Hey guys

What if Flowery was in Undertale? 🐛

I am so inconsistent with how I draw Flowery it’s bothering me so much aaaghhh

This is the first time I’ve drawn Frisk in like 9 years probably! I was probably 9 at the time lol

Context:

He's always loose enough never to need prep, wet enough never to need lube, but somehow still pronographically tight. And he knows about his Perfect Body, so he has the utmost confidence to back it up

He straddles your lap as he's prone to do, teasing you between his cheeks before sinking onto you except—

It won't... go in?

His confident and nonchalant facade is broken. His eyes mouth falls open, and he tries again. In vain.

You have him lay down so you can finger him open. You expected it to be different here, but you hadn't expected it to be this different. Perhaps his stats have bolstered his tolerance for pleasure, or he had simply been unconsciously stifling it so as to maintain his Princely visage. But when you curl your fingers to stroke his prostate, his eyes go wide and his entire body jolts. Entranced, you don't let up. You keep hitting that same spot.

Try as he might, Flowery could do nothing to smother the noises both of you can't believe are pouring out of those lips. And he does try, covering his mouth with a hand too slack to muffle anything at all. His golden flesh is rendered entirely pink, flushed from cheek to chest. He's panting like a dog. The building knot under his abdomen has him itching to beg.

When you're finally inside of him, he's thankful that you stay still for a moment. He's never felt so full. Your size hasn't changed, neither has he, but it had always been easy to take you. Penetration was merely part of the process to your satisfaction, but like this, it feels more as if he was being cleaved open, as if you were making space for yourself by rearranging his guts.

And when he finally adjusts and tells you to move, he genuinely sees stars. All of his thoughts are wiped, replaced to a repeating mantra of you. He doesn't even remember to cover his mouth like he did previously, hands too busy clawing at the sheets and at your shoulders for a semblance of reason—and that's what's most astounding, if he had the mental facilities to realize. He's hurting you, digging nail into skin and scratching, clawing. Too lost in the pleasure to notice at all.

He falls apart, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He doesn't want it to stop in the first place.