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A door is closed, armored vests and equipment are shucked off to rest against one of the tables in their room table. Daemon turns his head, giving an intrigued look to the servo agent opposite to him.
“Something wrong? You aren’t usually this eager to get into bed.”
Delta’s blue screen flickers. His hands are flushed red and uncontrollably shivering. “MY BODY TEMPERATURE IS.. LOWER THAN THE RECOMMENDED LEVELS. TRYING TO WARM UP WILL BE TEDIOUS IN THESE CONDITIONS, SO I'M HOPING IT WILL REGULATE BY THE TIME I WAKE UP ,” he says. Hoping isn’t a reliable method, especially when applied to Eden-227. Usually he would have exercised to simulate some heat production, but it’s far too cold out right now.
There’s a huff. “That’s what you get for wearing short sleeves in the snow.”
“LAYERS HINDER MY MOVEMENT TOO MUCH. MY ATTIRE WORKS SUFFICIENTLY ENOUGH ANYWAYS, IT'S MY BODY’S SENSITIVITY THAT’S A NUISANCE,” the agent states, facial shudders hitching a little. When it comes to his fleshier parts — anything below his top half — it’s easier to lose track of their condition since becoming a servo. Sensory description only goes so far with his quality of head, and its seen more of a distraction than anything of use on field.
“..How about I warm you up then?” Daemon comments through a sort of murmur.
He looks at him from the edge of the bed with a certain expression coating his minimally scared features. The familiar tone he uses —warm, genuine, curious— that Delta can never quite put a full name to.
Delta tilts his head, intrigued. “WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN MIND?”
The other agent slides closer, shuffling the sheets as he does. “Physical contact, touching is the gist. I’d like to keep the specifics a surprise though. You okay with that?”
“YOU CAN PROCEED.”
He nods. “Just let me know if it gets too much.”
He stays in front of the medic, raising his legs to rest on either side of the defector’s waist. Inconspicuous enough, Delta thinks. And then scarred fingers start to unbutton his shirt. Hastily, but still carefully enough to not damage anything. It’s the same quick trained movements Damien uses on his guns —and like every time, Delta watches with rapt attention. The buttons unwind themselves within minutes. Leaving his half-mechanical chest exposed to the open air.
Damien then makes quick work of shedding his own shirt —something which makes Delta’s vents instinctively hitch in preparation for heat distribution.
“.. THIS DOESN'T SEEM WARMING.”
Daemon pulls a soft grin. “Hold on.”
The agent leans in with a blanket over his shoulders, masking the two of their bodies in a thin sheet of soft fabric. Though, it’s only preparation for what comes next.
He starts with soft kisses, short, fast. Spaced around. Then, Damien puts his mouth on his panels, nipping at the cables poking out from the back of his neck and the occasional tongue to lick at the glowing glass. He’s always had a habit of doing that— Delta doesn’t understand why, nor the reason why he seems to enjoy it so much.
Soft flesh presses against cold but exceedingly warming metal. Damien is soft. His audio receptors pick up the soft breaths he makes after every kiss, the sounds of the sheets shuffling, his own whirring which is getting progressively embarrassingly louder with every passing moment.
He cups the area beneath the medic’s pecs, right where the metal ends and his skin begins. Mainly silicone with metal perimeters and divots that carry wires. Daemon toys with it, softly squeezing every few moments. He’s sensitive there. His chest contains more nerves than regular humans, so his servo can properly monitor his vitals, however it comes with the consequent effect of being more .. receptive in that area. Receptive enough to be able to feel the differences in how Daemon treats the metal ridges —fingers quick to pry and stroke the nerve wires underneath— to pressing against the softer, plushier silicone. Besides the physical sensations, Delta can’t quite process how human the gesture is.
“D-DAMIEN,” he starts, voice all too much quieter than its usual volume. “WHAT IS YOUR GOAL HERE?”
For a moment, Damien stops in his gestures, leaning his head back slightly to give Delta his full attention with a certain stare.
“I’m warming you up, Delta.”
The way he says it— the way he looks when he says it . His visuals catch a soft smile on his face, his voice the same one he uses whenever he finds a useful set of supplies or the details of a gun. Something purely human and genuine, all too genuine for whatever degeneracy is going on right now.
And the agent is leaning down, down into the bed and down into the spot of his neck. The warmth of his breath is tangible now.
His sensors tell him Damien smells like coffee and tobacco— usually he doesn’t bother reading the sensory description, but this he desperately wants.
Daemon bites and licks and kisses the cables protruding from the back of his neck.
The effect is immediate of course, or it gets close. A warm, wet mouth, lapping at the strands connecting him. His teeth graze the outer shell enough to bend, but not tear, just enough to trigger adrenaline and a few immediately dismissed warnings.
He clutches the defectors waist, legs squeezing around him. Daemon’s heard enough of his medical facts to be knowledgeable on how to navigate his parts safely, though that also means he has more than enough room to exploit everything else. The medic’s vents open more when the warmth catches up. Kissing the groves of the jaw, and then finding one of the smaller cords on his neck.
His antenna twitches uncontrollably, and then his fans fully whine from the action he does next. Despite being perfectly fine, his visuals don’t register fully, coated by static and a sensation of warm wet. Delta should be concerned, he isn’t. Only preoccupied with the fact his nerve wires are being this toyed with— Something so enrapturing about the idea of Damien having Delta’s equivalent to a pulse in his mouth.
More kisses are applied to his face. Losing their intensity, hunger, but their amount of warmth stays the same. Before his processors can realize it, Daemon pulls away with a soft breath.
“Hey. You’ve stopped shivering.” His chest heaves, sounding almost as breathless as Delta feels.
“I HAVE.” It takes a moment for him to register it. Miraculously enough, his system doesn't detect any abnormal temperature anymore.
“You know, you’ve always had a tendency to overheat when we kiss. I thought it’d be good to try to use it,” he says, brushing some of the hair off of his face.
“YOUR METHOD WAS ..EFFECTIVE. VERY EFFECTIVE.”
Pfft, Daemon laughs. “I’m glad to see it.” He rolls off to the side of Delta to slink further into the sheets. “We .. should rest though. I doubt Jericho would be happy if we’re too tired to scavenge in the morning.”
He nods, systems still buzzing all of sensations. “THANK YOU, DAMIEN.. FOR HELPING ME.”
He laughs again. This time shorter, quieter. The next words are said like a murmured promise. “Anytime, Delta.”
The archangel doesn’t fall asleep immediately, opting to leave his systems on idle so he can watch Damien drift off for a little while longer. If he still possessed the lips to do so, he’d kiss Daemon. Instead, he settles for this. The sleep hit the other agent fast. A sight somewhat surprising considering all of the levels of caffeine inside of him. His hair messily frames the sleeping face which leans on his chest, features relaxed with that lingering solemness that only appears when he’s alone.
His fans still whirr in the silence. Delta pulls the blanket up further and hopes the warmth his body provides is good enough to keep Damien’s respite comfortable.