Gradient Locks
It starts with a discovery, as most things do this far into their cohabitation together.
The extent that Machines had integrated themselves into Mankind's societies ran far deeper than just labor and protection. Shops once full to bursting with upgrades, spare parts, and precision tools could be found on every corner. Advertisements for blood drives to power their mechanical creations flashed endlessly in the long nights. More often than not, the corpse of a human and a machine would be found clutching at one another in their final moments, all throughout the world.
Coworkers, companions, friends, lovers. Mankind, for all their own flaws and failures, were predispositioned to bond with even inanimate objects. That those hands reached for the machines that had brought them to the brink of extinction came as little surprise when put into perspective.
Sometimes it makes V1 feel like they'd missed out on something precious, seeing these fragmented stories scattered across this great, greening globe. But it was more than enough reason to start making up for lost time.
"And you're sure this will be permanent?" Gabriel's flat tone betrays his disbelief at this particular venture. Given how often his swords have carved gouges in their steel only to have them heal immediately, V1 can't blame him.
"WORTH A SHOT." They spell, and hop into the aging leather seat. It creaks minutely as they settle, two of their arms on the rests and the other two lax at their sides. The change in vectors allows for their visuals to soak in more of the details of this dusty parlor.
Flickering projections showcasing various designs litter the walls and ceiling, framed certification and inspection papers sit above the nearby heavy-duty supply cabinet. Several staff and likely patrons all lie slumped behind the half-counter in the opposite corner, the bloodsplatter from their grisly demise merely a brown stain, and decayed down to their bleached bones and rusting frames.
So, really, it doesn't bear that much difference from all the other ruins they've been taking their time exploring, halfway across the continent from their home. But the equipment it housed had somehow still been in a state of salvageability. It only took them an hour to get the soldering iron Gabriel holds now operational, humming with heat. But unlike the one they utilize for precision repairs, the tip is dyed an almost too-bright hue of neon pink, courtesy of the color mixer attached to a chair-side tank of unknown mixed gasses.
"It goes without saying," Gabriel looms over them, the coloring tool held between his fingers like it were a simple writing utensil. "But please refrain from moving at all, if possible. I certainly don't consider myself the artistic type."
V1 would beg to differ; the garden's he's sown and the colorful flowers he's blended together count be considered nothing short of masterful brushstrokes across a canvas of Earth. His hands can handle delicate flower stems and their fragile circuit boards with the ease of long practice. But for his own sake, they decide to drop that particular line of debate.
"I KNOW." The warmachine spells, and leans up just a little more to bump their bezel against the lower part of his cross emblem in a brief kiss. "I TRUST YOU."
Gabriel breathes in through his nose, and lets it out in a rush as he presses down on a single switch on the underside of the tool. The tiny blowpipe begins emitting a low buzz, one that their fine-tuned synapses can pick up as he brings it to the center of their pelvic-plating.
"Ready?"
V1's hands all return to their prior resting positions, and they lock up all their servos manually, keeping them rigid against the old chair. It takes a few microseconds longer to put a halt to their self-repair system, having to dig deep into their own coding for that particular switch. Only then do they nod in affirmation.
The archangel sucks in a long, steadying breath. And with even steadier hands, brings the tip of the tool directly onto their sensitive steel.
It's a fight not to buck their hips into or away from the sharp sensation of burning dyes searing into their plating. Their fingers and talons all burrow into the leather arm and backrests, the latter of which cut through the faux hide like a hot dagger through flesh. It hurts; the sting is just as painful as the bite of his swords. But there's an edge to the agony, a burning-bright flare that arcs through their wires and redirects into V1's reward system like a crackle of lightning.
Cherry-red fire trails behind the long, looping curve the soldering iron carves into their steel. Errors belatedly crop up, their systems already too-off kilter from the pain-pleasure carressing near their most sensitive artificial organs. All of them urgently recommend they switch auto-mending back on. The warmachine bites it back, dismisses the window boxes as they come, and focuses on a single, jagged crack in the ceiling directly above them.
They can't escape it; every fiery swirl of the pattern he's inscribing onto them sets off every synthetic nerve end they possess like a live wire. It spills into euphoria, loops back around to agony, and eventually becomes one, perfect feeling that fills their head with its heady buzz.
Maybe it's an hour; maybe it's a whole day, but inevitably, the neon-painted tip of the blowpipe lifts away. They detect a familiar, inquisitive hum from their lover just out of view over the low ringing in their audials. The hot sting of the tattoo pen is replaced with the pads of Gabriel's fingers, trailing curiously over their lower crotch. V1 chances what they only intend to be a brief look, and then their gaze becomes rapt upon the scene unfolding before them.
Molten magenta stains their pelvic plating in two sweeping, symmetrical curves on the other side of their upper panel. The heart-shape is framed with the outline of delicate, feathery wings, with careful pink swirls decorating its edges. Through the white noise buzzing behind their optic, they frantically activate their snapshot function, forever immortalizing the sight of their new tattoo yet to be colored in.
On the fourth high-res picture, Gabriel's hand pops into frame, rubbing thoughtfully at the glistening substance coating his digits with his thumb. It's the telltale consistency of slick, specifically artificial lubricant. It occurs to V1 far too late that they've soaked right through their lower crotch panel.
"Heh, for all your teasing about my enjoyment of your sadism, you certainly seem inclined towards being on the receiving end of it, my love." He mocks in a light tone, and that does little to cover the heated, husky edge beneath his words.
V1 briefly unlocks their Feedbacker to flip him a rude gesture; Gabriel responds by simply pressing the second button on the tool's handle. The brilliant pink tip swiftly shifts to a searing light blue: the exact shade of his wings and halo, and the next hue on their preset custom color palette.
"Good thing we're nowhere near done, yet."
His free hand roughly grabs at their hip, the piping-hot blowpipe touching down on their steel. The warmachine hurriedly grabs at the armrest again as he begins the meticulously slow, agonizing, wonderful process of coloring in the shapes he's carved onto their body.
They come untouched halfway through; Gabriel does not let them live it down for a month straight. But whenever they preen in front of a dusty mirror, admiring the pink-auric-azure symbols decorating their pelvic plating. And whenever Gabriel's fingers reach around their hips to greedily trace over each line, V1 deems it a price well worth paying.
