They're aroused by power and money and blood, and both have all of things in spades.
Note: This story has been in production since May. MAY. I hit a wall with it, and for some reason it unlocked itself this afternoon. That's awesome. BECAUSE I LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS STORY. Cheers to chess_boxing and ashamedbliss for being bit readers and epic beta boos and generally being raw as fuq. <333
The room makes you hungry. It’s Victorian in its design, amber wallpaper and a chandelier above a four-post bed that makes you cringe. It's gauche and unfamiliar, and you feel starved for the glass windows and hard lines of your modern apartment. But he's pulling you along, pulling you into a warm womb that's hot and heavy with anticipation, expectation, and the sour taste of finality.
You don't fit here. You don't fit with him. He's Vivienne Westwood suits and deep whiskey. You're a leather clad Vodka tonic that doesn't match the silk and satin life he's built, but he lives in contradictions - revels in the irony. The back of your mind aches with the knowledge that he wraps himself in a facade of polite informality, yet he has killed several of your employees, your friends, and he won't hesitate to kill you. He wears their blood on his hands like fine velvet gloves.
But you've killed just as many, and tonight you want to wear him.
Tugging on the hair you've pulled back with a band, you think about his ass in his finely tailored pants. You think about the drugs you sold him and the money he's moved to your bank account. You think about your clients, his clients - one and the same, really. You think about your throbbing dick and his wet mouth.
You think of how it came to this.
(...)
The alley makes your skin feel damp, clothes constricting against your limbs like an amorous lover. This used to be your office, corner bound with a view to kill, but you promoted yourself. In lust, men and women alike ask your favourite position, eager to please, eager burn, and you always reply CEO. Pain was never cheap, and once you got a handle on demand you raked in the cash like collecting tears in a vile.
He’s bathed you in stereotype, on purpose. This meeting point exists to remind you that you are nothing to him, you are filth, squalor; this is his opinion, this is your full potential.
Glance at your watch. See that he’s twenty minutes late. Dominic Howard, the emperor of the downtown club scene. You are many things: a dealer, a chemist, a millionaire, a murderer, but you are not tardy. Fondling the bullets in your pocket, you think of hunting him down and putting a hole between his eyes. It’s not the first time you’ve pictured it. It always makes you thirsty.
Eventually a brute of a man opens a metal door, and you blithely turn to see his face.
‘You Matt Bellamy?’ the guy asks.
He must be new.
‘Big man couldn’t show his own face?’ you shout, because you’re spiteful and you’re bored.
‘Come with me.’
(...)
It’s when he drags his tongue along your jaw that you realize he never offered you a drink. You think you might like vodka or wine, anything to dull the senses.
His hands reach around to your back, fingers tugging at your belt loops when he finds your gun tucked gently between your belt and your back. When he fondles the metal he starts to smile, and you wonder if maybe he’s trying to make you feel nervous, like he’s peeled your skin back to make you vulnerable. He drags the barrel slowly along your spine, and you look into his eyes because everything about him is your distraction and you’re waiting for him to ask the question you know is coming.
‘Would you have used this on me?’ he asks slowly as he finally pulls the gun into view. You don’t look at it, only at him.
‘Maybe,’ you say, because it’s true. You’ve been waiting to use it on him for years, and you can’t say you won’t in the morning. It would be breathtaking, the sight of him sucking the smoke from your gun.
Dominic eyes the Semmerling like it’s a toy and cocks his eyebrow. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘No.’
He giggles like a boy, and places the gun to your temple. You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. You wonder if he feels a little disappointed that you’ve stared down the barrel of a gun enough times to know that no one pulls a trigger unless they’ve made a speech. Dominic is too high strung for prose. Dominic would never stain his fucking carpet.
‘Bang,’ he whispers, and he tosses the gun to the side, safety still on. It doesn’t escape your attention that you will be the death of one another. Your story doesn’t end with love, only sex and money and power that neither of you are willing to share outside of a bed. Your story ends with the clashing of teeth and the tearing of skin.
Your story ends cold. Your story ends in blood.
(...)
He presides over everything, watching his clients with a detached sort of interest befit for a monument. Suit, tie, grey eyes, and strong knuckles that have shattered cheekbones. You’ve called him the Marble King, and here, on a VIP balcony overlooking a dance floor, he fits the title. A gargoyle waiting to be shattered, you’re excited to see what it’s like to break myths with your bare hands.
