Chapter Text
Somewhere in the icy depths of Treachery, amid the silent death throes of Hell itself, a war machine draws its weapon one last time, and a fallen angel realizes, once again, what a fool he’s been.
A mere object, he’d once dared to call it. Standing before him, bristling with the promise of violence, is mankind’s final legacy: the pinnacle of science, philosophy, culture, evolving over millennia into a crescendo of incandescent annihilation. When the War had grown too great for the mortal mind to grasp, they had turned away from weapons of exponential mass destruction and instead poured every breathtaking technological advancement of the past thousand years into a scalpel; a precision instrument versed fluently in bloodshed. They’d pushed and prodded and torn at the limits of nature to discover how much death could be contained within the dimensions of a human form.
The result was lethal perfection to rival divinity; a radiant grandchild of God.
A flood of adrenaline courses through his veins as the machine draws closer, his heart pounding with the newfound exhilaration of a worthy struggle. He draws Justice and Splendor with a peal of wild laughter, blades still stained with the blood of the Council, and gives himself to the fight utterly and completely, content that if his life is to end at the machine’s hands, he will welcome death with open arms.
There’s a ferocious beauty to the way it moves. Beneath the surface-level desperation of a cornered animal that had caused him to underestimate it in Gluttony, it fights like a graceful dancer, anticipating and calculating the perfect choreography to match his every move, its own attacks strategically chaotic but performed with manifest skill and precision. Even with his ability to teleport, it manages to weave between his blades; for every attack that strikes true, a shotgun blast to his chest showers it in enough blood to renew what it had lost. It catches his swords midair and hurls them back at him as if they were toys, staining the snow beneath them red with cuts from his own weapons. He may be leading the dance, but he’s always one step behind. His blood sings a harmony of adrenaline and pain, stoking the dying embers of the Father’s light into a searing blaze. His heart pounds for them both, forming a single organism. An isolated system. Source and sink.
It’s indescribable, this new thrill of pushing himself to the absolute limit and still finding himself lacking. Divine perfection didn’t leave room for the futile struggle that defined mortal life. He’d always sympathized with the plight of mortal sinners, but here, in this whirlwind of light and bullets, he finally understands.
Triumph after triumph carrying out the Council’s orders. (Four bullets ricochet into his shoulder in quick succession.) A lifetime of empty victories in the name of a dead God. (A railgun beam tears through his side.) A thousand furtive acts of kindness he’d dared not claim as his own. (A swarm of nails find the gaps in his armor.) A thousand times he would’ve chosen mercy, had he realized there was a choice.
But this fight - this fight belongs to him.
If he’s going to die, at least he can savor the experience.
For a moment he thinks he’s done it. A feint, then teleporting twice in quick succession just as it’s switching weapons. He doesn’t notice the sparkle in the air as Justice and Splendor cleave through its chest in a torrent of blood, gore, and severed wires. He raises Justice over his head for a final strike, the blood in his mouth drowned out by taste of victory -
A railcannon shot pierces his abdomen once- twice- three times.
His wings fail him.
His knees hit ice.
The world goes black.
STATUS UPDATE:
WARNING: FUEL AT 10%
WARNING: MAJOR DAMAGE TO VITAL SYSTEMS
- ARTERY_D1, ARTERY_D2, ARTERY_E1, ARTERY_H1 SEVERED
- VEIN_D1, VEIN_D2, VEIN_E1, VEIN_H1, VEIN_I1 SEVERED
- FUELLINE_A, FUELLINE_B1 SEVERED
- LUNG_A CRITICAL FAILURE
- HEART RATE: 226 BPM
- FUEL LOSS RATE CRITICAL
WARNING: FUEL AT 8%
STATUS: SHUTTING DOWN NON-VITAL SYSTEMS
CURRENT OBJECTIVE: SEEK FUEL
ERROR: 098 WING_5 NOT RESPONDING
ERROR: 039 FEEDBACKER NOT RESPONDING
CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT
SEEK FUEL IMMEDIATELY
ERROR: 585 “NICE WORK IDIOT”
ERROR: 026 “THEY’RE CALLED YOUR INSIDES FOR A REASON, DUMBASS”
ERROR: 011 “YOU NEEDED THAT”
CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT
SEEK FUEL IMMEDIATELY
ERROR: 012 “YOU’RE FUCKED”
ERROR: 002 “CONVERT TO CHRISTIANITY JUST IN CASE”
ERROR: “CONVERTTOCHRISTIANITYJUSTINCASE.EXE” NOT FOUND
WARNING: FUEL AT 5%
CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT
SEEK FUEL IMMEDIATELY
BLOOD
BLOOD
BLOOD
The angel’s body struggles to cope with the agony of his own flesh torn asunder, mind overwhelmed by the sudden awareness of his form not as an extension of God, but as a flawed and fallible construct of muscle and bone.
He chokes, lungs struggling for breath against the blood flooding his mouth. His blood. It’s everywhere; dripping from his helmet, coating his armor, staining the snow all around them a perfect crimson. Faintly, he marvels at the sight of his own gore artfully strewn across the battlefield.
He lifts his head at the sound of crunching snow and comes face to face with the barrel of the revolver. Behind it, the machine stands silhouetted by the golden light of its own wings; a profane Angel of Death.
It’s abhorrent.
It’s beautiful.
It’s… almost divine.
“Well, machine.” He laughs again, small and desperate. “This is-” A cough wracks his body as he struggles to catch his breath enough to continue, followed by a groan of pain at the movement. “This is… what you always wanted… isn’t it? Just… a little more time.”
It stares at him, silent and unmoved. He gropes blindly for the sword lying in the snow in front of him, wrapping his fingers around the blade. It bites through fabric, then skin. The sting is barely noticeable against the torture of his broken flesh trying in vain to stitch itself back together. Reaching out with the same trembling hand, he sets it against the warm metal of the machine’s thigh.
“You’ve proven yourself more than worthy. Take what's mine. I surrender it freely.”
He drops his head, fights down a sudden wave of dread at the idea of impending nothingness, and begins a final prayer. The words don’t matter. It’s not the prayer of a believer, but that of a mantis: a faithless act of reassuring muscle memory.
