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million_starTitle: Marked
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
millionstar
Pairing: Solo!Bells (My favorite thing EVER)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Smut
Summary: Ganked from one of the prompts on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mkmeme: "I'm not huge on slash so it's difficult to request anything from Muse but I would like to see something about Matt around the time of Origin, when he drew his own veins with pen on the arms. I'm hoping maybe some Solo MattTime if you know what I mean ;-)"
Feedback: Is lovely if you are so inclined.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse, no profit or offense intended, and this is fiction.
Author's Note: Copious amounts of love todolce_piccante & myz_bee for feedback & encouragement! <3
He wakes unusually early in the morning.
He needs a moment to remember where the fuck he is until he sees the mess that litters the room he's in; the bottles and the broken chairs and ohyeahnowIremember.
He wonders where Dom might be, scrunching up his face in concentration, actually sitting up for a second or two until he glares at the hint of soft sunlight coming through the window of his hotel room. With a petulant snarl on his face he stalks to the window in question to draw the curtains closed.
He catches his reflection in the huge mirror on the wall on his way back to the bed and it's at this point that he realizes he's naked. He's not bothered by that in the least, though. His eyes sweep slowly across his body, first noticing the shock of red, mussed hair atop his head before trailing down the full length of his body.
People tell him he's much too thin, much too pale and gaunt. He's not bothered, though. As his eyes fall to the lower half of his body he smirks. Here, at least, there's nothing thin about him. No, that's one area that he's never gotten any complaints in.
But something is off. He cocks his head to the side as his brain tries to make the connection he's desperately trying to make when he notices his arms and it hits him.
They've faded.
This particular problem is easily fixed, though. It takes him an age to find a marker amidst the mess but when he does he sits down in the plush chair in front of the mirror and sets down to marking his skin. He throws one leg lazily over the arm of the chair and makes himself comfortable, one arm in his lap.
It's too bad Dom isn't here; he's always wanted to do this, has always been fascinated with this particular habit of his. He smiles at the mere thought of Dom.
He does that alot, actually; but that's something he keeps to himself.
It's not the marker he typically uses but he doesn't care. The tip slides fluidly across his skin, the smell of ink filling the air. He studies his work intently; watching the color bleed into his skin is so satisfying. It's always been the secret gratification that he likes so much. He's finished with one arm when that old familiar feeling begins to blossom in his groin.
This is why he can't let Dom do this to him. He's not sure if he wants the drummer to know that this is such a pronounced kink to him. And while the blond does hold something of a spell over him at times, he's not ready to admit to it just yet, and he certainly doesn't need Dom having something else to make fun of him about.
His eyes drift slowly to the area between his legs, and for a moment he puts the marker aside so he can cradle the soft skin of his inner thigh with his hand, his fingertips following the same path they have for years now. He squirms a bit in the chair, his head lolling back against it and catches sight of himself in the mirror; being able to see his reflection in the mirror from his seated position was something he wasn't expecting. He's quite the sight in the plush, red chair, all pale limbs and skin, save for the thatch of thick, dark hair between his legs.
He picks up the marker again and resumes his work, the tip of his tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip. His breathing is becoming ever so labored, though, as the delicious heat continues to build at his core, his chest rising and falling. As he begins working on the second arm he notices that his hand is shaking a bit; he knows that it's because he's not able to concentrate on his work because he keeps stealing glances at his cock as it begins to come to life.
He licks his palm as wetly as he can. Long fingers curl tightly around his dripping length and he allows himself one firm tug.
Ohhh.
He wonders briefly just what is more overwhelming right now, the fact that the skin in his hand is searingly hot or that it's so fucking hard. It's decided in record time, however, that he doesn't care.
He's ready.
Contemplating his reflection in the mirror, his eyes widen momentarily. Is he posing? Perhaps, even though he's the only one privy to this little performance. It's a picturesque scene; his legs spread wide, one arm thrown behind his head, cock in hand. When he starts stroking himself firmly his eyes fall not to the hand setting a steady rhythm between his legs, but to the muscles in his forearm as they clench with each tug. The black marks he's traced over his veins strain against his skin as his rhythm increases.
It's interesting to him that amidst the pleasure coursing through his body right now he wonders how Dom would react if he were to walk in on him. Would he like what he saw? Would he turn and leave in disgust?
Would he walk over to the chair and sink to his knees to bury his blond head between these open legs?
More.
Hisses and moans fill the air as he works his cock smoothly, all the while thoughts of Dom flooding his mind. When his eyes fall closed he sees them curled up together, the drummer holding the marker this time, placing quick kisses to his arm before applying ink to that porcelain skin. Oh, what that would do to him... the mere thought of it makes him cry out softly.
Faster.
His eyes desperately want to fall shut, but he forces them open, he wants to see himself come. The urge to open his legs even further overcomes him and he complies, the leg thrown over the arm of the chair now sticking straight out. He's dripping with sweat; the position he's found himself in is taking a lot of work to maintain and he grunts with the effort as he wanks himself mercilessly.
Fuck.
The mirror watches as he pumps himself, the chair rocking and creaking in protest. It's not gonna be much longer, so he makes sure to get one last look at his reflection. When he does it's never been more obvious that this isn't the typical pen he uses to tint the veins on his arms, because the arm that he's thrown behind his head is streaked; the ink is coming off as he sweats profusely. The stains are running down his arm, across his underarm and down his chest. It's an image that spurs him on and he works himself that much faster, his mouth open, a string of filthy moans falling from his lips.
Dom.
YES.
When he finally comes white mingles with black across his hand and forearm, color bleeding into color as it drips onto the chair. He closes his eyes, spent, and giggles to himself.
The hotel can put the chair on their bill.
