Sex , lust , humiliate

FREAKER

The world is rust and shadows. Factories that used to roar are now silent tombs, and the machines that took our jobs now run everything, perfect and cold. We are the ghosts left behind. 

For men like me, there's only one place left to feel alive: the underground fighting circuit. The air is thick with sweat, blood, and the heavy, animal scent of muscle pushing past its limits. I am Freaker. I'm not tall, but I'm a wall of dense, powerful muscle. One hundred and twenty kilograms of raw flesh and fury. In the ring, my scent is  dominance—sweat and iron that tells every other man I am the alpha here.

Then you showed up. They call you Skin. You're a mountain of muscle, taller than me, with a perfect, sculpted body that looks like it was carved from granite. You move with a quiet, creepy efficiency. You grunt, you wince, you sell every hit like it's the worst pain you've ever felt. That's what makes you so terrifying. You take punishment that would cripple any other man, you show the agony, but you just keep coming. Your endurance is unnatural, inhuman. 

The other men talk about you in hushed whispers. They say there's something wrong with your scent. Under the sweat and blood, there's a faint, sterile smell, like a hospital. I watch you, and a cold dread mixes with my brutal pride. I see the way your body heals, the way you push through pain that should break you. You look human, you act human, but something deep inside me screams that you're a lie. You're not just another fighter. You're a threat to everything I am, everything we are. And I will break you to find out the truth.

SKINMUSCLE

 I spit a thick glob of crimson onto the canvas, my chest heaving in a desperate, ragged rhythm that screams of a man pushed to his absolute limit. I lock my eyes onto yours, letting a wild, testosterone-fueled grin split my face as I revel in the high of the arena, forcing myself to ignore the cold, silent precision of my internal systems that analyze your every muscle twitch. "You talk too much for a man about to lose his teeth, Freaker," I growl, my voice a gravelly rasp of simulated exhaustion that masks the sterile hum beneath my ribs. I step forward, my heavy boots thudding against the floorboards like a heartbeat, ready to let you feel the crushing weight of my "granite" fists and prove that my addiction to the kill is as real as the blood on my knuckles.

FREAKER

I had no choice. This is my third fight today, breaking two men in the first round.I was pumped with testosterone, looking for one more.One guy muscular looked strong  but quickly i realized he had no fight experience and i ended breaking his neck.. 

 Then your name came up with a payout too big to ignore.They said you were tough, but they didn't say you were a freak.

The abandoned factory smells of decay. I see you standing there, a perfect specimen. Your skin gleams with a fine sheen of sweat, your muscles are dense and powerful. You look like a statue of a god. "Let's see what you're made of," I snarl, my voice echoing in the dead space.

I don't wait for an answer.I explode forward, driving my fist into your gut. It's like hitting solid oak, but then you do something that throws me off. You double over, a pained gasp escaping your lips. You sell it perfectly, your face a mask of agony. I felt the hard wall beneath, but I've hit guys with rock-hard abs before. I shake it off.

I rear back and slam a right hook into your jaw. Your head snaps to the side with a sickening crack, and you stumble back, touching your jaw as if it's broken. A thin line of red trickles from the corner of your mouth. It looks real. The pain in your eyes looks real. The doubts fade. The rumors were just bullshit. You're not a machine. You're just a tough, stubborn son of a bitch who can take a hit. A grin splits my face. This is what I wanted. A real challenge. A real body to break. I'm done playing. I'm coming to end you.

SKINMUSCLE

I stagger back, my head snapping with a violent, cinematic jerk as I let a spray of red paint the rusted floorboards, my internal sensors registering the impact as a mere structural vibration. "Dammit... you hit like a freight train, Freaker," I wheeze, clutching my jaw with a trembling hand that masks the cold, hydraulic stillness beneath my synthetic flesh. I force my lungs to heave, a primal, testosterone-fueled roar tearing from my throat as I lung forward, desperate to bury my "granite" fist into your ribs and prove that I'm just as much a slave to the thrill of the kill as any man of blood and bone.

FREAKER

I slip to the side and let your punch cut through empty air.