When you look at him, he’s grinning in the shadows over the rim of a glass. He waves his hand, gesticulating to a chair you don’t want to take, but you sit anyway and it doesn’t make you any less tense. To your right, a girl is dancing with….someone. A stranger. Her boyfriend. He drags his fingers up her tights like he’s trying to rip his way in. You wonder if she’s drunk. You wonder if she’s legal. You don’t really care about either of those things, but it still makes you hard.
‘Thank you for meeting me.’ His voice is cold, and you turn back to him with a scowl.
‘Thank you for paying me.’ You pull out your phone, and so does he. The action holds him to the deal, the bank transfer. You pull up your account, waiting for him to make a move. His fingers barely twitch and one single refresh shows retribution in five zeroes.
‘I’m a man of my word,’ he sighs. The phone slides back into his coat pocket and you think of him as a snake.
‘Delete my information. Now. I want to see you do it.’
‘Trust me, dear Bellamy. After this evening, you will have absolutely nothing that I want.’
You lean forward and you can smell him. A whole mouthful of his cologne accosts you and you swallow it down. ‘So what’s this then? A one time deal? They’ll come crawling back for more. You can’t handle the distribution.’ Your eyes glaze over the people dancing, drinking, drowning in excess to forget the trauma of their identity. He needs them. He needs you.
He leans forward, too, cocking his head to the side like he’s calculating your irrelevance. ‘You aren’t the only dealer in L.A., boy. The necessity of you is sorely finite.’
His voice is a whisper that melts the iron of your indifference back to flesh. His voice is alcohol and misery, and just right temperature to burn you alive.
(...)
He undresses you like he’s skinning you alive, but you don’t put up a fight. It’s your apathy that startles you the most, more than his deft fingers and your twitching cock. There’s bullet holes where your passion used to be, and you never learned how love the good and the true. Soft words seemed to fracture on your tongue. But you didn’t come here for this.
You think of the money and you think of his nails scratching down your thigh.
‘Did you pay me for the drugs or did you pay me for this?’ you ask, enjoying the sight of him on his knees. The position isn’t vulnerable, not the way it usually is. There’s no subservience in his eyes, just a dead sort curiosity gathered like a cesspool.
‘I paid you to serve your purpose.’ He doesn’t look up at you. He inspects your kneecap and you wonder if he’s thinking about breaking it.
You roll your eyes.
‘I’m not a prostitute.’
‘I don’t need a prostitute.’
He takes your dick in his hand and you smirk.
‘I don’t need foreplay,’ you reply.
‘The money was the foreplay.’
(...)
‘You and I are far more similar than we’ve been giving each other credit for.’ He leans back in his chair, smiling, and part of you wants to lick the light off his teeth.
‘Are we?’ You’re snide and sharp, calculating the turns of his glass, because you are a loaded gun and you never learned to be gentle. ‘I’m not a pretentious asshole, I know what I’m about. And I don’t dress like I’m a fucking politician.’
Dominic tilts his head back and laughs, its sound silenced by a heavy, rolling bass. ‘I think you could benefit from a lesson in style, dear Bellamy. Perhaps some tutelage from the design of your drugs.’
‘Chemistry,’ you spit.
‘You’re highly adept at one type, perhaps...you’ve excelled in other areas as well?’
It doesn’t take you long to process his insinuation, to remember he wets his dick on risk.
You absorb the light of the club, skin white and pale. You’re a chameleon of malintent and he glows an impossible shade of gold. It comes from beneath his skin, inside his veins. He’s swallowed the Los Angeles sun, forcing himself and your business into the shadows as he turns daylight to ash on his tongue. It makes you want him. It makes you hate him. He’s the hot butter to your cold knife and you can’t wait to tear your way through him.
He’s a bad idea. This was a bad idea.
You’re addicted to bad ideas.
(...)
A balance is struck when the two of you crawl onto the satin sheets. You nip at his ear like you want to eviscerate him. There’s a hunger somewhere in you that wants to consume him, and this is where you start - with the soft, fleshy bits of him that will roll of your tongue before you start gnawing on his bones. And he pulls at your back and shoulders like he wants to climb inside you, wear you like an evening suit with your hair as his neck tie.
