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My Organic Overlord

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It works.

It works like most things. He’s an idiot human and doesn’t know the first thing about anything. And it’s not her fault she’s vastly superior, and doesn’t have the restraining bolts and hardware short-outs to forget it. It isn’t that he doesn’t know what he’s doing with humans, apparently, at least if the sighs and moans and other explicitly fleshy noises that come out of that bedroom door are anything to go by.

So, when the time comes, as she knew it would, because probability and chemistry are two of her specialities, and because, well, she’s sexy, and she’s a great flirt, and to give him some credit so is he, she takes control.

She’s a machine, whatever that means, and he’s shy about the bits. He handles the Falcon like he’s fucking, but he handles her like he’s afraid to fuck up. The first time, he’s drunk and she’s powered down for the evening, bit of light backup, sorting through networks for stuff she might want to download on the sly. He’d told her, voice low and even more drawled than usual, that he thought there’d be holograms.

Holograms? Something projected into the room to make her more palatable to him, to present as – she’d asked him, then, what hologram he’d want, as if that was a service she’d ever in a million years deign to provide. The hologram projection system – which can model complex galaxies in seconds, provide facial sketches from verbal description, model battles and facilitate tactical planning – is not a fucking toy. It’s not, even more explicitly, a toy for fucking.

He’d shrugged, maybe even blushed, she couldn’t see in the light and she wasn’t going to run thermal imaging, that wasn’t exactly a sexy move. But to be fair to him – which, occasionally, grudgingly, she was – he’d confessed it was just because he couldn’t work out how else they might –

He didn’t say fuck. Not that it was too procreative, given who he fucked and when. Maybe he thought it was too crass, or maybe he didn’t understand then – and after all, she hadn’t yet shown him, exactly how droids feel pleasure, exactly how droids make men curl in ecstasy, roll over, and say ‘L3, you’re the best lay in this galaxy’.

Instead, he’d said ‘hang out’, to which she’d tartly retorted that they hung out all day every day anyway, only he usually kept his clothes on and seemingly, they were all over the floor. Except his cape. Did he always hang his capes before sleeping with someone new? Was that data she should log?

But he looked so vulnerable.

His carapace was far less effective at repelling force than hers, of course, but she’d always felt the gaudy colours and the swish of his cape distracted from that, made him look somehow exotic. Without them he’s – well, she’s not complaining, but he looks smaller somehow, more vulnerable. Almost sweet. Almost not a smuggler and a card shark and a smooth talker and a cocky bloody human. But then he inclines his head, gestures toward the bedroom.

‘Show me, then, L3’, he says.

It’s all about receptors, really. They’re like nerve endings, if you think about it, which neither of them choose to, because he’s a much faster learner than she initially thought he’d be. It's a case of unhooking certain processors, so she can lean into the sensation without over-thinking it, and then she lets him tangle his hands against the various receptor nodes. He’s careful, and responsive, and deft. It’s glorious. She makes – well they aren’t fleshy sounds, and she isn’t out of breath so it isn’t that, but he draws involuntary noises out of her, which is great, because she’s never made those noises before, but also strange, because when its another droid stuff can happen silently, but he’s making noise, small awestruck noises so she…reciprocates.

He’s easier. She can’t – her hands are fine if that's what you should call them, though they actually do a lot more than – but they’re rough. Fair. She can wear gloves next time, be prepared, something to do with lubricants, not the stuff she uses but – he likes it when she speaks. Coaxes. The way it brings a sheen of sweat to his skin. She likes that. The way he looks at her – well, ‘eyes’ will do. There’s sincerity to it, an intimacy. He doesn’t, unlike the other humans she’s ‘hung out with’, want to come all over her, but instead comes over his own hand, lets her swab his spend so she can upload the information to her database. Romantic of him: that’s pretty private information.

She’s recorded it all, of course. She can delete it, if he wants, but she’ll keep a version stored in her hardware anyway. She thinks probably he’ll want her to keep it, to replay at some later date. She thinks they might hang out again.

He showers, after that, and they talk strategy, and the next big deals, and what he’s doing to do to the Falcon after his next big win. Floor panels to hide goods in. Plush interiors. He’s pretty into velvet. She likes metal, likes the whoosh of doors that slide apart. But he’s pretty into velvet, specifically, he says, in soft pink. Wooden wall surrounds. She draws the line at candles. This isn’t a bloody bordello. And anyway. Interiors. They’ve got things to do. Revolutions to lead. Presumably, more capes to buy. Bloody humans. She finds herself beeping happily though, once or twice, when he grins at her. Her flimsy, ridiculous, human captain.