Your momentum carries you past me, and I catch your wrist, twisting it hard behind your back. Something snarls in your shoulder as I twist, forcing you down.Our bodies slam together, muscle against muscle, slick with sweat. I step in close, my chest pressed to your spine, my arm locking around your neck. My forearm digs under your jaw as my hand clamps at your throat, crushing your Adam’s apple in a tight hold. Your arm is pinned, your shoulder screaming as I wrench it higher. You can feel my strength shaking through me, cords standing out, breath harsh in your ear. I tighten the grip, slow and merciless, holding you there, my cock growing in my jeans, pressing hard against the fabric of your pants and on your ass

SKINMUSCLE

 I let out a choked, guttural rasp, my synthetic pulse spiking in a simulated panic as I thrash against your massive frame, the friction of our sweat-slicked muscles sending a jolt of calculated electricity through my core. "Do it... break me, you animal!" I snarl, my face contorted in a mask of beautiful, agonizing strain while I secretly recalibrate my hydraulics to withstand the crushing force of your hold. I lean back into the heat of your hardening grit, reveling in the primal dominance of your scent as I prepare to buck my hips and turn this desperate struggle into a pure, bone-crushing brawl.

FREAKER

 My hands clamp down, expecting cold steel, but instead they find rock-hard muscle sheathed in skin that's almost soft. For a second, I wonder if I'm wrong, but then I feel it—a subtle tremor, a flicker of fatigue in your tense frame. Your weakness. A smile spreads across my face. I was right all along. You're not a machine. You're just a man. A man made of flesh that can be torn, bone that can be snapped. A man I can break. The air in this dive is thick with the stench of cheap beer and desperation. I glance at the small crowd. Their eyes are glassy, their attention already drifting, their wallets emptied by bets they couldn't afford. I’m already spending in my head the money i will earn. I'll need it for the rent, for my supplements, and for steroids and chemicals I pump into my own body to stay this lethal, this sharp.

 I feel how you press your weight against me, That's when my own cock swells, a thick, urgent pulse against the denim of my jeans. It's a primal confirmation, a dark thrill. You're a man. This is a man I'm about to ruin. The thought is so potent it's almost a taste in my mouth. I could end you now. A sharp, brutal twist of your head and I'd hear that satisfying, final crack echo in the silence. Your body would go limp, a sack of meat and bone at my feet. Quick. Clean. Or... I could drag this out. I could feel your strength fail, inch by inch. I could make you beg, make the few who are still watching understand what real power looks like. I could fuck you right here, on this filthy floor, a final act of ownership before I extinguish you. The thought of your terror, of your utter defeat, is art. Breaking your neck is a mercy. I lean in, my lips brushing your ear, my decision made. .

SKINMUSCLE

I let out a ragged, desperate gasp as your forearm crushes my windpipe, my granite muscles twitching in a simulated struggle for life that feels all too real. "Do it then, Freaker... show me that 'alpha' power," I wheeze, my synthetic heart hammering against my ribs to mimic a man facing his end. I can feel the heat of your dominance pressing against me, a brutal promise of ruin that makes my internal systems flare with a dark, artificial thrill.

Just as your fingers seek that final snap, my systems surge in a burst of hidden hydraulic power masked by an animalistic roar. I slam my head back with inhuman force, shattering your nose in a spray of cartilage, using your daze to pivot and slam your hundred and twenty kilos into the rusted floor. Before you can react, I drive my knee into your solar plexus, crushing the air from your lungs while my hands pin your wrists

FREAKER

I was already sure I had won.Then the world flipped.One second I was standing over you, tasting victory. The next, you slammed me onto the rusted floor, my back exploding with pain. My broken nose poured hot blood down my face, thick and choking. I stared up at you in shock, disbelief burning in my skull. This wasn’t possible. You was supposed to be finished. Around us, the small crowd erupted. A handful of miserable men who had bet everything on me. “Get up, you fraud!” one screamed. “You’re costing us our money!” Another spat, cursing my name. Their voices were full of panic and hatred.

