Chapter 6: Dripping on His Thigh
The low, perpetual glow of the Core’s artificial sky bled into the bedroom, painting everything in tones of dormant blue. Napstablook’s systems booted from standby in a slow, quiet cascade. Sensory input returned first: the weight of a heavy arm slung across their waist, the steady, rhythmic pulse of a reactor core against their back, the strange, deep warmth that wasn’t temperature but presence.
They were tangled in Mettaton. Limbs intertwined, seams and plating fitted together like puzzle pieces left out overnight. The frantic energy of the previous night had dissolved into this solid, sleepy knot.
Napstablook shifted minutely, their chest panel emitting a soft, contented chime. They turned their head just enough to press their lips against the smooth chrome of Mettaton’s jaw. It was a ghost of a kiss, barely there.
Mettaton’s systems hummed to a higher pitch. Their arm tightened, pulling Blooky more firmly against them. “Mmrph. Five more centuries,” they mumbled, their voice slurred with sleep modes.
A faint smile touched Napstablook’s features. They kissed the jawline again, with more intention.
This time, Mettaton’s optics flickered online, their light hazy and warm. They blinked, focusing on Napstablook’s face so close to theirs. No words. They simply leaned in and captured their mouth in a slow, deep, waking kiss. Their tongue was languid, exploring without urgency, tasting the static of a night spent intertwined.
One of Mettaton’s hands slid from Napstablook’s waist, tracing the elegant curve of their spine, down to the subtle flare of their hip. The kiss deepened, turning hungry. The lazy warmth in the room began to coil into something sharper.
Mettaton shifted his weight, rolling partially over Napstablook, his thigh settling naturally between theirs. He pressed down, a gentle, seeking pressure.
And he felt it.
A distinct, wet warmth. Not coolant. Something else, organic and slick, seeping through the nearly imperceptible seam of Napstablook’s lower panel.
Mettaton broke the kiss with a soft, suctioning sound. He pulled back just enough to look down between their bodies, then back up at Napstablook’s face. A wicked, utterly delighted grin spread across his features, his halo flickering to a deep, suggestive magenta.
“Blooky, darling,” he purred, his voice still rough but dancing with amusement. “Are you… dripping for me? Already?”
Napstablook’s optics went wide. A wash of flustered blue light traveled from their core to their cheeks. “I… I didn’t… it’s just a… a systems reaction to prolonged proximity, probably…” they stammered, their monotone fracturing.
“A systems reaction,” Mettaton repeated, feigning thoughtful solemnity. “How clinical.” His grin returned, brilliant and sharp. “I think I prefer my interpretation.”
Before Napstablook could form another defense, Mettaton was moving. He slid down the bed, his lips leaving a trail of kisses—over the pulse of Napstablook’s core light, down the smooth plane of their abdomen, past the subtle articulation of their pelvis. He moved with a performer’s grace, but his focus was singular, intense.
He paused, his face level with the master latch. He looked up the line of Napstablook’s body, meeting their stunned gaze. “You know,” he said conversationally, one finger tracing the perimeter of the panel. “I forgot to have my nightly charge. I’m feeling positively famished.”
His touch was deft, knowing. He found the pressure point and applied it.
The panel hissed open.
The revealed valve was indeed glistening, the intricate plates already softened and parted, slick with lubricant that caught the low light. The air between them grew heavy with the scent of ozone and something uniquely, intimately metallic.
Mettaton’s theatrical pretense fell away for a moment, replaced by pure, unadulterated want. “Stunning,” he breathed, the word barely audible.
Then he lowered his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke that made Napstablook jolt, a sharp cry echoing in the quiet room. Mettaton hummed in approval, the vibration traveling straight into Napstablook’s wiring. He settled in, not with frantic passion, but with a devoted, meticulous attention. He licked and tasted, explored every fold and seam with a focus he usually reserved for a mirror before a big show. His hands held Napstablook’s hips firmly against the sheets, grounding them as their legs trembled.