Sex with him is grotesque, wet and violent and ugly like war. You grind your hips, cock jabbing into his side and you wish his organs would spill into your waiting hand. He pushes at you, knocking you backward to the pillows and he lowers himself onto you.
You wear him like armor.
He dominates over you like a champion, all fire and pride and hate.
‘What if I killed you?’ he asks, hands on your throat.
‘I’d come back to life for you,’ you say, flatly. You’re waiting for him to press down or squeeze, his vindictive smile burning above you as your world turns black.
Part of you thinks about flipping him, about crushing him beneath your weight and letting him know that this is your game, that these are your rules. But you’ve played from the ground before, and have won with your hands tied, so instead you sit up and smirk at how he keeps his hands still, neither gentle nor aggressive, a mere warning of possibility. He falls back onto his thighs, keeping you tight inside him, like armor and steel, and you lean forward to bite his lip.
Your teeth pierce the skin and he starts to bleed, you do what he won’t. It’s easy to break pretty things; they bleed easier, faster, sweeter, and he’s no different. You aren’t shocked by how quickly his lip gives way to iron. The skin of his hands is rough and calloused but his lips revel in decadence and you’re the first abrasive thing they’ve kissed.
‘I’d pull you down to hell with me.’ You suck the last of his blood from your tongue, tasting gunpowder, alcohol, and bitter disinterest. He’s every meal you’ve ever wanted, and you welcome him home.
‘Romantic,’ he mutters.
You thrust roughly into him, and he screams. Pleasure, pain, it doesn’t matter. It belongs to you. This belongs to you.
(...)
Dominic guides you out of the club towards a car, a Maserati with tinted windows and red interior. A valet stands next to it, handing out the keys to a chauffeur and both avert their eyes as you slide in like gliding into hell.
Neither of you speak. You don’t touch.
A silent agreement is signed as the tires pull into the driveway of his Bel Air estate.
Tonight you both will live.
Tonight you both will die.
Author: lalalive23
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Explicit sexual themes, sexual violence, violence, discussion of murder, references to blood
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. This never happened. Could happen, tho. Bless the future.
Feedback: I LIVE FOR THE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE
Summary: (Rivals to Lovers Bingo Fill) Matt and Dom are kings of the drug and club scene in downtown LA, respectively. Unfortunately, they need each other. Unfortunately, they get high off of taking risks. They're aroused by power and money and blood, and both have all of things in spades.
Note: This story has been in production since May. MAY. I hit a wall with it, and for some reason it unlocked itself this afternoon. That's awesome. BECAUSE I LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS STORY. Cheers to chess_boxing and ashamedbliss for being bit readers and epic beta boos and generally being raw as fuq. <333
The room makes you hungry. It’s Victorian in its design, amber wallpaper and a chandelier above a four-post bed that makes you cringe. It's gauche and unfamiliar, and you feel starved for the glass windows and hard lines of your modern apartment. But he's pulling you along, pulling you into a warm womb that's hot and heavy with anticipation, expectation, and the sour taste of finality.
You don't fit here. You don't fit with him. He's Vivienne Westwood suits and deep whiskey. You're a leather clad Vodka tonic that doesn't match the silk and satin life he's built, but he lives in contradictions - revels in the irony. The back of your mind aches with the knowledge that he wraps himself in a facade of polite informality, yet he has killed several of your employees, your friends, and he won't hesitate to kill you. He wears their blood on his hands like fine velvet gloves.
But you've killed just as many, and tonight you want to wear him.
Tugging on the hair you've pulled back with a band, you think about his ass in his finely tailored pants. You think about the drugs you sold him and the money he's moved to your bank account. You think about your clients, his clients - one and the same, really. You think about your throbbing dick and his wet mouth.
You think of how it came to this.
(...)
The alley makes your skin feel damp, clothes constricting against your limbs like an amorous lover. This used to be your office, corner bound with a view to kill, but you promoted yourself. In lust, men and women alike ask your favourite position, eager to please, eager burn, and you always reply CEO. Pain was never cheap, and once you got a handle on demand you raked in the cash like collecting tears in a vile.
He’s bathed you in stereotype, on purpose. This meeting point exists to remind you that you are nothing to him, you are filth, squalor; this is his opinion, this is your full potential.
