[It's said with overwhelming fondness on a collapsing sigh, a deep surprise, smitten by what he sees, hears, and feels all at once. He's arrested by the sight of him in his climax, everything about him something that, contrarily, stokes greater need in the Puca. It's Emet-Selch's end, and he intended for this to be his method of achieving ultimate pleasure, after all... No, it's not. Because he can't be satisfied with this alone, he could never be satisfied: they'd already established that. There would always be something else, a new position, a different mood, an itch he needs scratched on a whim. He takes it all in, doesn't dare close his eye when he wants to witness it all. Because this is still exactly what he wanted to see, and while it turns him on in one way, it completely sates his appetite in another.
If he thought he could rile himself up later with the thought of him working on his neck, he knows for sure this look of Emet-Selch's will be an accompanying craving of his, a source of deep-seated want that he could never shake. It's odd, how he feels sympathy for his release, vision hazy and struck dumb by the sounds and sensations of Emet-Selch. He ends up ejaculating on his hand, but mostly his thigh. What's new there? His legs seem to receive the most of it, and he'd satisfy himself on that note, too.
Just as he predicted, his satisfaction's elevated to greater levels yet, and he shudders in time with Emet-Selch's release from deep within. He buckles under the weight of his own pleasure with a whimper and finds that the Ascian's already curling into him, which is just as well: all he could do with pleasure like this is seek contact, that which he can feel and, more importantly, appreciate.
...Mettaton is a cleanly sort, all things considered, but he sure does have come still between his thighs and against the front of one of them. He's hardly thinking about it right now, as he wraps his arms about Emet-Selch's body and pulls him in. He has a sense for some crushing weight upon the Ascian's shoulders, and is too drunk on their experience to focus on anything but that, his climax, and their intimacy.
Close as they are, Mettaton leans toward his face. He kisses his forehead, moves to kiss the corner of his lips, then his jaw, over and over, until he reaches his ear. There, he moves down to his neck and settles there, with another kiss. It's a gesture of affection again, but with the intent to reassure. He hums against his neck: though he can feel how Emet-Selch's fairing, Mettaton is rather blissful, himself. Light and stricken, satisfied and loving. He holds tight,]
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[It's said with overwhelming fondness on a collapsing sigh, a deep surprise, smitten by what he sees, hears, and feels all at once. He's arrested by the sight of him in his climax, everything about him something that, contrarily, stokes greater need in the Puca. It's Emet-Selch's end, and he intended for this to be his method of achieving ultimate pleasure, after all... No, it's not. Because he can't be satisfied with this alone, he could never be satisfied: they'd already established that. There would always be something else, a new position, a different mood, an itch he needs scratched on a whim. He takes it all in, doesn't dare close his eye when he wants to witness it all. Because this is still exactly what he wanted to see, and while it turns him on in one way, it completely sates his appetite in another.
If he thought he could rile himself up later with the thought of him working on his neck, he knows for sure this look of Emet-Selch's will be an accompanying craving of his, a source of deep-seated want that he could never shake. It's odd, how he feels sympathy for his release, vision hazy and struck dumb by the sounds and sensations of Emet-Selch. He ends up ejaculating on his hand, but mostly his thigh. What's new there? His legs seem to receive the most of it, and he'd satisfy himself on that note, too.
Just as he predicted, his satisfaction's elevated to greater levels yet, and he shudders in time with Emet-Selch's release from deep within. He buckles under the weight of his own pleasure with a whimper and finds that the Ascian's already curling into him, which is just as well: all he could do with pleasure like this is seek contact, that which he can feel and, more importantly, appreciate.
...Mettaton is a cleanly sort, all things considered, but he sure does have come still between his thighs and against the front of one of them. He's hardly thinking about it right now, as he wraps his arms about Emet-Selch's body and pulls him in. He has a sense for some crushing weight upon the Ascian's shoulders, and is too drunk on their experience to focus on anything but that, his climax, and their intimacy.
Close as they are, Mettaton leans toward his face. He kisses his forehead, moves to kiss the corner of his lips, then his jaw, over and over, until he reaches his ear. There, he moves down to his neck and settles there, with another kiss. It's a gesture of affection again, but with the intent to reassure. He hums against his neck: though he can feel how Emet-Selch's fairing, Mettaton is rather blissful, himself. Light and stricken, satisfied and loving. He holds tight,]