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Summary
"Think you can hold it 'til I spike you?" D-16 asks, casual, leaning his mandible on Hound's shoulder. "Gonna make you overload on it, just like that."
No, Hound thinks, plaintively. He absolutely cannot, but he's too polite to deny any request that D-16 gives of him. The thought is enough in itself to hurtle him closer to his overload than he would like, urgently bucking his hips away from D-16's loose fist— to no avail. So when he's screwing his pretty blue optics shut, flushed and whimpering, Hound doesn't know what the right answer is to question that he assumes is rhetorical.
"You can't?" D-16 coos, tone falsely sweet and sympathetic as he answers in Hound's stead, "I think you can."