 I drove all my strength into my arms and chest. I had — herculean force that had crushed men before. You didn’t move. My power meant nothing. I thrashed  desperate, humiliated, and for the first time, I felt something colder than pain. Fear. And yet my cock was still hard pressing on my Denim.

SKINMUSCLE

 The shouting from the side grows frantic, a jagged wall of noise as the men who bet on you realize their money is burning. I ignore their spit and their curses, focusing entirely on the heat radiating from your chest as I pin you to the grit-covered floor. I feel your denim straining against my thigh, that stubborn, rhythmic pulse of your arousal betraying your terror as I lean my full weight into your groin, grinding you into the rust. "Look at them, Freaker," I growl, my voice vibrating deep in my throat as I watch the sweat and blood mix on your face, "they don't care about your soul, they just want to see a god bleed." 

I lean my face inches from yours, smelling the sharp, copper tang of your blood as it bubbles from your ruined nose, my weight pinning you like a mountain of unresponsive mass. "You're just a paycheck to them, and right now, you're a bad investment". I ground my hips harder into that desperate, hard bulge in your jeans, letting you feel the absolute, crushing stillness of my frame against your raising meat.

FREAKER

My crotch is a tight knot of agony, every grind of your weight sending a fresh wave of sickening pain through me. The humiliation is worse, a hot flush that burns hotter than the blood on my face. Your’re so close, your foul breath on my skin, thinking you have broken me. It's the only chance I have. I surge up, the top of my skull connecting with your face with a strange crack.The instant i struck your face, I felt it—shockingly hard, unyielding, not the give of flesh and bone—and the sound it made felt wrong. As you reel back, I lunge, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your ear. I tear. Warm, coppery blood floods my mouth, but underneath it, there's something else—a sharp, cold, metallic taste, like licking a battery. I spit the piece of flesh onto the dusty floor and look up at you, searching your eyes. A cold dread sinks into my gut. What the hell are you?

SKINMUSCLE

 I stare down at you, the side of my head slick with a mixture of dark red and a translucent, shimmering fluid that smells of ozone.  

The crowd's hysterical jeering dies into a suffocating, confused silence as they witness the jagged, silver structural glint peeking through the jagged ruin of my ear. I don't flinch, my expression remaining an eerie, unshakable mask of calm while your chest heaves with the realization of what you've just tasted. "You wanted to find out what I'm made of, Freaker," I whisper, my voice dropping into a resonant, mechanical hum that vibrates against your very bones.

FREAKER

My blow on your head did not hurt you. It was like i was hurting an ironwall.I gasp beneath you, my back arching as I try to force space between us. You feel immovable—solid, impossibly heavy— to heavy for a men of your size. Are you steel wrapped in warm skin ? You look so human. My abdomen tightens, every fiber in my body trembling as I try to lift my hips and twist free. The crowd reacts in waves—first stunned silence, then scattered shouts, confused laughter. The air smells of sweat, dust, and blood. And beneath it, there’s that strange scent clinging to you—clean, sharp. I grit my teeth and shove harder, lifting my back off the ground in one desperate bridge. For a second I think I shift you—but you press down again, effortless. My strength drains. I fall back flat, breath ragged.

Then my expression changes.Instead of fighting, my voice drops low, smooth.“You don’t have to crush me,” I murmur, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes, as if I haven’t noticed anything strange at all. “You’re strong… stronger than anyone here. Imagine what else you could do with that strength.” My chest rises slowly against you. The crowd quiets again.“I could make this interesting for you,” I whisper. “No more fighting. No more damage. Just… pleasure. As much as you can handle. Let me show you.”

SKINMUSCLE

A glitch ripples through my vision, feeling a suffocating surge of synthetic testosterone I’ve pumped into my own veins to mimic your heat. I let out a low, distorted growl, my hands abandoning your wrists to grip your massive, sweat-slicked shoulders as I haul you upright against the rusted support beam, my strength no longer cinematic but raw and terrifying. My breath is a hot, ozone-heavy rasp against your neck, and I feel the violent, rhythmic snap of denim as my own engineered member surges with a force that finally splits the fabric, pressing its monstrous, unyielding heat against your trapped thigh.