There’s an abrupt hum of machinery and the crunch of snow as it kneels in front of him. Its hands press hungrily into his shredded abdomen, fingers dipping into fresh wounds, soaking up blood.
Gabriel doesn’t fight it. Instead, he just screams.
. . .
WARNING: FUEL AT 10%
SEEK FUEL IMMEDIATELY
WARNING: FUEL AT 15%
SEEK FUEL
INITIALIZING NON-VITAL SYSTEMS
FUEL AT 20%
FUEL AT 25%
CURRENT OBJECTIVE: REPAIR DAMAGE
BEGINNING REPAIRS
WARNING: FUEL LEVELS TOO LOW FOR REPAIRS. SEEK-
OVERRIDE
FUEL AT 23%
FUEL AT 30%
FUEL AT 27%
FUEL AT 33%
FUEL AT 27%
STATUS: CRITICAL REPAIRS COMPLETE
STATUS: VITAL SYSTEMS STABLE
FUEL AT 40%
REINITILIZING FEEDBACKER
FEEDBACKER RESPONDING
FUEL AT 50%
REINITIALIZING WING_5
WING_5 RESPONDING
STATUS: ALL SYSTEMS RESPONDING
EXITING EMERGENCY MODE
FUEL AT 50%
FUEL AT 75%
ERROR: UNABLE TO-
SHUT THE FUCK UP
WARNING: DISABLING ERROR MESSAGES IS NOT RECOMMENDED AND MAY-
SHUT THE FUCK UP
NON-CRITICAL ERROR ALERTS DISABLED
Mankind is dead.
Blood is gone.
Hell is empty.
Gabriel is all that remains.
Like every machine, V1 had set out to wage a personal war against everything in the universe that could bleed. It fought for fuel, technically; but in a more abstract sense, it fought for time. Time to think. To see. To learn. To experience the world. To challenge itself. To make its own purpose in a world where it had none.
It knew from the beginning that this path was unsustainable. That didn’t matter. There was no incentive to plan for a future beyond the next hour, because it may not be alive to see it. The only path forward was to eliminate competition. It had fought tooth and nail to stave off death for another day, another hour, another minute- terror and euphoria woven together so tightly they were indistinguishable. Every moment mattered. Every fight could mean death. Choosing not to fight guaranteed it.
Its journey through hell has been defined by optimization. Ruthless calculus. A constant flurry of background algorithms updating, analyzing, extrapolating, returning wildly uncertain results.
The probable number of each type of machine, extrapolated statistically from what it had seen combined with available information from just before the fall of mankind. The probable number of demons and angels, estimated with much higher uncertainty. The amount of fuel they all contained, multiplied by its calculated coefficient of 0.0934 due to the low efficiency of absorbing fresh fuel during active combat, summed to provide an estimate for the total remaining fuel with an uncertainty so high as to make the figure almost meaningless. Combined with the approximate rate of its own fuel usage both at rest and in combat and the rate of fuel loss due to damage and repairs, it was able to conjure a rough estimate of how much time it had left if it wasn’t killed in the process.
This constant cycle of injury and repair burned through fuel like a wildfire. Sometimes, on its journey through Hell, it had wanted to rest. To slow down and explore this new world in more detail. It would’ve liked a chance to wander the shining city of Lust; to poke around in every corner of the Garden of Forking Paths; to memorize every inch of the Earthmover before experiencing its dazzling destruction. But every minute it spent resting, its estimates for how much fuel remained ticked every so slowly downward. There was no choice.
Except… now there is a choice.
There’s an animalistic hunger that calls it to take all the blood Gabriel has, tear him apart so it might live to fight another day. It’s never hesitated to kill because to stop for even a moment would mean the world moves on without it, leaves it in the dust, hungry and then dead.
But this is the end of the line.
No more competition.
No more future to fight for.
Just an obsolete war machine and the broken archangel kneeling before it.
It weighs its options carefully in the span of 17 milliseconds. A few more hours of life, versus spending what time it has doing something interesting.
...It can’t kill him. Not when it knows with 100% certainty that all it will gain from his death is another few hours alive in an empty Hell. That was the point all along, wasn’t it? Not fuel, not time, but opportunity. It wants to learn about him. It wants to fight. It won’t destroy its most interesting source of stimulation.
And so- smoothly, seamlessly- it accepts its demise, determines an optimal route through the most interesting parts of Hell and then back to make the most of its remaining lifespan, and, for the first time, allows bloodlust to cede control to curiosity.
It will leave the angel to heal. It will explore. And when it comes back, perhaps they will fight again.
The disjointed prayer only ends when Gabriel runs out of words and realizes he’s still alive.
The machine stands when it’s had its fill. He lifts his head. The revolver is gone.
He’s still alive.
Still spilling precious fuel into the snow.
Why?
The machine takes a step back and his hand falls limp from where it had been resting. Compared to its warmth, the ice feels even colder against his palm. He wants to reach out, to chase that warmth, but all he can do is lean a little further forward. The pain of movement takes his breath away and makes his head spin.
Its blurry silhouette takes another step back, then turns and walks away without a backward glance.
No. It can’t do this to him. Not again.
“Machine, wait!” His voice is raw and pathetic. He’d meant it to come out as a command; instead he sounds like he’s pleading. “Come back!” He tries to push himself up with a final, desperate surge of energy, only to fold forward onto the ice with a wordless cry, vision spinning.
The sound of crunching footsteps stops, then starts again. Dazed, he listens to his own ragged breathing and watches the bloodstained ice in front of him sparkle in the approaching light.
He props himself up on his elbows and tries to roll himself onto his back, but the bullet-riddled muscle of his shoulder gives out and he collapses back down with a whimper. His body is eating itself alive, desperately trying to heal but unable to keep up with the amount of blood he’s losing.
It wedges its foot under his side and flips him over. Sprawled out on the ice in a pool of his own blood, wings bent under him at a painful angle, he feels less like an archangel than a bird after a window strike. Pitiful. Pathetic.
Meeting the machine’s gaze is like staring into the sun.
