[That it was as torturous as this, Emet-Selch hadn't expected. But in retrospect, he realizes he shouldn't have been surprised. Neither that they wouldn't have chosen to try anyway (and that Mettaton especially would seek to drown himself in this ache, an ache he presumed to be entirely mental, relying on fantasy rather than what they were actually doing), but that it would have this result. More than unsatisfying, it was unpleasant, but as Mettaton cries out, writhing against his body with his face pressed to his neck, he forces back any sound of his own, not trusting that they wouldn't dip towards distress.
He tries not to think instead, something of a difficult ask. But to not linger on memories they couldn't replicate, as the frustration in them weighed heavier than the arousal they offered. To just rub himself off between the firmness of thighs, a tight space Mettaton offered against his body. His cock was provided friction, attention; that would have to be enough. It wasn't as though this were the first time in his life he'd been called on to perform, though the problem was usually indifference rather than too much investment, too much longing....
It was the work of effort, rather than any natural desperation. Mechanical, almost detached- and if he'd given himself the choice, something he would've preferred to not reach at all. Even if it was a quicker way of getting rid of an erection and the resulting tension in his body, it wasn't an enjoyable method. But with a sharp tightening of muscles and catch of breath, he unceremoniously reaches climax.
And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't wholly terrible, to leave pumps of seed between his husband's thighs. But the relief he felt had more to do with the release of physical tension, rather than anything more. There was no excitement in marking him, in leaving a mess behind, only a distant thought of what they'd have to clean up now, and what more of a hassle that would be. And as that tension drained from him with his come, in the end he felt lonelier than before.
And then it was over, Emet-Selch's experience of it near silent, beyond the quickness of his breath.]
no subject
He tries not to think instead, something of a difficult ask. But to not linger on memories they couldn't replicate, as the frustration in them weighed heavier than the arousal they offered. To just rub himself off between the firmness of thighs, a tight space Mettaton offered against his body. His cock was provided friction, attention; that would have to be enough. It wasn't as though this were the first time in his life he'd been called on to perform, though the problem was usually indifference rather than too much investment, too much longing....
It was the work of effort, rather than any natural desperation. Mechanical, almost detached- and if he'd given himself the choice, something he would've preferred to not reach at all. Even if it was a quicker way of getting rid of an erection and the resulting tension in his body, it wasn't an enjoyable method. But with a sharp tightening of muscles and catch of breath, he unceremoniously reaches climax.
And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't wholly terrible, to leave pumps of seed between his husband's thighs. But the relief he felt had more to do with the release of physical tension, rather than anything more. There was no excitement in marking him, in leaving a mess behind, only a distant thought of what they'd have to clean up now, and what more of a hassle that would be. And as that tension drained from him with his come, in the end he felt lonelier than before.
And then it was over, Emet-Selch's experience of it near silent, beyond the quickness of his breath.]