Glance at your watch. See that he’s twenty minutes late. Dominic Howard, the emperor of the downtown club scene. You are many things: a dealer, a chemist, a millionaire, a murderer, but you are not tardy. Fondling the bullets in your pocket, you think of hunting him down and putting a hole between his eyes. It’s not the first time you’ve pictured it. It always makes you thirsty.
Eventually a brute of a man opens a metal door, and you blithely turn to see his face.
‘You Matt Bellamy?’ the guy asks.
He must be new.
‘Big man couldn’t show his own face?’ you shout, because you’re spiteful and you’re bored.
‘Come with me.’
(...)
It’s when he drags his tongue along your jaw that you realize he never offered you a drink. You think you might like vodka or wine, anything to dull the senses.
His hands reach around to your back, fingers tugging at your belt loops when he finds your gun tucked gently between your belt and your back. When he fondles the metal he starts to smile, and you wonder if maybe he’s trying to make you feel nervous, like he’s peeled your skin back to make you vulnerable. He drags the barrel slowly along your spine, and you look into his eyes because everything about him is your distraction and you’re waiting for him to ask the question you know is coming.
‘Would you have used this on me?’ he asks slowly as he finally pulls the gun into view. You don’t look at it, only at him.
‘Maybe,’ you say, because it’s true. You’ve been waiting to use it on him for years, and you can’t say you won’t in the morning. It would be breathtaking, the sight of him sucking the smoke from your gun.
Dominic eyes the Semmerling like it’s a toy and cocks his eyebrow. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘No.’
He giggles like a boy, and places the gun to your temple. You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. You wonder if he feels a little disappointed that you’ve stared down the barrel of a gun enough times to know that no one pulls a trigger unless they’ve made a speech. Dominic is too high strung for prose. Dominic would never stain his fucking carpet.
‘Bang,’ he whispers, and he tosses the gun to the side, safety still on. It doesn’t escape your attention that you will be the death of one another. Your story doesn’t end with love, only sex and money and power that neither of you are willing to share outside of a bed. Your story ends with the clashing of teeth and the tearing of skin.
Your story ends cold. Your story ends in blood.
(...)
He presides over everything, watching his clients with a detached sort of interest befit for a monument. Suit, tie, grey eyes, and strong knuckles that have shattered cheekbones. You’ve called him the Marble King, and here, on a VIP balcony overlooking a dance floor, he fits the title. A gargoyle waiting to be shattered, you’re excited to see what it’s like to break myths with your bare hands.
When you look at him, he’s grinning in the shadows over the rim of a glass. He waves his hand, gesticulating to a chair you don’t want to take, but you sit anyway and it doesn’t make you any less tense. To your right, a girl is dancing with….someone. A stranger. Her boyfriend. He drags his fingers up her tights like he’s trying to rip his way in. You wonder if she’s drunk. You wonder if she’s legal. You don’t really care about either of those things, but it still makes you hard.
‘Thank you for meeting me.’ His voice is cold, and you turn back to him with a scowl.
‘Thank you for paying me.’ You pull out your phone, and so does he. The action holds him to the deal, the bank transfer. You pull up your account, waiting for him to make a move. His fingers barely twitch and one single refresh shows retribution in five zeroes.
‘I’m a man of my word,’ he sighs. The phone slides back into his coat pocket and you think of him as a snake.
‘Delete my information. Now. I want to see you do it.’
‘Trust me, dear Bellamy. After this evening, you will have absolutely nothing that I want.’
You lean forward and you can smell him. A whole mouthful of his cologne accosts you and you swallow it down. ‘So what’s this then? A one time deal? They’ll come crawling back for more. You can’t handle the distribution.’ Your eyes glaze over the people dancing, drinking, drowning in excess to forget the trauma of their identity. He needs them. He needs you.
He leans forward, too, cocking his head to the side like he’s calculating your irrelevance. ‘You aren’t the only dealer in L.A., boy. The necessity of you is sorely finite.’
His voice is a whisper that melts the iron of your indifference back to flesh. His voice is alcohol and misery, and just right temperature to burn you alive.
(...)
He undresses you like he’s skinning you alive, but you don’t put up a fight. It’s your apathy that startles you the most, more than his deft fingers and your twitching cock. There’s bullet holes where your passion used to be, and you never learned how love the good and the true. Soft words seemed to fracture on your tongue. But you didn’t come here for this.