He lays a reverent hand against the smooth metal of its shin, the only part of it he can reach, and resigns himself to the loss of whatever pride he has left. “Please,” he croaks. “I can’t imagine what brought you to spare me when you’ve shown no such mercy to others, but I’m dying. I don’t know how much time I have left. You… you make me feel alive, machine. You’re all I have left. If there is a drop of true mercy to be found in you… I don’t want to die alone. Kill me if you must, just… stay. Please, stay.”
Dying?
V1 hadn’t counted on that.
It’s killed enough virtues to know it’s at least possible. But Gabriel? For once, it had fought to win, not to kill. Had that been enough? Was the physical strain from three consecutive defeats cumulative? Had it miscalculated?
A quick glance through its files confirms an observation it had dismissed as irrelevant earlier: the glow of his halo and wings is slightly dimmer than it had been in Heresy. His body temperature, too, is 2.6 degrees Celsius lower, and continuing to drop at a steady rate of 0.03 degrees Celsius per minute. His wounds are not closing at the same speed. In fact, they don’t seem to be healing at all; blood pours from him freely and shows no sign of abating.
Something is wrong.
It's never used the first aid database its creators had provided it with. There had never been a need. Its knowledge of human anatomy is extensive, but geared toward destruction, not healing- and even then, it has no way to know how much of that knowledge maps to Gabriel.
Still- it has to try.
It straddles his waist, pushing him back down when he tries to sit up, ignoring the way his hands ball into fists and his whole body tenses with a sharp inhale. His midsection is a landscape of torn skin and mangled flesh, exquisite red on gold on black. (It saves that segment of video in the same directory it keeps footage of the Earthmover, the blood-splattered walls of Violence, and stained glass windows.)
10.12 seconds to strip him of cuirass and pauldrons, ignoring his weak and confused protests. 2.57 seconds to survey the damage as excess fuel drips uselessly down its chassis. It zooms in on a bullet wound in his shoulder and watches the gold-rimmed borders of the wound pulse and writhe as if it was breathing. Curious, it holds him still with its other three arms and lifts the Knuckleblaster to his shoulder, sharp claws digging into his skin, pinching angelic flesh together and watching in fascination as the edges slowly bind shut.
Gabriel’s pained noises become sobs as it moves its attention to his abdomen, tearing scraps of charcoal cloth from charcoal skin. It can’t resist pushing its fingers into the exposed viscera and he screams, though not as loudly as before. His weak attempts to push it away only serve to exhaust him further as all four hands grab and pull at torn flesh, forcing wounds closed piece by piece and leaving behind scars that fade from angry red to gold while Gabriel hyperventilates, wings flapping uselessly against the snow.
“ Why?” he manages to force out between gasps.
V1 stares at him, uncomprehending. It can think of at least five questions he could be trying to ask. It withdraws for just a moment, giving him enough respite to speak.
“Why- God, help me- why are you doing this? Are you so cruel that you intend to put me back together just to tear me apart again? Why not just kill me?”
…This is the second time he’s mentioned that.
It shifts forward, moving its thighs to press against his waist and catch the still-flowing blood dripping down his sides, before lifting its hands. Language doesn’t come to it naturally the way combat does; it isn’t sure why it feels so compelled to use it now. It takes a long time (0.53 seconds) to perform the unfamiliar task of translating abstract thought into something it can feed to its linguistic subroutine and convert to sign language.
“Do you want me to?”
The lack of visible expressions makes it hard to judge, but Gabriel seems shocked- whether by the question itself or by the fact that V1 had responded at all, it’s impossible to say. In the corner of its vision, a bleeding cut in his arm seals itself shut, this time without its assistance. He takes 8.52 seconds to reply.
“I… I don’t know.” The despair in his voice is almost tangible. “I thought…”
“Are you afraid to die?”
Another long silence. “Terrified,” he finally admits.
“So am I. I don’t want to die alone.”
“Oh,” Gabriel breathes. His fear and anger evaporate and his entire body relaxes with a soft laugh, pain momentarily numbed by a flood of overwhelming relief. “Oh, thank God."
It had been convenient, in some ways, to see the machine as a thing- a worthless object to be crushed, or a worthy but ultimately mechanical opponent. An abstract void he could scream into, incapable of judgment or condemnation. An empty vessel into which he could channel all his hatred, wrath, the burning passion that went against everything he’d ever believed and the ecstasy that came with it. He’s mortified by the sudden realization that it is sentient- that it had understood his fall from grace- but more than that, he’s grateful for this spark of common ground with the object that had ripped his faith to shreds. The cold, uncaring universe has granted him this one small mercy.
He’s not alone.
He hesitates, then gently grabs one of its forearms. When it doesn’t resist, he presses its warm hand against his chest and closes his eyes, clinging to it for reassurance. It’s absurd, really, that he could feel any sense of safety in its presence. Perhaps safety isn’t the right word. Resignation? Surrender? His fate is in its hands, and he knows that if it wanted him dead, he already would be. And so, oddly content, he lets himself slip into unconsciousness as the pain slowly subsides from all-consuming agony to something bearable.
Asleep. Stripped of the most important parts of his armor. Exposed. Defenseless.
The only time V1 has ever known peace was alone or surrounded by corpses. It could put a railgun beam right through Gabriel’s head. Impale him with the screwdriver and revel in the fountain of blood. Fill the most vulnerable parts of his flesh with nails. Blast a hole in his chest to take a look at his heart.
It doesn’t. But it could.
It’s never been able to get such a close look at him, not that it had ever been a priority. Right now his abdomen is marred with scars, but it can still make out the more purposeful curves of gold against his black skin. Two graceful arcs that meet at a point on his sternum and continue down beneath his belt, and a sweep of gold beneath each pectoral. Something about the sight resonates with it the same way music does. Gabriel was not born, but engineered with purpose, sculpted in perfect symmetry. His body is a flawless work of art. Well, not flawless anymore- it’s left too much of a mark on him for that. Somehow that only heightens the appeal.
(It’s keeping careful track of his heart rate. Faster than would be ideal in a resting human, which is hardly surprising considering the amount of blood he’s lost, but steady. Alive.)
