“…What are- oh.” She stiffens up, stocky little body tense and wheels preemptively starting to spin before they stop, and…the caress is apparently accepted. The cheekguards are nothing special, just designed to protect her faceplates during an impact, to frame her jaw to look interesting, but they’re seldom touched. It feels a little weird. Okay, that’s kind of nice. Leaning her helm into the touch.
She jumps a bit- but laughs- it tickles! Her palm is oddly soft- there’s thick padding upon it, something to increase her grip, and she tastes like road salt and sweet silver shavings (someone clearly was having a snack earlier) and a hint of mechanical oil- the kind used in maintaining weaponry. Huh. “That’s unsanitary.” She doesn’t pull her hand away though, still petting his head, her own helm rolling to rest against his servos wherever they go. It’s strange, how peaceful this feels. “I mean, I wash my servos, but you’re gonna get some grit in there.”
Electing to not explain that he’s unbothered by small amounts of grit because most of his meals are made up of small vermin and dead things, Gravescratch licks at her palm again, humming softly and absolutely enjoying the taste and the odd texture. Mm. Probably shouldn’t lick too much, it will most likely be misconstrued and will absolutely be weird, but- okay, once more. And then a mutter of “you taste like snack foods” by way of explanation.
And, hm. Rumbling softly with himself, he sits down and flops down onto his side, propping himself up with one of his secondary arms in order to lounge comfortably around Saddleback’s pedes. While still rubbing the nice spots around her helm with both primary servos. “We are both very relaxed. Come down here so that can continue?” he suggests, then blinks and tilts his helm slightly, realizing how that might sound. “I am not propositioning you. Floors are not comfortable for that.”
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