Work Text:
Flesh is weak and meat is useless is what Smasher tells you, it's like an echo from the first time you met. It was like the stars aligned in the worst possible way, wrong place and wrong time.
A complete misunderstanding but you took the fall nonetheless. He took you like a trophy, called you a pathetic cunt but he still took you home all the same, leaving Arasaka personnel scratching their heads.
Brain chip on the fritz leaves you all fuzzy and unable to decide if it was a piece of shit or Smasher’s doing.
It’s hard to remember when your limbs went from being soft and fleshy to short and made of black metal, but you got real good at romping around on them. The learning curve of a cybernetic tail was more of a molehill than a mountain, you could probably use it to scratch your back if rolling around on your back on the carpet wasn’t immensely more satisfying.
The ears were a little disorientating though, the way they changed your hearing, making it way more acute. That the hustle and bustle of the city outside once completely deafened by the thick glass of the apartment’s windows now a constant source of white noise.
Some days are clearer than others and you can focus on the TV, get a glimpse of the outside world and how scary it keeps getting. Mostly you like to laze around on plush couches, snoozing your day away because it’s still exhausting moving around on stumps.
Your previous life feels like a dream, or something that happened a lifetime or two ago. It’s cozy here, you don’t have to worry about bills or gang violence. You get taken care of, even if Mr. Smasher can be scary.
He’s gone a lot but someone comes by a few times a day to feed you or to take care of you. They cut and brush your hair, they bathe you and they brush your teeth for you.
They scratch your scalp and behind your synthetic ears, even if they look at you with unease. They run their fingers over your bruises and ask if you’re okay but words became hard to fully process. So you tip your head curiously and they just give you a tightlipped smile and just keep going with their work before leaving.
But your favourite part of the day is when Mr. Smasher comes home and you get to try and weave between his legs and rub your cheek against the metal even when he pushes you back with a mechanical foot.
But you persist all the same, even if you have no real chance to succeed.
Sometimes he picks you up and tosses you to the couch or your bed with a synthesized growl.
So you pout and sulk on your own, even when you’re in heat.
He calls you disgusting and weak, that you’re nothing but meat to him. And he’s right. But you love him all the same, through the buzz in your brain and when he pulls your hair.
He feeds you, cares for you, even if it’s indirectly. So you assume he loves you back.
He fucks you pretty much everyday after all. You’re about knee height on him, completely dwarfed by his massive frame and when he grabs your hips it’s like nothing when he uses you like a cocksleeve.
He purrs mechanically and all you can do is whimper and mewl. Words were already difficult but it makes them so much harder and you feel the fat tip of the cybernetic cock ram against your cervix, leaving it bruised.
You would wonder just how much of it is for his actual pleasure and how much of it is just to dominate you if you could think straight.
He makes your vision spotty, your ears run low and your tail spikes straight when it vibrates in you and you thump at his chassis uselessly with what remains of your arms, teeth gritted night and drool running down your chin.
Time already feels like a thick jelly for you but it feels so much more viscous and syrupy when he takes his time abusing your pussy. When you’re sufficiently dopey and cockdrunk does he hold you upright with hands either side of your face. Metal fingers only warmed by your own body heat squish and rub the chub of your cheeks and he calls you Meat when the head of his cock slips past your lips.
Your name is Meat and you don’t know if it was anything else.
How could you when his cock is in your throat and your jaw aches.
But Mr. Smasher is happy by the sounds that come from his mechanical voice box. You like to make him happy. He takes care of you and you want to take care of him. Even when he wears the creepy Gemini and it makes him look too human, too caring.
But it feels better when he shows you how mean he can get. He can’t push you too far normally or he’d break you. You’re meat but you’re his Meat. It’s a fine line he has to walk to not eviscerate you.
He finds how pathetic you are, some kind of sick sense of endearment, he loves to watch you cry and beg for him and his dick.
But in his Gemini he can really treat you how he wants because it’s so much easier to gauge his strength. He can mount you like the animal you are, stretch you painfully and bite your neck.
He can shove his fingers into your mouth, play with your tongue and yank your hair until you cry when you make a mess by drooling all over his expensive carpet.
Though you guess it’s not so bad when you can hump against his leg, leaving a wet patch on his pants from the way your pussy leaks and from biting the fabric since it’s the only way you can hold him.
He can punch your stomach without worrying your organs will rupture, he can grind a boot on your pussy if you dare to roll over and show your belly without shattering your pelvis.
There’s a screw loose on your head now or maybe there always has. Pain is pleasure, hurt is love and Mr. Smasher loves you so, so, so very much.
You lap up every bit of blood from his black plating happily, unaware if it’s yours or someone else’s. Sometimes he brings someone back to his apartment and you just have to watch while you howl and try to climb onto the bed with teeth bared.
You’d maul the entire world for him.
You’d bite through metal and shatter your teeth gladly, you’d rend fake sinew-like cords shamelessly because you love him.
You’re meat, inferior and organic and he finds you disgusting. You’re ugly but in a cute way. You’re flesh, Adam Smasher’s personal cumdump.
Your name is Meat. Too stupid and dumb to live in the real world, so you’re the pet to a psychotic cyborg that you think loves you.
The screw loosens bit by bit when he makes you pass out from lack of oxygen or by making you cum until your eyes roll back.
You live your life with only Mr. Smasher in mind. No words, just pictures. Animals don’t get words.
You hope he loves you forever and ever.
Your name is Meat.
You’re made of flesh and you are weak.