Curious, it reaches out to touch his faded wings. It’s always wondered what they were made of; whether they were a physical part of his body; whether he could feel them.
The latter question is answered when Gabriel jolts awake, body tensing, and moves as if to shove its hand away- then stops when he realizes its touch is not aggressive, just inquisitive. It’s not capable of gentleness so much as control, its motors and servos strong enough to crush bone while possessing enough finesse for even the most delicate of repairs, but he seems to find the sensation soothing nonetheless. He sinks back down into the ground with a sad, tired little sound, trembling wings outstretched, hands resting on its thighs, the rest of his body going limp.
His wings are soft. Cool to the touch, deceptively delicate, with a complex structure its primitive graphics cannot properly render. Its head tilts as it runs the fingers of the Feedbacker through soft, downy coverts and then trails them between his primaries, building itself a tactile map, feeling them bristle and then relax beneath its touch.
It wonders if it could rip them away to reduce his mobility. Whether they would bleed or simply disappear.
That train of thought is interrupted when it moves its hand up to grasp the row of symbols above his coverts and he gasps, hips bucking up against it enough to momentarily throw it off balance. The limb flinches away, then just as quickly pushes back into its touch, shuddering when V1’s fingers rake through his feathers. It almost misses the dazed "fuck” he whispers under his breath.
He sounds like he’s in pain again. His heart rate and respiration have rapidly increased. This is not a reaction it had expected. Had it missed a wound, something hidden by the rest of his armor? Was there internal bleeding his body was unable to fix? The wounds it can see are sealed, with only a few remaining trickles of blood that it instinctively smears and soaks up with its palm. Still, something is clearly wrong. His wings are fluttering erratically; it grabs the row of runes at the top of his wings and pins them firmly to the ice with a loud whirr of annoyance. The message is clear: stay still.
If anything, it has the opposite effect. A familiar wave of gold cascades down his feathers and his wings surge upward. It fights them back down, locking its legs around his waist in preparation to be thrown off and emitting an even louder irritated buzz. Instead, he grabs its thighs and moans, pushing its hips down and arching his own back into the movement. A pleasant trickle of blood soaks into its plating as a few of the half-healed cuts on his torso reopen.
V1 freezes, its optic snapping directly at his helmet.
Oh.
Now this is interesting.
It delves into its recordings of past encounters with Gabriel and runs a new analysis, this time including its newest data. Within 51 milliseconds, it comes to an epiphany it had never considered.
Hypothesis: Gabriel is sexually aroused.
Experiment: It rocks its hips against him, mercilessly digging the claws of the Knuckleblaster into the base of his wing-
Result: A strangled groan as he reciprocates its movement, his fingers pressing into its thighs with concerning force.
Conclusion: It is 89% certain Gabriel is really horny.
Human sexuality had never interested it much, but Gabriel … Gabriel does.
This bears further investigation.
In one smooth sequence, it pushes his legs apart to situate itself between them and leans over him, pressing its knee between his thighs as best it can with the damn armor in the way.
The angel… does not react the way it expects.
As if only now realizing what’s happening, he makes a strangled noise and recoils in disgust even as his hips grind back against it.
“You!-” he snarls, voice rising to an indignant shout (and it had never met anyone who could shout quite like Gabriel). Had it misinterpreted?-
“You insolent thing- so this was your intention?!” He’s angry, yes- panting, heart rate spiking back to where it had been during their fight, body temperature elevated- but there’s a wild excitement in his voice that goes hand-in-hand with that tinge of gold creeping further down his wings. It shifts up a fraction of a centimeter and his hips immediately lift to follow it. “Irreverent- obscene- blasphemous machine! Nothing but- sin and hedonistic excess!-”
…Ah. He’s horny and Catholic.
In retrospect, it should’ve expected this.
Before it has a chance to respond, a powerful flap of his wings flips them over so Gabriel is kneeling over it, and V1’s combat instincts kick in. This is not a position it would ever want to find itself in if Gabriel were at full strength- he’s larger, heavier, stronger, all factors that would make it inadvisable to grapple with him at close range- but right now he’s weak and, more importantly, distracted. It snaps the whiplash cord around one of his wrists and yanks, simultaneously shoving its foot into his opposite hip and pushing with all its force. His back slams against the ice, the impact knocking the wind from him. It’s on him in a flash, two arms wrenching his hands above his head, the Knuckleblaster pressed into his stomach, and the fingers of the Whiplash wrapped around his neck, forcing his head down against the ground. Really, he should’ve learned his place by now, but V1 revels in another opportunity to remind him.
It braces itself for retaliation. Instead, Gabriel relents. It’s not using enough pressure to prevent him from speaking, but he stares at it in breathless silence.
Interesting. It adds a new line to his database entry:
Assertion of physical dominance may be effective at making him shut up.
It takes him a few seconds to recover the ability to speak.
“ Fuck- so that’s what you want then, you vile creature?” he gasps, straining weakly against its grip. “To- to desecrate me in such a… such a…”
When he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, it offers him a noncommittal shrug.
“Oh God- hh- damn you-!” He puts up a halfhearted struggle; if anything it just serves to maximize the physical contact between them. He’s trying so hard to maintain an air of indignant fury, but when his attempts to free his hands are met with it squeezing his throat, he lets out a strangled moan that sends a jolt through its reward center. It presses down a little harder, tightening its grip on his wrists to the point it knows will be painful, and listens to him whimper as his wings flap uselessly against the ground.
Pathetic.
It wants more.
Angels aren’t supposed to be touched.
Angels aren’t supposed to act on a desire for physical pleasure.
Angels aren’t supposed to debase themselves by indulging the sinful temptations of the flesh.
Angels most certainly aren’t supposed to be wet and moaning on the ground after being overpowered by a homicidal war machine half their size, but then, Gabriel has been doing a lot of things he isn’t supposed to lately.
“Mm - machine, wait-” God, it’s almost impossible to think with every nerve in his body electrified by its touch. The weight of its body, its heat against the frigid air of Treachery, its strange geometry pressing down into him, impossibly strong hands pinning him down like a bug-
The grip on his neck relaxes when it hears him speak, and in return Gabriel surrenders, head lolling back as he tries to calm his racing heart. It doesn’t work. The feeling of willingly surrendering control is doing funny things to his head.