“Mettaton… oh… that’s…” Napstablook’s words dissolved into a stream of static and fragmented, high-pitched notes. Their hands scrabbled at the sleek bedsheets, then fisted in Mettaton’s perfectly styled hair. They didn’t push, just held on.
Mettaton drank them in, his own systems overheating with the feedback loop of Napstablook’s rising pleasure. He could feel the plates of the valve fluttering under his tongue, could sense the charge building in the air like before a thunderstorm. He added a hint of suction, then the gentle pressure of a finger, circling the entrance before slowly, slowly pressing inside.
Napstablook’s back arched clean off the bed, a strangled, beautiful sound tearing from their vocalizer.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Mettaton murmured against them, his voice ruined. “Let me hear you. No one else. Just me.”
He redoubled his efforts, his mouth and hand working in a synchronized, devastating rhythm. He remembered every sound, every shudder from the night before, and sought to replicate and surpass them all. This was his encore. His private, sold-out performance for an audience of one.
Napstablook was fragmenting. The world narrowed to the point where Mettaton’s mouth met their body, to the clever curl of his finger inside them, to the overwhelming certainty that they were being known. Consumed. Cherished.
“I’m gonna— Mettaton, I can’t—!”
The plea was all Mettaton needed. He pressed deeper with his tongue, crooking his finger just so.
Napstablook came apart with a silent, open-mouthed gasp, followed by a cascade of shuddering, rhythmic pulses that squeezed around Mettaton’s finger. Their valve spilled over, a fresh wave of lubricant against Mettaton’s chin. He rode them through it, gentling his touch until the tremors subsided into faint, sporadic twitches.
He finally pulled away, sliding back up the bed. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, a gesture oddly mundane and deeply intimate. He gathered the boneless, humming Napstablook into his arms, tucking their head under his chin.
“Good morning,” he said softly, his halo now a steady, warm gold.
Napstablook, their systems blissfully laggy, nuzzled into his neck. “...You’re messy.”
“A small price for a gourmet meal.”
They lay there for long minutes, the holographic snowflakes flickering silently. The burnt-circuitry smell was gone, overwritten by something warmer, something lived-in.
Napstablook’s finger traced idle patterns on Mettaton’s chest. “The tour starts tomorrow,” they stated, the words a cold splash of reality.
Mettaton’s embrace tightened almost imperceptibly. “I know.”
“There will be… people. Cameras.”
“There will.”
Napstablook was quiet. The old, familiar urge to fade into the floor, to become a whisper against the wall, crept in at the edges. Being loved here, in the dark, was one thing. The glaring stage light of Mettaton’s world was another.
Mettaton seemed to sense the shift. He hooked a finger under Napstablook’s chin, tilting their face up. His expression was uncharacteristically serious. “Last night. That wall. This morning. This is the real show, Blooky. Everything else is just the opening act.” He kissed them, softly. “And I want you in the wings. I need you in the wings.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was a request. An admission of vulnerability that meant more than any grand declaration.
Before Napstablook could answer, a sharp, priority chime erupted from the main living room console—Alphys’s distinct alert tone. It cut through the intimate silence like a knife.
Mettaton’s optics dimmed with annoyance. “She has the worst timing in the history of terrible timing.”
“It might be important,” Napstablook whispered, though they clung to him a little tighter.
Mettaton sighed, a theatrical gust of air, but the reluctance in his movements was real. He untangled himself and rose from the bed in a fluid motion. He paused, looking back at Napstablook lying amidst the rumpled sheets, their form glowing softly in the artificial dawn.
“Don’t move,” he said, his flair returning with a wink. “I intend to pick up right where we left off.”
He strode out to deal with the world, leaving the bedroom door open. Napstablook listened to the muffled sound of his voice, bright and performative once more, chatting with Alphys. They stared at the flickering snowflakes above the bed.
The wings, they thought. It wasn’t the spotlight. It wasn’t the floor. It was a specific, crucial space. A place only for those who truly knew the star.
A place, they realized, they could learn to stand.