[Even though there were limits to his spine, to what his back could tolerate, Emet-Selch ignores it as much as he could, to better fit to Mettaton's particular shape. That the taller man couldn't offer the same heating services as before, he's unaware; he seemed warm enough as it was, the ambient robot temperature enough for him, especially when he was still clothed himself.
A kiss between them was inevitable, and Emet-Selch leans to meet it with the smallest sound that's quickly consumed by the security of their lips together.
He knew, of course, of Mettaton's lack of saliva. He'd kissed him before without it, and even if that made things a bit dryer between them than usual- the softness was just as he remembered. And the warmth with it, both features that felt entirely alive to him, even though they were synthetic in their most literal sense.
And it was tempting to deepen it, to offer all the breath he had to give- more than tempting, no matter how serious the kiss, and his heart speeds from the thought of how much he wanted. But he doesn't protest when it's paused, when Mettaton nudges their noses together, when he even rubs his cheek with his own, in a gesture that felt so familiar that it left him briefly stricken. Even if Mettaton lacked the glands and the pheromones of a puca, surely something of him would rub off all the same....
And it was sweetly affectionate besides. Gathering himself anew as Mettaton speaks, he nods to him.]
A bit sore... [He confesses, but it was an honest assessment. Neither elevated for the sake of complaint, nor downplayed because it was genuinely unpleasant. The inspection of his face through sight and touch goes without flinching or tension, though the welts themselves were still tender. But not raw, the redness of healing flesh rather than inflamed with infection.] I think natural healing still outpaces what I can do with magic....
[That bit was more of a grumble, but less frustrated than it could've been. And he goes still as Mettaton's winding grip moves onward, before pressing deliberately into his touch.]
--That part, is likely sorest of all.
[Metaphorically and literally. But literally too, as while even cushioned by fabric, he felt a distinct ache when Mettaton's hand snakes around to touch his heart. The bruises of injury there were still dark, and the arrow-wound notable, if closed over by healing skin. It would almost certainly scar.]
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A kiss between them was inevitable, and Emet-Selch leans to meet it with the smallest sound that's quickly consumed by the security of their lips together.
He knew, of course, of Mettaton's lack of saliva. He'd kissed him before without it, and even if that made things a bit dryer between them than usual- the softness was just as he remembered. And the warmth with it, both features that felt entirely alive to him, even though they were synthetic in their most literal sense.
And it was tempting to deepen it, to offer all the breath he had to give- more than tempting, no matter how serious the kiss, and his heart speeds from the thought of how much he wanted. But he doesn't protest when it's paused, when Mettaton nudges their noses together, when he even rubs his cheek with his own, in a gesture that felt so familiar that it left him briefly stricken. Even if Mettaton lacked the glands and the pheromones of a puca, surely something of him would rub off all the same....
And it was sweetly affectionate besides. Gathering himself anew as Mettaton speaks, he nods to him.]
A bit sore... [He confesses, but it was an honest assessment. Neither elevated for the sake of complaint, nor downplayed because it was genuinely unpleasant. The inspection of his face through sight and touch goes without flinching or tension, though the welts themselves were still tender. But not raw, the redness of healing flesh rather than inflamed with infection.] I think natural healing still outpaces what I can do with magic....
[That bit was more of a grumble, but less frustrated than it could've been. And he goes still as Mettaton's winding grip moves onward, before pressing deliberately into his touch.]
--That part, is likely sorest of all.
[Metaphorically and literally. But literally too, as while even cushioned by fabric, he felt a distinct ache when Mettaton's hand snakes around to touch his heart. The bruises of injury there were still dark, and the arrow-wound notable, if closed over by healing skin. It would almost certainly scar.]