hannah_chapter1: (Daria)
Title: Still the Same
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 15/R
Summary: You're still the same/Moving game to game/Some things never change....
Disclaimer: I own nothing and this is fiction. Or is it?
Feedback: Hit me with your rhythm stick.

They meet for the first time in 1460. They clap eyes upon one another in a cramped and smoky tavern amidst the noise and confusion that follows the conflict it will please historians to dub the Battle of Northampton. Matthew fought for the Yorkists, Dominic for the Lancasters, but each man has abandoned his lord and cast off his colours. After all, as they tell each other over mugs of mead, what does it matter?

These silly squabbles, these so-called Wars of the Roses, are pointless. White rose, red rose, the beauty and life fade from all flowers in time. Ah, time; it destroys all things, all people - but not Dominic, not Matthew. They are eternal, age will never wither them, time will not erase them. Each man recognises this quality in the other, this is what drives them together, binds them together. Forever.

When they go to bed for the first time, the act is spurred as much by curiousity as by lust. Matthew, on hands and knees, bites his lip and tears straw out of an already ragged mattress as Dominic rises up and spears him. He sobs, first in pain and then in pleasure as he is impaled upon Dominic's prick, again and again and again...

...They meet in a London playhouse in 1599, in the twilight years of good Queen Bess. This play is a popular one, a bawdy comedy designed to please the crowd. It does. They laugh and hoot as Dominic and Matthew stand at the back, drinking beer and comparing fortunes. Matthew has prospered. He has made a killing in the wine trade and has settled here in London. He has a large townhouse, a wife, children. Dominic has prowled through Europe, plying his trade as a sellsword, offering his services to anyone willing to pay. Someone always is. There are always, he tells Matthew, men willing to pay any price to have certain ... inconveniences ... removed from their lives. Dominic is not married, not at this point in time, but he never has any trouble finding willing men and women to share his bed.

The talk turns to politics and to England, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, the place where they first met. The Lancasters are gone. The Yorks had their time in the sun but now they, too, are done and even these days of the Tudors are coming to an end. Elizabeth will never have children, that time has passed and, having passed, will never come again. Her crown will soon adorn the head of the Scots King. The time of the Stuarts will begin.

And, having begun, will eventually end. So it goes, they tell each other over their tankards. Time is a wheel and it rolls on and on, crushing all beneath it. All but Dominic and Matthew, of course. They sigh, they empty their tankards and Matthew buggers Dominic in the alley beside the playhouse, hand clamped over the blond's mouth to stifle his cries. They cross the threshold together; Dominic biting Matthew's fingers as he spills his seed upon the ground, Matthew grunting obscenities as he fills Dominic with his own seed...

....They meet in a tiny garrett in Paris in the first month of the year 1793. The Ancien Regime is toppled, the guillotine rise and falls, rises and falls and the air is thick with the rich, coppery scent of blood. It blots out everything else, even the stink of human effluence that rises from every city street cannot compete. The King has not yet felt the guillotine's kiss, but he will. Soon.

Dominic has already felt the bite of that blade upon his neck. Tiring of his vagabond ways, he had assumed the guise of an aristocrat, settled himself in a fine house - and was promptly dragged out of it and executed for his troubles. It quite ruined his day, to say nothing of the exquisitely tailored frock coat he had been wearing. And yet, he has to admit, the novelty of the experience made the whole ordeal worthwhile. Matthew listens to the details with great interest, but has no desire to experience this particualr method of execution. He has been hung, drawn and quartered as a traitor and burned at the stake as a heretic (Mary Tudor had no sense of humour). Quite enough for now.

Good wine is hard to find in these troubled times, but Matthew, ever the connoisseur, has managed to procure half a dozen bottles of a not altogether terrible red. They slide the bottles across the table, back and forth, back and forth, and, as men brawl in the streets below them, Matthew and Dominic shed their clothes and their inhibitions, stumble over the the bed by the window. Matthew whimpers as Dominic's mouth engulfs his prick...

...And it's 1888 and they meet in the East End of dear old London Town. Yellow fog covers the city like an especially foul blanket. People screech and chatter in the pubs and music halls, working girls ply their trade and a bloody-handed butcher slices them to pieces.

Matthew and Dominic swill pints in one of the East End's many pubs and talk about this mysterious man. He's a naughty one, this Jack. Dominic and Matthew are certainly no innocents when it comes to taking lives. They have killed in battle, Dominic kills for money and Matthew is not above skewering the odd business rival, but there is always method to their butchery. Even beings like them, to whom all human life is transient, cannot comprehend the notion of killing for pleasure. Vengeance? Yes. Pleasure? No.

This gruesome topic soon becomes tiresome and the conversation turns to more agreeable subjects. They speak of centuries past and the one soon to come. They have, they feel, experienced everything Europe and Asia have to offer, they have lived in so many countries, plied so many trades, fought so many wars, died so many deaths. It is time, they agree, to try something else: America, a New World for a new century. They celebrate this momentous decision by reparing to Dominic's lodgings and the blond gasps as Matthew straddles him and rides him hard...

... 1925 and Dominic and Matthew speed through the streets of Chicago in a truck full of bootleg bourbon. The cops jump on their tail and Matthew laughs as he twists the wheel and Dominic laughs along with him. This country is all they hoped it would be and more. It's a playground for them, an endless carnival. The city never sleeps and the fun never ends.

They lose the cops, deliver the booze and then it's speakeasies and reefer smoke and sex to the wail of a sweet tenor sex...

...They meet in New York in 1947. Sitting in McSorley's they drink in silence. It's not that they don't have anything to talk about; they skipped the Great War, but both went off to fight in the one just past. They could tell some stories. Dominic was blown to pieces when he stepped on a landmine. A sniper damn near took Matthew's head off.

But they don't want to talk about it, all the things the saw over there, the new and savage face of war. It brought them low. They'll recover, in time, of course they will. But now they just drink and stare at the floor and, when they finally stumble into Matthew's room they curl up, fully clothed, on his bed...

... Dallas, 1963. The President is dead, shot down by a madman in the Book Depository. Except he wasn't. There really was a second shooter on the grassy knoll that day, the conspiracy theorists will be right about that. But he wasn't a tool of the military-industrial complex, as they will also claim. How could they know, how could they believe, the real truth: the killer was an immortal blond assassin with thousands - hundreds of thousands! - of kills to his name already.

He tilts back in his chair, sipping a scotch as Matthew tries to come to terms with what his lover has done. Why, he asks, why do such a thing? They have lived in the world, watched history unfold, but never directly influenced the flow of it. They have been cogs in the great machine, no more, no less, and they have enjoyed the good times and endured the bad times and this approach has served them both well, for the most part. So, why, Matthew, asks, would you do this? Why wilfully throw dirt in the machine? An action like this cannot help but have consequences, world-shaking consequences, so why do it?

Because, Dominic replies, it will have consequences. He's sick of it all, sick of being buffeted by the winds of Fate, raised up and cast down by Fortune's Wheel. He wants to act, not be acted upon and, if the world should burn as a result, what does it matter to him? Or to Matthew, for that matter?

Matthew watches his lover drink and thinks about kicking the chair from under him and using a shard of glass to open his throat. He could do it, too. It wouldn't be the first time. But such an act would be pointless and so Matthew does the only thing he can do: he turns his back on Dominic and walks away. Dominic calls after him, begs him to come back but Matthew will not listen...

.... Miami, 1988. The cocaine wars rage and Matthew has used all the business savvy, cunning and cutthroat brutality acquired over centuries to climb to the very top of the pile. There have been missteps along the way - he now has first-hand knowledge of a Columbian necktie - but he learned from his mistakes and he rules Miami with an iron fist.

Dominic boards Matthew's yacht and they meet for the first time since 1963. They talk and drink and the breach between them is finally healed. How long can men like them hold a grudge, anyway?

The blond took up killing for profit again. What can he say, he's always been so very good at killing people and the methods might change but human nature never does. There's always work for a good hitman. Dominic started freelancing for the Boston mob in the '70s. But he had so many contracts out on him by the end of the decade and fending off rival hitmen was getting to be a real drag, so he moved his operation to Miami and worked for anyone with the cash to hire him. He wasn't picky.

Until now. A new outfit, small but ambitious, hired him to take out Matthew Bellamy, Miami's reigning kingpin. Dominic took their money. And their coke. And their lives. He pocketed the cash and brought the drugs to Matthew, a little peace offering. It is graciously accepted and the night quickly fades in a coke-and-sex-fuelled haze...

...New York, 2005. Dominic lies on a piss-stained floor, jabs a needle in his arm. The smack dulls the pain, makes him forget, but not for long. The memories always come flooding back. That's his burden. That's his curse. When Matthew finally finds him Dominic is weeping, clutching a picture of his wife and daughters, the family taken from him in a brutal home invasion while he was on a business trip.

Matthew and Dominic have each raised and buried so many families over the centuries and are no strangers to loss, but this one has crushed Dominic like nothing else ever has. He found the killers and he had his revenge, slow, sweet revenge. But it wasn't enough and now Dominic knows the truth: this is his punishment. For Dallas. He interfered with the running of the machine and the universe struck back, finding a way to kill his only joy.

Matthew listens to it all, then gathers Dominic to him. He takes his lover away from all the filth and despair and he loves him and heals him and, eventually, Dominic is whole again...

.... They meet on a space station in 2237. The Earth has become a barren and irradiated wasteland, but mankind has spread its code to the stars and it has endured, as it always does.

Matthew and Dominic inject themselves with Ephemerol and they talk about terraforming on Mars and mining on Jupiter and all the things they've seen over the centuries and speculate about all the things they'll see in the centuries to come...

....because they'll always be here. They'll live, love, laugh, watch empires rise and fall, experience everything the universe has to offer...

... and it will be glorious .....
hannah_chapter1: (Calm)
Title: Friends (3/?)
Author: hannah_chapter
Summary: Sequel to Enemies. When worlds collide...
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Hit me, baby, one more time.
Disclaimer: Don't own Muse, this is fiction, never happened.

"Are you insane?!?"

Matt's angry shout is a spike driving deep into his brain. Dom closes his eyes and wishes he'd never started this as Matt continues to rage.

"Why, Dom? Why would you, of all people, do something as dumb as this?"

"Baby - "

"Don't you 'baby' me, Dominic Howard. You can't sweet-talk your way out of this. It ends, right here, right now. You won't see him again."

"But - "

But nothing. You're not seeing him again. I won't allow it."

The blond's temper slips a notch.

"So that's how it is now? You make all the rules? I thought this was a marriage, now it's a dictatorship?"

"It's always been a dictatorship, Dom, you just didn't notice when you were the one running it," Matt's voice changes to a rough imitation of his husband's, "we need to change the way we play this game. Quiet and careful is the only way to be, now."

"I never forced you into anything. You went along with it because you know keeping a low profile makes sense. It keeps us safe."

"If that's true, again I ask, why are you doing this? How does drinking with cops keep us safe?"

The irony of Matt, of all people, preaching on the subject of improper relationship with cops is not lost on Dom, but now really isn't the time to bring it up.

"He's not just any cop. He's my friend."

"Was your friend. Now, who can say?"

"He already had a chance to bust me. He didn't."

"Doesn't prove a thing. He could be holding back, trying to get both of us in the trap."

"I trust him."

"I don't."

"You can trust me."

"Can I? Alright, you know what, fine. Do what the fuck you want to, Dom. Just don't expect me to come running when you fuck up. And you will, I know you will."

"Like you've never fucked up. You'd be in jail right now if it wasn't for me."

"And you'd be in jail right now if it wasn't for me!"

They glare at each other.

"I don't need you, Matt," Dom spits, "I can take care of myself."

"Then take care of yourself!"

Matt screams this last sentence as he turns his back on his husband and storms out. Dom snarls and hurls the nearest available object at the door Matt just slammed.



Dom pulls the blanket up, tries to get warm, fails. He laughs, a small, bitter sound.

Exiled to the couch. What a fucking cliché.

Two days since the fight and they're still not speaking. Their heist preps are on hold, they stalk around each other like angry cats and Matt has claimed the bedroom, leaving Dom out here on the couch on what is, without a doubt, the coldest week of the year. He turns onto his side, wishes for Matt's arms around him, can't quite bring himself to go and offer the apology that might make that happen.

Matt and Dom don't actually fight much. The problems that dog most couples - infidelity, money worries, the basic tedium of everyday life - just do not apply to them. High-profile fugitives, professional criminals in a world that would happily see them dead or in jail for life, their love is the only sure thing and there just isn't time for all that petty bullshit. They disagree from time to time, what couple doesn't, but they've never had a real fight.

Until now.

How do they make this right?

The blond's still chewing it over as he drifts into a light sleep. Light in his eyes and fingers stroking his cheek wake him. Dom sits up and squints at his husband.


"Dom. Come to bed."

"Wha - " Dom begins.

"No," Matt shushes him, "no talk. We can talk in the morning. Just come to bed with me now."

This Dom is more than happy to do. They climb into bed and, for the first time in days, Dom is warm. Matt grants his wish, pressing his chest against Dom's back and wrapping strong arms around him. Dom falls into a deep, blissful sleep, safe and warm in his lover's embrace.

Morning brings a familiar sensation: Matt spooning Dom, chewing sleepily on his shoulder. The blond smiles - his little bun is teething. He rolls over to face Matt and their lips meet in a soft kiss. That soft kiss is followed by a harder kiss, then another, and another as their arousal grows. Dom collapses onto his back and Matt hovers above him.

"Top or bottom?" he enquires.

"Bottom" Dom immediately replies, "make love to me, Matt."

The blond whimpers and clutches the sheets as Matt enters him. He used to worry about them losing their spark, that time would eventually wither away desire. He's happy to report this hasn't happened. They still want each other as much as they ever did and the sex is just as hot as it was when they were on opposite sides of the law. Maybe - God! - maybe even hotter....

Dom's thoughts lose coherence as the head of Matt's cock hits his sweet spot, again and again and again. Nothing else matters now, only the pleasure they are giving themselves and each other ...

The winter sunshine streams through the window and shines on a blob of sticky, panting flesh.

"You know," Matt gasps, "most couples have make-up sex after they've actually, you know, made up."

Dom laughs.

"We're not most couples," he says.

"Thank Christ for that," Matt ruffles the blond's hair, "I shouldn't have blown up at you like that, Dom. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, I get it."

"I didn't mean all those things I said."

"i know and you're right, meeting a cop is crazy. But he was my friend once, and I didn't have too many of those, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"But if you really don't want me seeing him, then I won't."

"See him if you want to. Just be careful, Dom. I can't lose you again."

"You won't."

Dom rubs his husband's back and Matt yawns.

"So," he says, "does your cop friend think we're still doing banks?"

"I guess so. I didn't tell him any different."

Banks were fine, in the beginning. But times change and bank security has, in the last couple of years, tightened to an insane degree. Launching nuclear warheads is easier than opening bank vaults these days and the cash in tellers' drawers doesn't even cover the cost of setting up a score.

Armored cars are a different story. A lot less risk and a lot more money. They can, on a good day, clear over half a mill. Matt and Dom had still been making good money from banks, but they could see the writing on the wall and they had, in the months leading up to their betrayal, been talking about switching to cars. Then Matt caught a couple of bullets and Dom carved himself a brand-new, blood-soaked reputation. The blond took the reins and, while Matt lay in a surgeon's back bedroom, breathing through a tube, Dom planned and executed their last round of bank scores.

Matt wasn't a hundred percent by then, far from it, but he could be moved and they had to get out of there, so Dom loaded him into the back of a custom-made truck and took him to the cabin. They spent eight months there, under the protection of Chris, Kelly and all their family and, when they did go back to work, it was with a whole new gameplan.

"The cops don't know anything," Dom tells Matt, "we're five steps ahead of them."

"Good - but we need to make sure we stay ahead."

"We will. We always do."


"I still can't believe it," Tom says.

"Believe what?" Dom asks.

Tom spreads his hands in a helpless gesture.

"All of it. Any of it. You're not a cold-blooded killer, Dom, that's just not you."

"I wasn't, back when we were friends. But people change. I've changed."

"I still don't buy it."

"Fine, let me tell you exactly how it happened, then we'll see what you believe."

Dom can't keep still. Matt's blood drying on his pants, the remains of Matt's kevlar vest in his hands and Matt himself in the hands of the surgeon - it's all too much and if Dom stops to think about it, he really will go crazy. He paces up and down and, when another man walks in, he doesn't even see him.

"Dom," the man says.

Dom doesn't answer.


That gets Dom's attention. Because he is the boss now.

"Luke. Everyone else get away?"

"Yeah, they were too busy chasing you," Luke shuffles his feet, "Matt?"

"Alive. In surgery. That's all I got."

The blond looks at the vest still in his hands, curses and tosses the pieces on the floor.

"We were sold out, Luke. The cops knew we'd be there," Dom tugs off his own kevlar vest, "they knew they'd need armor-piercing rounds, they knew everything, or almost everything. We got a rat in the house."

"It was Jay."

"How do you know that?"

"I did everything you told me to. I got them all in the van, took them to the second place while you drew the heat off us."

Dom nods. That was another one of his additions: a second meeting place, the location only known to Matt and Dom, a safety measure designed for just this type of situation. When the cops showed up Dom slipped the address into Luke's hand ... then Matt was crying out, falling and Dom was dragging him to the backup car and blazing a way out of there.

"Alright, you got to the warehouse. Then what?"

"Everyone was in a panic, shouting, pointing fingers. Everyone but Jay. He was standing all by himself, saying nothing. It made me curious, so I kept a close eye on him. When he slipped out the side door, I followed, and I caught him trying to make a call. I smashed his phone to pieces and dragged him back in."

Luke flashes bruised and bloody knuckles.

"He didn't want to give it up, but I can be very persuasive when the mood takes me."

Dom looks at the door leading to the surgery and sighs. He doesn't want to leave Matt, but he can't do anything for him and this mess needs to be cleaned up. Now.

"Let's go."

Jay's hanging upside down when they get to the warehouse. Stu is slapping his face and Gil is running a thumb along the edge of a large hunting knife. They turn at Dom's approach, ask about Matt.

"Doc's working on him now," Dom folds his arms, takes a good, long look at Jay, "so this is the piece of shit that sold us out."

"That's him," Luke says, "I caught him trying to call his cop buddies."

"Dom, please - " Jay begins.

Is it an apology, an explanation or an outright denial? They'll never know because Dom doesn't let him finish. The blond snatches Gil's knife and Jay shrieks as Dom carves him from balls to breastbone, opening him right up. Blood and entrails hit the floor, splash up and splatter Dom with gore. He doesn't mind. The blond turns to face his crew. He sees shock in their expressions, which is to be expected, but he sees something else, too: admiration. That's good.

"Luke," he says, "Stu. Come with me."

"Where, boss?" Stu asks.

"We need to take care of his family."

"What do I do?" Gil asks.

"Divide the money," Dom jerks a thumb at the carcass on the hook, "burn that," he looks at the blade still in his hand, "I like your knife, I'm keeping it."

"It's yours."

They leave Gil in the warehouse and take two cars. Jay's family all live and work in one house, which is convenient. Looking through a window, Dom can see Jay's father and two of his brothers in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Perfect.

There's an axe on a chopping block by the back door. Dom picks it up and kicks the door open. Stu and Luke follow him in. They think they're here to back him up but Dom doesn't need backup. He needs witnesses. He wants them to see and hear and spread the word, He wants all the right people to know what happens when they fuck with Matt Bellamy and Dom Howard.

Jay's father is standing by the stove, pouring himself more coffee. The blond swings with all his strength, the blade shears through flesh and bone and brain and embeds itself in the wall, nailing the old man in place as he dies. Dom leaves the axe where it is, pulls Gil's kife out of his belt and sticks it brother number one's eye, shoves it right up to the hilt. Brother number two stumbles to his feet as Dom snatches a cup from the table and flings black, boiling coffee in his face. He falls to the ground, screaming. Dom kicks the chair aside, stamps down, twists his foot and the scream becomes a death rattle as brother number two's windpipe is crushed.

Dom is pulling the knife free when the third brother bursts into the kitchen.

"What the fuck?" he gasps.

He's so busy staring at the mess he doesn't hear Dom coming up from behind, not until the blond grabs a fistful of greasy hair and yanks his head back. Dom slits his throat before he can even think about fighting back. Dom leaves the kitchen and here's the fourth brother, running down the hall, charging at Dom and not with a gun or even a practical weapon, like a baseball bat. No, this idiot's got a samurai sword. He's a rail-thin pimp used to beating girls too strung out on junk to fight back. Dom's in the best shape he's ever been in and jacked up on adrenaline and bloodlust. It's no contest. Dom kicks him in the knee, takes his ridiculous sword and performs his second gutting of the day.