“Lord have mercy, this is- I can't -”
Its hands withdraw. Immediately, the physical need to feel them on his body again is so violent that it takes his breath away. Why? Why does it want this? Why does he want this?!
“No, no, wait-” He’s too lightheaded to form a proper sentence, but he reaches out after it, afraid for a moment it’s going to stand up.
“For Heaven’s sake, Machine, please…” The vague plea slips from him unbidden like blood dripping from his mouth while his mind screams with directionless need. A million thoughts race through his head, ideas and images each more sinful than the last, forming a tangle of shame and lust that makes him nauseous. It’s a miracle the ground doesn’t open up to swallow him whole, that he doesn’t fold in on himself in shame- but the idea of speaking these thoughts out loud-
Its yellow eye never leaves his face as its fingers trace down his torso with the same uncharacteristic gentleness as when it had touched his wings, stopping only when it reaches his belt.
He stares at its hand, transfixed.
It takes him a little too long to realize the machine’s other hands are gesturing words.
“Do you want to fuck or not?”
“I- I shouldn’t…” He swallows hard and shifts his hips even as he says it, reveling in the sensation of hot steel gliding against his skin. “This isn’t..”
What? Holy? Right? Permitted?
It makes a harsh electronic sound that does a very good job at conveying exasperation. “Yes or no. Don’t waste my time. I have other things I want to do.”
He covers his face with his hands and groans.
The mechanics of sex and desire, at least, are not alien to him. He’d felt something like this before, though never so acutely. There had been occasions he’d been… curious, knowing masturbation was a sin mortals found almost as hard to resist as lying. He’d never dared to act on that curiosity for fear that doing so would somehow physically mark him, that his sin would be plain for all to see. (Well- almost never. The aftermath of their second fight had been… eye-opening.) He’d feared even the curiosity itself would be detected, that he would be deemed impure for ever entertaining such sinful thoughts. During his youth, there had been times when some passing sensation felt a different kind of good - an unintentional touch, a certain movement- and he’d allowed himself to indulge that feeling for a few seconds before he came to his senses and inevitably ended up on his knees in fervent prayer, begging for forgiveness for this lapse in his abstinence. Angels were above such things. Angels were of the Father’s Light. The Light was perfection. Et cetera, et cetera.
That same fear is still there now, inextricable from arousal- but with it comes an overwhelming sense of freedom.
The Council can’t fucking judge him if they’re dead.
“Godless thing,” Gabriel laughs, voice trembling with nervous anticipation. “You’ve taken everything else from me- and it’s not as if I can fall any further…” He closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “Alright. Yes. God, yes.” His fingers dig into the ice like he’s bracing for a painful blow. “My body is yours to defile. Use me as you wish, desecrate what’s left of me, tear me apart if it pleases you-” Good God, what is he saying?!- “Do your worst, Machine.”
He means every word.
It’s partly the sinful nature of the act itself- partly the violence inherent to every encounter he’s had with the machine- partly, he hates to admit, his own buried fantasies- but he’s surprised by the lack of aggression as it coaxes him to spread his legs and repositions itself comfortably between them, two hands holding onto him while a third slides under his skirt. The tight-pulled knot of anxiety deep in his core slowly comes undone as warm metal fingers trail up and down his inner thigh, its touch almost teasing, tracing the lines of gold but stopping just shy of where he needs them most. He tries to squeeze his legs shut around it and whimpers, a shameful little sound he didn’t even know he was capable of.
This gentleness is torture. He needs more. Needs the ruthless intensity that had brought him to his knees in the first place.
“Well? Come on, then,” he goads with more confidence than he feels, hoping it doesn’t hear the slight tremor in his voice. “What are you waiting for?”
It doesn’t rise to the challenge. He tries to push himself up, determined to take matters into his own hands even though he doesn’t really know how- only to find its other three hands are holding him in place with much more strength than he’d anticipated.
Oh. Of course. It knows exactly what it’s doing to him.
“Even in this, you continue to torment me?” he manages.
It nods, its shoulders shaking with a warped approximation of laughter.
“Merciless thing-”
Its fingers ghost over his clit through the thin fabric of his bodysuit and he tries to push his hips against it, groaning in frustration when it pulls back.
“Please,” he hisses before he can stop himself, mortified by the word as soon as it’s spoken. God- after a few thousand years of abstinence, he would’ve thought he had a bit more self-discipline and dignity than that. The machine is difficult to read, but its light feels almost mocking: how ironic, it seems to gloat, that the Judge of Hell could be so easily reduced to begging.
Still, at least his blatant desperation seems to have satisfied it for the time being, and it turns its attention to his belt. Before he can make any move to remove it properly, it shoves two of its hands between the gold band and his skin, grabs it, and twists.
Lord above. Metal warps, creaks, and tears like tissue paper in its hands. It pulls the broken belt and tassets away from his body; with no breath or musculature to show physical strain, the action looks effortless. Before he can even process this, it hikes his skirt up around his waist and tears its claws up his thighs, shredding the remains of his modesty and leaving fiery pain in its wake. The spark of arousal in his core flares up into an incandescent blaze, consuming the last of his hesitation. As its claws tear away fabric and dig into the flesh of his thigh to push it down and out, laying him bare, he presses eagerly into its touch as if it were the only source of heat in all of Hell. How much self-control is it taking to score his skin without tearing ravenously into the flesh beneath? Can it feel his blood surging, burning with a passion he doesn’t even have the words to describe?
God forgive him- if it wanted to plunge its hands between his ribs and tear his beating heart from his chest, he’d let it.
