Work Text:
Steakblood.
I know the smell of it very well.
Iron, not too dissimilar from my own self. Rich metal, unmistakable and pungent. The smell had come from the kitchen, where he was cutting the meat last night. Knife carving into tender flesh like how it cuts into mine. But I don't have any skin. I am of metal, scarred at that. Something the knife may not pierce, but mark. I believe it is a fate much worse.
He had made steak for dinner. It was seasoned well. How I wish to have tasted it. But I don't have a mouth. Cold plating covers the gap instead. Blood marked the outer shell regardless, dripping with such fervor that it bubbled across each seam and gap. Servos spasming at the overwhelming, burning pressure as it flowed down still. His hands were tight around my wrists, looking down at the cascading red.
It smelled of iron. But not of steakblood.
It was something new.
Something so tantalizing, the signal breathing in and out just to feel it again. Itching fingers, begging to be let out. The stream turned into a trickle, then to a slow, occasional drip. Unsatisfied, the signal breathed again. He was no longer holding onto my wrists. A hand placed firmly under his jaw, applying tight pressure. This steakblood of sorts, it was a beautiful sight to ponder. Trails of red began to arise once more. Motors laughing, they tightened further.
If I could smile, I would be. His body laying there, near corse but not quite. The fingers had long since moved on, tracing down from his jaw to his chest. They were orange now, thinly coated in pure ecstasy. Two thumbs pressing down, cracking the shell of the clam. I believe he had said something about now. I don't remember what. This experience, electricity coursing through my wires like never before. It was wonderful. They moved dexterously between each gap, bone or pulsating muscle, with unique passion. A burning passion.
Grabbing one of the rather large, squishy bits, they squeezed tightly. I did not know what I was looking at. Oozing crimson mixed with tense muscle and large, unknown bodies within. He had hidden so much from me; such rich, decadent spoils. And yet here I was, digging arm-deep inside. All of this, the dripping red, the delicate skin, the living insides. The servos could not be happier. They were jammed with steakblood, moving slower and slower. But that did not matter. They were still effective.
I had steak for dinner that night.
He didn't get to taste it. Neither did I. But that was okay.