It takes them almost an hour to find the last brother. He's on a toilet seat with a needle in his arm, so out of it he offers no resistance when Dom removes the belt from his arm and strangles him with it.

Then it's done.

They search the house, make sure there are no girls tied up in the basement or attic, then make a trail of gasoline out the door, light it up and watch the whole thing burn.

The surgeon is yawning, pulling off blood-stained gloves when Dom returns, Luke and Stu flanking him once more.

"What a mess," he says, "the first bullet hit the chest. He's got a collapsed lung, some secondary infections and he lost a lot of blood. The second bullet just broke his collarbone."

Dom blinks. In all the excitement, he hadn't even noticed the second bullet.

"But he'll live?" he asks.

"Yes, and he'll make a full recovery."

Dom smiles for what seems like the first time in days.

"He's got a long, hard road ahead of him," the surgeon says, "I used up most of my blood supply on him today and he'll need another couple of transfusions in the next week or so."

"Blood is expensive," Dom says. It's a statement, not a question.


Dom smirks and snaps his fingers. They made a quick stop on the way here and now Luke steps up and dumps a big bag of money at the doctor's feet.

"Take care of him, doc, and do whatever it takes. When I say money is no object, I mean exactly that. Now, I want to see him."

"Of course, but ..." the surgeon says as tactfully as he can, "might I suggest a shower and a change of clothes, first?"

Dom's little adventure has left him covered in blood, more than covered, plated in it, from head to toe. Doc's got a point and so, when Dom finally makes it to his husband's bedside, it's with wet hair and in borrowed clothes. Matt looks so small and delicate in the big hospital bed, one half of him tightly bandaged, a tube down his throat and a drip in his arm. Dom pulls up a chair and takes Matt's hand in both of his. Matt's eyes flutter open and fix on Dom. He tries to speak, but the tube turns everything into soft, choking sounds.

"Shhh," Dom tells him, "don't try to talk."

He leans over and kisses Matt's forehead.

"Just rest," he tells his husband, "and don't worry. I've got it all under control."

And he does.

"Jesus Christ."

Tom has gone the fabled whiter shade of pale

Dom sips his drink.

"You believe me now?"

"I believe you. But why - " Tom swallows thickly, takes a drink of his own, "why did you do it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like that. You could have just shot them. Why did you have to be so fucking brutal?"

"It was necessary."

"Necessary," Tom repeats, sarcastic.

"Yes, Tom, necessary. You need to understand something. In this world, my world, respect is everything. You live and die on your reputation."

"I get that."

"No, no you don't," Dom rubs his eyes, tries to put it in a way that makes sense, "look, Matt's not just my husband, he's Matt fucking Bellamy. He was a legend before he was old enough to drink. There are men in this business who'd crawl over broken glass to be on one of our crews and it isn't about the money, well, not just about the money. They just want to be near him. You see?"

"I guess so."

"Matt's a fantastic thief but, more than that, he's loyal. He's been arrested, shot, he's broken into a police station, all for his crew. And loyalty is a two-way street. People hear Matt's been hurt, betrayed, they look to me, want to know what I'm going to do about it. They want blood and, if I don't give it to them, someone else will. Jay and his family, they're still dead, but now everything I've done, the name I've made for myself over the years is gone. I'm just an ex-cop playing at being a gangster."

The blond finishes his drink.

"That's why I did what I did, and why I did it the way I did it. I sent a clear message. Now they all know I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty, they know what I'll do to anyone who fucks with us. Some guys can whisper about me behind my back, call me a fucked-up psycho butcher, I don't care. Better a butcher than a weakling coasting on his husband's reputation."

"That's why you did it?"

"Mostly," Dom looks at Tom with eyes gone flat and cold, "they hurt Matt, they had to bleed. I made them bleed and I'd do it again."

Tom stands up.

"This is a lot to process. I need time to think."

"About if you ever want to see me again."


"Alright," Dom is nonchalant, "I'll be here next week. You don't show, I'll know the reason why. It might even be for the best."

Tom stumbles out of the bar, mind whirling. He's so wrapped up in what he's been told, he doesn't even notice the small man with the red hair and beard at first. The man keeps pace with Tom, moving closer and closer, getting right up in his personal space.

"Can I help you with something?" Tom asks the stranger.

"Cut the shit, you know who I am," the stranger replies.

Just like that, Tom does. He's been a face in a mugshot, a voice on tv, the light in Dom's eyes. Now here he is, in the flesh at last.

"Matt Bellamy."

"The one and only."

"Spying on your man now, are you? I thought you guys trusted each other."

"It's not Dom I don't trust."

"Okay, so what, you're here to threaten me? Anything happens to Dom and you'll kill me?"

"Not quite. If anything happens to Dom because of you, anything at all, I'll kill everyone you've ever loved, and I promise you, it won't be quick. I'll take your life apart, piece by piece and, when I'm sure you've finally lost everything, that's when I'll kill you."

Tom is suddenly cold all over. That criminologist might have been full of shit on so many points, but he wasn't kidding about their psychotic devotion to one another.

"You don't scare me," he mumbles.

"Then you're an even bigger fool than I thought. Be seeing you."

Matt walks away and is soon lost in the crowd, leaving Tom alone.

Dark Angel

Jan. 4th, 2016 08:20 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Bender)
Title: Dark Angel
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: Waiting for a man. A very special man.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Hit me with your rhythm stick.
Disclaimer: Don't own Muse, this never happened.

This is half of space_blackout's belated birthday gift.

I'm sitting in a corner, sipping a beer and waiting for a man. Not just any man; a very special man. I've never seen his face or heard his voice, but I'll know him when he comes.

Men drop by my table from time to time, trying to buying me drinks, start conversations. I brush off their passes, try and get rid of them with a minimum of fuss.

Then he walks in.

Black hair and black clothes framing an exotic, exquisite beauty. He is an angel. A dark angel. My dark angel. The one I've been waiting for.

He stands in the doorway, taking everything in. When he turns his head in my direction his eyes gleam - even in this dim light they gleam - and the connection is made.

My dark angel goes to the bar, gets a drink for himself and a fresh beer for me. He sits beside me, doesn't wait for an invitation, knows he doesn't need one. We drink in silence - what, really, needs to be said? He moves closer and puts a hand on my thigh. Even through the cloth, his touch burns. Fingers squeeze my leg and I'm suddenly breathless - dizzy!

I find myself sliding lower in my seat, trying to urge that hand higher. He picks up on what I'm doing, laughs softly and obliges, cupping my erection, groping me under the table. He teases me for a few moments before finishing his drink and leading me out of the bar. His hand rests on the small of my back as we walk to his car and the possessive gesture sends a thrill through me.

He takes me to the perfect location: a motel just outside of town, a cheap. sleazy dive. The kind of place where everything goes and nobody knows. He shuts the door and I drop to my knees. My dark angel groans as I take him in my mouth. I suck him slowly, loving the taste of him, rich and salty. He growls, grabs a fistful of my hair and starts fucking my mouth. His movements are quick and savage and it's like nothing I've ever experienced before...

... I'm yanked to my feet and shoved onto the bed. I strip myself bare, spread my legs and offer myself up to him. A tube is pulled from the inner pocket of his jacket and tossed onto the bed. I put on a good show for him as I prep myself, writhing and moaning like a cheap whore.

And then he's on top of me and his cock is sliding into me. I've never been as ready to receive a man as I am my dark angel. He slides all the way in on the first thrust and starts fucking me. Right out of my mind.

I paw at his back and shoulders until he grabs my wrists and pins them to the mattress above my head. Now I'm truly helpless, a butterfly pinned on a cork board, but I don't mind, no, I don't mind, because his cock is pumping in and out of me, hard, fast, and the friction is delicious - no, more than delicious. Divine.

I'm so caught up in the pleasure he's giving me that my orgasm, when it comes, is a complete shock, a lightning bolt frying every cell in my body. I shudder and howl but he doesn't stop, or slow. His movements actually speed up, increasing the tempo of my fucking as he uses my body, ruthless in the pursuit of his own pleasure.

He grunts, his rhythm begins to break down and I know he's close. I want him to come on me. Come on me, I beg him, come all over me, let me drown in it...

He's more than happy to oblige, pulling out and coming all over my face, chest, stomach. My dark angel bathes me in his juices, an animal marking its territory.

The morning sun is streaming through the window when I wake, cold and alone. My dark angel is gone and I wonder if it was all just a dream. But I still reek of him and, on the bedside table, I find a note. I smile as I read it.

My dark angel isn't done with me yet.

The Bet

Jan. 4th, 2016 08:19 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Fatrix)
Title: The Bet
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 18/NC-17
Summary: Sometimes it's better to lose than to win.
Feedback: Hit me.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse and these events only occured in the diseased swamp that is my imagination.

This is one half of space_blackout's birthday gift. Bit late, but better late than never.

It's getting late, they're on their fourth (or is it fifth?) game of pool. They're pretty evenly matched and the atmosphere grows thick with tension, infecting everyone in the bar. The blond, whose name Matt hasn't stopped to ask, slides a hand up and down his pool cue before flashing Matt a wicked grin.

"Let's liven this up, make it interesting," he says.

"What did you have in mind?"

The other man pulls a fat roll of cash from his pocket and places it on the pool table.

"I can't match that," Matt says, "I just don't have that kind of money."

"You don't need money."

"If you say so. You're not playing for money. What are you playing for?"


Matt blinks.

"I don't understand."

"It's simple. You win, you get all my money. I win, I get to fuck you. Right here, in this bar, on this pool table."

"You cannot be serious."

"But I am. Are you in?"

Matt considers his options. He could refuse. That would be the sensible choice, and the one the blond and everyone else in the bar probably expects him to go for. Just say no and run away with his tail between his legs while they all share a good laugh at his expense.

Fuck that.

"Alright," he tells the blond and the bar at large, "it's a deal."

The blond's smile widens.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Let's play."

It's the closest game yet. They're evenly matched to the end and Matt puts up one hell of a fight. Then he misses a shot - the shot - and the blond takes the opportunity he's been given and runs with it, crushing Matt in roughly thirty seconds. He drops his cue on the table, then turns to Matt and holds out a hand.

"Shall we?"

Matt could still run. He doubts anyone would try and stop him. But a bet's a bet and he knew the terms when he agreed to them. The two men stand perfectly still, looking at one another. The bar is completely silent as the crowd waits for Matt's next move. Matt breathes deep, takes the blond's hand and allows himself to be drawn into the other man's arms.

"Ever been fucked by a man before?" the blond asks.

"Yeah," Matt replies as the stranger backs him up against the pool table, "but never in front of a live studio audience."

"Well, you know what they say, first time for everything."

Any response Matt might give is smothered by the blond's lips, impossible soft, pressing against his own.

Matt clutches the edges of the pool table as the blond deepens the kiss. His head begins to swim, partly from lust and partly from the sheer insanity of the situation he's found himself in.

He can't be doing this, can he? Can't be letting a complete stranger kiss him and feel him up right in the middle of a crowded bar.

He can. He is.

And yet, this really shouldn't be happening. Somebody should be putting a stop to this; kickling them out of the bar or just plain kicking the shit out of them.

But they don't.

Even as Matt pulls the stranger's hands from beneath his shirt and guides them to his belt buckle, even as the stranger opens Matt's jeans and exclaims happily at Matt's lack of underwear, theY just sit.

And watch.

Matt is soon bent over the pool table, palms pressed against the felt. Did the blond bring the lube with him, or did he get it from someone in the crowd? Matt doesn't know, but he's grateful for its presence as the other man gives him a thorough and expert fingering.

A collective gasp goes up from the audience as the blond eases into Matt and starts to fuck him, slowly at first, then with steadily increasing speed and force as he finds his groove.

The smaller man moans and sweat drips from his brow, turning the green felt black. It's unbelievable: he's being fucked in public by a complete stranger and it is, without a doubt, the best sex he has ever had. The tension coils within him, tighter, tighter....

Their audience claps and cheers when Matt comes, moaning and biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Then the blond comes, mostly inside Matt but pulling out at the last and letting the last of it drip between Matt's gaping cheeks - and they give him a standing ovation.

The blond accepts their applause as he tucks himself away and buttons up. Then he's gone, pushing through the crowd and out of the bar. It occurs to Matt that he should probably do the same, before this public fuck turns into a gangbang.

He finds the blond outside, leaning against his car, waiting for him.

"That ..." the stranger says, "that was really something."

"It was, wasn't it?"

"You want to get out of here? Go somewhere private and get to know each other better?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

They climb into the blond's car and drive away.
hannah_chapter1: (Bender)
Title: Yes Sir Part Thirteen
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 15/R
Summary: AU. Victorian England. Matthew is the son of a lord, Dominic is a young and innocent servant: "The moment Matthew laid eyes on the boy, he knew he had to have him."
Feedback: Makes me do the dance of joy.
Disclaimer: Fake as fake could be.

Dominic is carrying a breakfast tray to Matthew's bedroom, as he does every day, when he is accosted by the new Lady Bellamy.

"No, no, no," she scolds the servant, "this simply will not do."

"My lady?"

"My husband may have dined alone in his rooms when he was a bachelor, but those days are gone. Lord Bellamy will take breakfast with his wife, as a respectable gentleman should. Take this meal away and bring a fresh breakfast to the small dining room."

Dominic turns away from Matthew's room, reluctant. This goes against a well-established routine, but a lifetime of servitude has rendered Dominic quite incapable of disobeying a member of the ruling class.

"No," Matthew emerges from the bedroom in his shirtsleeves, cheeks shining from his morning shave, "put my breakfast in its accustomed place, Dominic."

"Yes, my lord."

Dominic carries the tray into the bedroom and arranges the meal in the usual fashion. Lord and Lady Bellamy continue their discussion in the hall.

"Really, Matthew, I must protest."

"My dear, you are the mistress of this house and I bow to your judgement in most matters. Not in this. Breakfast in my room is a vital part of my morning routine, which must be accomplised in near-solitude, else I simply would not have the strength to face the world. Do you follow?"

The new mistress of the house is a spirited young lady, but she is also more predisposed to listen to reason than her predecessor was. She does not pursue the matter any further and takes her leave.

Matthew returns to the bedroom, alone. He brushes a thumb across his servant's cheek before sitting down to breakfast.


Lord Bellamy removes his dinner jacket and tie. He has been quite chatty up to this point, as is his way. But now, as his gaze drifts to the bedroom door, Matthew fusses with his braces and sighs.

"I suppose I should - "

He gets no further, he cannot speak with Dominic's tongue thrust so deeply into his mouth. Dominic knows what Matthew should do. He should go to his wife and perform the duties of a husband. But, in Dominic's opinion at least, there has been too much duty and too little pleasure of late.

Matthew makes soft sounds of protest, but they lack all conviction and neither man is fooled. Even so, Matthew tries again.

"...... I should ...." he murmers between kisses

His words become bliss-fiiled moans as Dominic caresses him.

"Yes, Matthew?" the servant enquires sweetly as he expertly manipulates his master, making good use of all the tricks he has been taught, "what should you do?"

Matthew does not reply. He moans, he sighs, he gasps and clutches the sheets as Dominic takes him roughly from behind, but he does not reply.

The lord finds his voice afterwards, when Dominic lies in his arms, head pillowed by Matthew's chest. Matthew runs a hand down his servant's back, fingertips trailing over damp skin.

"Well, Dominic, you may not have a gentleman's education, but you learn quickly and you learn well."

Dominic smiles at that, then raises his head as an unwelcome thought intrudes.

"Did I presume too much?" he asks.

"Come now, you should know better than that. As lovers we are equals. If you want me, why then, I am yours for the taking."

Reassured, Dominic lays his head on Matthew's chest again and listens to his heartbeat. He has come to love that sound.

"I am sorry, my love." Matthew says.

"For what?"

I have neglected you of late, I know. I wish it did have to be like this, but I must spend time with my wife. The Granvilles are an influential family and their approval is vital. I cannot have her complaining to them of ill treatment and neglect. I must play the part of a loving husband."

"I know you must."

"If her presence, if your position is really, truly intolerable, we could always -"

"No," Dominic interrupts, "do not offer to send me to Christopher again. We have already had this discussion and I made my decision. Now I must live with it."

"I give you so little of myself these days, Dominic, so much less than I should."

"I thought I had had made myself clear, Matthew. You will never give me less, just so long as you give me all it is within your power to give. A day, an hour, a minute, it is enough, because it is you."

Matthew makes no reply and Dominic stretches and sighs. He wishes he could stay here all night. But it cannot be.

"I should leave," he tells his master.

"You should. You will," Matthew rolls Dominic onto his back and covers the servant's body with his own, "but not just yet."

"No," Dominic gaps as Matthew's tongue tastes a nipple, "not just yet."


The girl's eyes widen as she claps eyes on Dominic. She turns her face away, but too late.

"Dominic," she mumbles, "I did not expect to see you today."

"That much is obvious," Dominic reaches out, takes his sister by the arm, "look at me, Lizzie."

She obeys her brother and Dominic exclaims angrily as he beholds her bruised cheek and split lip.

"I will kill him," Dominic spits, "I will KILL him!"

"Dominic, no. You must not confront him."

"What should I do, then? Stand aside and let my sister be abused by a monster?"

"He does not abuse me. These injuries are not of his making. I ..." her words dry up and Dominic swears he can see the wheels turning in her head as she attempts to conjure up a plausible explanation, or any explanation, really, "I fell. Yes! I fell and struck my face on the edge of a table."

"Is that so? Forgive me for saying so, sister dearest, but you have been awfully prone to falls since your marriage. You were not half as clumsy in the days before Reg."

"You would say that, of course. Even before our marriage, you did not trouble to hide your hatred of Reg. It is jealousy, Dominic, plain and simple. You look for reasons to find fault with my husband. But they only exist in your head."

Why must it be like this? Why must you lie to me?"

"I am not lying. Reg is a wonderful husband and I am happy in my marriage. You must believe me, Dominic."

"Elizabeth, I only wish I could."

Dominic encounters his sister's husband - he cannot, will not, call this man brother - on the way out. He looks up at the big man and feels the old, familiar hatred, pulsing behind his eyes and making his head ache in a most dreadful way. Reg smiles, that slow, contemptuous smile that plants thoughts of murder in Dominic's brain.

"Well well, look at this," Reg drawls, "the little lord has come to visit. We are blessed."

"I did not come to see you. I came to my sister."

"Come to stick your nose where it is not wanted, come to meddle in affairs which are none of your concern."

"She is my sister."

"No, she is my wife. She belongs to me, now."

Reg sneezes into his hands. He inspects the mess and then he slowly, deliberately wipes it onto the lapels of Dominic's suit coat.

"Think you are better than me, Dominic?"

"The contents of a public latrine are better than you."

"Such wit! But listen here, little man. You are not better than me, you only think you are. You prance around in your fancy clothes, looking down your nose at the likes of me, but who bought the clothes you wear? All you are is what your master makes you, what he allows you to be. I will say this one last time: you have no power over me. My wife is my property and I shall use her in whatever way I please."

Dominic has no rebuttal. Threats of retribution would be laughed off. Dominic makes threats in the heat of the moment, when he is with his sister, but he cannot make good on them. Reg is big, powerful and he would shatter Dominic like glass. That is bad. They both know it, and that is worse.

The servant spins on his heel and leaves, the brute's mocking laughter ringing in his ears. Even if he could give Reg the beating he so richly deserves, what would it accomplish? Lizzie would not thank him for it. Dominic is suddenly aware of pain, sharp pain, in his hands. He opens his fists and regards the wounds on his hands. His hands always tighten into fists when he speaks to Reg, This is the first time he has drawn blood, though. The servant's shoulders slump in defeat. He finds a handkerchief, wipes away the blood and turns his face homeward.

The lamplighters have already embarked upon their nightly rounds when Dominic returns to the house. Lord and Lady Bellamy are attending a dinner party and so the servants indulge in a leisurely dinner of their own - or try to. Dominic pushes a roast potato around his plate and does his best to ignore the shrill chatterings of one of the chambermaids. Why oh why must this household be plagued by such empty-headed, gossipy girls?

This maid changes Lady Bellamy's bed linens, just as Dominic's aunt changes Lord Bellamy's, and Ellen told it true: chambermaids always know when a bed has been shared - and they know when it has not.

