[This wasn't the first time he'd made do with fur as a place to glide his cock along. And in general, he knew he'd gotten off to meager, or otherwise unforgiving friction (such as all the times he'd come with the head of his cock pushed into the glowing glass of Mettaton's waist, while being fucked). It wasn't the threat of rawness that was the issue... but he'd never considered any of those times before, whether Mettaton could manifest an erection or not, as making do. But he says nothing about it, humming breathlessly instead.]
With you... is anything plain or simple.
[He had no real problem with Mettaton's 'creativity', or lack thereof. A fantasy didn't have to be elaborate or strange to be worthwhile. And given the opportunity, there would be plenty that could be delved into, when it came to what Mettaton had dreamt of. Even if, right now, it was an imagining that only ached more bitterly to him. What was the point of trying anything new?
But he forces a moan instead, as Mettaton squeezes him between thighs. It's not faked, exactly, but it would've been something he would've otherwise held back. But he could hear the sounds the robot himself made, gasps and groans that accompanied this version of 'thrusting', so he had some duty to add to it, for as long as Mettaton sought to ache.
So he lets his breath to shudder, for smaller sounds to escape with it, as Mettaton attended to his neck. Consciously, his fingers dig at Mettaton's body, to hold onto him as he moved. Listens as the other man describes what he'd seen in his dream, an explicit fantasy that causes him to tense in mingled want and frustration.
Skirts? The word registers, but he doesn't have the space to consider it thoroughly, or to ask what exactly Mettaton had imagined him wearing. He'll return to it eventually. More important were the other details, dressed in something that still left him on display, in the aftermath of having been repeatedly fucked and filled. Filled to the point where he couldn't take it all, where rivulets of milky semen made a mess between his thighs- and with his own cock firmed up, peering out from beneath skirts(?), a sure sign of how he was enjoying himself. How he wanted more, no matter how many times he'd already been used.
But he couldn't drip now, not with Mettaton's seed. There was only the mess his come alone could manage, which wasn't the same at all. He could only empty himself; he couldn't be made full.
Emet-Selch chokes back a sharper whine, knowing that it would be too blatantly upset. Mettaton's dream was too potent, and it was impossible, but for once he didn't want to complain, if it would mean drawing his lover out from it. Even if he didn't understand why Mettaton would torture himself like this, unable to find some conclusion at all, even an unsatisfying one, as the Ascian expected for himself, at best.
So he ignores it, as much as he could, instead, holding back any sound beyond some appropriately unsteady breathing. The best he could think to do in the moment, was to not respond to what he said at all, and move past it instead.]
Keep- squeezing me between your thighs, Mettaton. Just like that....
[He wasn't as close as he would've liked, but he tries to force it, to rub himself off between furry legs.]
no subject
With you... is anything plain or simple.
[He had no real problem with Mettaton's 'creativity', or lack thereof. A fantasy didn't have to be elaborate or strange to be worthwhile. And given the opportunity, there would be plenty that could be delved into, when it came to what Mettaton had dreamt of. Even if, right now, it was an imagining that only ached more bitterly to him. What was the point of trying anything new?
But he forces a moan instead, as Mettaton squeezes him between thighs. It's not faked, exactly, but it would've been something he would've otherwise held back. But he could hear the sounds the robot himself made, gasps and groans that accompanied this version of 'thrusting', so he had some duty to add to it, for as long as Mettaton sought to ache.
So he lets his breath to shudder, for smaller sounds to escape with it, as Mettaton attended to his neck. Consciously, his fingers dig at Mettaton's body, to hold onto him as he moved. Listens as the other man describes what he'd seen in his dream, an explicit fantasy that causes him to tense in mingled want and frustration.
Skirts? The word registers, but he doesn't have the space to consider it thoroughly, or to ask what exactly Mettaton had imagined him wearing. He'll return to it eventually. More important were the other details, dressed in something that still left him on display, in the aftermath of having been repeatedly fucked and filled. Filled to the point where he couldn't take it all, where rivulets of milky semen made a mess between his thighs- and with his own cock firmed up, peering out from beneath skirts(?), a sure sign of how he was enjoying himself. How he wanted more, no matter how many times he'd already been used.
But he couldn't drip now, not with Mettaton's seed. There was only the mess his come alone could manage, which wasn't the same at all. He could only empty himself; he couldn't be made full.
Emet-Selch chokes back a sharper whine, knowing that it would be too blatantly upset. Mettaton's dream was too potent, and it was impossible, but for once he didn't want to complain, if it would mean drawing his lover out from it. Even if he didn't understand why Mettaton would torture himself like this, unable to find some conclusion at all, even an unsatisfying one, as the Ascian expected for himself, at best.
So he ignores it, as much as he could, instead, holding back any sound beyond some appropriately unsteady breathing. The best he could think to do in the moment, was to not respond to what he said at all, and move past it instead.]
Keep- squeezing me between your thighs, Mettaton. Just like that....
[He wasn't as close as he would've liked, but he tries to force it, to rub himself off between furry legs.]