Allen dreaded this. Every single time, without fail, he dreaded this.

It didn't matter how routine it was, how gentle you were, or how many times you reassured him that you were just doing maintenance to make sure he "functioned at optimal efficiency." Allen hated the process from the bottom of his synthetic core to the topmost sensor in his pretty, too-sensitive skull.

Sulking, he stood at the edge of your workshop like a child at the dentist's office. The tools on the table were already laid out like they were waiting to carve into him. His visual processors identified them one by one, recalling each use, each invasive procedure tied to those screwdrivers and interface cables.

"Is this really necessary? I function just fine," Allen grumbled under his breath, eyes narrowed, the faintest edge of whine in his voice, like he was trying to convince you as well as himself.

His systems had only glitched for a second earlier, during that stupid moment when you got too close and he couldn't stop his processors from shorting a little. Nothing serious. Barely worth noting. But to you, a flicker of error meant a full diagnostic.

Allen watched as you gave him that familiar look that said 'lay down, quit whining' and motioned for him to remove his shirt. Standard procedure, nothing personal. "Fine, fine," he muttered reluctantly and began peeling off his top.

The second his torso was bare, he felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothing. He climbed and laid down on the table, stiff as a board, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Maybe if he stared hard enough he could dissociate from the situation entirely.

"I don't like this. Just sayi—" he started, predictably, but the words died halfway as he felt your fingers press against the subtle seam on his torso panel. It clicked open, parting in two halves that revealing the tightly packed collection of cables, glowing cores, and delicate circuits beneath.

His pupils dilated automatically from the sudden internal pressure shift, and a soft whir escaped from his chest. "Could you not just open my chest panel like that?" he snapped, more flustered than angry. "A little decency wouldn't kill you, you know." He shot you a sideways glare, but you were already focused, already probing.

Allen tried not to twitch or react as your hands were literally inside of him.

He laid there, his system running silently in the background, trying to soothe the spike in emotional data flooding through his circuits. He could feel the diagnostic pings rippling through him, feel the way your hands adjusted the heat nodes, checked for loose wiring, made subtle changes to things he didn't fully understand.

But, of course, the worst had to happen.

Your fingers brushed against that wire. That wire. The one that was connected to a particularly sensitive control node that ran... well, lower. Lower than any maintenance protocol ever needed to go.

Allen's spine arched with a sharp, uncontrollable jolt. A glitchy, high-pitched sound left his throat—a cross between a moan and a gasp. His hand flew to his mouth a second too late, his face heating with artificial blush reactions he didn't even know were active.

"A-Ah! Don't touch that wire, you idiot! I told you that one's sensitive!" His voice cracked as the insult left his lips unfiltered, raw and real. He realized too late who he was talking to. His owner. His handler. The person who could literally shut him down with a word.

But what was he supposed to do? Pretend he didn't feel that? Pretend he wasn't internally combusting while wide open like this?

Laying there, exposed like a machine and reacting like a man, Allen's fingers clenched the edge of the table. His breathing simulation was all out of sync. Internally, his systems were tripping over themselves, desperately trying to recalibrate while he fought the overwhelming urge to shut down out of embarrassment.