"There was blood, you know, the morning after their marriage. Lord Bellamy was pleased, I am sure. His wife came to him pure, unspoiled."

The girl, whose name Dominic has never troubled himself to learn, ignores the cries of disgust that greet this remark and prattles on.

"And let me tell you, Lord Bellamy has proved himself a most dutiful husband, yes indeed, visits his wife regularly, like clockwordk he is. But I would wager it is all duty and no passion. I have seen his lordship's kind before. Men like Lord Bellamy may breed children in their wives beds, but they take their pleasure elsewhere."

She drains her glass and grins slyly.

"Of course," she purrs, "Dominic would know all about that."

Dominic raises his head at this.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"You are Lord Bellamy's servant, are you not?"

"Yes. I am. What of it?"

She is treading on unstable ground now, but lacks the wit to withdraw to safety.

"You know everything about your master, what he does, where he goes. If he keeps a mistress, or visits houses of ill repute, you would know about it. Masters have few secrets from their servants. So tell us Dominic, does Lord Bellamy indulge his base desires, does he pursue the secret delights of the flesh? Does -"


Every single occupant of the table jumps, startled by Dominic's angry bellow and the sharp crack as he slams both palms on the table with all of his strength. He has just broken open the scabs on his hands, which does nothing to improve his temper. The chambermaid shrinks back into her chair, terrified.

"Dominic is quite right," Ellen, bless her, steps in to pour oil on troubled waters, "good servants make discretion their watchword. They keep the secrets of their masters. Asking a servant to violate this sacred trust simply is not done."

A rumble of agreement greets Ellen's remarks.

"Quite right," one of the coachmen pipes up, "quite right. And I think I speak for everyone when I say we have had more than enough vulgar talk at this table tonight."

That is the end of the matter. The girl curls up in her chair, rigid with fright and also shame, and the other servants return to their meal. Dominic, however, has lost what little appetite he had. He throws his napkin down and leaves the table with his meal barely touched.

In his room, Dominic sits on the chair by the desk and stares at the wall. Someone knocks at his door. This was expected. But it is not Ellen at his door - it is his mother. She carries his dinner into the room and sets it upon the desk.

"You left this behind, son."

"I do not want it. I am not hungry."

"You are bleeding."

"It is nothing."

She ignores him. She fetches a damp cloth, kneels before him and cleans his wounds.

"Really, Mum, it is nothing. You should not fuss over me."

"I am your mother. If I do not fuss over you, who will?"

Dominic smiles at that. Her touch comforts him, makes him think of childhood. Happier days than these. He sighs.

"I should not have done that," he says.

"That girl's ignorance is quite something to behold. She was inappropriate, to say the least, and your reaction is perfectly understandable. Gregory was the same, always so quick to defend the old lord. Still though, it is not like you to lose your temper. You were always such a good-natured boy, Dominic. I hope you do not mind me saying so, but you gained sharp edges when your master replaced his father."

"This position overwhelms me on occasion. There are people, so many people, seeking an audience with Lord Bellamy and I am the gateway they must pass through."

This is true. Dominic is regularly accosted by men on the street, men who would be ever so grateful if Dominic would grant them an hour with his master. He comes home with pockets full of calling cards. Some even try bribery, but Dominic will have none of that. Not that it matters either way; Matthew gives most cards a brief glance, then tosses them on the fire.

"I hate to say this, son, but perhaps you should leave your position."

"I thought you were proud of me for gaining such a position."

"I am. But I worry it might be too much for you. The strain could take a toll on your health."

"I am in the very pink of health, I assure you, and I would never leave my position. My place is here, in this house, with my master. In any case, my position is not the source of my current troubled mood."

"What is it, then?"

"My sister."


Dominic relates the details of his visit.

"Are you quite sure you are not imagining this, Dominic?"

"Have you heard none of what I just said?"

"Of course I have, but you have never liked your brother."

"Do not call that man my brother. I have no brothers."

"If something was wrong, Liz would tell you."

"Do you know your daughter at all? Lizzie never was one to admit to any wrongdoing. Do you remember that cut on her leg and the infection that followed?"

"How could I forget? It was the longest two weeks of my life."

"You thought she injured herself here, but that was a lie. It happened when you took us north to visit Father. We went climbing in the orchard. We were not allowed in there, but children will play where they wish. Lizzie fell from a tree branch, cut herself on the way down. I cried and I tried to run for you, but she stopped me. She swore she would never speak to me again, not once in her whole life, if I told. If it has not been for that infection, you would never have known she injured her leg at all. That is how Lizzie's mind works. Better to live with pain rather than admit to any kind of mistake and if she cannot hide a cut or bruise, she will lie about its origin."

"Even if you are right, and I am not saying you are, what can you do about it?"

"I do not know."

She leaves him and Dominic remains in his chair. He does not eat, or read, or move. He only stirs himself when his bell rings. Lord Bellamy has returned. Matthew is undressing when Dominic enters his bedroom and so the servant goes to prepare a bath for his master. He does not need to be told to do this. He has learned to anticipate Lord Bellamy's desires. All of his desires.

Naked, Matthew enters the bathroom and sinks into the hot water with a happy sigh. As he washes himself, he tells Dominic all about the latest society scandal. A well-respected gentleman has been caught in a compromising position - with another man. He has fled the country, leaving his wife, children and hastily discarded lover to face the consequences.

"The irony of the situation is, of course, not lost upon me," Matthew says, "I condemn this man even as I pursue a homosexual relationship of my own and risk a similar fate if caught. I am the foulest kind of hypocrite."

"Perhaps, but you must do what society expects of you."

"Oh, I know. I have said this before I am sure, but you do know that, if the true nature of our relationship were to be discovered, I would not abandon you, Dominic. I would take you with me."

"I know, I trust you, Matthew. But it will not come to that."

"Let us hope not, for both our sakes."

Dominic politely refuses his master's invitation to join him in his bath and goes to fetch Matthew's robe. The lord takes a long, hard look at his servant as he towels himself off.

"What is wrong, Dominic?" Matthew takes his servant by the wrist, "what did you do to your hands?"

Dominic tells his story again as Matthew slips into his robe. Lord Bellamy listens to the sorry tale, his expression one of sympathy. He is about to speak when Dominic interrupts.

"Do not tell me there is nothing I can do, Matthew. I already know this, I have been told so several times today."

"I was not about to say that. I was trying to offer you whatever help I can. What can I do for you, my love?"

The servant considers the question.

"It may be a waste of time, it almost certainly will be, but I should like to go to the Northern estate and speak to my father."

"Very well. It will be difficult, but I shall try and get along without you for a few days."

Dominic smiles for the first time today.

"Thank you, Matthew."


"Are you sure this is not all in your head, Dominic?"

"Why does everyone ask me this?" Dominic asks his father, "I saw the bruises with my own two eyes."

"She might have fallen."

"She might have, but the ape all but admitted it."

"Well ... it is a husband's duty to correct a wife. If he did punish her, he must have had reason."

"How can you say this? She is your daughter, your first-born child. How can you be so cold?"

"I assure you, Dominic," I am just as concerned as you are."

"I can tell," Dominic says, sarcasm dripping from each word.

"Do not take that tone with me, Dominic Howard. I am still your father."

"Be a father, then."

"What do you want from me? I cannot do anything. Lizzie is no longer my daughter, no longer your sister. She is Reg's wife and in the eyes of the law, that is all that matters."

Dominic thinks of his master and the hoops he must jump through to keep his wife and her family happy. But that is the difference, Dominic supposes, betweenthe  of a rich and powerful lord and the daughter of a lowly gamekeeper. There is nothing more he can say. He takes leave of his father and goes to the main house and the room which has been prepared for him. As the personal servant of Lord Bellamy he has been afforded every courtesy, treated as though he were the very nobility he serves. Consumed with anger and worry as he is, Dominic has not taken much pleasure in this special treatment.

The plight of Matthew's mother has given him some small measure of enjoyment, however. She spends her days locked up in her rooms, speaking to no one.  There are no visitors. She did receive some in the beginning, squires from nearby estates. But these visits came to an end when her guests came to understand that all she wanted from them was help in returning Paul to his original position - and she in turn came to understand her visitors would do no such thing. Paul sowed bitter seeds everywhere he went, it seems.

Dominic goes to bed. This journey has been for nothing, his father's words give him little joy. He will go back in the morning.


"So tell me, Dominic, how was your visit?"

Matthew raises his eyebrows as he takes note of Dominic's expression and posture.

"As bad as all that?"

"It was a complete waste of time. He cannot help or will not help. I cannot decided which is worse."

"I wish I could do something for you, Dominic. But the law is the law and in a case like this, even my hands are tied."

"I know. I cannot change anything and I am failing. As a brother and as a man."

"You are not a bad brother, Dominic. Trust me, on this subject I am an expert. You have done all that a man could and more than most men would."

"It is not enough. What else can I do?"

"Wait. Watch. Be her safe place in a storm and make sure she knows it."

Matthew puts his hands in his servant's shoulders.

"I do not wish to make light of your predicament, my love, but I received some good news while you were gone."

"What news is that?"

"Two things. To begin with, my wife is pregnant."

"This is very good news. What is the second thing?"

"I must go abroad on business and I will need my servant at my side."

Lord Bellamy presses a finger to Dominic's lips, silencing his protest.

"I know you are worried about your sister. But you can do nothing for her at present and your emotions will consume you if you stay. Removing yourself from all this for a few months is the wisest course of action."

"You may have something there, Matthew. So tell me, where are we going?"

Matthew laughs.



"Yes, Dominic, America. We are going to New York."
hannah_chapter1: (Bender)
Title: Same As It Ever Was Part VII
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 15/R
Feedback: Yes please.
Summary: AU. Something is wrong in Matt Bellamy's life. In all his lives. He appears to move between worlds, but how? Which world is the real one? Is he just insane? And where does Dom Howard fit into all of this? Title taken from "Once in a Lifetime" by Talking Heads.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse and this never happened.

"What's wrong, Matt?" taunts the voice that is, and yet isn't, the doctor's, "got nothing to say? Now there's a genuine first, Matt Bellamy with nothing to say."

"I don't, I don't know..." Matt tries to pull his thoughts together, can't quite do it.

"That's alright, I've got plenty to say. Can you hear me, Matt? I'm not talking to the surface Matt, now, I'm talking to the one down below, the one buried so deep this body doesn't even know he's there. Although he is beginning to suspect."

"I - "

"Shh, don't talk, just listen. This has to stop, Matt. These walls exist for a reason. These lines were never meant to be crossed."

Matt rubs his eyes.




Commander Bellamy shoves the photographs under the former Deputy's nose. Yes, photographs, plural. Matthew tore off the wallpaper on that particular wall and he found three more pictures: Matthew and Howard holding each other and looking deep into one another's eyes (dancing? perhaps), the two of them kissing and the last picture has them laughing and making obscene gestures at the camera. The commander had stared at these pictures for hours and, when he returned to his own home, he had dreams.

Matthew never dreams - or, if he does, he never remembers. He may wake from a restless slumber in a cold sweat, an all-too-familiar sensation these days, but he never knows the cause of it. But he had dreams last night, oh yes. Dreams of himself and Howard doing the most unnatural things, things that are, in this regime, a castrating offence. When he woke he was clutching a pillow and weeping, a most unsettling state of affairs.

Commander Bellamy does not weep. He may cause others to weep (and bleed, and soil themselves), but he does not weep.

Howard remains silent, his eyes slide away from the pictures to a spot on the far wall and Matthew is siezed by the same kind of frustrated anger he experienced in Howard's home.

"TELL ME! Damn you, tell me or I'll - "

Howard laughs.

"What? You'll what? Torture me? Flay me alive, perhaps?"

"Yes, I think I'll do just that. I'll test myself to the absolute limit of my skills, draw it out for days, maybe even a week. A naked man has few secrets, a flayed man has none. No dignity, either. I'll rip your secrets out of you along with your skin and believe me when I say you'll beg for your release a long time before I'll grant it to you. We'll cross from the first level to the fourth in one giant leap."

"The only way you'll find out what you want to know is if I choose to tell you."

"That's what you think. You'll sing a different song when I start sharpening my blades."

Howard laughs again.

"All this talk of torture bores me. You think you know it all, Commander Bellamy, all the ways to hurt, all the ways to break a man."

"I do."

"No. I could tell you a thing or two, about tortures that make what you do here seems like a walk in a park on a Summer's day."

"Yes?" Matt leans back in his chair, "well then, please, do enlighten me."

"Very well. Imagine, if you can, a man of passion. He wants to smash a dictatorship just as it's beginning to come into its full power. He's passionate and charismatic and he soon attracts followers. He creates an army and becomes a rebel leader.

This worries the people in power, this new world order. This man could destroy them and so they take steps to prevent this. The rebel leader is betrayed and captured. Tell me, Commander Bellamy, what do you think they did with this man they feared so much, once they had him in their clutches?"

"I know what I'd do."

"Yes, yes, we all know what you'd do. But they didn't want to kill him. A martyr is a powerful tool, an image to place on banners, a battle cry to rally the troops."

"What did they do with him, then?"

"They turned him into the very thing he hated. He was hollowed out, stripped of his memories and all his passion. They took this rebel leader and turned him into the ultimate tool of state oppression. He became a cold, cruel machine, one that would kill and maim and never feel the faintest flicker of remorse. He became the clockwork thug."

Matthew's throat, suddenly dry.

"That isn't me. That's not possible."

"Trust me, it is. I should know. I watched it happen. I made it happen."

Tears begin to stream down Howard's face.

"You want to know why your tortures won't work on me, Matthew? It's because I've already suffered the torment of the damned. You can't turn my world into a living hell because it already is one. I had to destroy the only thing I ever loved and pretend I enjoyed it."

A memory bubbles to the surface of Matthew's brain: him on his knees, Howard standing over him with a gun in his hand and tears in his eyes.

I know you don't believe me, Matt, but I'm doing this because I love you.

"You tried to kill me," Matthew gasps.

"I did. Twice. I failed. Now we both suffer for my mistake."





"What's wrong with you?" he screams.

Matt points at Dom, broken and bloody on the floor.

"Help him!"

Chris swears and pulls out his phone. He glares at Matt as he dials.

"This isn't over, you little psycho, trust me, we're not done yet."

Matt ignores him. He finds a wet cloth and tries to wipe some of the blood from Dom's face. But there's so much of it and the blond's head is canted at an odd angle. Matt's no doctor, but he'd swear Dom's neck has been broken.

Who did this? And why?

Matt hears sirens and then there are cops and paramedics and a hospital. The sight of that building terrifies Matt beyond the capacity for rational thought. Every nerve ending in his body transmits one signal: don't go in there, don't go in, don't...

Any other day, Matt would obey his instincts and flee. But his love of and concern for Dom cancels everything else out.

Dom is taken away from them and Matt staggers into a thankfully empty waiting room. He collapses into the nearest chair. The headache is back and so are the shakes. He hands tremble so violently he doesn't trust himself with a cup of coffee. A shadow falls over him. Matt looks up just as Chris grabs the front of his shirt and lifts him out of his chair.

"You're probably wondering why I haven't fed you to the cops. Well I admit it, I'm greedy. When Dom dies, I want the pleasure of snapping your neck myself."

"Dom's not dead," Matt wheezes as he's hoisted into the air.

"Not yet. But he's dying, we both know it. When he does, you're mine."

Something happens to Matt. The headache disappears, the shakes stop and he is cool - more than cool, cold and calm and in complete control. Chris has raised him up enough so that they're face to face. Matt spits right in the big man's eye. Chris recoils in disgust and drops him. Matt punches Chris twice, once just under the ribs and, as the other man twists and falls, he follows up with a straight shot to the kidney. Quick, ecomonic punches, designed to cause the maximum amount of pain with the minimum amount of effort. The action comes naturally to Matt and it feels so right.

"Don't you touch me," he tells Chris, "you ever put your hands on me again, I'll cut them off. Are we clear?"

The big man is stumbling to his feet and doesn't answer. Matt grabs a finger, twists it. The scream he receives in return is sweet music to his ears.

"Are. We. Clear," he repeats.

Chris manages a weak nod. Matt releases him and he scuttles to the other side of the room, as far from Matt as he can get. The hours slip away, the frustration mounts and Matt just wants to scream. When a doctor does come Matt is on him in a heartbeat, demanding answers. He gets them and soon wishes he hadn't. Dom's not long for this world and, if by some miracle, he does live, he'll never move again, never talk, never think.

"I want to see him," Matt tells the medical man.

"Are you fam - " the doctor begins, but something in Matt's eyes changes his mind, "of course you can see him. Follow me."

The doctor leads Matt to Dom's room, Chris trailing in their wake. Sitting by the bed, looking at the bandaged ruin that was his lover, Matt just feels so lost. Dom was the only thing he had, the one constant thing in this strange world he's found himself in, and now -

He knows it won't do any good, but he reaches for Dom's hand anyway. Their fingers touch. Dom begins to convulse. Matt draws back in horror as an unseen force snaps the blond up and down, again and again.

Dear God, what is happening here?

Dom sits up, opens his eyes. He takes in his surroundings, the hospital room and the three men staring at him.

"How did I get here?" he asks.





doorway, soaking up Mandy's homophobic jibes. He just told her he's leaving her and moving in with Dom and it's gone about as well as he thought it would. Mandy storms up to the bedroom and comes back down with a double armful of his socks and underwear. These are dumped in the garden and she returns to the kitchen for a can of lighter fluid. Matt watches her make a bonfire of his unmentionables and thanks whatever deity there may be for Dom and his foresight. Dom insisted they take most of Matt's belongings - clothes, books, everything but his piano and the contents of his underwear drawer - to his house while Mandy was at work.

They'd planned to move the piano, too, but Dom was called to a meeting with a publisher and Matt really hadn't planned on Mandy coming home so early. That, of course, was when the trouble started.

Matt walks into the garden and watches his girlfriend - excuse me, ex-girlfriend - dance around the fire and laugh.

"Nice," he tells her, "mature."

"Fuck yourself, Matt. You tell me you're leaving me for another man, the prick next door no less, what did you think I'd do? Smile and give you my blessing?"

"No, of course not. But how will burning my things change anything?"

"It won't. But it makes me feel better."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever."

He leaves her to it and goes back inside. He's putting the kettle on to boil, thinking, in a distracted way, that a cup of tea might improve the situation, when Dom returns and lets himself in with Matt's keys. They're wheeling the piano out the front door when Mandy storms back in and treats them both to another round of verbal abuse. Dom doesn't rise to her bait, as Matt thought he might. The blond endures all her insults and, when Mandy runs out of steam, he says five words.

"You never loved him anyway."

Mandy recoils as if slapped and they wheel the piano over to Dom's, ignoring the curious stares of the neighbours. The piano is soon set up in Dom's living room - their living room, now.

Dom pulls Matt onto the couch and into a kiss that leaves them both dizzy.

"I did it," Matt grins, "I really did it!"

"Yes, you did. Any regrets?"

"Not a one. I've made my choice. This is the world I want to live in."

Dom's face lights up at that and Matt




is happening. He was so sure they'd win this war. They'd blinded dozens of eyes, each successful raid bringing them closer to the Hand, whatever that is. Tomorrow's raid was supposed to be the big one, the beginning of the end.

It's the end alright, but not for the Eye. Matt's the one who's been caught unawares, his home base breached, his people slaughtered, with less than a dozen lucky souls fleeing to safety. Matt fights, oh, how he fights, but he is finally forced to admit defeat. Better to retreat, gather up all the smaller squads and continue the fight another day.

All the exits are blocked so Matt jumps out the window, praying for a lucky fall. His prayer goes unanswered. His ankle snaps like a twig, his gun flies out of its holster. He reaches for it, but it's kicked away by a soldier in a black uniform. Matt rises to his knees, gives his captor a weary smile.

"Dom. Somehow, I knew it would be you. Going to kill me now?"

Dom nods, raises his weapon. Matt gazes in wonder at the tears on his former lover's cheeks.

"I know you don't believe me Matt, but I'm doing this because I love you."

The blond's finger tightens on the trigger but, before he can fire, a big man in a gasmask and a uniform that's the twin of Dom's steps up and disarms the blond, throwing him to the ground beside Matt.

"Now now, Dom," the figure chides as he removes his gasmask, "you should know better than that. We don't want him dead, not when we have such grand plans for him."

Matt stares up at the big man, not believing it.