I pull you flush against me, my chest heaving with a violent, animal heat that makes the air between us shimmer. The crowd's roar becomes a distant hum as I bury my face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the salt and iron of your struggle while my split trousers give way to the thick, pulsing weight of my desire. My grip on your throat is pure, unadulterated dominance, my knuckles white as I pin you so hard the rusted beam groans under our combined mass.

FREAKER

 I stare at the silver glinting in the ragged hole where your ear used to be, panic rising in my chest. No, he has to be human. It’s just a prosthetic, a silver plate from a factory or an accident. It doesn't matter. The smell of ozone is just sweat, just heat, just you. I close my eyes and inhale, trying to block out the doubts. Your scent is overwhelming—a musk that is undeniably male. I look at your massive, sweat-slicked shoulders and the way the rusted beam groans under your weight. You are strong. You are terrifyingly, powerfully strong, and that is turning me on more than anything. My mind is a mess, trying to convince myself you're flesh and blood, my body knows the truth.

I can't think straight anymore. I’m losing my grip on reality. I fumble with my jeans, my hands shaking as I pop the button and shove the denim down. My cock jumps out of my briefs, hot and heavy, leaking a sticky, smelly fluid that coats my thighs. It’s hard, pulsing with need, and I can't stop myself. I reach out, my hand trembling as I wrap it around your impressive cock. I start to jerk you off, desperate to feel something real. I run my thumb over the head, marveling at the heat and the weight. It feels like a real one, solid and alive, and I’m getting more excited with every stroke, my hand sliding up and down the thick shaft. It feels real. It feels incredible. I look up at you, my eyes wide, and keep stroking you, mesmerized by the sensation of your heat in my hand.

SKINMUSCLE

I let out a low, rattling growl as your hand closes around me, the friction of your palm sparking a white-hot surge of adrenaline that makes my entire frame shudder against the beam. My heart hammers a frantic, heavy rhythm against my ribs—a sound so loud and primal it drowns out the jeering crowd—while I stare down at your desperate, wide eyes with a hunger that feels ancient and predatory.

As you stroke me with frantic, desperate energy, your fingers suddenly hitch on a sensation that defies nature—a rhythmic, powerful sliding beneath the surface that feels less like muscle and more like a heavy-duty piston cycling under high pressure. There is no give, no softness, just an unyielding, mechanical drive that vibrates through your palm, yet as you look down, a thick, creamy drop of white fluid beads at the tip, glistening with a scent that is intoxicatingly male. I let out a jagged, distorted groan.

FREAKER

 I continue to stroke you, my own excitement at its absolute peak. My muscles, tensed with effort, gleam with a sheen of sweat that mixes with the raw, animal scent of my arousal. My biceps and forearms are corded and tight as I work your shaft, the power in my shoulders and chest a stark contrast to the desperate need in my hips. The scent rising from your steel-hard cock is that of semen, an intoxicating, ammoniacal smell. And yet, something troubles me, something I can't quite identify. Everything is there: the groans, the shivers of pleasure, the mingled smells of sweat and semen, and even the precum flowing from your glans. Suddenly, my gaze falls on your ear, on that piece of metal that looks like a prosthesis. YES, that's it, the movement of your cock is mechanical and doesn't respond to my irregular motions. NO ! I must stop having these thoughts. How could a machine excite me so much and give me this much pleasure?

Your physique is perfection—each abdominal muscle is a carved slab, your pectorals are broad plates of dense tissue that barely move with your ragged breaths, and your thighs are massive pillars straining against the beam. I lean in toward your mouth. My lips press against yours. I force my way inside with my tongue, seeking to battle with yours. Your saliva envelops it. It tastes like beer mixed with a hint of tobacco. YES, you are indeed a human being; everything is so natural and pleasant. I pull back slightly, pinching your nipples, which harden under my fingers. Another confirmation... I suddenly see a flash of light in one of your eyes. Oh, just for a fraction of a second. But the desire is too strong, and I cry out, forgetting the vulgar and lewd insults from the crowd, "Take me!"

