[It's not as though Mettaton's putting forward a controlled visage prior to their kiss, not at all. But his natural charisma dictates some shade of control, intense and wanting and passionate betrayed by the way he looks back at Emet-Selch: the occasional lick of his lips, predatory with an underlying note of desperation, like anything could cause him to lose himself. He seems to enjoy being examined, and when he does finally close that distance between himself and Emet-Selch, it increases his obvious hunger for him.
So when Emet-Selch comes in to kiss him, it's met with incredible intensity, equally desperate — enough to pull from him that broken, undignified moan as he tries to take Emet-Selch like he's the air he's never had. He cannot think; it's blissful, how enraptured and mindless he feels, his Bonded all that exists in the world to him in this moment. This sheer intensity only serves to bring forth such affection for the other man, unfocused want and love causing Mettaton to catch his lip, to suck and bite here and there among the breathy whimpers he doesn't realize he's making. Whimpers with Hades's name uttered between, still largely beyond his awareness.
His grip around his cock firms, though the introduction of something slick makes it far easier for him to pull at his arousal with one firm stroke then another, releasing him from his fist then switching back to isolated strokes of his fingers. He presses his length against his thigh hungrily, selfishly, wanting to feel him against his body. The idol shudders and gasps, losing himself more and more but unable to keep from kissing, even to Emet-Selch's detriment.
Beyond kissing him, beyond squirming against his body, stroking his cock, pressing into his flesh, marking him up, taking him for what he can... Mettaton's want for more spikes. It's futile. He whimpers some more, kisses him more fiercely, thumbs the head of his cock covetously but is overall unable to scratch the itch he has. Nothing's enough, but he'll take everything he can get.]
H... Hades... Hades... Hades... [His voice is rendered soft like he's panting, repeating his name between kisses.]
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So when Emet-Selch comes in to kiss him, it's met with incredible intensity, equally desperate — enough to pull from him that broken, undignified moan as he tries to take Emet-Selch like he's the air he's never had. He cannot think; it's blissful, how enraptured and mindless he feels, his Bonded all that exists in the world to him in this moment. This sheer intensity only serves to bring forth such affection for the other man, unfocused want and love causing Mettaton to catch his lip, to suck and bite here and there among the breathy whimpers he doesn't realize he's making. Whimpers with Hades's name uttered between, still largely beyond his awareness.
His grip around his cock firms, though the introduction of something slick makes it far easier for him to pull at his arousal with one firm stroke then another, releasing him from his fist then switching back to isolated strokes of his fingers. He presses his length against his thigh hungrily, selfishly, wanting to feel him against his body. The idol shudders and gasps, losing himself more and more but unable to keep from kissing, even to Emet-Selch's detriment.
Beyond kissing him, beyond squirming against his body, stroking his cock, pressing into his flesh, marking him up, taking him for what he can... Mettaton's want for more spikes. It's futile. He whimpers some more, kisses him more fiercely, thumbs the head of his cock covetously but is overall unable to scratch the itch he has. Nothing's enough, but he'll take everything he can get.]
H... Hades... Hades... Hades... [His voice is rendered soft like he's panting, repeating his name between kisses.]