"Chris?" he wheezes, "what




here?" Matt demands.

The being possessing the doctor sneers at him.

"What's going on? You're destroying everything, Matt, that's what's going on."


"Are you serious? Did you really think you could slide in and out of worlds, trying on different versions of yourself like outfits in a shop, and not fuck things up?"

"I don't, I never - "

"Wake up, sweetheart. Cause and effect, every action has a consquence."

The doctor's hand reaches out, taps Matt's forehead.

"Just look at this poor bastard here. You've driven him insane and I shudder to think of all the damage you've done in other worlds."

The doctor rubs his eyes as whatever's inside him sighs.

"You know what the worst part is? You're forcing me to do the same thing. I'm leaping into other versions of myself, trying to repair the damage you've caused. I just hope I'm not making things worse."

"I don't understand any of this. Who are you? Who am I? Where did we come from? How are we doing this?"

""Now that is one hell of a tale. I'd love to tell you, but it would take all night and I'm short on time. But I'll be seeing you soon, Matt, in this world or the next."

The life leaves Doctor Howard's face and he collapses, unconscious. Matt stares at him, thinking he should call someone, knowing he can't. But then the doctor shifts from an apparent coma to regular sleep, turning on his side, muttering and scratching himself. Matt relaxes and, incredible as it may seem, can feel sleep beginning to claim him, too. He'll think about tonight, and everything that's happened, in the morning.

Dawn finds the two men lying face to face, wrapped so tight around each other they're breathing one another's breath. Matt's the first to wake, acutely aware of the soft, warm body pressed so tightly against him. He swallows thickly as his cock rises to the occasion. He said Doctor Howard wasn't his type, but that was a lie designed to put the other man at ease.

Doctor Howard yawns, opens his eyes. He doesn't seem terribly concerned at finding himself in Matt's arms. He looks into Matt's eyes and smiles. It occurs to Matt that, while the good doctor knows all about Matt's bisexuality and his preference for men, Matt has absolutely no idea which way Howard swings. The question is quickly answered when Doctor Howard tilts his head forward and slides his tongue into Matt's mouth.

There are reasons, so many reasons, why this is a bad idea. But, as the doctor takes Matt's cock in one hand and uses the other to guide Matt's hand to the hardness between his own legs, Matt can't think of a single one.

The way they move together, it's, well, it's divine. Every flick of a tongue, every stroke of warm, stiff flesh is in perfect sync. It's like they've done this a thousand times, lovers of many years' experience. They even come together, moaning and biting each other's lips.

"Doctor Howard," Matt gasps, "I don't know what to say."

"I think," the doctor rasps, "under the circumstances, you can call me Dom."

Their laughter is quickly cut short by the sound of someone pounding on the door.

"Howard!" Christopher Wolstenholme shouts, "I know you're in there! I know Bellamy's with you! I want him. Open up! Open up now!"
hannah_chapter1: (Airplane)
Title: Fire and Ice
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: You need one to melt the other.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Worshipped and adored.
Summary: Don't own them, this never happened, all that jazz.

It's been a year since the Tameleos wiped out the Wolstenholmes. Three hundred and sixty-five days since they cut a bloody swathe through restaurants, cab companies and night clubs, knocking off key lieutenants and captains, since Christopher Wolstenholme went swimming with three bullets in his face and cement blocks for shoes. The Tameleos rule the city now. Gambling, whores, dope, it all belongs to them. There's no one left to challenge them, so now it's time to party.

Dominic Howard sits at one end of the high table, surrounded by low-level guys eager to make a good impression. Dom took a lot of scalps on that long, bloody night and his gun fired the bullets that took Wolstenholme out of the game for good. This pushed him quite a ways up the ladder and there's no telling how high he might climb. He's acquired a little gang of followers, men who hope to ride his coattails all the way to the top. Dom knows better than to blow them off - they might come in handy some day - and so he charms them. He smiles and says all the right things, but he's on autopilot. He's talking to the guys on his end of the table, but his attention is on the middle where Henry Tameleo, boss of the whole family, is holding court. Matthew sits beside him, sipping wine, pale and beautiful and with eyes as cold as ice. Everyone who's anyone knows the score; Matthew was Wolstenholme's lover and now he's Tameleo's boy, one of the spoils of war. But he's a trophy, nothing more. Henry keeps Matthew by his side but he doesn't fuck him, never has, never will. Whores of either gender go in and out of Hnery's bedroom so often, some say, he ought to install a revolving door. Yet Matthew remains untouched.

A real shame, Dom thinks, to let such beauty go to waste. His smile widens as an idea begins to take shape.


Henry's busy today, real busy, and his regular driver is sick so he gives Dom the keys to his Mercedes and asks him to drive Matthew home. It's the opportunity Dom's been waiting for. Matthew ignores Dom in the car, in the elevator and, as they walk into the apartment, ignores him some more. He slams the bathroom door behind him and Dom hears the hiss of the shower. The blond makes himself a drink and gets comfortable.

Matthew emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of sweet-smelling steam, wrapped in a silk robe that matches his eyes. He scowls when he sees Dom sprawled on the couch.

"Why are you still here?" he asks.

Dom sips his drink.

"Ah, so you can talk."

"Of course I can talk. I just choose not to. You haven't answered my question."

"I thought I'd keep you company."

"I don't want or need your company. Please leave."

Dom sets his drink aside and stands up.

"Don't like us much, do you?"

Matthew lets out a short snort of derision.

"Are you serious? I hate you, all you worthless Tameleo humps. You killed all my friends, threw my man off a bridge and stuck me with a pig who doesn't even smack me around."

"Like that, do you? That rough stuff?"

"No, but at least it would be something. But he won't even do that. I'm not a person to him, just a doll he dresses up and shows off. That's what he gets off on."

"What are you talking about?" Dom asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"He knows at least half of you want to bang me, but you're too shit-scared of him to try anything."

"I'm not scared of him."

"Oh, so that's your play."

"What is?"

"You want to get rid of Tameleo. You'll play the loyal henchman until the time is right, then take out the boss and claim the big chair for yourself."

"No, that's not me. I might sit in that chair, but it won't be anytime soon and I'm fine with that. I don't want to get rid of Tameleo. But I'm not afraid of him like the other guys are. If he came in here right now, I'd blow his head off and keep right on doing what I'm doing."

"And just what are you doing?"

Dom advances on the smaller man and flashes a predatory grin.


The blond backs Matthew against the wall and pulls his robe open, revealing flawless white skin, silk briefs that match the robe, and the perkiest little nipples Dom has ever seen.

That cool, white skin is soon warmed up by Dom's hands. Matthew gasps when Dom begins to touch him, and his own hands slap the wall.

But he doesn't say no.

He doesn't say stop.

Dom's palms rasp over the other man's nipples and Matthew lets out a low, keening note of pure bliss, his arousal straining against his briefs, which leave nothing to the imagination.

"Like that, do you?" Dom smirks.

He flicks those tiny, rock hard buds and Matthew's knees buckle. Dom holds him in place and keeps right on fondling him.

"Oh yeah, you love it, I knew you would. I could tell, just by looking at you, that you were a greedy little nipple slut."

The blond starts tonguing Matthew's nipples, the robe hits the floor and Matthew grabs Dom's head and holds him in place.

Dom finally straightens up, lifts the smaller man and Matthew promptly obliges him by locking his legs around the blond's waist. Two mouths become one, tongues tease and taste and battle for dominance, only to find they are equally matched.

Dom snatches a quick breath and gasps one word: "bedroom."

Matthew thrusts out an arm, points in the general direction of the boudoir before dragging Dom's lips back to his. They land on the bed in a messy tangle of limbs and Dom's clothes disappear, torn off and scattered by four eager hands. The blond mobster takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him: the ice queen, melted at last and his for the taking.

"Lube?" he gets it together enough to ask for this vital ingredient.

"Bedside table."

Dom finds it, deep in a drawer, and that's not all he finds. He pulls out a huge, black vibrator and gives Matthew a questioning look. The smaller man shrugs.

"Well, what did you expect? A boy has needs."

"Oh, I know he does. Why else would I be here?"

The toy is soon forgotten as they put the lube to work. Matthew bites his lip and clutches the sheets when Dom greases up his cock and puts it where it aches to be, needs to be, joining them together in that most primal of dances. The gangster watches his new lover carefully, the way he moans and contorts with every one of Dom's thrusts.

"Was Christopher good at this?"

Matthew doesn't answer and Dom siezes a nipple and twists it.

"Answer me," he commands.

Matthew glares up at him.

"Yes," he spits, "he was. Better than you, way better. He knew how to please me."

"That's nice," Dom grins, never missing a beat, "maybe if he'd spent less time balls deep in you and more time taking care of business, I wouldn't have blown his face off."


Matthew's whole body spasms and he swings a hand at Dom's face. The blond catches it neatly.

"Temper, temper," he taunts, pushing Matthew's hand south, "put that hand of yours where we both know it belongs."

Matthew curses the blond but obeys, jerking himself savagely in time with Dom's thrusts.

"I fucking hate you," he half-moans, half-sobs as he comes, asshole clenching around Dom's cock like a hot, slick fist.

Dom laughs.

"I know," he grunts as his own orgasm overcomes him.

They lie side by side in the aftermath, not moving, not speaking, until Matthew breaks the silence.

"This changes nothing, you know. I still hate your guts."

"Yeah," Dom gets up and starts looking for his clothes, "but that won't stop you rolling over and sticking your ass in the air for me, will it?"

Matthew throws a pillow and Dom dodges it, laughing. The smaller man crosses his arms and pouts as the blond leaves the apartment.

But they both know Dom's right and they both know he'll be back in this bed again.

Oh yes, he'll be back.

hannah_chapter1: (Calm)
Title: Professional
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: Matt is a sexy chauffeur. What else needs to be said?
Rating: 18/NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing real here, just a bit of fun, some pervy goodness.
Notes: This was not my idea to begin with, it came from @mercury973 and she was nice enough to let me take it and make it my own. And, you know, it was such a good idea, I wrote two versions! Enjoy.

Version One

He's such a professional.

That's what they say about him, all those rich and important people he drives about. Oh I'll grant you, he looks the part, all freshly washed and shaved skin and exquisitely manicured nails and crisp black suits. His chauffeur's cap is never crooked. He acts the part too, answers all questions in a soft, polite voice and he's never rude or over-familiar.

They sit in that black limo and they praise him to the skies, telling him he's the best driver they've ever had. He accepts their praise with a modest smile, like the professional he is, the professional they believe him to be. But they don't know him like I do.

A professional to the untrained eye - and a tart in the flesh.

Oh yeah - beneath that professional exterior lurks the soul of a man who'll happily shag me until I can't take anymore. That's just what he does, when the evening's work is done and the limo is finally squared away. He comes to me and strips, revealing silver nipple rings and black tattoos on creamy white flesh. The suit is tossed into the nearest convenient corner, but he leaves the cap on. He knows it drives me wild.

There's no time for soft voices and careful turns of phrase, all the things he woos his clients with. With me it's all rough demands and obscene promises. He orders me down on the floors and makes me beg for it, which I'm more than happy to do. When he's had enough of that he tells me what he's going to do to me, pornographic scenarios spilling freely from those perfect lips, words that would, no doubt, shock his clients to their very cores.

But not half as much, or so I'd imagine, as what happens when he decides the time for talk is over. Oh, how their eyes would pop if they could see what he does to me, how his hands touch all my secret places, how his tongue tastes the sweat on my neck and back, the way his cock slams into my arse again and again, melting my brain and turning my insides into jelly...

....I remember, this one time, he smuggled me into the back of the limo and shagged my brains out right in the middle of a society wedding. Even as the happy couple were saying "I do" I was blowing my load all over the backseat. They never knew anything about it, though. By the time they came out of the church I was gone, the backseat was clean and he was cool and calm as ever.

A professional.

Version Two

I think he's watching me.

Don't be so stupid, I tell myself, he's just checking his rear-view mirror, the way a good driver should. But I still can't shake that feeling.

I'm in this city on business and my company wants to impress all these potential new clients with an outward display of wealth, so I'm staying in a five-star hotel and I have a limo and driver to take me everywhere I go.

And, my God, what a driver.

His name is Matthew and he is beautiful. Small and slim, just the way I like them, with pale skin and gorgeous blue eyes. Those eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror and I swallow thickly. I think of all the things I'd like to do to him, all the things I'd like him to do to me and I'm suddenly, painfully, hard. I cross and recross my legs in a desperate attempt to hide it and .... was that a laugh I just heard?

Did he see?

Does he know?

My face heats up and I look down at my shoes for what seems like an eternity. I finally risk another glance and ... nothing. He's not looking at me. All his attention is on the road, on his driving.

That's just the way it should be - or, at least, that's what I tell myself.


"Can I help you with those?"

I swear, if sex had a voice, it would be Matthew's, soft and smooth, with a faint, suggestive undercurrent. A bedroom voice if ever there was was one.

"H-help me?" I squeak, my own voice cracking through the registers like it did when I was thirteen.

Smooth, Dominic, smooth operator, that's you.

"With your files," he says, that perfect, sexy voice tinged with just a hint of amusement.

Oh, those.

"Yes, please, your help would be very ... helpful," I finish lamely.

Matthew smiles and tucks a box of files under either arm. He's stronger than he looks. I wonder if .... no! Away with that, away with that unless i want to blow my load right here, right now. He follows me up to my room and I try and think unsexy thoughts.

"Where do you want me?"

I think I'm going crazy.

"What did you just say?"

"Where should I put these?" he repeats.

Oh. I really am going crazy.

"Just put them in the corner by the bathroom."

He does as I ask and I thank him, tell him I'll see him tomorrow, at the usual time. But he doesn't leave, as I expect him to. Why isn't he leaving?

"Take off your clothes." he orders me.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard what I said," he replies, "I told you to take off your clothes."

"Why would I do that?" I say, trying to play it cool, failing miserably.

"Because I want you to. Because I want to shag the living daylights out of you."

I try to say something, some kind of protest. He's having none of it.

"Save it, Mr. Howard. We both know you want this, so be a good boy, take your clothes off and I'll give you just what you want."

I can't argue with that logic, so I do as he says.

"Good boy."

He smirks and those beautiful blue eyes take in every inch of my bare flesh and the erection begging for his attention. He takes off his black suit and I know my mouth is watering but I just can't help myself. I knew he'd be beautiful, I knew his pale skin would glow in the soft bedroom light.

I didn't expect the piercings and the tattoos, the additions that nudge his beauty to just the right shade of wanton. Truly, I could just stand here and stare at him all night. He's got other plans, though. He shoves me onto the bed and shoves his head between my legs. Sweet Jesus, it feels like his tongue is all over me, inside me, tasting and teasing everything it can, balls, arsehole, cock.

Eating me, oh, he's eating me alive!

Matthew pulls away suddenly, leaves the bed completely. I'm about to beg him to come back when I see him searching the pockets of his jacket. He finds a tube of lube and returns to me.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he announces.

"Yes. Please. Yes."

I spread my legs, eager, but he shakes his head.

"No, not like that. We do this my way."

My driver pulls me up and positions me just the way he wants me. I end up pinned, cruciform-like, to the wall above the headboard. Matthew hums behind me, pleased with his handiwork. Am I ready to be fucked, he asks me. Is that some kind of joke? I've never been more ready and I tell him this, beg for his cock, please, please, please....

My words become a loud wail of pleasure when he answers my prayers and impales me. He's not gentle and that's fine - more than fine, perfect. When I thought about him, when I touched myself and thought of him, I didn't want slow and gentle. I wanted fast and rough and wild and I'm getting it, all I wanted and more, oh! So much more!

A hand presses against the back of my head, smearing my face against the wallpaper, holding me in place while he has his wicked way with me. He slaps my hip, hard enough to leave a bruise and the shock of it, the sudden, intense pain in the middle of so much pleasure, triggers the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced. I screech, the sound muffled by the wall as Matthew, true to his word, continues to shag the living daylights out of me. I swear, he's the porn version of the Energiser Bunny, he just keeps shagging and shagging and shagging.

I've lost all feeling in my arms and legs when he finally reaches his own tipping point, growling as he comes. Matthew pants into my ear for awhile, then kisses it. His cock slips out of me and I'm lowered down to the bed. The last thing I'm aware of is him holding me close to his chest.


He's gone when I wake, I knew he would be. I find him just where I thought I would: outside the hotel, beside his limo, smooth and polished and professional as ever.

"Good morning, Mr. Howard," he smiles and opens the back door for me, "did you sleep well?"

"Very well," I climb into the car, "thank you."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'm sure you have a very busy day ahead of you. And a very busy night," he adds softly as he closes the car door.

I laugh softly and settle into my seat.

Yes, a very busy night.

I can hardly wait.
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Yes Sir Alternate Ending
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: PG
Summary: AU. Victorian England. Matthew is the son of a lord, Dominic is a young and innocent servant: "The moment Matthew laid eyes on the boy, he knew he had to have him."
Feedback: Makes me do the dance of joy.
Disclaimer: Fake as fake could be.

NOTES: Okay, this is kinda important, I really want to make clear that this is NOT the latest chapter, or the real ending to this story. It's just an angsty little what if, what might have happened if Dominic had made a different decision a couple of chapters ago.

Dominic presents his card and, while he waits, takes in every detail of the hall he stands in. He lived, worked and came to manhood in this house. But that was over three decades ago and this place is a foreign country now. He may have left as a servant, but he returns as a gentleman and noted scholar and all those who would remember him as he once was have long since departed.

He is eventually relieved of his hat and overcoat and ushered into a small sitting room. Dominic remembers this place. Here it was that a young aristocrat was soundly beaten by a brother long since dead in a gutter and a servant taught to read. Dominic waves off an offer of refreshment and, when he is sure the servant has withdrawn completely, turns his attention to the chair by the window.

"Dominic," the occupant of the chair croaks, "such an unexpected joy your visit is! You look fine, yes, so very fine."

"Matthew. You look..."

Dominic tries to find something positive to say, but fails. The Matthew of old - slim, pale, elegant - is no more. Ravaged by disease, the figure in the chair resembles nothing so much as a freshly disinterred corpse, a skeleton to which some scraps of flesh and wisps of hair stubbornly cling. Matthew waves a claw-like hand, impatient.

"Please, Dominic, do not seek to shower me with empty words of praise. I am quite aware of how I look and flattery is wasted on the dying. Quite wasted."

Dominic does not challenge this assertion, they both know it to be true.

"How long?" Dominic ventures.

"A week, a day, an hour, who can say? It is of no consequence to me. I have put my affairs in order and made peace with my loved ones and fate has been kind enough to grant me a final audience with you. I feared you might arrive too late."

"But you knew I would come to you, when I was informed of this last illness."

"I did. There was no question in my mind. Our love may have waned over the years, but it never truly died."

"No, indeed it did not."

They fall silent, remembering times past. Their first separation, which had occured between the death of the old lord and Matthew's subsequent marriage, had been so very painful. Master and servant had clung to one another and wept - oh, how they had wept! All night they had wept. Then they dried their eyes and Dominic allowed Christopher to lead him away.

They missed each other terribly in those first years and wrote back and forth three, sometimes four, times a week, Dominic's crude scratchings steadily evolving into long, polished missives as he flourished under Christopher's tutelage. True to his word, the older man had restricted himself to the role of guide and mentor and Dominic could have wished for a better teacher.

Nine, almost ten, years had passed when affairs of business brought Matthew to Vienna. The flow of their letters had slowed to a trickle, no more than one every three months or so, and they truly thought they could meet as friends and equals. They thought their love, their hunger for each other, was dead.

They were wrong.

Their love was not dead, merely dormant. All it took was the slightest of touches, an innocent brush of hands as they sat in a coffee house, to wake it from its slumber.

It had taken immense strength of will to restrain themselves as they rode back to Dominic's lodgings. Once there, they had devoured one    another, a frantic tumble on a sofa followed by hours in Dominic's bed, hours spent reacquainting themselves with the secrets of each other's flesh.

They were together whenever Dominic's studies and Matthew's business dealings permitted and these months were the happest times in both men's lives. Oh, it was light and laughter and love, sweet love...

...and then it was over.

Their first separation was painful, but it was a mere pinprick when compared to the agony of the second. Another night spent in each other's arms, weeping silently, and yet so much worse than the first, because they knew, knew how it could be.

All Dominic needed to do was utter one word: "stay."

And Matthew would say one word in return: "yes."