You think of the money and you think of his nails scratching down your thigh.
‘Did you pay me for the drugs or did you pay me for this?’ you ask, enjoying the sight of him on his knees. The position isn’t vulnerable, not the way it usually is. There’s no subservience in his eyes, just a dead sort curiosity gathered like a cesspool.
‘I paid you to serve your purpose.’ He doesn’t look up at you. He inspects your kneecap and you wonder if he’s thinking about breaking it.
You roll your eyes.
‘I’m not a prostitute.’
‘I don’t need a prostitute.’
He takes your dick in his hand and you smirk.
‘I don’t need foreplay,’ you reply.
‘The money was the foreplay.’
(...)
‘You and I are far more similar than we’ve been giving each other credit for.’ He leans back in his chair, smiling, and part of you wants to lick the light off his teeth.
‘Are we?’ You’re snide and sharp, calculating the turns of his glass, because you are a loaded gun and you never learned to be gentle. ‘I’m not a pretentious asshole, I know what I’m about. And I don’t dress like I’m a fucking politician.’
Dominic tilts his head back and laughs, its sound silenced by a heavy, rolling bass. ‘I think you could benefit from a lesson in style, dear Bellamy. Perhaps some tutelage from the design of your drugs.’
‘Chemistry,’ you spit.
‘You’re highly adept at one type, perhaps...you’ve excelled in other areas as well?’
It doesn’t take you long to process his insinuation, to remember he wets his dick on risk.
You absorb the light of the club, skin white and pale. You’re a chameleon of malintent and he glows an impossible shade of gold. It comes from beneath his skin, inside his veins. He’s swallowed the Los Angeles sun, forcing himself and your business into the shadows as he turns daylight to ash on his tongue. It makes you want him. It makes you hate him. He’s the hot butter to your cold knife and you can’t wait to tear your way through him.
He’s a bad idea. This was a bad idea.
You’re addicted to bad ideas.
(...)
A balance is struck when the two of you crawl onto the satin sheets. You nip at his ear like you want to eviscerate him. There’s a hunger somewhere in you that wants to consume him, and this is where you start - with the soft, fleshy bits of him that will roll of your tongue before you start gnawing on his bones. And he pulls at your back and shoulders like he wants to climb inside you, wear you like an evening suit with your hair as his neck tie.
Sex with him is grotesque, wet and violent and ugly like war. You grind your hips, cock jabbing into his side and you wish his organs would spill into your waiting hand. He pushes at you, knocking you backward to the pillows and he lowers himself onto you.
You wear him like armor.
He dominates over you like a champion, all fire and pride and hate.
‘What if I killed you?’ he asks, hands on your throat.
‘I’d come back to life for you,’ you say, flatly. You’re waiting for him to press down or squeeze, his vindictive smile burning above you as your world turns black.
Part of you thinks about flipping him, about crushing him beneath your weight and letting him know that this is your game, that these are your rules. But you’ve played from the ground before, and have won with your hands tied, so instead you sit up and smirk at how he keeps his hands still, neither gentle nor aggressive, a mere warning of possibility. He falls back onto his thighs, keeping you tight inside him, like armor and steel, and you lean forward to bite his lip.
Your teeth pierce the skin and he starts to bleed, you do what he won’t. It’s easy to break pretty things; they bleed easier, faster, sweeter, and he’s no different. You aren’t shocked by how quickly his lip gives way to iron. The skin of his hands is rough and calloused but his lips revel in decadence and you’re the first abrasive thing they’ve kissed.
‘I’d pull you down to hell with me.’ You suck the last of his blood from your tongue, tasting gunpowder, alcohol, and bitter disinterest. He’s every meal you’ve ever wanted, and you welcome him home.
‘Romantic,’ he mutters.
You thrust roughly into him, and he screams. Pleasure, pain, it doesn’t matter. It belongs to you. This belongs to you.
(...)
Dominic guides you out of the club towards a car, a Maserati with tinted windows and red interior. A valet stands next to it, handing out the keys to a chauffeur and both avert their eyes as you slide in like gliding into hell.
Neither of you speak. You don’t touch.
A silent agreement is signed as the tires pull into the driveway of his Bel Air estate.
Tonight you both will live.
Tonight you both will die.