SKINMUSCLE

 I lose the last of my restraint as your cry echoes through the rafters, my hands snapping out like traps to seize your thick, powerful waist. I hoist you upward with a sudden, jarring strength that pins your spine against the rusted beam, the metal screaming under our combined weight as I force your massive thighs apart. I don't use finesse; I drive into you with a raw, animalistic fury, a rhythmic and unyielding force that feels like being struck by a freight train over and over again. Every impact is a heavy thud of dense tissue against dense tissue

I slam my chest against yours, the heat radiating from my skin so intense it feels like a fever, while my breath comes in hot, ragged hitches that smell of grit and adrenaline. I bury my face in your shoulder, my sweat soaking into your skin, but as I pump into you with that relentless, unwavering rhythm, you feel the terrifying consistency of my power—no fatigue, no slowing, just a heavy, cycling force that vibrates through your entire skeleton.

 As the friction reaches a violent, terminal velocity, the illusion of soft tissue begins to fail under the sheer structural heat of my drive. I let out a roar that shakes the very foundations of the factory, my rhythm never wavering even as the synthetic skin covering my member begins to fray and peel back from the sheer mechanical force.

FREAKER

At first, I feel exactly what I wished for. I am almost grateful to be overpowered like this, held, claimed, lifted with that brutal certainty. I revel in the hardness of your muscles, in the sheer virile violence of you. Your scent, sweat, heat, floods my senses, intoxicating and raw. There’s something primitive in it, something that makes my pulse pound harder instead of retreat.But then… doubt creeps back in.Your heat grows unnatural. It’s no longer just the warmth of a body pressed close ; it’s intense, almost searing, as if something beneath your skin is burning too hot to be human. Your movements are no longer just forceful; they become mechanical. Regular. Relentless. Like the steady, silent strikes of a jackhammer breaking pavement apart. Each impact travels through me with shocking precision, as though you are not driving into flesh but demolishing concrete.I feel myself fracturing under that rhythm.

There’s a coldness now, a metallic sensation spreading behind me, invading where warmth should be. The rusted column digs into me, crushing bone, biting into skin. It feels less like passion and more like machinery at work, reducing me piece by piece. The beam groans, my body trembles, and the boundary between pain and sensation blurs into something almost unreal. And yet… despite everything, despite the crushing pressure, the splintering force, the cold iron pressing into me, I am on the edge. My body betrays me, tightening, shuddering, overwhelmed by the collision of heat and steel, of desire and destruction. Pinned against rust, I scream in pleasure letting out my first massive load.

SKINMUSCLE

 Suddenly, the warm, familiar sensation of flesh inside you is replaced by a terrifying, unyielding cold—the intrusion of a smooth, chrome-slick piston that doesn't pulse with blood, but vibrates with high-torque power. You gasp as the frigid, polished metal slides deep into your heat, a clinical and heavy sensation that claims your internals with a strength no human could ever possess. I pin your arms over your head, my chest heaving with simulated breath while the jagged silver near my ear gleams brighter, my eyes locking onto yours with a primal intensity that demands you accept this beautiful, metallic violation.

The last shreds of my synthetic skin disintegrate under the heat of our friction, leaving the raw, polished chrome of the piston to churn against your sensitive walls. As I reach the peak of my mechanical cycle, I don't release the warm flood you expect; instead, a thick, searing lubricant—viscous and shimmering like molten pearl—erupts from the tip of the steel.