Author:
millionstarPairing: Solo!Bells (My favorite thing EVER)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Smut
Summary: Ganked from one of the prompts on
mkmeme: "I'm not huge on slash so it's difficult to request anything from Muse but I would like to see something about Matt around the time of Origin, when he drew his own veins with pen on the arms. I'm hoping maybe some Solo MattTime if you know what I mean ;-)" Feedback: Is lovely if you are so inclined.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse, no profit or offense intended, and this is fiction.
Author's Note: Copious amounts of love to
dolce_piccante & myz_bee for feedback & encouragement! <3 He wakes unusually early in the morning.
He needs a moment to remember where the fuck he is until he sees the mess that litters the room he's in; the bottles and the broken chairs and ohyeahnowIremember.
He wonders where Dom might be, scrunching up his face in concentration, actually sitting up for a second or two until he glares at the hint of soft sunlight coming through the window of his hotel room. With a petulant snarl on his face he stalks to the window in question to draw the curtains closed.
He catches his reflection in the huge mirror on the wall on his way back to the bed and it's at this point that he realizes he's naked. He's not bothered by that in the least, though. His eyes sweep slowly across his body, first noticing the shock of red, mussed hair atop his head before trailing down the full length of his body.
People tell him he's much too thin, much too pale and gaunt. He's not bothered, though. As his eyes fall to the lower half of his body he smirks. Here, at least, there's nothing thin about him. No, that's one area that he's never gotten any complaints in.
But something is off. He cocks his head to the side as his brain tries to make the connection he's desperately trying to make when he notices his arms and it hits him.
They've faded.
This particular problem is easily fixed, though. It takes him an age to find a marker amidst the mess but when he does he sits down in the plush chair in front of the mirror and sets down to marking his skin. He throws one leg lazily over the arm of the chair and makes himself comfortable, one arm in his lap.
It's too bad Dom isn't here; he's always wanted to do this, has always been fascinated with this particular habit of his. He smiles at the mere thought of Dom.
He does that alot, actually; but that's something he keeps to himself.
It's not the marker he typically uses but he doesn't care. The tip slides fluidly across his skin, the smell of ink filling the air. He studies his work intently; watching the color bleed into his skin is so satisfying. It's always been the secret gratification that he likes so much. He's finished with one arm when that old familiar feeling begins to blossom in his groin.
This is why he can't let Dom do this to him. He's not sure if he wants the drummer to know that this is such a pronounced kink to him. And while the blond does hold something of a spell over him at times, he's not ready to admit to it just yet, and he certainly doesn't need Dom having something else to make fun of him about.
His eyes drift slowly to the area between his legs, and for a moment he puts the marker aside so he can cradle the soft skin of his inner thigh with his hand, his fingertips following the same path they have for years now. He squirms a bit in the chair, his head lolling back against it and catches sight of himself in the mirror; being able to see his reflection in the mirror from his seated position was something he wasn't expecting. He's quite the sight in the plush, red chair, all pale limbs and skin, save for the thatch of thick, dark hair between his legs.
He picks up the marker again and resumes his work, the tip of his tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip. His breathing is becoming ever so labored, though, as the delicious heat continues to build at his core, his chest rising and falling. As he begins working on the second arm he notices that his hand is shaking a bit; he knows that it's because he's not able to concentrate on his work because he keeps stealing glances at his cock as it begins to come to life.
He licks his palm as wetly as he can. Long fingers curl tightly around his dripping length and he allows himself one firm tug.
Ohhh.
He wonders briefly just what is more overwhelming right now, the fact that the skin in his hand is searingly hot or that it's so fucking hard. It's decided in record time, however, that he doesn't care.
He's ready.
Contemplating his reflection in the mirror, his eyes widen momentarily. Is he posing? Perhaps, even though he's the only one privy to this little performance. It's a picturesque scene; his legs spread wide, one arm thrown behind his head, cock in hand. When he starts stroking himself firmly his eyes fall not to the hand setting a steady rhythm between his legs, but to the muscles in his forearm as they clench with each tug. The black marks he's traced over his veins strain against his skin as his rhythm increases.
It's interesting to him that amidst the pleasure coursing through his body right now he wonders how Dom would react if he were to walk in on him. Would he like what he saw? Would he turn and leave in disgust?
Would he walk over to the chair and sink to his knees to bury his blond head between these open legs?
More.
Hisses and moans fill the air as he works his cock smoothly, all the while thoughts of Dom flooding his mind. When his eyes fall closed he sees them curled up together, the drummer holding the marker this time, placing quick kisses to his arm before applying ink to that porcelain skin. Oh, what that would do to him... the mere thought of it makes him cry out softly.
Faster.
His eyes desperately want to fall shut, but he forces them open, he wants to see himself come. The urge to open his legs even further overcomes him and he complies, the leg thrown over the arm of the chair now sticking straight out. He's dripping with sweat; the position he's found himself in is taking a lot of work to maintain and he grunts with the effort as he wanks himself mercilessly.
Fuck.
The mirror watches as he pumps himself, the chair rocking and creaking in protest. It's not gonna be much longer, so he makes sure to get one last look at his reflection. When he does it's never been more obvious that this isn't the typical pen he uses to tint the veins on his arms, because the arm that he's thrown behind his head is streaked; the ink is coming off as he sweats profusely. The stains are running down his arm, across his underarm and down his chest. It's an image that spurs him on and he works himself that much faster, his mouth open, a string of filthy moans falling from his lips.
Dom.
YES.
When he finally comes white mingles with black across his hand and forearm, color bleeding into color as it drips onto the chair. He closes his eyes, spent, and giggles to himself.
The hotel can put the chair on their bill.
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no subject
Date: 2010-07-17 10:20 pm (UTC)