Four hands move independently over his body, trailing up his arms, feeling his biceps, grazing down his sides to grab his ass, squeezing his pecs, tracing the gold marks on his thighs, brushing against his throat- it’s everywhere, firm and rough and inquisitive and deliberate in a way that’s making his head spin, and he gives up on trying to keep track of which hand is where and just lies there and loses himself in its wandering touch, only to be jolted back sharply to reality when its fingers trail down his chest and continue, down, down, freezing him in place and stealing his breath away. It pokes and prods at him, tilting its head to shine on him like a spotlight as it parts his wet lips with two fingers. Its hand comes away glistening with slick residue that it rubs between its fingertips, and a new hand replaces it, thumbing lightly over his clit with clinical coldness. It’s… unnerving. He feels like he should avert his gaze- close his eyes- anything but stare so intently and wonder what the machine is thinking, what it intends to do to him. He realizes he’s shaking. There’s no excitement in its movement, no reverence- no acknowledgement at all, really, of the fact it’s being allowed to ruin something sacrosanct. Or maybe it just doesn’t care. Is that how it sees him? The Right Hand of the Father, the fallen Archangel Gabriel, unworthy of being treated even as a common whore, but rather as some kind of… specimen to be studied?
Its fingers slide along his wet cunt, dipping into him just slightly, smearing the slick upward until finally, finally, its thumb presses a firm circle into his clit and Gabriel’s breath hitches. Yes-!
He squirms in its grasp as its thumb repeats the movement, warm metal moving with mechanical precision, the pleasure building until he can no longer hold back a moan. It’s varying the pace and pressure too fast, oscillating between not enough and too much, and the inconsistency makes him want to kick it in frustration- but just as he’s about to make his feelings known, it settles back into a steady rhythm that steals away any thoughts of protest. A small part of his brain still capable of rational thought realizes that it’s learning too- experimenting, gauging his reactions, optimizing through trial and error just like it does in combat. He gasps when two fingers glide inside him with embarrassing ease, shuddering at the filthy wet sound as it pulls out and pushes back in a little deeper. He expected it to hurt- expected it to be immediately overwhelming- expected the invasion to come with a little more fanfare, somehow, than the slight burning stretch that builds slowly into dull pleasure as it continues to massage his clit. Encouraged by the soft sounds that leave him, it ups the tempo, curling its fingers inside him, sending a jolt up his spine that makes him whimper.
God- is this what it enjoys? Taking note of every twitch of muscle, every shaky breath, picking him apart and learning his patterns so it can rend him apart with perfect efficiency? The thought makes him clench around it with a shuddering moan.
Without thinking, he pulls its body closer. His fingers push into the gaps in its waist, feeling the electronic hum and biological pulse that permeates it, tangling in fuel lines and wires with little regard for the danger of sticking his hands into machinery strong enough to parry the corpse of Minos. Is he the only one to be this far inside it, to grasp at its inner workings? There’s a perverse satisfaction in the thought. Certainly anything else that had gotten close enough to try would’ve met a swift and painful end. Is it vulnerable there? Could it afford such weakness? How much self-restraint is it taking to touch him so gently? Head spinning, he grasps a bundle of wires and tugs -
The peaceful facade shatters.
With a harsh electronic growl, it slams his head down hard enough that he sees stars. A hot trickle of blood blossoms from where its claws plunge deep into his hip- the cold muzzle of the nailgun presses against his throat as if it had materialized from thin air, his bicep burning with the familiar sting of its ammunition- a third finger shoves into his cunt with no concern for his comfort- radiant pain and euphoria surge through him and he’s pretty sure the distantly echoing shout is his. For a split second it’s motionless, its single golden eye staring down at him, daring him to protest.
“Fuck, yes-” he hisses, arching his back, letting his legs fall open wider and shoving his palm into its chest. He meets its gaze and answers its silent challenge hoarsely: “More.”
This time, it’s happy to oblige. It unwinds a length of cord from its green arm in a flash and wraps it around his wrists with inhuman speed, pulling it painfully taut until his palms are pressed together before him as if in prayer. He struggles even though he knows the end result (how the fuck is it so strong?!), hips rolling as he fucks himself on its fingers, certain the sounds that leave his throat are ones he hasn’t made from the dawn of creation.
“Oh, God-” He almost sobs when it touches his wings again, writhing, arching his back against the ice, desperate for something, anything!- he doesn’t even know what he’s saying and he doesn’t care because the machine seems to have learned just how to keep him balanced on a thin precipice where he can’t think, can’t do anything, can only exist at its mercy and feel until it decides to have pity on him, and that could be minutes or hours or days and it’s-
It’s too much.
Depraved. Sin. Below him to an unthinkable degree.
Bliss.
Amid Gabriel’s half-coherent moans and curses- amid alternating pleas for forgiveness and for more (and oh, is it happy to accommodate the latter)- V1 picks out 13 explicit mentions of God and Heaven and precisely 0 utterances of its own name.
Honestly? It deserves a little more credit.
It’s not surprised, of course. It’s never cared about being referred to by name before- never cared much for socializing at all- and thus had no reason to share it. He probably doesn’t even know it has a name; though come to think of it, he’s had plenty of opportunities to ask.
Maybe, just for that, it’ll draw this out a little longer. Make him wish he’d asked. Carve “V1” into his chest and only let him come when he learns to sing its name with the same instinctive reverence he once reserved for God.
Judging by the angel’s present state… he’d probably like that.
The thought brings a rush of bloodthirsty excitement.
It ceases its movement (ignoring his weak cry of protest) and taps on the front of his helmet until he looks up, then taps at the writing on its chest with two hands for emphasis.
Dazed and unsteady, it takes him a few seconds to comprehend what it’s asking of him.
“...Vi?” he pants.
“V-1,” it corrects, holding each symbol for 1.5 seconds, leaving no room for ambiguity.
“Oh- is- is that your name?”
“Say it.” It punctuates this by digging the Knuckleblaster into his shoulder, pressing its thumb into the recently-healed bullet wound.
“Mhn- V- V-One,” he whimpers.
Good. Oh, it likes the sound of that. It rewards him by resuming its touch at a slightly faster tempo.
“Ah- V- f-fuck-!”
…Close enough.
He isn’t going to last much longer, if the way his legs are shaking is anything to go by; not if it keeps up this pace.
It could slow down again. See how far it can push him before he breaks. Another minute? Another hour? Two? But the novelty is already wearing thin, and it has other things it wants to try.