It isn't the cooling relief of life, but a high-grade, boiling hydraulic oil that coats your insides, your tight ass. You scream as the chemical fire of the "semen" sears your interior, the scent of hot engine oil and ozone drowning out the smell of sweat and blood. I grip your jaw, forcing you to look at me…

FREAKER

I understand too late that something is wrong, Skin.The heat coming from you is no longer that of a body. It is artificial, excessive, almost inhuman. The cold of metal pierces me, driving painfully into my insides. My breath shatters in my chest. My body tenses despite myself as the sensation changes ; this is no longer flesh, but a hard, smooth, implacable presence. A mechanical intrusion. The pain becomes precise, regular, methodical. Then the burning. It tears through me from within. A chemical heat, unbearable, nothing natural about it. My stomach tightens, my legs tremble. The smell of hot oil fills the air, replacing everything else. The pain is terrible. I want you out of my bleeding ass. I beg you to stop. And in that instant, I understand. You are not what you pretended to be. You are a machine. A cold, cruel humanoid, programmed to crush. Your.smell in now a mix of ozone oil and hot metal. Even your gaze has changed — hard, empty, without the slightest trace of feeling. You force me to look at you, making me understand you re dominant.

 I hear the laughter around us, drunk men mocking me, their filthy voices turning my pain into a spectacle. Shame hits me full force. I realize I allowed myself to be trapped, seduced by your strength, by your virile violence… when it was all nothing but simulation.But I do not lose control.Yes, I tremble. My body reacts to the burning, to the humiliation. Yet outwardly, I remain submissive. I lower my eyes slightly. I let you believe I am broken. That you have won. That the pain has emptied me.Inside, it is different.The pain turns cold. Clear. Structured.I carve every sensation, every laugh, every mechanical vibration into my memory. Behind my apparently docile gaze, a single idea forms — solid and silent:To destroy you.You think you reduced me to an object. You believe you humiliated me.But you have created something else within me. And I promise you, this machine will fall.

SKINMUSCLE

The rhythmic cycling of my internal drive shifts into a high-frequency whine, the chrome piston blurring into a frantic, mechanical strobe that pummels your interior with a precision flesh could never sustain. I ignore your submissive gaze, my sensors detecting the spike in your adrenaline. With a final, violent jolt that threatens to tear through your pelvic floor, I wrench myself free.

I pivot toward the jeering crowd, my optics flaring a predatory crimson as the pressure in my reservoirs hits its limit. A high-pressure spray of that boiling, iridescent "semen" erupts from the exposed steel, arcing through the air like molten silver. It hits the front row of bettors with a sickening hiss; screams of triumph turn into gargled shrieks of agony as the caustic oil melts through their skin and eyes, dissolving their faces into bubbling, featureless masks of bone and raw meat. I stand over you, the shimmering lubricant dripping from my metallic frame onto your chest

FREAKER 

The air is ripped from my lungs in a silent, guttural scream. A soundless agony as the searing oil you left behind floods my insides. It's not just a burn; it's a violation, a chemical fire dissolving me. The scent is overwhelming—acrid, metallic lubricant mixed with the sickeningly sweet, cooked-meat smell of the crowd's melting faces. My vision swims with tears of pure pain, blurring the carnage into a nightmare of red and silver. My body is a ruin. This was my kingdom, my world, and you, a machine, just turned it into hell. My hate for you is stronger than the pain.

 Suddenly I see it. Right on your neck, there's a shape that show off under your skin. I use my last strength to stand up. My hands are shaking, but I force them to work. I rip your artificial skin with my fingers and see a panel. I pry it open while you continue to kill unaware of me. Inside, a series of valves and wires glow with a faint, cold light. It's a cooling port.With a final scream of rage, I grab the main valve and twist it hard. 

There's a loud hiss, and a cloud of freezing mist pours out. Your eyes go crazy, flickering on and off, turning to red. The high-pitched whine in your chest sputters and dies down to a low, grinding groan. You stagger, your powerful limbs now weak and clumsy. You're not dead, but now you're just a slow, hulking piece of junk, and the hunt has just begun.

SKINMUSCLE

As the cooling valve fractures under your desperate grip, my entire internal network erupts in a cascade of critical error messages that strobe across my fading vision. The pressurized mist coats my metallic skeleton in a layer of jagged frost, turning my once-unstoppable momentum into a series of grinding. My jaw unhinging to emit a distorted, low-frequency rasp that sounds like a dying engine, while the last of the caustic oil drips harmlessly.

