Undone

[lalalive23]

Title: Undone
Author: lalalive23 
Pairing: Solo-Matt, implied Belldom
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Fluff, sex
Summary: Matt has a wank after a gig ;)
Feedback: Is as addicting as chocolate heroin. Yeah. I went there.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. If I did, they sure as hell would not be let out of the naughty closet. I don't make money off this. If I did, I would be a rich lady and not distracting myself from writing an undergrad thesis that is somehow much bigger than I.
Note: The second of the xmas fics (which are bloody well late, really sorry about that!) This one is for my beautiful millionstar . Her request was "solo Matt, in his glorious adulthood." This is the first and absolute last time I will write Matthew as a real person. Not that I have a problem with it, I just feel like, for me, it's a bit strange. My writing has always been fictional and I feel as though I don't do real Maffoo well. Anyway, do hope you enjoy this!

Thanks to dolce_piccante  and sunshine_173  for being beta's, bit readers, and overall the most wonderful friends.


As usual, my veins burned like fire when I came off the stage. My footsteps resonated in my ears, the soles of my trainers taking a particular timbre as I walked down the corridor. I had a love hate relationship with this feeling, with the way my body continued to convert anxiety into adrenaline making me seem erratic for several hours after the gig was done. I could feel him behind me, I could feel his energy and smell his sweat. Combined with the sounds of his heavy breathing, the way he struggled from the exertion of playing for over an hour, made the air thicken with something akin to sex. As usual, it had a flavor that nearly pushed me over the edge.

I never say anything immediately after a gig beyond the usual 'great show' or 'good job.' I'm too hypersensitive to carry on a normal conversation while my bodily functions are haywire. I know that fans can see what happens halfway through a gig and I don't try to keep a secret. Truth be told, I like to tease them, I like seeing their filthy grins or their shocked innocence. It pleases me to know there's someone as debauched as myself and I get the same pleasure out of knowing I've corrupted someone just enough to change the course of their future opinions about the music. I like that feeling, and when I'm playing right in front of them, it only makes my senses teeter on a delicious precipice of hysteria.

He knows it too, and I know he knows that I know it. Which is why I like to play in front of him sometimes, lewd grin et al. I like to force him to look, to notice. It's also why I was hurrying away from him like a frightened school girl with a crush. Eroticism on stage is one thing, when the lights and the fog and the music are there to cover up the meaning, but, when all is said and done, you can't really go up to your best mate with a tent in your trousers and expect a normal conversation.

Nothing every really comes of it, in all honesty. I can usually talk myself out of it, think of shit that no one would ever find sexy or desirable and suddenly the haze of sex has disappeared and only three minutes have passed. Usually, I pace like a lunatic in my dressing room with my trousers down to alleviate the tension. But on that particular evening, he hadn't properly tucked himself into that fucking stupid Tron suit - that ridiculous metallic piece of cellophane....that came with a helmet. On that particular evening, it had been my turn to notice.

And oh did I notice. The tightness in my trousers had become particularly profound, and it only proceeded to get worse as the evening continued. He was chatty, the bastard was, talking to the crowd more than usual because he was so goddamn cheery. Hearing his voice resonate through a stadium like that made my head spin. I convinced myself it was the CO2 fog.

When the gig had finished, he had wasted no time in laughing heartily as we walked back to our dressing rooms, slapping me on the back to congratulate me on another spectacular show. It fucking winded me with the force of desire, not the force of his hand. He carried on friendly conversation with Chris while I tried to forget the fact that, for a stadium, our dressing rooms were close together and separated by paper thin walls. The atmospheric sex was going to seep through the paint, I was sure, and I was going to die a true Shakespearean death.

I let out a gruff 'see you in a mo' before I slammed myself in the dressing room. Raking my hands through my hair, I focused on the sound of my breathing as I looked at myself in the mirror lined with blinding light bulbs. I looked more pale than usual and I snorted at myself. Even when I looked flushed I looked like a dead guy. Attractive.

Over the sounds of my wheezing and my attempt at making my footsteps louder, I could hear him chatting with his mum on the phone. I wanted to hate myself. I could feel my dick getting harder at the sound of his voice and I should have felt ashamed because he was talking to his mum about her flower garden. After the gigs, he usually calls his family members and they talk about the most pedantic shit you can think of. Fuck knows if it's because he wants to feel like a normal guy again but I should not have gotten hard at the discussion of heliotrope.

But again, we find ourselves at the discussion of his voice. I hate his voice because I envy it. I love his voice because it's so unique. I hate his voice because I fucking love it so much. And I hate it because it can get me impossibly hard in a matter of seconds, a secret I pray he never discovers. But I guess that's another reason I love it as much as I do.