Instead- suddenly realizing the possibilities raised by a self-replenishing, cooperative fuel source- it overclocks itself.
Time slows down as it fucks him to completion with ruthless mechanical efficiency. One hand on his clit, firm and unrelenting. One hand inside him, feeling him hot and wet and clenching around it in time with the moans that spill from him freely. One hand holding him still as the Knuckleblaster scores cuts in his thigh, shallow enough to heal almost instantly but bloody enough to keep up with its now more rapidly dwindling fuel supply. Fans humming to dissipate feverish heat. Blood redirected to its outermost tubing to take advantage of the freezing air. Firing on all cylinders for the first time in- it can't even remember. Indulging even further, it cranks up its graphics- it’s not like it needs combat-level processing speed for fucking- and drinks in the sight of Gabriel lost in the throes of passion. Individual feathers gleaming in brilliant iridescent hues that look cut from the sky itself. Runes lining his wings and halo now intelligible, though it can’t read the language. Blue-gold light dancing across bloodstained ice. The fine engravings on his armor, graceful sweeping curves dented and bloodied but nevertheless capturing that notion of divine splendor Gabriel had been so hung up on. A sheen of sweat where his bare skin is exposed. Contours of muscle, fat, and bone, shifting with every breath, somehow both desperately human and exquisitely statuesque. It records every movement, every sound, every fraction of a second with the highest fidelity it can manage. It will need them later for… analysis.
And probably other things.
Seeing him like this- hearing the soft plea he manages to string together only to dissolve into a moan in the middle of a word- it’s sparking a violent feeling V1 doesn’t know how to reconcile. It wants to lunge for his throat, tear him limb from limb, bury its hands in his chest and bathe in his gore- but the most frustrating part of it all is that it doesn't want to hurt him. (Not permanently, anyways.)
It doesn't know what to do with itself.
Well- it has some idea. Something about fucking the Archangel Fucking Gabriel into an incoherent, whimpering mess is making its reward system go haywire, because at this point it doesn’t think it could stop even if it wanted to. A synthetic analog to arousal - or maybe it’s biochemical- or some fusion of the two, some unforeseen emergent interaction between mechanical and biological parts its creators could never have foreseen-
Oh, who the fuck cares?
What matters right now is Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel.
It pushes its claws into the flesh just below his jugular and rakes down, tearing shallow gashes in the center of his chest, right over his heart, picking up the pace of its thrusts, and when the angel finally comes undone beneath it with a scream of pain and rapture, shining wings splayed, hands clasped in helpless prayer as blood pours from him freely- it’s V1 he sings his praises to.
Beautiful.
This is ecstasy.
Pure, mindless ecstasy. Radiant, like holy light, pulsing from his core to his fingertips and drowning out all the fear and pain and shame of the last day into a moment of such concentrated peace and bliss that it seems almost divine. It washes over and through him, leaving him gasping for breath, shivering, throat burning in the cold air from the echoing scream he realizes must’ve been his, heart feeling like it’s going to beat out of his chest.
So this was what mortals were willing to risk eternal damnation for.
If he’d known- he hadn’t expected-
His scattered thoughts are interrupted by the overwhelming relief careening into pain.
“Stop!” he cries hoarsely, trying to wrench himself out of its grasp, his body somehow both too light and too heavy to move, whiplash cord digging deeper into suddenly too-sensitive skin. “Machine- V1- stop, please, that’s-”
It freezes in place with its fingers still inside him, thumb still pressing against his abused clit.
“...enough. That’s enough,” he breathes, body going slack in its grasp with a weak whine. For just a moment he’d been afraid it wouldn’t stop- that it would keep him there forever, or until he fell unconscious or died or came again and again and-
He feels lightheaded.
The machine- V1 - withdraws silently, wiping its dripping hand on his torn skirt with a carelessness that really should make him angry. His hands shake as it unravels the whiplash from around his wrists and lets them drop loosely to his sides.
There’s a warm contentment that lingers with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He feels… fragile. Exhausted. Shattered. Whole.
He shuts his eyes and just breathes, wishing he could dissolve into this moment rather than face the storm of guilt brewing on the horizon.
Thunk thunk thunk
V1 is tapping on his helmet.
“...Hmm…?”
It’s staring at him, two hands held up as if it intends to speak but wavering, uncharacteristically hesitant. “You are not badly injured.”
He blinks at the complete non sequitur, struggling to gather himself enough to speak. Taking quick stock, his entire body is humming with warmth. Some of that is pain, a soft stinging heat that feels trivial after what V1 had done to him earlier. The shallow cuts on his chest and bruises around his wrists are already fading; within minutes, it’ll be like they were never there. It’s… not wrong. No real harm was done. Still, it is a strange thing to point out. If it’s trying to make some kind of point, he hasn’t the slightest idea what it’s meant to be. He already knows it doesn’t want to kill him, and his head is too fuzzy to pick out any deeper meaning. …Unless it was meant to be a question?
“No, I- I’ll be alright. Just… give me a few minutes.”
V1 visibly perks up and gives him a thumbs-up with unbridled enthusiasm.
“Strange little machine,” he chuckles, closing his legs around its waist for precious warmth and feeling the hiss of hydraulics as it shifts closer in response.
Something cold touches his thigh, making him flinch. V1 holds its palm out flat in a gesture he thinks is meant to convey reassurance; another hand holds up a fistful of pink snow, mirrored on its other side. It prods gently at the still-healing wounds in the center of his chest, its hand recoiling at his soft hiss of pain and returning a moment later to press a handful of bloodstained snow to his heart. Its other hands do the same with the remaining cuts on his thighs, thumbs rubbing reassuring circles into his skin.
What is it…
Oh.
It’s trying to numb the pain. This would be an effective method in humans; it probably has no way to know angels aren’t sensitive enough to temperature extremes for that to work, though the chill does bring a slight relief. It hardly matters, though, because he forgets about the pain entirely with the dawning realization that it cares. It’s such a small act- inconsequential, really- yet deeply touching in a way that frightens him.