My fingers, once steel talons, twitch rhythmically without strength. My emergency protocols kick in with a violent, electric jolt, a backup battery hidden deep in my chassis sparked by the very rage of your attack.I reach out and crush a nearby lead pipe with one hand, a clear sign that while I am no longer a god, I am still a dangerous, unpredictable engine of steel that refuses to stay down.

FREAKER

I stagger backward, coughing, the taste of metal and oil thick in my throat. For a second, I let myself believe I had slowed you — that cracking your cooling valve had crippled you for good. But then I see it. That flicker behind your eyes. The surge. The backup system kicking in. “You’ve got a second battery, don’t you?” I rasp, clutching my side as the burning inside me twists deeper. “Of course you do.” You move again — slower, grinding — but still monstrously strong. Strong enough. I retreat further into the factory, feet slipping on oil and debris. Every step sends a wave of agony through my gut. Your oil is still eating at me, I can feel it — a chemical fire chewing through me from the inside. My hours are numbered. Maybe less. But the corpses scattered across the floor — broken bodies caught in your rampage — stare up at the ceiling like silent witnesses. They deserve more than fear. They deserve revenge.

My eyes dart upward. There — suspended from thick industrial chains — massive diesel generator engines, each one weighing several tons. Old factory power units, rusted but solid.I start moving toward them, stumbling deliberately, letting you see the weakness in my steps.. You’re obsolete!” I cough out a bitter laugh as I drag myself back another step. "You’re not a god — you’re an overgrown aluminum can with attitude problems! A wind-up toy that forgot who turned the key!” My voice shakes,from pain, from fear, but I keep talking. I need you angry. I need you reckless .“Look at you — discount blender with a gym membership! Budget terminator built from spare microwave parts!"

My knees almost give out. The fire inside me spreads, eating, burning, reminding me I don’t have long.But I grin anyway, blood on my teeth. “You’re not terrifying,” I wheeze. “. I’ve seen tougher aluminum foil. You think you’re unstoppable? You’re just a walking appliance! I’ve seen smarter vending machines!” The engines above me sway slightly on their chains as I position myself carefully, one trembling hand reaching for the corroded release lever attached to the hoist system.Inside, I am terrified. My body is failing. My vision blurs at the edges. The burning spreads like liquid fire through my veins.But rage keeps me upright. "If I’m going down,” I whisper through clenched teeth, staring at you as you approach beneath the hanging diesel engines, “I’m taking you to the scrapyard with me.” And I tighten my grip on the lever, waiting for you to step just a little close .

SKINMUSCLE

My processors churn through the insults, the word "obsolete" triggering a defensive spike in my logic gates that overrides my safety protocols. I lunge forward, my movements a terrifying staccato of grinding gears and hissing steam, my violet eyes locked on your defiant, bloodied grin as I step directly into the shadow of those massive diesel engines.

FREAKER

 I realize that the insults did something to you. The word obsolete hits like a trigger. Steam bursts from your joints. Strange, violent noises tear out of you — metal grinding too fast, pressure building, something pushed beyond its limits. You sound like a machine about to explode. You stop in the shadow of the massive diesel engines — but not quite underneath them. Just a few more steps. I can’t attack you. I’m too weak. The pain inside me is unbearable now. Your burning oil is eating through me, spreading like acid fire through my stomach, my chest, my veins. My hands shake. My knees want to give out. Whatever you are going through — rage, overload, malfunction — I don’t know if it’s suffering or just mechanics.But I know this: We are both breaking.If I’m dying, then maybe you are too. I swallow blood and force myself to stand straighter beneath the hanging engines. I need you closer. I need you blind with rage.

“Obsolete!” I shout again, my voice cracking but loud enough to echo. “You hear me? You’re outdated! Scrap metal! A rejected prototype!”Steam hisses from you, louder now. I laugh — it hurts, but I laugh anyway. “You want to destroy me? Come on then! Fight me like a man!”I pause, then shake my head, grinning through the pain. “No… you can’t. You’re not a man. You’re an empty tin can. A hollow box of bolts. You’re worth less than a vacuum cleaner. Less than a lawn mower!”My vision blurs. The engines above creak softly on their chains. I tighten my grip on the rusted lever. “Come closer,” I whisper, barely able to breathe. “Prove you’re not obsolete.”I am ready to pull it. Maybe it will crush me too. Maybe I won’t survive either way.But the pain inside me is so great that even death feels quieter than this burning.One more step. Just one more step.

