[It was true. Mettaton's dreams carried him toward impossibilities, but they were impossibilities that he so dearly wanted. Where it frustrates, tortures Emet-Selch in a direction unsatisfying, it tortures Mettaton all the same, but in one he finds wistful and worth fierce arousal. Fantasy, to him, was a powerful drive, and a persuasive force toward something that would totally drown him.
Instead of the pleasure of satisfaction pulling him under, Mettaton opted for torture, for utter lack, as he reminded himself of all he wanted. And he wanted so much. So, so much.
And he writhes, losing himself to thought, to the deep rumble of Emet-Selch's voice. Ears lean enough to make contact with the pillow, and Mettaton shivers with a short cry, pressing his thighs together to squeeze Emet-Selch's cock between them. If he pressed down, arching his back into the rigidity of his husband, Mettaton could feel his shaft riding along his own crotch—and in sympathy he could almost dream of it as his own, a heavy, thick erection nestled between his thighs. He wanted him so badly, and all of that wanting, that ache, is converted into a sharp cry.
Keep squeezing. Mettaton could do that, and he feels his cock, firm and hard, held between the supple silicone of his legs. Lost in the vivid nature of his dream, and so pleasantly close to the man he loves, Mettaton groans against his neck—even as he feels no relief at bay.
He couldn't. He would ache, and ache, and ache, and it would grow and intensify... until he could lay quietly and let it go down. He had no battery, and couldn't sleep. He had only all of the energy in his legs that needed release, tension that provokes him to thrust and to dream of slipping his cock between Emet-Selch's legs...
As he is, he shivers and clings to Emet-Selch, appreciative of the fingers that dig into him, of the arms that hold him close. Perhaps it was only torture, in the end, but Mettaton had so much want that he couldn't find anything to do with it all, save for sympathize with Emet-Selch's release as though it were his own. He was breathless, his voice breaking as he chants Emet-Selch's name quiet against his neck, begging for him to spill without coherent words.]
no subject
Instead of the pleasure of satisfaction pulling him under, Mettaton opted for torture, for utter lack, as he reminded himself of all he wanted. And he wanted so much. So, so much.
And he writhes, losing himself to thought, to the deep rumble of Emet-Selch's voice. Ears lean enough to make contact with the pillow, and Mettaton shivers with a short cry, pressing his thighs together to squeeze Emet-Selch's cock between them. If he pressed down, arching his back into the rigidity of his husband, Mettaton could feel his shaft riding along his own crotch—and in sympathy he could almost dream of it as his own, a heavy, thick erection nestled between his thighs. He wanted him so badly, and all of that wanting, that ache, is converted into a sharp cry.
Keep squeezing. Mettaton could do that, and he feels his cock, firm and hard, held between the supple silicone of his legs. Lost in the vivid nature of his dream, and so pleasantly close to the man he loves, Mettaton groans against his neck—even as he feels no relief at bay.
He couldn't. He would ache, and ache, and ache, and it would grow and intensify... until he could lay quietly and let it go down. He had no battery, and couldn't sleep. He had only all of the energy in his legs that needed release, tension that provokes him to thrust and to dream of slipping his cock between Emet-Selch's legs...
As he is, he shivers and clings to Emet-Selch, appreciative of the fingers that dig into him, of the arms that hold him close. Perhaps it was only torture, in the end, but Mettaton had so much want that he couldn't find anything to do with it all, save for sympathize with Emet-Selch's release as though it were his own. He was breathless, his voice breaking as he chants Emet-Selch's name quiet against his neck, begging for him to spill without coherent words.]