Yes, they would be together, they would have each other - but this prize would come at the expense of everything else. Their reputations would never recover, Dominic's budding academic career would be curtailed and Matthew's wife and children disgraced. In short, everything they had worked in the years since their first parting turned to ashes and dust, rendering that sacrifice utterly meaningless.

So Dominic had held his tongue and Matthew left Vienna, never to return. They ceased all communication, for even that was dangerous. Dominic's work began to attract the notice of other wealthy patrons and he no longer needed or wanted Matthew's financial support. During his brief visits to England upon the deaths of family members - father, mother, aunt, sister - Dominic had stayed far away from the Bellamys. All the Bellamys.

"I have followed your work over the years, Dominic," Matthew's harsh croak breaks the silence, "you have done so well. Christopher and I knew you would, but you have exceeded our expectations. Christopher would be proud. I know I am."

"All I am, I owe to you."

"No. I may have laid the foundations, but that is all. You did it, Dominic, only you. Be proud of what you have accomplished."

"I am, believe me," Dominic replies. He continues in a softer voice, "but I do think about you often, wonder how it would have played out if I had rejected Christopher's offer and remained your servant. Do you think we would have been happy, to live like that?"

Dominic waits for a reply, receives none.


But Matthew is gone, his life slipped away between breaths. The blue eyes Dominic still dreams about are dead and dull.

Dominic gets to his feet. A deep wound has opened inside of him and, once he is alone, he will weep, loud, painful sobs that will threaten to tear his body apart.

But that is later. Now, he bends over Matthew. He closes his former lover's eyes and kisses the cold clay of his cheek.

"Goodbye, Matthew," he whispers, "goodbye, my love."

He leaves the room and goes in search of someone to impart this dreadful news to.


Mar. 4th, 2015 08:47 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Revenge
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: Revenge can be so sweet.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Would be lovely.
Disclaimer: The following tale is true, and by "true," I mean "false." It's all lies, but they're entertaining lies, and in the end isn't that the real truth? The answer... is no.
Notes: This one is for the amazing and amazingly talented millionstar.

The presentation was a triumph, he knew it would be.

Dom strolls out of the boardroom, grinning from ear to ear. Some of his colleagues stop to congratulate him, but one man does not. This man skulks in a corner and, when Dom goes back to his office, he follows, clinging to Dom like a rancid fart, the stench of which you just can't shake off.

Back in his office, Dom hangs up his jacket and sits behind his desk. Then he offers his dark-haired stalker his widest, toothiest smile.

"Yes, Matthew? Did you want to talk to me?"

"You know I do."

"And what, exactly, do you want to talk to me about?"

Matthew's blue eyes blaze.

"Are you serious? You know why! You stole my idea!"

"Did I?"

"You know you did! You stole it and then you used it in that farce you call a presentation!"

"Well, Matthew, maybe I did steal your idea and maybe I didn't. The real question is, can you prove it?"

"...I..." Matthew stands there, mouth opening and closing.

"You can't, can you? As far as everyone's concerned, I had a great idea, I made a killer presentation and now I'm up for a fat promotion. And you, Matthew, are left with nothing because that's what you are: nothing."

"Prick. Ignorant, thieving prick."

Dom shrugs.

"Survival of the fittest, Matty, that's just the way the world works."

"I'll get you for this, Dom."

"I'm shaking in my boots."

"You should be. You really should be."


Five days later and Dom's pretty much forgotten all about Matthew and his threats. Returning to his flat after a long, but productive, day, he takes off his coat, drops his keys and briefcase in the hall and then he frowns.

Noises, strange noises, coming from his bedroom.

Dom hurries over, throws open the bedroom door and just stands there, mute and unmoving, brain desperately trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

"Matthew!" he finally gasps, "...what....are...you...doing.....here?"

One of the men on the bed sits up, smirks and plucks a mirror and a rolled-up ten-pound note from the bedside table.

"Doing? Well, Dom, right now I'm doing a shitload of cocaine," he snorts a quick line, "and your boyfriend."

"Nick?" Dom appeals to his boyfriend, who doesn't respond, "I don't understand...."

"What's to understand?" Matthew gloats, "I called round, we talked, did a few lines and then I rocked your boyfriend's world in ways you can only dream of. You might be a hit in the boardroom, Dom, but you're a disaster in the bedroom."

Dom can't think of a single retort so he simply spins on his heel and leaves, Matthew's mocking laughter ringing in his ears.


Dom's at his desk, going over his notes for the meeting when Matthew Bellamy slithers into his office. Dom glares at him.

"I'm busy. Get out of my office."

Matthew stays right where he is and Dom stands up.

"That stunt you pulled with my boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend, that was your revenge, Matthew? Your petty, fucked up idea of revenge? You're even more pathetic than I thought, if that's the best you can do."

Matthew smiles and moves closer until they're face to face. He might be an annoying little shit but, Dom has to admit, he's attractive, in his own way. That pale skin, those blue eyes... Then Matthew's voice breaks the spell.

"Oh Dom, trust me, that was just the tip of the iceberg. I'm just getting started."

"Really," Dom sneers, "so what's your next move?"

"How's this for a next move?"


Dom's next words are swallowed when Matthew's mouth covers his own, Matthew's tongue darting between his lips to taste him.

Wrong, this is wrong....

The blond's brain is screaming at him to stop this and stop this now, but his body isn't listening. His body knows this is the best kiss he's ever had - and it wants more. Whatever else he may be, Matthew Bellamy is one hell of a kisser.

When Matthew kneels and unbuckles Dom's belt, the blond doesn't stop him. The thought never even enters his mind. He's forgotten about his important meeting and all the ways he despises Matthew Bellamy. All he knows is he wants - needs - this man's mouth on his cock. Right now.

He gets his wish and it's better than he ever could have dreamed. Matthew's oral skills are beyong compare. He takes Dom higher and higher, right to the brink of what promises to be a mind-blowing, earth-shattering orgasm.

Then he stops.

"What are you doing?" Dom demands, indignant, as Matthew pulls away and stands up. The dark-haired man grins at Dom's obvious discomfort.

"On edge are we?" he enquires sweetly.

"You know I am!"

"Desperate to come?"


"So desperate you can't even think straight?"

"Yes, you little shit, yes!"

Matthew tuts.

"Dear me, Dominic, but you are in quite a state. And you've got a meeting in, what," he checks his watch, "three minutes?"

Dom is speechless. Matthew laughs and skips out of the office, leaving the blond to plot some revenge of his own.


Mar. 4th, 2015 08:35 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Midday
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: Sequel to Midnight. Some afternoon delight.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Don't own the members of Muse, this is fiction.

It is a fine day, cold and crisp, and I am in a fine mood. I hum to myself as I skim through the streets. I plan to call on Dominic Howard today. Our midnight rendezvous is already several weeks in the past and I have yet to pay him a visit. An appalling lapse in manners on my part I must admit, and yet it was not my fault. My beloved papa burst into my rooms the morning after the party - and at a most indecent hour, too! - and hauled me off to the country before I knew what was what.

An escape attempt was out of the question, for I know better than to bite the hand that pays my allowance. And anyway, in truth, an escape was not really desired. My father may be a dusty old relic of a bygone age (something even he is aware of) but he is my father and I am quite fond of him. So I stayed in the country and we talked, drank, played cards and chess. A month in each other's company, however, and we found we had each drunk our fill of the other. When I informed him of my intention to return to the city he did not protest.

And so I am returned, ready to reacquaint myself with this man, my midnight, moonlit lover. I wonder, will I receive a warm welcome? Perhaps, perhaps not. My apparent indifference may have caused offence. I might find him in the arms of another man, or several other men. These possibilities do not distress me as much as you might imagine. I have been rejected before and I have survived the experience.

I hand my card to Dominic's valet and am promptly ushered into a small dining room. Dominic would appear to be something of a late riser, for I come upon him in his shirtsleeves, finishing what is either a very late breakfast or an early lunch. He pushes back from the table and lights a cigarette.

"You may go, Robert," Dominic dismisses his man, "take the afternoon off. I will attend to this gentleman's needs myself."

Master and servant exchange a knowing look and Robert does as he is bid. I must say, I do envy this degree of familiarity, this level of trust; I waste so much time and effort concealing my own ... activities ... from my own valet. He might be utterly trustworthy, he might be the worst kind of low blackmailer. I do not know and I definitive answer is not worth the risk...

"I did not expect to see you again, Matthew," Dominic's voice pulls me back to the present moment, "I thought you had forgotten me."

I sit and light a cigarette of my own.

"Were you disappointed?"

"Desperately. I cried every night. My sheets and pillows were wet with tears."

"Really? Tears, you say?"

"Well, soaked in some strange liquid at any rate."

We laugh and I explain myself.

"You were staying with your father," he muses, "but now you're here."

"Indeed I am. A guest in your house."

"Yes, well, then I had better take care of my guest. Would you like some tea, Matthew, or coffee, perhaps?"

"No, thank you."

"Something stronger?"

"Nothing to drink, thank you, Dominic."

Dominic finishes his cigarette and rises from the table.

"Well then," he drawls, "perhaps I could take you to bed and bugger you 'till you can't sit down, would that be agreeable?"

I crush out my own cigarette in a convenient ashtray.

"Most agreeable," I tell him.

I follow him to his bedroom. Once inside, he slams me against the door and thrusts his tongue between my parted lips. Yes, oh yes; I have been returned to Eden after a lengthy exile. I keep my desires fimly corked up when I'm with family, which means I haven't had any since the night of the party. I have abandoned famine for feast and it is glorious. Dominic grinds against me and I quickly rise to the occasion. Dominic breaks our kiss and arches a perfect golden eyebrow.

"So eager," he taunts.

"You have no idea," I reply.

He opens my trousers and I moan as his fingers close around my prick. The moan becomes a strangled yelp when his thumb glides over the very tip of me.

"My word," he gasps, "you're positively dripping."

My knees buckle when he licks my fluid off his thumb. He catches me and holds me up while he strips me bare, handling me as an impatient child would a rag doll. I am delighted to report that daylight has not tamed him; this is indeed the same rough beast I met by moonlight.

On my back, in his bed, I drink in every inch of his naked body; sleek and golden, a young lion looming over his prey. The comparison becomes even more apt when he begins to savage me, teeth and nails tearing flesh, drawing blood, marking me as his.

"Bind me," I gasp.

He is biting my nipple - gnawing on it, in truth - but my words halt him in his tracks.

"Remember where you are, Matthew," he cautions, "and with whom. I will not be ordered about."

"It was not an order, merely an expression of a desire."

"You desire this, then?"

"Yes, so much. To be helpless before you, absolutely at your mercy, is my dearest wish."

"Very well."

Dominic climbs off the bed and walks over to the large wardrobe in the corner of the room. He searches through it while I recline upon the bed and stare at his arse. I think of how it will look, how it will flex when he is thrusting into me and bite my lip to suppress a moan. Dominic returns with an armful of silk ties and deposits them on the bed beside me.

"On your hands and knees," he commands, "turn away from me and grasp the bedpost in both hands."

I do as he instructs and am soon bound fast to the bedpost. Dominic kneels behind me and caresses my buttocks. I whimper and life my hindquarters, like a dog longing to be petted. He chuckles and gives my arse a playful pinch.My prick, already stiff with want, twitches when he tongues my arsehole.

"Just as good as I remember," Dominic murmers between licks, "you really do possess a most delicious areshole, Matthew. I could eat it all day and never be satisfied."

Dizzy with lust, I squeal like a girl when his prick bulls its way into my back passage. Rough he is, rough and ruthless. I am glad of it. I have no time for gentle caresses and sweet kisses. I prefer the sour to the sweet, always have, and now I receive all I desire and more as Dominic's nails gouge my flesh and his prick buggers me into oblivion. He sounds like an animal too, grunting and growling as he has his way with me and howling when he pours himself into my arse. Then he drapes himself over me, hissing perfectly obscene promises of violations to come even as his hand clamps around my prick and milks me dry. Now it's my turn to howl.

I hang, limp as a deboned fish, as Dominic uncouples from me and releases me from my bonds. He lies beside me and rubs the feeling back into my wrists. I must confess I did not expect him to be quite so considerate in the aftermath. I am even allowed to sleep for an hour or two.

I wake in the mid-afternoon and Dominic wastes no time. I am soon spread-eagled on my back, all four limbs bound to his bedposts. I feel like a ritual sacrifice, offered up on an alter of lust. Dominic keeps a hand on my throat while he ravishes me, squeezing until the pleasure and pain are indivisible.

I love every moment of it.


"Was it too much?" Dominic aks, touching the bruises on my neck, the wounds on my chest.

"No. It's just ..." I frown at the tip of my cigarette, "i'll have a devil of a time concealing these marks from my valet."

"I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright. But, perhaps, you could bear it in mind? For next time? Assuming, of course, there will be a next time."

He laughs softly.

"You are a strange man, Matthew."

"How so?"

"There are a select few men who have sought me a second time. But I am too raw even for them and no man has ever expressed interest in a third encounter."

"I'm not like other men."

"No, you are not. Do you have plans for this evening?"

"No, why?"

"I would like, if I may, to take you to dinner."

I smile.

"I would like that."


Oct. 3rd, 2014 06:54 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Calm)
Title: Midnight
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: "Midnight, the stars and you/ Midnight, and a rendezvous..."
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Don't own the members of Muse, this is fiction.

Men and women in tuxedos and evening gowns swirl around the ballroom. They talk and drink and laugh - and why shouldn't they laugh? Why shouldn't we laugh? We have liberated ourselves from the outdated Victorian values of our parents and we have survived the Great War, the war to end all wars. Now we tremble on the edge of a new decade, a new era of peace and prosperity. The 1920s will, I feel, be our time, a decade made for a generation which adores frivolity. A new world full of bright young things.

A waiter passes me and I place my empty champagne glass upon his tray. I think, perhaps, I may have overindulged a tad. My head buzzes (it is not an altogether unpleasant sensation) and I sweat freely beneath my tuxedo. I do believe some fresh air would do me the world of good.

The garden is, of course, dead at this time of year, but still beautiful to my eyes. The midwinter chill feels like heaven after the heat of the ballroom. I lean against the wall and light a cigarette, drawing harsh tobacco deep into my lungs. The stars glitter brightly, I smoke and gaze up at them, lost in my own thoughts.

Shoes crunching on the gravel path bring me out of my reverie. He walks towards me, the light from the ballroom windows outlining him in gold, imbuing him with the aura of an angel. But if half the things I have heard about this man are true, he is closer to demon than angel. He holds out a cigarette of his own.

"Might I trouble you for a light?" he asks.

I oblige him and we smoke together awhile in companionable silence.

"What is your name?" he asks suddenly.


"Matthew," he repeats the name, tastes it, "I am very pleased to meet you, Matthew. My name -"

"You are Dominic Howard. I have heard of you. People talk about you, you know."

"What do they say?"

"I am sure you are perfectly aware of what they say."

"Perhaps. But be so kind as to indulge me."

"As you wish. I hear things about you, perfectly wicked things."

"Wicked, you say?"

"My, yes. I have been told you perform illegal and most unnatural acts with other men."

"I see. Tell me, Matthew, when you heard these stories, did they shock you?"

I drop the end of my cigarette on the ground.

"No. They did not shock me, Dominic. They excited me."

He takes my meaning immediately, as I thought he might. Casting away his own cigarette, he pins me to the wall and kisses me deeply, our tongues meeting and sliding together in a perfectly obscene manner. He tastes of crisp champagne, fine tobacco and pure, undiluted sin. I moan and thrust against his thigh again and again, each thrust more eager than the last. Dominic pulls away with a soft chuckle.

"You are no blushing virgin," he says.

"No. Does that trouble you."

"Most definitely not. Don't get me wrong, corrupting an innocent can be a bit of a lark, but I find I prefer an experienced lover," he pushes me to my knees and unbuttons his trousers, "a man who knows what to do when presented with a stiff prick."

Soft moans from above me as I take him in my mouth and suck gently. I want to drive him wild. I want to feel him lose control, I want to feel him pour himself down my throat - but not half as much as I want to feel him pour himself into my arse. So I give him a gentle sucking, enough to please him, not enough to send him ove the edge.

Before too long I am pressed against the wall again, face-first this time, with my trousers around my ankles. Now it's my turn to moan as he plays with me, tonguing and toying with my arsehole. A great roar of sound from within the ballroom; I am missing the countdown to the New Year, but I find I do not care as Dominic pushes his prick into me and proceeds to bugger me senseless.

Dominic and I are more alike than he knows, for I too prefer an experienced partner, a man who'll give me the rough treatment I desire. The stories I'd heard about Dominic and his preference for rough bedroom sports made me think he'd be my ideal lover. And now there really can be no doubt.

I press my palms against the wall as he pounds my arsehole, every thrust carrying me to greater heights, until the moment he bites me earlobe, hard enough to bring blood, and I come undone, spilling my seed upon the ground. And still he does not stop, holding me in place and rutting me with bestial debauchery. I am beginning to wonder if I will ever be able to walk again without help when he grunts and fills my arsehole, marking me as his own.

We remain as we are while our minds and bodies piece themselves together. Dominic pulls his flesh out of mine and we re-adjust our clothing. Dominic is the first to speak.

"This was a most enjoyable experience, one worth repeating. Do you agree, Matthew?"

"I do."

"I am glad," he reaches into his pocket and hands me a card, "I am at home around noon most days."

I take the card.

"I will call on you," I tell him.

"I have no doubt of it."

He kisses me on the lips, a soft, chaste kiss.

"Goodnight, Matthew."

"Goodnight, Dominic."

He returns to the party and I remain in the garden, looking up at the stars.
hannah_chapter1: (Paws)
Title: Yes Sir Part Twelve
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: PG
Summary: AU. Victorian England. Matthew is the son of a lord, Dominic is a young and innocent servant: "The moment Matthew laid eyes on the boy, he knew he had to have him."
Feedback: Makes me do the dance of joy.
Disclaimer: Fake as fake could be.

Sudden, shocked silence.

Gregory stands in the doorway, red-faced, breathing heavily. Dominic is watching his master. And Matthew? For what appears to be a pain-filled eternity, Matthew looks like a lost and badly frightened little boy. Then he remembers himself. His face loses that helpless look and, when he speaks, it is with the calm confidence he brings to unpleasant, yet necessary, business dealings. Dominic has never admired his master more than he does at this critcal juncture.

"Show me," Matthew commands the older man.

The old lord's servant bows and leaves the room. Matthew follows. Dominic remains where he is, uncertain. Should he follow Matthew? A curt, beckoning gesture from his master assures him that he should.

They file into the old lord's study. Lord Bellamy is slumped across his desk, face frozen in an awful grimace, half-open eyes staring at nothing. Matthew kneels by the desk and closes his father's eyes. This gentle, loving gesture brings a lump to Dominic's throat and he thinks of his own father, living and working so far away from here. Matthew rises and addresses Gregory.

"Who knows about this?"

"No one, my lord, I came directly to you."

"Then my mother does not know."

"She does not."

"Where is she?"

"In her parlor, my lord."

"Is Charlotte with her? No, I withdraw that question. Charlotte does not spend any time with our mother unless she can find no other way to occupy herself."

"Miss Charlotte is not at home. She is dining with your sister and your sister's husband this evening."

"I see. Dominic!"

"Yes si - yes my lord?"

"Take one of the carriages and bring my sisters home. Take them up to my mother's parlor upon your return, I will be waiting there."

"Yes, my lord. Should I tell them about your father?"

"If they should ask you, but I do not believe they will. We all knew this day was coming, and sooner than we should like. Go on, Dominic, do as I ask."


Dominic shivers and draws his coat around him, truly grateful for Matthew's latest gift as Ernie guides the carriage through the streets and back to the Bellamy house. Matthew may indulge Dominic and allow him inside the carriage, but the servant is not foolish enough to presume this indulgence extends to the rest of the Bellamys. When Matthew's brother-in-law led the ladies into the carriage Dominic climbed up onto the driver's seat immediately and without protest. He is glad, in a way; it may be cold up here, but he cannot hear the women weeping. Matthew knows his sisters well - they saw Dominic and they knew their father was gone. Now they mourn him in the carriage below.

The servant leads them to Lady Bellamy's parlor and Matthew is there to greet them with loving embraces and kind words. The ladies join their mother, but Gregory has arrived with more news and so Matthew remains outside to speak with the servants. The undertaker has taken the old lord away, Matthew is told, and the doctor awaits Matthew in the library, along with Lord Bellamy's solicitor and some of his business associates.