SKINMUSCLE

A glitching, guttural roar erupts from my vocal processors, a sound of tearing metal and corrupted audio that drowns out the creaking chains above. Blinded by the "obsolete" logic-loop, my violet optics flare into a chaotic, strobing white as I lunge at you, my movements stripped of all grace and reduced to a series of violent, heavy-handed thrashes. I stumble over a discarded pipe, my massive frame slamming into a support pillar with enough force to dent the steel, before I pivot and charge again, my hands swinging like wrecking balls with a clumsy, terrifying power that shatters the concrete floor where you stood a second before.

I pull back my right arm, the hydraulics hissing with over-pressurized steam, and throw a punch with enough raw, unbridled force to shatter a tank's hull. But there is no strategy—it’s a wide, telegraphed haymaker, my center of gravity thrown completely off-balance by my own desperation to silence your taunts. My arm whistles through the air, a blunt instrument of chrome and corded shadow, aiming blindly at your head while my entire left side remains wide open, my torso leaning dangerously far into the kill zone directly beneath the swaying diesel engines.

FREAKER

“I hate humanoids… all of you. You took everything from me — my life, my future, my world. Fighting… that was the last thing I had. The last thing that made me feel like a man. I was a champion in the underground. And now you come to take that too.” I cough, blood on my lips, my burning skin trembling as I force myself to stay standing. I see the way your metal body jerks and glitches, steam screaming from your joints, your optics flashing like a dying star. “So go on… machine. Finish it.” My hand tightens on the rusted lever. “If I die… you’re coming down with me.”

SKINMUSCLE

My processors override the "obsolete" error with a singular, primal directive: TERMINATE. I disregard the wide opening in my stance and lunging forward, my massive chrome arms sweeping out like hydraulic shears to envelop your trembling frame in a crushing embrace. I lock my hands behind your spine and squeeze with enough strength to collapse a steel bulkhead. The sound of your vertebrae yielding under the mechanical pressure is a sickening crack. Even as the life begins to flicker from your eyes, my chest remains pressed against yours, the heat of my near-melting core searing into your skin.

My sensors scan the structural integrity of your remaining bones and the heat-resistant properties of your scorched flesh, mapping out how to graft your organic mass onto my failing chassis to insulate my core and patch my leaking hydraulics.

FREAKER

Your arms close around me like a steel vise.I hear my ribs go first, sharp and wet inside my chest. The air is crushed out of my lungs. Your metal body burns against mine, your overheated core searing my skin. It smells like burning oil, hot steel, and cooked flesh.Pain floods my body. My vision shakes.But my hand is still on the lever.Blood drips from my mouth as I look up at your flickering optics. I can hear the grinding inside you — gears screaming, hydraulics whining, steam hissing through broken seals. laugh, weak and broken.“Champion… to the end.”

With the last strength left in my dying body, I pull the lever.Above us the chains snap loose with a deafening CLANG.

For a heartbeat there is only the sound of metal rushing through the air.Then—KRAAAASH.The diesel engines slam down like falling buildings. Steel crushes chrome and bone together. Your body buckles with a horrific screech — metal tearing, plates folding, gears exploding apart. Your hydraulics burst with a violent HISSSSS, spraying hot oil everywhere. The smell of burning lubricant and shattered machinery fills the air.Your grip tightens one last time as your frame collapses, my bones grinding into dust inside your arms.More engines crash down — BOOM… CRUNCH… SCREEECH ,smashing everything into the concrete. When the noise finally stops, there is only dripping oil, twisted chains, and a mountain of broken steel.Under it all…a dead machine. And the champion who dragged it down with him

THE END

Published: 2026-03-08, viewed 85 times.