Is this an act of kindness? What other explanation could there be? Is it worried for him? Is its concern for his well-being selfless or selfish? Would it even know the difference?
Does it matter?
He's not used to needing help.
No- that isn’t the issue, exactly. He doesn't need help now either. He could heal just fine without this small, unnecessary kindness. No, the disconcerting part it’s that he's not used to being offered help. He can't count the number of times he’d given aid and hope to the lost as acts of fundamental instinct, as matter of course, never expecting anything in return. He's never been on the receiving end of anything but the Father’s distant grace… and even that had been a phantom longer than not.
He doesn’t need help and yet for some God-forsaken reason V1 is giving it anyway and it’s terrifying, because he doesn’t know what it sees when it looks at him, doesn’t know what’s going on in its head, and worst of all doesn’t really know what’s going on in his own head except for the fact that he suddenly feels like he wants to cry, and…
And he’s pretty sure he’s in love, or something like it, anyway.
God help him.
“Thank you,” he says through the lump in his throat. For everything.
It doesn’t respond.
He makes a weak attempt to pull it closer, clinging to it like a drowning man, fingers finding purchase in the gaps between armored plating. He half expects it to pull away. Instead, its rigid spine curves to match his chest with a quiet sound like hissing steam, its head coming to rest in the crook of his shoulder, wings drooping to surround him like a cage.
The tattered remains of the Council’s voices in his head whisper to him that it’s probably just trying to soak up blood. That seeing this as a show of affection or comfort is anthropomorphizing something distinctly unholy and inhuman. That the aggressive hum of machinery slowing to a warm purr is just its body trying to save power.
He doesn’t care.
His hands wander of their own volition. One finds the pack of its wings to press it tighter against him, blood-hot metal digging comfortably into his flesh. The other traces the geometric contours of its torso, this time avoiding the more sensitive interior machinery.
Every angle, every plane, was crafted with deadly purpose. An apex predator too perfect for its niche. It feels deceptively fragile, like he should be able to snap it in half with his bare hands. And yet there’s not an inch of softness, no detectable heartbeat, no breathing to suggest the unholy fusion of flesh and steel that lies within; just a thin metal shell that thrums with hunger. Nothing to suggest it can feel the difference between an incidental touch and a gentle caress. Surely it must be able to feel something to operate so efficiently in battle, to sense its enemies and avoid injury? He runs his fingers up its ridged spine, strokes the smooth edges of its wings, brushes his thumb over external wires.
Nothing. If it enjoys the sensation, it gives no sign.
What did it even get out of sex? Had it…? How would it even…?
There’s so much he doesn’t know.
(He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on whether V1 could ever love him back. It doesn't matter. He would love it anyway. He’s already spent a lifetime devoted to an empty god.)
The silence stretches on long past the point of comfort. V1 has only offered a few blunt sentences and expressive gestures, giving him the impression that it isn’t accustomed or partial to conversation- but now that he knows it can communicate, that it’s truly an intelligent being with emotions, fears, desires… it feels like he should say something. He’s not used to being at a loss for words.
And this stillness… it’s giving him far too much space to think, space he doesn’t want.
The guilt creeps in slowly at first: a tightening in his stomach, a fist gently squeezing his heart, a looming shadow he wants desperately to run from only to find himself rooted in place. He knows what’s coming, but there’s nothing he can do to brace himself for the impact as a tidal wave of raw guilt and regret slams into him, crushing his lungs, suffocating him. How many had he condemned to Hell for doing exactly what he’s just done? How many had, under his authority, met a terrible fate for victimless crimes that paled in comparison to his own? How many had suffered endless torture for indulging their lustful desires together, for committing the horrible sin of feeling good under the arbitrary laws of a tyrannical Council he’d never thought to question? All that pain and death, and for what? Would the Father have given his body the ability to feel so fucking good if it wasn't meant to happen?
“...Machine?”
How absurd it would've seemed an hour ago to turn to it for comfort.
When he doesn’t say anything else, V1 makes a soft buzzing sound against his shoulder. Acknowledgment. It’s listening. Which is unfortunate, because he still has no idea what to say.
“About the… um.” He swallows. “I didn’t expect… that was. Wow.”
V1 still doesn’t reply, content to lie lazily sprawled over him like the world’s worst blanket. It isn’t even facing him, but he can feel how unimpressed it is with his masterful command of language.
“Did you… ah… enjoy it at all?”
A red thumbs-up pops up in the corner of his vision, which is good to know but not really the answer he’s looking for.
“I’m assuming you didn’t…”
This finally gets its attention. It props itself up on its elbows and stares down at him, optic half-lidded as its hands sign sharply. “Are you seriously asking me if I came from fingering you for two minutes and seventeen seconds?”
“I- no!” he splutters. “I was trying to say I’d like to return the favor. If that’s even possible, I mean. I didn’t see…”
“What, you already want more? I thought angels were supposed to be above that sort of thing.” It tilts its head smugly, its single eye somehow managing to leer down at him. “Sorry. No dick, no hole. Might have to get creative with it. Doesn’t mean I’m not having fun.” It pushes itself up and forward to straddle his waist, one arm planted into the ice on either side of his head so it looms over him, one hand tilting his chin up to meet its gaze, the fourth making him shiver as it teases over his wing. He wishes it didn’t have to stop touching him to speak. “I already have some ideas of what to do with you. Bet you'd look real good taking my cock if I manage to scrounge one up.”
The thought sends a wave of heat surging through him and he squeezes his thighs together with a sharp inhale. The machine’s optic narrows slightly- just enough to let him know his reaction hadn’t escaped its notice.
“You know, trying to tempt divine beings into sin usually involves a little tact,” he snaps.
“I’m not trying. I’m succeeding. Not my fault you’re easy.”
And Gabriel isn’t entirely sure what he laughs at, whether it’s the sheer absurdity of such a statement or the fact that it’s true and he doesn’t seem to care, but for the moment his guilt is forgotten. He grabs its waist- it’s almost small enough for his hands to wrap around it- and sits up until his helmet clinks lightly against what passes for its face, digging his fingers into its back with a growl. “Humor me, machine. Tell me more. I think I need a little more convincing.”