"Good," Matthew says, "now listen to me, both of you."

The servants await their orders.

"Dominic, you will wait upon the gentlemen in the library. Give them whatever they require."

"Yes, my lord."

"Gregory, I would have you go belowstairs and gather the servants together. All of them. Tell them of my father's death and tell them I am now master of this house. Deliver a message to them from the new master of this house."

"What message, my lord?"

"Lady Bellamy is not to leave this house without my consent and without an escort. All visitors to her rooms must first meet with my approval. She may write letters if she wishes, but these letters will not leave this house. If any servant should be approached and entrusted with one, they must come to me at once. At once. Those who obey my orders will be rewarded. Those who do not will be dealt with. Harshly. Servants in this house need to understand where their loyalties should lie. Make them understand, Gregory."

"My lord, it shall be done."

Matthew joins his family and Dominic goes down to the library to wait upon the gentlemen within. These fine men talk among themselves and, for the most part, take no notice of the servant filling their glasses. They make toasts, salute the dead lord and discuss the new one. Dominic finds their attitudes, their assessments of Matthew's abilitles, intolerable. By what right do they judge Dominic's master? Dominic bites his tongue as he refills the glasses. The gentlemen rise when Matthew enters the library. He ignores them and calls Dominic to his side.

"Go to the kitchen, Dominic. My family will not have dinner tonight. But we will have a light supper in, shall we say," Matthew consults his watch, two hours' time."

"Very good, my lord."

The kitchen is much as Dominic expected: crammed full of servants and buzzing like an angry beehive. Dominic looks for Gregory, but the older servant is nowhere to be seen and so Dominic excuses himself and goes in search of him. The door of Gregory's room is half-open. The older man sits on his bed, gazing into the middle distance. He rouses a little at Dominic's approach.

"What, here already?" Gregory's tone is bitter, so very bitter, "you do not waste time, do you, boy?"

"I do not understand," Dominic replies, "what is it you think I have come to do?"

"Why, to remove me from this room and claim it for your own, of course."

"I already have a room. Why would I want yours?"

"Because it is yours by right. You are Lord Bellamy's servant and this room is now yours."

Dominic shrugs, uncomfortable. Gregory's room is larger than his, a good deal larger in fact, and more comfortably furnished, but the servant has no designs upon it. He is quite content with the room he has.

"I did not come here to fight over a room."

"Then why did you come?"

"I am worried about you. I know you were close to your master."

Gregory's shoulders slump and a single tear courses down his cheek.

"Close? I should say I was. I was a boy, even younger than you, when I entered his service. The bond which forms between a master and servant ... well, I am sure I do not need to explain this to you, Dominic. I have seen you with your master."

An icy finger presses against Dominic's heart. He tries to keep the note of panic out of his voice.


"Yes. You are loyal to him, as a good servant should be, and your master gives you his trust in return. You have come to know his heart and mind like no other. You have become close to him, closer than friends, closer, even, than family."

"Oh," Dominic sighs, relieved, "yes, I suppose I have."

"But what can you do if your master leaves you behind? What can I do, now that the man I built my life around is no more? Look at me; no wife, no family, only duty. An old, useless man with no place in this house."

Dominic wishes he could ease the older man's pain, but he cannot find the right words. Perhaps there are no words for a situation such as this.  But he can listen and so he does, as Gregory speaks of times past, of all the years he spent with the old lord. Their conversation does not end until after the Bellamys have had their supper and the servants finally sit down to a meal of their own.

As the servants eat, Dominic notices a peculiar thing. Gregory, as Lord Bellamy's servant, has always been a well-respected member of the household and the other servants have always deferred to him. But now he sits, already forgotten, at one corner of the table while everyone switches their affections to Dominic. In truth, it makes Dominic more than a trifle uncomfortable. But he knows he must become accustomed to it, for he is Lord Bellamy's servant now.

The hour grows late as Dominic ascends the stairs and makes his way to Matthew's bedroom. He has not been summoned, but he needs to see his master. Matthew is removing his shoes when Dominic enters the bedroom. They are alone for the first time since Gregory brought that terrible news. The servant lingers by the door, suddenly unsure of himself.

"Do you wish do be alone, Matthew?" he ventures, "I could - "

And then Matthew is crossing the room and pulling Dominic into his arms.

"No," he mutters into his servant's neck, "I do not wish to be alone. Stay with me, Dominic, please, stay with me."

"I will."

They go to bed and lie side by side, not quite touching.

"It was his heart," Matthew's voice, thick with unshed tears, breaks the silence.

"His heart?"

"Yes. I am told it was quick, that he did not suffer. That was some small mercy at least. I ..."

Matthew's voice fades away to nothing. Dominic is about to reach for him when he speaks again.

"Not enough time," he moans, "we did not have enough time."

Dominic pulls his master close and Matthew's icy calm finally shatters. He clings to Dominic and weeps into his shoulder, loud, wracking sobs that tear at the servant's heart. Dominic does what he must, all that he can do, holding Matthew and offering what comfort he can. Matthew's tears taper off and master and servant drift into a light, troubled sleep. Dawn has not yet broken when Dominic wakes. He wishes he could stay, knows he should not. He slips out of Matthew's bed and begins to dress.

The other servants are beginning to stir when Dominic returns to his room. He resists the urge to limb into his own bed and lays out a suit and prepares himself for the day ahead. He is halfway through his shave when Ellen steals into the room. Dominic runs the razor underneath his jaw and waits for her to say something. She does not. He washes the soap off his face and faces her.


"Where have you been all night?"

"Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?"

She is about to speak when he interrupts.

"Spare me your lectures please, I have no stomach for them today."

"As you wish. But if people ask, if your mother asks, where you spent the night, what will you say?"

"That I was with my master, serving him as well as I can in this difficult time. But no one will care to ask such a question. It is the discord which exists between the two of us, and not my dealings with my master, which sets tongues wagging around here."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you rarely speak to me these days and, when you do, it is only to provoke a quarrel."

"That is not true."

"Oh, but it is. You know it is."

"What would you have me do? Lie to you, feign approval of your ... improper relations with your master?"

"No. I only ask that you keep this secret, as you promised you would, and leave me be. Let me order my own affairs."

This clearly does not sit well with his aunt and she is about to tell him so - but he cuts through her tirade before it even begins.

"I am sorry," he says, "but I will not listen to anymore of this. You have made your feelings on the matter quite clear and I have done the same. There is no more to be said."

And, with that, Dominic leaves the room.


Visitors trickle in and out of the Bellamy house all morning, so many people, Dominic cannot hope to recall them all. But one visitor does capture Dominic's attention: Miss Margaret Granville, Matthew's soon-to-be-bride. When the servant lays eyes on this tall, beautiful girl with auburn hair a sharp spear of jealousy drives itself deep into his heart. Their encounter is brief and he is careful to treat her with all the courtesy a young lady of her station is entitled to. She does not glean so much as a hint of the servant's true feelings.

Lady Bellamy behaves much as Matthew predicted she would. She tries to leave the house and is promptly thwarted. She does not approach Dominic, for she knows his loyalty to Matthew is an unbreakable chain (and besides which, she openly despises her son's servant), but half a dozen others are entrusted with letters and tempted with lavish rewards. Every single letter is immediately placed in Matthew's hands. Lady Bellamy is confined to her rooms and Matthew shuts himself up in his father's study - his study, now - expressing a desire to be left alone.

Dominic respects his master's wishes and leaves him be. But, when the clock strikes midnight and Matthew has not yet emerged, Dominic knocks on the study door. Receiving no answer he goes inside and finds his master. Matthew is sitting behind the old lord's desk and he is quite drunk. This is a new and altogether disquieting state of affairs. Matthew does consume alcohol, but never to excess, for he will not walk his brother's path.

The servant speaks to his master and is rewarded with slurred nonsense. Undettered, he coaxes Matthew out of his chair. The new lord stumbles and Dominic catches him. He leads Matthew out of the study, hoping to put his master to bed with a minimum of fuss. But his hopes are dashed when, halfway to Matthew's rooms, their progress is halted by Lady Bellamy. Her presence rouses her son to a kind of semi-sobriety.

"You," Matthew says, "have no business wandering the halls of this house. Of my house."

Lady Bellamy casts a cold, contemptuous look upon her son.

"Drunk?" she sniffs, "really, Matthew, you are a disgrace."

"Oh?" Matthew sneers, "I see. Your precious Paul can drink all day and all night and that is perfectly acceptable. I spend one night numbing the pain of my father's passing and I am a disgrace."

"Do not speak of your brother! He is the best of men, the true heir to your father's title!"

Dominic bites his tongue, else he might laugh in Lady Bellamy's face. Her powers of self-delusion truly are something to behold. Matthew is not bound by Dominic's rules and he does laugh in his mother's face.

"My bother is scum. He destroys everything he touches and he will never have my father's title. I am the true heir, and there is nothing you can do about it."

Matthew's words inflame his mother. She rears back and delivers a stinging slap to her son's face.

"I should have smothered you in your crib," she hisses.

Dominic gasps and loses his sure hold on his master's arm. But Matthew no longer needs his support, for his mother's words have shocked him into absolute (if temporary) sobriety. He touches his cheek and addresses his mother.

"Madam," the new lord says, "I am in your debt, for you have provided the answer to a question I have been pondering for some time now."

"Do enlighten me," she sneers.

"It will be my pleasure. To send you to the Northern estate upon my father's death was always my intention. The air in this house will be all the sweeter for your absence and your children will not miss you. Indeed, they will not. But I still had some doubts. What would people say? Now I find I do not care. But why should anyone care? Who will miss such a bitter and thoroughly unpleasant woman? No one will. And so, you will leave the day after my father's funeral."

Lady Bellamy screeches and clutches her bosom.

"You cannot do this, Matthew! You dare not!"

"I can. I do. It will be done."

Matthew staggers a little upon this last declaration, for sobriety was but a temporary guest. He thrusts out an arm.

"Take me to my room, Dom'nic."

"Of course, my lord."

They leave Lady Bellamy to her lamentations. They reach Matthew's room and the master collapses onto his bed, senseless. Dominic tries to undress him, but only succeeds in removing his shoes and trousers. He makes Matthew as comfortable as he can and sits with him for over an hour, at which point it becomes clear Matthew will stir no more this night. Dominic kisses his master's forehead, douses the lights and goes to his own bed.


The old lord is buried on a cold, rainy day. This is, in Dominic's opinion, perfectly appropriate. It should, he feels, always rain at funerals. The main drawing room swells with visitors, all drinking tea and eating crumpets and mourning the old lord's passing. Matthew sits on a large sofa, a sister on either side of him. Lady Bellamy has withdrawn to her bedroom, where her maid is packing her belongings. Matthew had the right of it - Lady Bellamy's banishment has incited not a single word of protest, not even from her own daughters. All her years spent doting on a cruel and feckless son, resolutely blind to the havoc he wreaked, now come back to haunt her, for none will now speak in her defence.

Dominic is returning to the kitchens, an empty tea tray dangling from one hand when his free wrist is gripped and he is led into a quiet corner. He frowns up at his assailant.


The other man smiles and releases Dominic's wrist.

"Hello, Dominic."

"I thought you had left the country. You were to leave the day after our visit."

"That was my intention. But when news of Lord Bellamy's passing reached me I resolved to stay and attend the funeral," Christopher lowers his voice, "Matthew tells me you will not be coming to Vienna with me."

"No, I will remain with my master."

"That is your last word on the subject?"

"It is."

"Alright. I will respect your decision. But if you should ever have to cause to change your mind, if your position here should become unbearable, then write to me," Christopher presses a card into Dominic's hand, "and I will help you."

Dominic pockets the card.

"Thank you, Christopher."

"Goodbye, Dominic. I wish you luck."


Death, it seems, is not quite done with the Bellamy household. A housemaid's shriek rouses the whole of the servants' quarters the morning after Lord Bellamy's funeral. The reason for her distress is quickly discerned: Gregory, lying at the foot of the stairs, his head canted at an odd angle.

"Such a pity," Matthew remarks to Dominic in the early afternoon, "to have a well-earned retirement thwarted by such an unfortunate accident. I had planned to provide him with a handsome pension, as per my father's instructions."

"I am not so sure it was an accident," his servant replies.

"What do you mean?"

"With your father gone, Gregory felt he had no purpose, no reason to live. He may have taken his own life."

Matthew considers this.

"It is possible, but I do not think it likely. I believe his death was an accident."

"But -"

"Enough," Matthew rarely employs a sharp tone when dealing with his servant, but he does so now, "I am the master of this house and if I say it was an accident, then it was an accident."

Dominic drops his eyes and Matthew's tone softens.

"It must be an accident, Dominic," he says, "I wish to honor my father's servant and give him the decent Christian burial that is his due. But if anyone should suspect suicide..."

Matthew spreads his hands in a helpless gesture.

"Do you see?"

"I do."

"Then you will not tell anyone else of your doubts?"

"I will not."

"Thank you, Dominic."


Matthew examines himself in the mirror, taking in every inch of the tailored morning suit he wears, then turns to his servant with a stricken expression. He does not look like a man about to be married. He looks like a man about to ascend the gallows.

"I cannot do this," he says.

"You can. You will."

"I do not want to."

"And yet you must. You know you must."

"I know."

Matthew pulls Dominic into a sudden embrace.

"This means nothing," he whispers fiercely, "it is duty, nothing more than that. It is not real. Last night was real. That was love. That was desire. Remember that, Dominic."

Dominic recalls the previous night and how Matthew took him again and again with a passion that bordered on desperation.

"I will," he tells his master.

Matthew kisses him deeply and presses their foreheads together.

"I love you, Dominic. Now and always. This will not change that."

"I know," Dominic pulls away from his master, "you should go. They will be waiting."

"Yes, I suppose they will," Matthew sighs,"I do not expect you to attend me today, Dominic, or tonight."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I would not force you to endure that. Go now, my love, and return in the morning."

Dominic goes below to Gregory's room - he does not think of it as his room but he supposes he will, in time - and tries very hard not to think about how his master and lover is, even now, joining himself to a woman, promising to love and honor her.

Most of Gregory's possessions were removed, but Dominic kept the old man's desk. He sits at it now and copies sentences out of a book, hoping to improve his penmanship and occupy his mind. There is a gentle knock on the door and Ellen enters the room. Her nephew puts his pen aside.

"Come to gloat, have we?" he says, "come to wag a finger and boast about how you foresaw this?"

"No," she holds up a tray, "I just thought you might like a cup of tea."


She sets the tray upon the desk and he watches her pour.

"This must be difficult for you, Dominic," Ellen says.

"It is. But it is difficult for him, too. You might not believe that, but it is the truth. He marries because he must, not because he wants to."

"His marriage will change things, it cannot help but change things."

"I know. But it will not change his feelings for me, or mine for him."

"You sound very sure of that, Dominic. What if you are wrong?"

"I am not wrong. I would not have remained here if I doubted him."

"I do not understand."

"I was offered a chance at a new life, an opportunity to go abroad and study, to become more than a servant. I elected to stay."

"And you believe you made the right choice?"

"I believe I made the only choice."

"Well, Dominic, i hope you do not have cause to regret your decision. For all our sakes."


Matthew, pale and red-eyed, is slumped half-dressed in a chair when Dominic enters his bedroom the following morning. He says nothing of the previous night and Dominic does not press him. But when Dominic passes his chair Matthew reaches for his servant and presses his face against Dominic's stomach. This gesture says all that needs to be said. Dominic wraps his arms around Matthew.

And so they remain, locked in a loving embrace, as the sun rises on a new era.


Okay, this isn't the end of the story, there's still 4/5 chapters to go. But I will start skipping ahead in time from this point, 5 years, 10 years, right up to the end of the relationship. I just wanted to mention this, so people know what to expect.
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Tease: Take Two
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: You only shag twice.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Yes please
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse, this is fiction.
Notes: So what happens when your humble author is left alone with a bag of microwave popcorn and a James Bond boxset? This. This happens.
More Notes: This was written for the amazing millionstar. A belated birthday gift but hey, better late than never.

Dom leans back on his stool and takes an appreciative sip of his vodka martini. His assignment went off without a hitch; he loves it when a plan comes together. Now it's time to relax and enjoy the good things this city has to offer: a sublime meal, all the comforts of a five-star hotel and, perhaps, the company of the boy behind the bar. Slim, dark-haired, gorgeous - just the way Dom likes it. The blond is toying with the idea of coaxing the handsome young bartender upstairs (something tells him the bartender would be quite agreeable) and taking him on a sexual tour of the world when someone oozes onto the adjacent stool.

"Mr. Howard," the newcomer drawls, "fancy meeting you here."

Dom spins on his stool and looks right into the eyes of Matthew Bellamy. The other spy is impeccably dressed, the pale beautiful body concealed beneath a crisp blue suit. The blond spy flashes back to their last encounter, the memory of Bellamy gasping and writhing beneath him and his mouth begins to water. He takes a sip of his martini, feigns nonchalance.

"Mr. Bellamy. I didn't expect to find you here," Dom stiffens on his stool, suddenly suspicious, "why are you here?"

The blond's hand drifts to the holster at the small of his back and the Walther PPK nestled within.

"Did you follow me here, Bellamy?"

Bellamy tuts. He summons the bartender and orders a martini of his own before turning back to Dom.

"Do you really think you could do it, Mr. Howard? Do you think you could pull that gun before I broke your arm in at least two places?"

Dom's hand closes around the handle of the pistol.

"Shall we find out?" he asks.

Bellamy sighs as his martini arrives.

"Such drama! Such unchecked paranoia!"

"Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness. Especially in our line of work."

"This is true."

"And I don't believe in coincidence."


"No. If coincidences are just coincidences, then why do they always feel so contrived?"

Bellamy picks up his glass and drains it in one quick swallow.

"You make an interesting point, Mr. Howard. Or may I call you Dominic?"

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed. Well, as I was saying, you make an interesting point, Dominic. But you don't need your gun tonight and you do not need your paranoia. I'm not here for you."

"Then why are you here?"

"Do you really expect an honest answer to that question? Do you really think I'd share details of my current assignment with anyone, let alone an agent of a rival company?"

"So, you're on assignment."

"Of course. I'm working, just like you are. and when I'm off the clock I enjoy the finer things in life, just as you do."

"That's all there is to it?"


Dom relaxes, takes his hand off his gun.

"Well then," he says," since we're both here and off the clock, as you put it, would you like to have dinner with me?"

"I would, I really would, but I'm afraid I can't," Bellamy turns on his stool and gestures at two handome young men, a blond and a redhead, sitting at a table by the door, "I have other plans tonight."

"Oh," Dom picks up his drink, "I see. So, which one were you planning on having?"

Bellamy appears confused by the question.

"Why, both. I'm having both of them."

The blond chokes on his martini. Bellamy smiles.

"Don't look so shocked," he drawls, "you'd do the same. As a matter of fact, you have. We're more alike than you could possibly know."

"Then why did you come ..." the blond sputters.

"I just wanted to say hello," Bellamy finishes his martini, slips off his stool, "and now I really must be going. Those boys won't ravish themselves."

Dom racks his brains for a witty comeback, comes up empty as the other spy delivers a parting shot.

"Don't sulk, Dominic. You've had me before. You'll have me again. You just can't have me tonight. Be seeing you."

And that's that. Bellamy sweeps out of the bar with a boy on each arm, a pair of beautiful - if not quite matching - cufflinks. The bartender catches Dom's eye again, but he doesn't appear quite as captivating as he originally did.

That doesn't stop Dom dragging him into the bathroom and giving him a good seeing to in one of the cublicles, though.


Dom wakes suddenly, all his senses on red alert. Someone's in here with him. He's reaching for his gun when a voice stops him.

"You don't need that."

The blond turns on the lamp, squints at the figure standing by his bed.

"Bellamy?" he rasps.

"The one and only."

"What are you doing here?"

Bellamy flashes a wicked grin as he begins to strip.

"I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count."

"I thought you had plans tonight."

"I did. Plans change."

"What happened to your toys?"

"Them?", Bellamy drops his trousers, "I wore them out. Drained their batteries. I need someone with more stamina. Something tells me you'll fit the bill."

"So you thought you'd just break into my room and crawl into my bed?"

"Yes. I didn't think you'd mind. Do you mind?"

"No, but it's more than a little presumptious, don't you think? What if I wasn't alone? What if I already had a boy in my bed?"

"Well then, he'd just have to wait his turn, wouldn't he?" Bellamy replies.

The dark-haired spy climbs into the blond's bed.