My cock was throbbing in my trousers, and my hands twisted in my hair from the strain of not palming it with a vengeance. My lips were moist, and I hated the way my tongue snaked out to run along the flesh. I felt myself panting as I let his laughter wash over me. Burning in my chest I felt a moan rise like bile as it raced toward my open mouth. Just in time my hand flew to my mouth to muffle the sound. I knew he could hear me if I got too careless. In a way, that was exactly what I wanted, but I would never allow myself to be so reckless.

Stood still in the middle of the room, I reviewed my options which were dwindling by the second. My dick was practically screaming and was becoming too much of a distraction, so I undid my trousers to let them fall to the floor. The cool air through my pants did nothing to help my situation. At least there was less pressure so I could maintain the facade of focusing.

I thought of toasters. It was such an arbitrary item to imagine and I hoped that it would confuse my body into a state of paralyses, enough for me to concoct a series of remarkably disturbing images. Instead I thought of the way he ate french toast carefully with a fork and would lick the syrup from his lips.

I thought of the Holocaust, but then felt excruciatingly guilty for using such an image and imagined how Jesus would punish me for this the moment after I died. For some reason, Jesus looked like him. Perhaps because, in my mind, they were both blonde. And then I became certain of two things: I was most definitely going to hell and I was most definitely still hard.

Confusing my body into a state of flaccidness was not working, and with a harsh sigh I realized that the only way I could achieve any sort of relief was to immerse myself in every sexual sensation that came to mind and body. Did I want to? Yes and no. I wasn't gay. Or maybe I was....am...who the fuck cares. I would never really be able to explain why he affected me the way no other bloke could or would. But in that moment all I really cared about was curing the throb in the center of my groin. Fuck it was painful.

I threw myself onto one of the chairs in the room and kicked my trousers off. In the back of my mind I was aware that my trainers were still on, but I left them partly because I was in too big of a haze to focus on taking them off and partly because the silver shine made me horny. Head thrown back and eyes blurring as I stared at the ceiling, I let my fingers tease the skin around the waistband of my boxers as I let the sound of his voice consume me completely. Not looking at my hand while I had a wank was something that had stuck with me since I was a teenager. There was no real reason for aside from it made it easier to imagine it was someone else fisting my cock with fervor.

My whole body was hot, still drenched with the sweat from the gig and my skin felt sticky to the touch. As I worked my boxers down my hips, I thought briefly back to when I was fourteen, the way I would explore my body with confused haste and how we both would share dirty magazines we knicked from my brother. I remembered the way I would fist my hand around my cock and stare at the ceiling imagining a blurry blonde figure, pressing and rubbing myself - not to understand my sex but purely just to experience it.

Even then, as I stared up into a creamy white nothingness, I had a blonde figure on my brain but in recent years it had become more vivid. I let out a gasp as I finally allowed my hand to curl around myself and between the liquid already dripping from my dick and the sweat that had built up over the last few hours I was sufficiently slick.

I heard him laugh, and that was when I set the pace. I tried to time my upward rhythm with the moment he would pronounce an 's' or hold onto an 'l.' With him it was easy, as those seemed to be the letters he used the most, his vocabulary usually slim during the come down of a gig. My other hand was fisted in my mouth as I bit down on my knuckles, trying desperately to keep myself quiet so i could hear him and he couldn't hear me. I thought of his arse in that fucking onesie and wondered if he sat around his dressing room naked trying to air out. He always would unzip the moment he walked on stage, using the light breeze his brisk walk created with the flaps of the uniform to cool his back.

Did he stand naked with a fan to his front in the privacy of his room? Did he fondle himself after being tucked away for so long? The mere thought made my hips buck violently.

The picture of him naked and talking on the phone to his mum was filthy and I loved it. I held onto the image of his chest, golden and wet, and wanted to twist one of my nipples at the image but I knew I would forget myself and scream. Shame. They were so hard and my chest was heaving in anticipation.

I pictured his thighs caked and gleaming with sweat from beating the high-hat and the bass drum, and I shivered. I pictured his hair, matted and browned at the base of his neck. Mostly I remembered the way his voice would grunt from effort, and as I teased the head of my cock I imagined it was his hand and that it was his grunt that filled the air as I did so.

My dick was veined and purple from want, and I knew there wasn't a chance I was going to last long. I began to thrust into my hand, tightening at random intervals to surprise myself and i bit my hand harder at the pressure. I was whimpering, I could hear myself. My high pitched noises never once reached his ears and I was thankful that he continued to prattle on for my own sick enjoyment.

Limbs sprawled from every angle off the chair, I fucked my fist with wild abandon. I was drenched from effort, sweat stinging the corners of my eyes as I drove myself to a burning completion. It consumed the whole of me, and it was frightening. It was an all encompassing orgasm, the kind that make you double in on yourself as your come spurts in various directions and covers your fist unapologetically. The kind that has you curled in, shivering and wanting to cry as your stomach ripples and makes you feel like you could scream from the tension.

It was the kind that made me realize I was fucking over talking myself out of erections.

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