[Mettaton smiles against Emet-Selch's lips at the feeling of him bending, contorting with the coaxing of his touch to meld against metal. If any of them was to form against the other, it would have to be Emet-Selch, as it always was. He was even contributing, pressing himself as firmly as he could- and even pressing deep into their kiss, their lips locked enough that he knew they could easily deepen that kiss until there was no way they could break from it.
A low, soft growl- a brief thing, really. It's a sign of Mettaton's willingness to steal his breath. But... he wanted to address something else. So they break apart, just far enough to converse. Though he's not a Puca, enough of being one has become a part of him. It doesn't take a thought for him to want to scent Emet-Selch, nor does growling seem foreign when claiming his husband. He could easily envision himself working from his neck down to his shoulders, his chest, over his soft abdomen and lower still.....
But what reaches his chest instead is his own hand, though the touch is firm as much as it is tender. He offers Emet-Selch a warm, soft smile. Would Emet-Selch even practice his healing talents while he had them?
The mage's stillness is followed by a press, and Mettaton exhales heat. That smile sobers slightly, as the robot stoops forward to press a kiss to the base of Emet-Selch's neck. ...For once, tall ears do not press or slap against his face in the process, and though it had never been something he thought about before, he notices its absence. Even still, kissing him wasn't the part that felt off.]
And with sore as the improvement, I take it... How I wish I could speed your recovery. [He says this at first close to his neck, as he pulls back. His fingers gently rub against Emet-Selch's chest, a tender touch followed by the press of his palm.] I'd like to see it for myself.
[Mettaton was visual, just as much as he was tactile. He wanted to see Emet-Selch's chest, the wound that came from ending a senseless night of agonizing loneliness and savagery. He kisses at his jaw, holding Emet-Selch still tight to his body, and knew even without seeing it that it would scar. One way or another, it would scar. ...Often, these scars ended up right over Emet-Selch's heart, he thinks with a small, soft smile.
Transfixed momentarily by Emet-Selch's eyes, Mettaton's lips part with no sound to pair it.]
Will you come with me, darling? We've barely had a moment just to ourselves.
[Starting strong with violence and terror, then moving along to injury and recovery. Then more of it... and now, they were something resembling stability. Emet-Selch was the only one sore, and that was close to normalcy.]
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A low, soft growl- a brief thing, really. It's a sign of Mettaton's willingness to steal his breath. But... he wanted to address something else. So they break apart, just far enough to converse. Though he's not a Puca, enough of being one has become a part of him. It doesn't take a thought for him to want to scent Emet-Selch, nor does growling seem foreign when claiming his husband. He could easily envision himself working from his neck down to his shoulders, his chest, over his soft abdomen and lower still.....
But what reaches his chest instead is his own hand, though the touch is firm as much as it is tender. He offers Emet-Selch a warm, soft smile. Would Emet-Selch even practice his healing talents while he had them?
The mage's stillness is followed by a press, and Mettaton exhales heat. That smile sobers slightly, as the robot stoops forward to press a kiss to the base of Emet-Selch's neck. ...For once, tall ears do not press or slap against his face in the process, and though it had never been something he thought about before, he notices its absence. Even still, kissing him wasn't the part that felt off.]
And with sore as the improvement, I take it... How I wish I could speed your recovery. [He says this at first close to his neck, as he pulls back. His fingers gently rub against Emet-Selch's chest, a tender touch followed by the press of his palm.] I'd like to see it for myself.
[Mettaton was visual, just as much as he was tactile. He wanted to see Emet-Selch's chest, the wound that came from ending a senseless night of agonizing loneliness and savagery. He kisses at his jaw, holding Emet-Selch still tight to his body, and knew even without seeing it that it would scar. One way or another, it would scar. ...Often, these scars ended up right over Emet-Selch's heart, he thinks with a small, soft smile.
Transfixed momentarily by Emet-Selch's eyes, Mettaton's lips part with no sound to pair it.]
Will you come with me, darling? We've barely had a moment just to ourselves.
[Starting strong with violence and terror, then moving along to injury and recovery. Then more of it... and now, they were something resembling stability. Emet-Selch was the only one sore, and that was close to normalcy.]