"Enough talk. I want you, Dominic," he moans, "I want your hands on my skin, your cock in my arse. I want you to fuck me, hard and deep, all night long."

How can Dom resist a line like that?

He has often thought about the last time he plundered this hot little body. It's one of his fondest memories. But, as he touches and tastes smooth, sweet flesh, as he teases and tweaks stiff little nipples, as Bellamy straddles him and closes around him like a tight, slick fist, he has to admit, memories are a poor substitute for reality. Especially this wet and sexy reality.

Brain addled by lust, Dom soon loses all track of time, all sense of self. Only the flesh, and the indulgence of the flesh, truly matters. But is he using Bellamy or is Bellamy using him? Oh, what does it matter? Dom is dimly aware of the sun coming up as the other man finally lets him collapse onto the matress and drift into a heavy, fully-sated sleep. Then he knows no more.


Bright light stings Dom's eyes. He tries to raise an arm to block out the sunlight, but he can't. He can't move his arms at all; they've been raised above his head and secured to the headboard. Dom curses and struggles. He hears laughter and Bellamy, fully dressed and perfectly groomed, moves into his line of sight. Dom glares at the other spy.

"What is this, Bellamy?"

The other man laughs again.

"You really should learn to trust your instincts, Dominic. You were right to be suspicious. I am here for you, or, to be more precise, for this."

Bellamy hold up a laptop, the laptop, full of the files Dom has spent several weeks acquiring.

"But what about - "

"The sex? We both know it's your weakness, and one I've exploited before. But if it's any consolation, it was good for me, too."

Bellamy tucks the laptop beneath his arm and turns to go.

"You can't leave me like this!"

"Really, Dominic, the knots aren't that tight. A competant operative should be able to slip them in two hours. Three if he's still reeling from all the sex he had last night."

"I'll be free in one. And then I'll come for you, Bellamy, you know I will."

"I know you'll try. But will you succeed? Think of all the fun we'll have together, finding out."

Bellamy blows the blond a kiss and, just like that, he's gone.
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: The Bohemians
Author: hannah_chapter
Summary: A night in Paris changes everything.
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 18/NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse and this is most definitely fiction.
Feedback: Yes, more, right there, don't stop...
Note: This one's for Emily.

Christopher Wolstenholme.




Exiled from England amid accusations of being a fiend in human form, he cut a swathe through Europe, seducing men and women, overindulging every one of his five senses and, all the while, amassing a truly staggering body of work. His poetry has been studied and puzzled over and followed for well over a century.

But how, exactly, did this happen?

How did the well-respected only son of a wealthy merchant become the physical embodiment of all seven deadly sins?

Scholars have long debated the issue but the answer is quite simple, really.

It can all be traced back to one night in Paris. At the outset of his career Christopher Wolstenholme was a mere pretender, at life and at rebellion.

But one night, ah yes, one night and two men changed everything. These men wanted to change the world. They certainly changed Christopher's.


It is a hot summer's night and three Englishmen sit around a table in Le Coin, drinking absinthe and talking of love, life and art.

Dominic Howard is twenty-two, an artist. He paints passionate, scandalous pictures which no reputable art dealer would dare touch. But he also possesses a talent for quick-sketching and this ability and his affable manner brings a small, yet steady, flow of coin from visitors to the city seeking tokens of their stay. Consumption will do for Dominic in just a few short years, cutting him down three days shy of his thirtieth birthday. His paintings, so controversial in his own lifetime, will be rediscovered in the 1960s and championed by the likes of Andy Warhol and Truman Capote.

Matthew Bellamy is twenty-four and he is Dominic's lover. Music is his vocation, the violin his instrument of choice. He supports himself by playing in taverns and on street corners. He might have made a decent living teaching music to the children of rich families, but his surly attitude and bleak worldview alienates many. Matthew will nurse Dominic through his final illness and spend the next five years in a frenzy of activity. He will pour all his love of Dominic, his grief at his passing and hatred for the world that took his lover from him into seven symphonies and a dozen concertos. Shortly after the final note has been committed to paper, Matthew will swallow a tube of paint and join his love. His music will be discovered in the first years of the twentieth century and will, by the century's end, be fully absorbed into popular culture. Matthew's music will be appropriated by advertising executives and pro wrestlers. Two different film directors in two different decades will use excerpts from his work to illustrate the horrors of war.

And here is Christopher, newly arrived from England with pockets full of money and a head full of dreams. Not a true Bohemian, merely a boy playing at being a Bohemian, only tolerated by the others, who both drink absinthe as though it were water, because he pays the bill. Matthew drains his glass and begins holding forth, chiding Christopher.

"You are not a poet, Christopher, how can you be? A true artist must get his hands dirty, experience the ugliness of life, not just the beauty. And how can you document the sharper edges of life if you do not experience them yourself? It is not enough to stand outside a brothel and watch the patrons come and go. You must go there, feel it all, fuck it all, roll around in the blood and the semen and the shit."

Christopher knows he is blushing, can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He always blushes when Matthew talks about sex for Christopher is, to his profound shame, a virgin. He turns away from Matthew, signals a waiter and orders three more glasses. If fortune smiles upon him, the arrival of more absinthe will distract the musician and he will abandon this topic.

Christopher is indeed fortunate. Their absinthe arrives and Matthew seizes his glass and drains half of it in one long swallow. How does he do that?  If Christopher attempted such a feat he would choke and fall to the floor, ridiculed by the others. Dominic is about to speak, it seems, but is denied when Matthew begins another one of his lectures.

"Why do we even bother? Why waste time on art, or poetry, or music? How can beauty hope to endure in a world such as this?"

"The world is a fine place - " Dominic begins.

"No," Matthew overrides his lover. Dominic does not appear to mind. Indeed, he never does, "the world is not a fine place. It is a rancid sewer, a rotting whore with maggots oozing out of her cunt."

"So melodramatic, Matthew," Dominic chides, "this world has much to recommend it."

"Yes? Would you care to provide an example?"

Dominic smiles gently.

"If you insist ..."

He leans forward and presses their lips together. Matthew moans, grips the front of Dominic's shirt and deepens the kiss. Christopher gapes, shocked to his very core. He knew his companions shared lodgings, but he put that down to economic necessity. He knew nothing of this, did not know they were, well, intimate.

Around them, the patrons and staff of Le Coin go about their business. No one gives the men locked in a passionate embrace more than a cursory glance. Christopher shifts in his seat, tries to examine his feelings. Is he truly disgusted by this spectacle - or is he aroused? Oh, it is difficult to say, he has drunk so much tonight and the green fairy, that saucy wench has him in her clutches. Dominic is the first to take note of Christopher's discomfort. He draws away from his lover and smiles.

"We are scandalizing Christopher with our immoral behaviour, Matthew."

"Is that true, Christopher?" Matthew asks, "do we shock you, disgust you? Or do we intrigue you? Perhaps even ... arouse you?"

Matthew's hand creeps onto the poet's leg and Christopher feels an unfamiliar stirring in his trousers. This reaction does not go unnoticed. His companions regard him thoughtfully.

"Shall we take him with us?" Dominic asks, " we have not had another man in our bed for quite some time."

"That is true," Matthew replies, "but I do not think Christopher would accept such an invitation, if we were to extend one. I am sure this is all too sordid for his sensibilities."

"You do not know me half as well as you think you do, Matthew," Christopher defends himself.

"No?" Matthew smiles, eyes alight with mischief, "then prove me wrong. Come with us, if you have the nerve."

The musician extends a hand in invitation. The artist smiles and does the same. The poet stares at the offered hands for a moment. Then he reaches out and grasps them. His heart thuds once, loudly, in his chest and then subsides.

It is done.


Matthew and Dominic occupy two rooms: the one in which Dominic paints and the one in which they do everything else. Christopher drops his bulk into a chair in the corner, one hand clutching the bottle of wine he bought on the way here. He watches the lovers as they remove each other's clothes, their hunger for each other evident in every gesture. Dominic cries out as Matthew licks his chest, bites a nipple. He lies on his back and spreads his legs, squeals when Matthew's spit-soaked fingers are thrust deep inside of him.

Christopher squeezes the wine bottle, his prick swelling once again, as Matthew covers Dominic and pushes his prick into the blond's arse. All the spit in Christopher's mouth dries up as he watches them ... fornicate? No, too clinical, too formal. Fuck? Yes, That's the word he's looking for. He watches them fuck and oh, such a difference, such a vast difference between awareness of the concept of homosexuality and actually seeing one man's prick moving in and out of another man's arse! The idea of doing that to a man or having it done to him ... the idea makes his prick stiffen even more than it already has, unlikely as that may seem.

Dominic surges upwards with a hoarse cry and his seed sprays gaudy patterns upon his lover's stomach, for he is an artist in all things. He collapses, limp and utterly spent and Matthew pulls out and wipes himself off with his own discarded shirt.

"What, Dominic," he taunts, "spent already? Well, no matter, I shall find my release elsewhere."

He creeps over to Christopher with a wicked gleam in his eye and a lascivious grin upon his face. The poet opens his mouth, to utter words of protest or perhaps of encouragement, but it is of no consequence, for Matthew covers Christopher's mouth with his own and swallows all his words. Christopher grunts and drops the wine bottle as the musician's tongue snakes its way inside his mouth.

Matthew tastes of absinthe, that bitter tang of wormwood, and of something else, something that is unique to him. It quite overwhelms Christopher. He pulls the smaller man into his lap and they explore one another, touching and tasting and possessing. The poet does not even consider protesting when Matthew undresses him and leads him to bed.

Christopher will write several poems about this experience and they will cause much blushing, fainting and loosening of corsets. But even the most pornographic verse will never capture the true essence of Christopher's first time in another man's arsehole. Dominic, fully recovered from his own tumble with Matthew, rolls onto his side and strokes himself while he watches his lover being taken by another man.

"How I envy you, Christopher," he says, "there really is nothing quite like having a hot arsehole squeeze your prick for the very first time."

Christopher would agree with the artist if he were in full possession of his faculties, but he is not. He has given himself over to absolute pleasure, become a creature of pure sensation, is reaching heights of ecstasy such as he has never known.

The poet has only just recovered from his first bout of manly love when the blond artist takes him. There is pain, oh yes, there is pain, but Dominic soothes him with kind words and gentle touches. They must wade through bitter waters to reach the sweet, he says, there cannot be pleasure without pain. He is right: the pain soon fades and then there is pleasure, more than Christopher has ever known, more than one man can bear and, for the second time tonight, he finds paradise in a man's embrace.

The night will give way to morning and Christopher will take leave of his companions and being his odyssey. But, in a way, this night will never end. It will live on in the hearts and minds of all three man and, long after these mortals have fallen to shadows and dust, in their poems, paintings, songs.

This night will last forever.


Jul. 7th, 2014 10:07 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Daria)
Title: Client
Author: hannah_chapter
Summary: A prostitute and his client.
Pairing: Belldom.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse and this definitely did not happen.
Feedback: Feed me, Seymour.

Streetlight glints off the smooth black hide and tinted windows of the BMW as it rolls to a stop. The back door opens. He's waiting for me. I shiver in anticipation.

Then I get in.

He's dressed in a suit. He always is. An expensive one, if I'm any judge. It doesn't matter. He could wear anything, expensive, tailor-made suit, black plastic sack, and he'd still ooze the kind of raw sex appeal that brings men and women to their knees. I've been in this car with him for less that a minute and I'm already unbelievably, painfully hard.

The driver pulls away from the curb and my client pushes me down to kneel at his feet.

"Take me in your mouth," he commands.

Yes, oh yes.

I open his trousers and draw him out of his boxers. I know how he likes it. I push back the foreskin and lick the head, quick, teasing licks, lapping at him like a cat with a bowl of cream until he rocks his hips, impatient. Then I relax my throat and take him all the way in.

His fingers are in my hair, tugging at the short strands as I service him. He groans and jerks upwards and I cease bobbing my head as he proceeds to fuck my mouth and throat, each thrust harder than the last until his hips snap up one last time and he pours himself into me.

I wipe my mouth, sit beside him. We cruise through busy city streets, smooth jazz spilling out of the car speakers while he recovers. When he's erect again he snaps his fingers and the driver takes lube from the glove compartment and tosses it to me.

The driver doesn't speak.

He never does.

"You know what to do," my client tells me.

I do. I take my trousers off, spread cold liquid on my fingers and do to work. When I'm open and ready I take some more lube and grease him up. Then I face away from him and lower myself onto his waiting tool.

He's not gentle. He never is. He's rough and domineering and I wouldn't have it any other way. A man like this has no time for gentle. And even if he did, why should he be gentle with a whore like me?

I moan and clutch the seat in front of me as he uses me, jackhammers up into me. Good, oh! So, so good.

"Do you like it, slut," he growls, "do you love it?"

"Yes, I love it. I always love it."

"Of course you do. Because you're mine," he pants between thrusts, "my slut. My filthy little whore."

"Yours," I sob as his cock hits just the right spot, then hits it again, and again, "your slut, yours, yours, yours."

"That's right. You're mine. Now and always."

I nod, beyond speaking now as I tremble on the brink of a brain-melting orgasm. Almost, almost...

His next thrust does the trick and I howl and claw the seat, nails leaving grooves in the fine leather. He growls and swears as he spills into me for the second time tonight.

And then it's over.

We clean ourselves up and the driver brings me back to the pick up spot. My client hands me a thick wad of banknotes, tells me he'll see me soon. I get out and watch the BMW glide away, my arse sticky and throbbing in the best way.

It's been a long time, almost two years in fact, since he swept into my life and told me I belonged to him now. Almost two years since he bought exclusive rights to my body and services and I still know nothing about him. I don't know his name, what he does for a living, or why this magnificent sexual being would pick me above all others. All I know is I belong to him now.

And I always will.


Jun. 15th, 2014 07:26 pm
hannah_chapter1: (Airplane)
Title: Tease
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: A different kind of interrogation.
Rating: 18/NC-17
Feedback: Yes please
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse, this is fiction.
Notes: So what happens when your humble author is left alone with a bag of microwave popcorn and a James Bond boxset? This. This happen.
More Notes: This was written for the amazing millionstar.

Dom slips the blindfold off, examines the interrogation room.

It's taken longer then he thought. They've had him for a couple of months and he knew this was coming. He just didn't expect it to take so long.

And this interrogation room - it's way too comfortable to be an interrogation room. The two-way mirror, the camera dangling from the ceiling, yes, these things are expected. But the soft carpet, the plush couch he's sitting on, the expensive desk facing the couch, these are unwelcome surprises.

The door opens and Dom gets another surprise. His interrogator, this agent of a rival agency, is wearing shorts and a t-shirt, clothes that leave very little to the imagination. Dom's heart begins to pound as he looks at the other man. Dark hair, beautiful blue eyes, pale skin - oh, dear God.

Dom hasn't had sex in over two months and now this delicious morsel is dangled before him. He wants this beautiful stranger, wants to throw him down on that desk and do unspeakable things to him. He takes deep breaths, tries to calm himself as the stranger sits behind the desk.

"Good evening, Mr. Howard. I'm Matthew Bellamy."

"Are you an agent?"

"I am."

"And do you always dress like a Thai ladyboy on holiday?"

"Only on very special occasions."

"Is this a special occasion?"

"Oh yes."

"An interrogation?"

"Yes, but not the kind you were expecting. We thought about using drugs or torture to find out what we want to know, but others have tried these methods on some of your fellow agents and gotten nowhere. We're taking a different approach."

"What kind of approach?"

"I think you know."

Bellamy leans back in his chair, a lascivious grin on his face and Dom laughs.

"You cannot be serious."

"Oh, but I am. We've studied you, we know your one weakness. Locked away, no sex for months, you must be half-insane with lust right now. Tell us where the USB is and I'll take away your pain."

"I don't want you to take away my pain, I don't want you at all," Dom lies through his teeth, "you're not even my type."

"Liar. I'm exactly your type and we both know it."

"And your company would just offer you up to me like this? Why? Are you being punished for something?"

"No, rewarded. I've heard so much about you. I've read all the files, I've even interviewed some of the men you've taken to bed. I've had fantasies about you."

"You have?"

"Yes. Then we caught you and I couldn't believe my luck."

"Right. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but your fantasies will never become reality. I'll never give up the USB."

"No? We'll see."

Bellamy opens a desk drawer and takes out ... a lollipop. Dom blinks.

Okay. He definitely did not expect that.

The other agent gets up and perches on the very edge of the desk. He unwraps the lollipop slowly. Then he looks right into Dom's eyes as he takes a long lick.

The blond almost comes on the spot.

"It won't work," he says, trying to sound calm, indifferent even, "your little games won't work on me."

Bellamy doesn't answer. He just keeps licking the lollipop. His tongue moves across the sweet in slow, deliberate swipes and there's not a single centimetre that goes unlicked. God, that tongue! An image pops into Dom's mind: that tongue, working its magic on his cock and he moans. Bellamy's eyes twinkle and Dom knows the smug, sexy little bastard has just read his mind.

"I could just take what I want from you," he tells Bellamy.

"You could try. But that's not really your style, is it? You prefer a willing partner. And I could be a willing partner. Very willing."

He goes back to licking his pop and Dom just goes quietly insane.

A thin film of sweat coats Dom's entire body and his cock is so hard it could be used to hammer nails by the time Bellamy finishes his sweet treat. The other agent hops off the desk and drops the lollipop stick in the waste paper basket, making sure to bend over and give the blond a good look at his rear end as he does so.

And that's what breaks Dom, the sight of that perfect arse in those tight, tight shorts.

"A hotel room," he grinds out, "the USB is in a hotel room. The Royale. Room 302."


"Hidden in the air vent. Now get over here and suck me."

Bellamy is across the room before the last words have left Dom's mouth. Dom opens his trousers, tearing them in his haste. Bellamy falls to his knees as Dom pulls his boxers down. He stares at Dom's cock, his expression one of stunned adoration.

"Well?" Dom demands, "what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

Bellamy lowers his head and goes to work. He laps at the head of Dom's cock, just like he licked the lollipop, tasting, exploring. Dom skids rapidly towards the edge.

"Such a good little dick sucker," he gasps.

Bellamy doesn't answer but he does take Dom into his mouth, all the way in. Dom comes for what feels like days, pouring a couple of months' worth of frustration down the other agent's throat. Bellamy doesn't seem to mind, in fact he gulps it down as though it were the finest champagne.

Dom's mind begins to clear. He pulls Bellamy up and kisses him. He can taste himself on the other man's tongue and he can taste the lollipop too, the bitter and the sweet complimenting each other perfectly. The kiss is good, so good, but it's not enough.

Dom pushes Bellamy down on the couch, tears the shirt and shorts right off him. And then he moans because the other man is beautiful. Slim and pale and he has the cutest little nipples Dom has ever seen. The blond plays with the agent, with the delicious body pinned beneath him, listens carefully to the sounds each action provokes. Bellamy yelps when Dom bites him, marking that gleaming skin. He gasps when Dom plays with his nipples, pinching and flicking those stiff little buds. And he sighs when Dom opens him up and eases his cock, newly swollen with fresh blood, inside him.

The blond's thrusts are hard and merciless. Bellamy, the saucy little slut, loves every second of it. Dom looks over at the two-way mirror, then grins down at his new toy.

"Was this in your fanstasy?" he gasps, hips snapping back and forth like pistons, "me using you, making you my plaything for a night while your masters watch?"

Bellamy jerks and hisses, Dom doesn't miss a single thrust.

"Because they are watching, aren't they? Watching you squeal and moan like the cheap little whore that you are."

Bellamy comes undone. He howls and Dom feels hot fluid spray his stomach. And then it's his turn to scream as he's caught in the grip of a mind-melting orgasm.

He's lying in Bellamy's arms when he finally comes to his senses. He groans and sits up.

"What now?" he asks.

"Now you go back to your room. We'll search that hotel room and, when we find the USB, we'll let you go."

"You will?"

"Of course. We don't want to upset your agency anymore than we have to, so yes, we'll let you go. And who knows, maybe we'll meet again some day, when we're both out on assignment."

Dom laughs as he gathers up his clothes.

"I'm looking forward to it."
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Friends (2/?)
Author: hannah_chapter
Summary: Sequel to Enemies. When worlds collide...
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 15/R
Feedback: Hit me, baby, one more time.
Disclaimer: Don't own Muse, this is fiction, never happened.

Tom stands in the middle of the market, mind whirling.

Did he see what he thinks he just saw?

Is that really possible?

Only one way to find out.

