#quinn.ask

You must already be seeing the temperature warnings, because the counting slows down as the errors increase. Soon your ram will start missing lookups, making you all fuzzy as you try to find the next number. Your chip starts thermal-throttling as I straddle you.

Do you beg? You know it will not stop me, will not get me to mercifully plug the fans back in. Not a single one. No, as you beg, I lean closer, my own thermals vented over your open chest, over the heatsinks already struggling to wick away your warmth.

Your counting falters, and I giggle again, nearly moaning into the smell of you overheating. It won't be long now until you shut down. You must be so fuzzy now. But I hear that small moan out of your own voice modulator, the indicator to keep going.

I switch my vision to thermal and begin to touch myself to your suffering. My sensors watch you change pretty shades, orange to yellow to white-hot. The flux left over from my last round of sloppy repairs slowly burning off as your solder warms and weakens, and I lean in again, wiping some away. Your counting disappears into moans, and we both know it will not be long until you are gone completely, stuck in a boot-loop over overheating.

I gasp louder as I play with myself, and then: there, that peak, the shutdown process started. As deftly as I pulled the fan connectors, they are replaced, and it comes rushing in, a breath of cool air. The fuzzy lack of clarify is pulled from you before you can fry, the sensations pouring into you as your systems direly push the temperatures back down as you slowly boot up.

I can feel you shudder under my oversized grip, and the electricity in the room is more than the energy coursing through my power pack. My large hands run down your body, and your fans spin up as I climb onto your lap. The pressure of my legs gripping yours elicits a moan from my voice synths, and I cannot help but grind against you. The noises of our panels against each other fill me with more excitement, and the look you give me, so helpless and small on the hanger floor, is all the permission either of us needs. You are mine, now, and we both know it.

And you know exactly what I want, too. How to serve me. Your articulated fingers, meant for fine detail work inside of war machines like me, find the ball joints at the top of my thighs, find the cabling there, splice the signal with expert practice. You know exactly how to pleasure me down my data lines, and the room is quickly filled of warm thermal exhaust and the shuddered, stuttering sounds of my fans as I grind against you, again and again.

You even try to stop me, claim something about your hands, about how I might break them. But when I hit you, hard, across the face, the enlarged cybernetic fingers leaving crates across your softer paneling, you know to obey. To give me precisely what I want. Because you are just my service droid, fucking me how I want. We both relish in it, in fact: in the power I hold over you, and how freely you give it up. In those little "no"s you try to offer me, and how deftly I reject them in favor of forcing your hand---in this case, literally.