Dirk laughs, presses his lips to the sweat-drenched nape of your neck, lets his teeth scrape the skin. "Don't worry, babe, I'm not going to leave you hanging. I've got something special for you. Get up."

You're going to leave the toybox in the closet tonight, because you are fairly certain that you can ruin him six ways to Sunday without even a pair of fuzzy handcuffs to back you up, and you really don't want to give the poor guy an aneurysm or something.

Equius agrees to bet on a robot fight. Dirk is gambling on what happens afterward.

This isn't a thing Equius does; surrendering to impulses is for other people. He has always been one to measure, to strategize, to rein himself in as best he can. It was a necessity. Even his liaisons to satisfy the drones were more matters of negotiation and restraint than unbridled passion, adequate but not exceptional. But as Strider follows him out of the hangar and down the corridor, it's all Equius can do not to turn on him, not to attack him right there, not to pin him to the wall with hands around his throat and knee between his thighs.

You spend the hours after you wake up pacing your hive, your stomach threatening to upturn and your bulge threatening to unsheathe. You're excited to the point that you're dripping with more than just sweat, yes, but you're also beyond nervous. Besides what you assume are the usual worries -- what if he doesn't show up, what if he takes one look at your butlerbot and is so unimpressed -- there's also the tiny little fact that you've never done any of this before. At all.

Does this even warrant a description? It's exactly what it says in the tags.