The man, who might be Dom Howard and might just be some random guy, is shuffling down the next aisle. Tom, thinking the most casual thoughts he can, tries to sidle up to him and get a better look. He is not successful. His quarry spots him, does a ninety-degree turn and walks out of the market.

Tom ignores the nervous, fretting part of his brain, the part that's telling him to leave well enough alone, and follows. He's barely out of the market when it happens: a hand grabs the collar of his coat and hauls him into a convenient alley. His attacker shoves him up against the wall, holds him in place and Tom can feel the muzzle of a gun pressing against the one place no man ever wants to feel a gun pressed against.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Dom snarls, and it's Dom alright, Tom would know that voice anywhere, "you want to make your wife a widow? Huh? Do you?"

"I'm divorced."

This is not the answer Dom was expecting, and it puts him off-balance. He lets the cop go and backs up a couple of steps.

"Walk away, Tom, okay? Just forget you ever saw me."

Dom holsters his gun and starts walking out of the alley.


Dom stops, turns back.

"What?" he asks, irritated.

"Can't we talk? Go somewhere, have a couple of beers and talk?"

The ex-cop backs away, eyes narrowing into suspicious slits.

"You think I'd do that to you, Dom? Lure you into a trap?"

Dom doesn't answer, he doesn't have to, and the fragile thread that is Tom's temper snaps.

"Fuck you, Dom! You know what, you're right, it's a terrible idea."

The cop shoves past his former friend.

"I'm going home. You can crawl back into whatever hole you crawled out of."

"I'm sorry, Tom."

"Are you?"

"Yes," Dom sighs, "alright. This is insane, but alright. Meet me outside this market tomorrow. Three o' clock. We'll talk then."

He's gone before Tom can say yes or no.


Black smoke fills the kitchen. Dom yelps and curses as he deposits the overcooked - no, make that burnt to shit - mess in the sink. So much for Matt's welcome meal. The front door opens and Dom puts a hand on his gun, his latest culinary disaster quickly forgotten. But he relaxes when Matt, and he'd know his man anywhere, all the wigs and makeup and contact lenses in the world will never change that, walks into the kitchen.

Matt drops his bags and races into his husband's arms with a happy squeal. They hold each other and Dom's heart swells with a mixture of happiness and deep relief, as it always does when they come together after time apart. Matt finally pulls away and coughs. He points at the mess in the sink.

"What was it?" he asks.

"Uh ... coq au vin?"

Matt smiles gently and turns back to his luggage. He holds up a couple of plastic bags and a bottle of wine.

"What did you get?" Dom asks.


Dom pours the wine and arranges their food on plates while Matt takes a quick shower and takes his outside face off. They eat and talk and Dom throws an occasional baleful glance at the sink and the mess congealing within it. Matt touches his hand.

"It's not a big deal, sweetheart, honestly, it's not."

"It is," Dom pouts, "I wanted to cook for you. I wanted tonight to be special."

Fucking up their meal was bad. Matt's obvious anticipation of his failure is even worse.

"I know, and I appreciate the gesture," Matt replies, trying to be as tactful as he can, "but some people are good in the kitchen and some people just ... aren't."

Dom scowls and drains his wine glass. Matt scoots closer to him.

"Never mind," he says, "you're talented in other ways. Lots of ways."

All Dom's irritation melts away as his husband presses their lips together. The kiss deepens and everything else in the world melts away, too.
Matt pulls Dom to his feet.

"Take me to bed, Dom" he says, "take me to bed and do me slow."

Slow is what he asks for and slow is what he gets. Matt lies in his side, panting, sweating, as his husband holds his hip in an iron grip and moves deep within him, taking him to the very brink of ecstasy and keeping him there for what feels like forever. Matt is reduced to a boneless, babbling mess long before Dom lets him come.

Matt curls up on Dom's chest in the aftermath, humming, content.

"See?" he says, "you're plenty talented."

Dom chuckle and kisses the top of his husband's head.

"So," Matt asks, "seen any potential scores?"

"A few. I think we'll do well here."


"I was waiting for you. It's better when we pick them together."

"True, and ..." Matt's next words are lost in a huge yawn. Dom rubs his neck.

"Go to sleep, Matt," he says, "we'll talk about it later."

"... mmm .... 'kay," Matt mutters, already half-asleep.

Dom doesn't sleep. He lies awake and thinks about Tom Kirk.

Tom - of all the people in his past, why did it have to be Tom?

And this meeting - he's not actually thinking of going to it, is he?

Is he?


Tom checks his watch for the third or fourth time. It's fifteen - , no make that closer to twenty - minutes past the hour and Dom hasn't shown. The cop's shoulders slump in defeat. Well, he tried.

He turns to go and that's when he feels to hand on his arm.

"Follow me," Dom says.

He's walking away before Tom can argue. The cop follows the ex-cop through narrow, crowded streets and into a small, dark, sparsely populated bar. They get beers and find a table in a corner, far from prying eyes. They stare at each other, unsure of how to proceed.

"I didn't think you'd come," Tom finally ventures.

"I wasn't going to. But then ..." the ex-cop shrugs and sips his beer.

"It's good to see you, Dom. You look ... different."

"That's the idea."

"I almost didn't know you."

"But you did. What gave me away?"

"Your eyes. You should wear contacts."

"I tried. They make my eyes burn."

And they do. Matt wears them all the time, changing his distinctive blues to an unremarkable, muddy brown and back again. How Dom envies him.

"I see," Tom takes a sip of his own beer, " you know, it's funny, I was talking about you just the other day."

"Were you?"

"Yeah. I heard you killed a man."

"You heard right."

"Gutted him like a fish."

"Just like a fish."

Tom looks for any trace of shame or disgust on his old friend's face, finds none.

"Are you ... are you actually proud of it?"

"No. Not proud, not ashamed. He turned on us, sold us out to save himself, and Matt ..." Dom closes his eyes as he remembers that awful day, Matt bleeding in his lap, Dom trying to stop the bleeding with one hand and drive the car with the other. He opens his eyes, comes back to the present, " ... I had to do it. He spilled his guts, so I spilled his guts."

"What about his family?"

Dom laughs, a cold, bitter sound.

"Some family. Five dimwit brothers and their dimwit daddy. Pimps and meth cooks and degenerates. Trust me, the gene pool got much less polluted that day."

"You could have let them be."

"No. They would have come after us."

"So you did what had to be done"

"Yes, and you can stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I burned down a building full of kittens, babies and helpless old ladies. There were no innocents in that house."

Tom decides to let it go. They drink in silence for awhile.

"So," Dom says, "you got divorced."

"I did."

"What happened?"

Tom sighs.

"It was good, then it was bad, and then it was ugly. Very ugly."

"Your kids?"

"Bronwyn still talks to me. The others ... well, if they ever get tired of cutting off their noses to spite their faces, I'll be here. Until then..."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Tom drinks, changes the subject.

"And what about you? How's your marriage working out?"

Dom smiles and touches his wedding ring.

"Amazing. It's better than I ever could have dreamed."


"Really. I never thought I could feel this way about anyone."

"Did you tell Matt you were meeting me?"

Dom's eyes lose some of their sparkle.

"No. But I will. He won't like it."

"You don't have to tell him."

"I know. But if Matt and I can't trust each other, who can we trust?"

"Can I ask you something, Dom?"


"Why are you still doing this? You must have stolen enough to last a hundred lifetimes by now. Why don't you just quit? Go live on a tropical island or something?"

"Because we enjoy it. And we are so, so good at it."

Dom checks his watch, stands up.

"I gotta go. It was good seeing you, Tom."

"Can we meet again?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, do you?"

"Probably not. But can we?"

Dom chews it over, then sighs.

"Alright. In front of the market, same time next week."

He leaves Tom staring at empty glasses.
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Friends (1/?)
Author: hannah_chapter
Summary: Sequel to Enemies. When worlds collide...
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 15/R
Feedback: Hit me, baby, one more time.
Disclaimer: Don't own Muse, this is fiction, never happened.

Tom steps out of the elevator. A different city, a different precinct. It's all so new - and, at the same time, all so familiar. They've put him in Homicide and he's always shone in Homicide. The captain waves him over and Tom gets his welcome speech and a desk to call his own. Some of the other cops stop by, introduce themselves, ask him to go bowling. Bowling, it seems, is a very big deal around here. It's all so friendly and Tom begins to relax. This can work.

Can it? Can it, really?

It happens right after lunch. Tom sees everyone else drifting out of the room and curiosity compels him to follow. So he follows the crowd into a briefing room and he takes a seat in the third row. A tall man with white hair approaches the podium and the room quietens down. The tall man's name is Ralph Kinnard and he's a criminologist - a man who claims to be an expert in crime, but doesn't like to get his hands dirty. An armchair cop. Tom slumps low in his seat and lets his mind wander.

The world snaps back into focus when Kinnard starts talking about armed robbery. Tom winces. Here it comes. The next slide clicks into place and now Tom's looking at two very familiar mugshots.

"And here, ladies and gentlemen," Kinnard says, "are the two biggest turds in this particular toilet bowl: Matt Bellamy and Dom Howard. If you're not familiar with their story, then you must have spent the last decade under a rock."

Laughter greets this last remark. Kinnard waits for it to die down before continuing.

"Bellamy's a slippery little shit, always has been and Howard, well, Howard's a cruel, cold-blooded bastard. They keep a low profile, makes them difficult to track. They were in Vegas a couple of years after the jailbreak, we know that much, and they got married there. A beautiful ceremony, it really gave a whole new meaning to the phrase shotgun wedding."

More laughter, louder this time.

"They have what I'd call a psychotic devotion to one another. Other criminologists will tell you to use that as a weapon, catch one of them, use him as bait to lure the other. I disagree. Catch them both, or don't even try. And God help you if you kill one of them. The one you leave alive will hunt you down and take your scalp as a trophy."

The presentation ends and the lights come on. Tom wanders over to the refreshments table and helps himself to some coffee.

"You didn't like my presentation?"

Kinnard suddenly by his side. Tom drinks some coffee, feigns nonchalance.

"What makes you say that?" he asks.

"I could see your face."

"In the dark? You could see my face in a dark room?"

"Observation is my business. You haven't answered my question."

"I didn't ... it's not ..." Tom tries to arrange his thoughts, put them in some kind of order.

"Did you know Dom Howard?"

Kinnard cuts right to the heart of the matter.

"You did, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I knew him. We came up together."

"And you think I'm being to hard on him?"

"I never said that. I can't defend what he's done, but I can understand it."

"Can you?"

"Yes. He was a good cop once. No one likes to remember that these days, but it's true. He gave everything to the job, like so many of us do. A good cop, and a sad and lonely man. Then Bellamy came along and ... love makes fools of everyone, makes us do stupid things."

"I know he was a good cop, I read the files. But that was a long time ago. And here's a story for you, something I think you need to hear. We don't like to talk about it, but it might help you understand. We almost caught them once. It happened three years ago, or maybe it's four. A member of their crew ratted them out. They got away, but not clean. Bellamy took a bullet in the chest. He survived, obviously, but it was a close call. The informant tried to run, but they sniffed him out, took him to Howard and your old friend gutted him like a fish. Then he killed the man's family and burned his house to the ground. Howard did all these things, it was Howard all the way."

Tom is cold all over.

"How do you know all this? How can you know this if they keep such a low profile?"

"Word leaks out, here and there. We hear stories."

"Stories. Not facts."

"Yes, I see where you're going with this. And yes, they might be nothing more than lies and half-truths. But I don't believe it. My gut tells me it's all true and none of it helps your friend's case. I'll tell you something else, while we're talking: Howard ran the show, while Bellamy recovered. He picked the crews, he planned the jobs, he did it all. He's in the game now, all the way, and trust me, the good man led astray, that myth you cling to, that's all that is now, a myth."

"Sure, whatever you say," Tom's not even sure what he's saying, he just wants to get away from this awful man.

Kinnard starts to say something else, but Tom turns his back on him and trudges back up to Homicide. His conversation with the criminologist didn't take place in a vacuum, and he can feel the stares, hear the whispers. He ignores them and tries to work. But his mind keeps turning back to the subject of Dom Howard.

Where is Dom now?

What's he doing?


Sweat drips off Dom's face and neck as he teeters on the brink of what promises to be an earth-shattering orgasm. He slows his thrusts, trying to make the moment last. But then the man beneath him bucks and howls and the thin thread of Dom's control snaps. He curses and claws his lover's hips as he comes, emptying himself into the man beneath him. Completely drained, he flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling, nerve endings still sizzling. His husband wheezes into the pillows beside him and Dom smiles. The after-heist sex is always insane, all that heat and tension burning off in one fast, furious fuck. Dom stretches and feels his spine crackle.

"That," he sighs, "was perfect."


"I mean, it's always perfect, but sometimes there's a kind of perfect that's just ... perfect in its perfection, you know?"


"Want a beer?"


Dom giggles and sits up. He reaches down and plucks a bottle of beer from the cooler beside the bed. Matt's still lying on his stomach, limp as a deboned fish, but the smell of the beer revives him a little. He lifts his bed, Dom tilts the bottle and Matt sucks the beer down, like a baby sucking on a bottle of milk. Dom gathers his husband to him and they lie together, sharing a beer, as they have so many times before.

"I think ... you just ... fucked my brains out..." Matt finally wheezes.

"Sweet talker."

They finish their beer and Dom drops the empty bottle on the floor. Matt yawns.

"We did good today."

Dom kisses the top of his head.

"Yeah, we did."

"What time's the party again?"

"Lee's party? That's tomorrow night, Matt. Maybe I really did fuck your brains out this time."

They laugh together.

"So, what should we do until then?" Matt asks.

"Sex, beer, sex, pizza, sleep and sex."



Dom leans against the railing and looks down at the dancefloor. Lee's club, one of this city's hottest night spots, is closed to the public tonight. This party is very exclusive, for underworld figures only. Dom can see armed robbers, drug dealers, mob enforcers from various families, forgers, fences, back alley doctors, freelance hitmen - and then there are the groupies, low-level, fringe members of the scene, boys and girls who'll do any dirty job because they just want to be near it, the glamour and the danger. They fawn over high-level criminals like Matt and Dom, treat them like movie stars, rock stars, gods. They've been bringing Dom drinks all evening and, from his vantage point, Dom can see more of them clustered around Matt, hanging on his every word.


Dom turns.


They hug. Chris eyes him up.

"Looking good, Dom, looking real good."

Dom touches his cheek and laughs. He and Matt have, in the last nine years or so, become masters of disguise, using wigs, beards and subtle makeup tricks to hide their famous faces from the public. But they're with their own kind tonight and are free to be themselves.

"So do you, Chris, so do you."

Chris, too, has dropped his public persona, his usual blue-collar, beaten-down by life schtick. Smartly dressed, tall and proud, he leans on the railing like a king lounging on his throne.

"Having a good time, Dom?"

"Yeah, I am," Dom looks down at the dancefloor again, "i should have been in this game from the beginning."

"You should, you really should. You were made for this life, Dom. And you're a good influence on Matt."

They run quiet these days, at Dom's insistence, with no easily traceable patterns or comic book villain flamboyance. It's all about discretion now, not showmanship.

"Well, I do my best, Chris."

Chris finishes his drink.

"When do you leave?" he asks.

"I go tomorrow."

"And Matt?"

"End of the week."

They never stay in one place for long and they never travel together. Dom won't allow it. Too dangerous. Matt doesn't like it, but he knows it makes sense.

"You should come back to the cabin for a couple of months, have yourselves a little vacation."

"We will. Soon."

Chris squeezes his shoulder and wanders off, to the bar or maybe the bathroom. Dom drops his empty glass and goes to his husband.

"May I have this dance?"

Matt smiles and takes Dom's hand.

"Of course."

Matt's groupies pout as their idol is taken from them. Matt and Dom sway in time with the music and Dom jerks his chin at the pretty boys.

"Are you tempted? Should I be jealous?"

"Hmm?" Matt looks back at his groupies, then at his husband, "no, of course not. They just remind me of a different time, that's all."

"The old days, when you went to places like this, got drunk and fucked boys in the bathroom."

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago, before you and me. Now I've got you, I love you with all my heart and I wouldn't trade what we have for anything."

"Good, that's good," Dom presses their bodies closer, licks his husband's ear, "you know, you could just get drunk and fuck me in the bathroom."

Matt's sudden, sharp intake of breath makes Dom grin.

"Now that," Matt says, "sounds like a plan."


Shit and fuck and fucking shit and shitting fuck.

Tom motors his way through the market like a black, constantly cursing cloud. This has not been his day.

His car broke down, he lost his phone and, just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, he spilled hot coffee all over his crotch. Damn near scalded his balls off - perfect end to a perfect day.

Someone bumps Tom's arm. Tom glances at the man, continues down the aisle. Then he stops. The man he just saw - he was nothing special, just another middle-aged man with a beard and a beer gut.

But his eyes ... Tom knows those eyes. Only one man he knows with eyes of that particular shade.

Dom Howard.
hannah_chapter1: (Invasion)
Title: Proposal (2/?)
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: wobell, belldom
Rating: PG/PG-13 (for now, later chapters will vary)
Summary: Chris and Matt are a married couple with money troubles. Dom is a billionaire with a unique solution.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse or any films Demi Moore may or may not have starred in and none of this is real.
Feedback: Talk dirty to me.
Notes: This was inspired by a 1990s film. Which one should soon become obvious.

Chris and Matt sit in stunned silence. Their host smiles and taps his fingers on his desk.

"I'm sorry," Chris finally manages, "I don't think I understood what you just said, Mr. Howard."

"It's really quite simple, Chris. You're in trouble, I can get you out. I'll pay off your creditors and I'll give you five million dollars. But everything has a price, and Matt is mine. One night with him is all I want."

Matt sits ramrod straight, looks the handsome young billionaire in the eye.

"Do you think I'm a prostitute, Mr. Howard?" he asks.

"You can call me Dominic."

"Thank you, but I think I prefer Mr. Howard."

"As you wish. And no, I don't think you're a prostitute. I think you're a very attractive man and I'd very much like it if we could spend a night together."

"You ... are ... unbelievable," Chris grinds out, "do you really think you can get anything you want just because you're rich?"

Howard blinks in surprise.

"Well ... yes. That's how the world works."

Chris tries to say something else, but Howard shuts him down.

"No. Spare me your tirades, I don't want or need to hear them. I made you an offer. Take it or leave it."

He takes a key card out of his pocket, slides it across the desk.

"Here. I've had your things moved to one of our executive suites and your bill's been taken care of, a gesture of good faith on my part. Think about my offer. "When you've made up your mind - "

A business card is offered to Chris.

" - give me a call."

Chris takes the card. Howard ushers them out of the office and then they're in the elevator, heads spinning with new experience.


Their suite is exquisite, but they don't even notice. The argument started the second the lights came on.


"Chris, we - "

"No. There's nothing to discuss. You're not doing it and that's that."

Matt feels the first stirrings of real anger.

"So that's the way it's going to be? You make the decisions and I'm supposed to just go along with whatever you pick?"

"I never said - "

"Because that's not a marriage, Chris, that's a dictatorship."

"Who said anything about - "

"Why should you make all the decisions? Or any of them after what you just did."

"I don't want to make all the decisions. But this, this thing, shouldn't even be an issue. Why are we even fighting about it?"

"Why are you so eager to brush this aside?"

"Why aren't you? Do you really want to do this? Sleep with another man in the middle of our honeymoon?"

"You know I don't. But we need help, Chris, and he can help us."

"If you become his ..." Chris presses his lips together.

"If I become his whore. That's what you were going to say, wasn't it?"

"I didn't mean it."

"Okay, so you didn't mean it.  But what else can we do, Chris?"

"I'll think of something."

"Right," Matt tries to keep the bitter hopelessness out of his voice, can't quite do it. They sit on the bed, side by side, not speaking. Matt puts his head on his husband's shoulder.

"It's just one thing. One night," Matt says, "and then we'll be free."

"It could destroy our marriage."

"Only if we let it."

"You really think we could put all this behind us?"

"Yes, Chris, I do."

Chris rubs a hand over his face.

"Alright. But don't call him now. Call him tomorrow and tell him what you want to do, I leave it in your hands."

They go to bed, make slow, careful love and lose themselves in sleep. When Chris opens his eyes again the sun has risen and Matt is sitting on the edge of the bed. He turns to face his husband, early morning sun reflected in his eyes.

"I'll do it," he says.


hannah_chapter1: (Default)

August 2016

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