Hello! So, I've kind of dived headfirst into this story. This one is a 100 Themes one; 44, 'Two Roads', featuring angel!Jason, and half-blood, demon/angel hybrid!Damian. It's kind of horrible but I'm having lots of fun with it. Hope you enjoy!
Warnings for this chapter are : reference/after-effects of torture, nudity, public and non-consensual masturbation (the masturbation is consensual, the secondary part of it is not).
He's there the day that the angel is brought in. It's thrashing against chains that glow with the kind of light-devouring darkness he associates with his family's power, snarling into the length of chain dragged between its white teeth with eyes blazing white and powerful. It's hurt; one massive white wing hanging crooked where both are strapped down to the creature's back, and with streaks of copper blood staining its skin and the remainder of its clothing.
The demons are struggling with it, three trying to pull this creature along, even with the chains limiting its movements. They have their own wounds, black blood splattering the ground as the angel fights them, jerking its weight around with a strength that obviously surpasses theirs.
It's a split second, and he's young, but the sight burns itself into his mind and refuses to leave, as though branded there by one of the higher powers of their world.
Copper blood, blazing white eyes, great white wings that shone, tanned skin laid over hard muscle, thick but short black hair that swept the back of the creature's neck, and a height and mass that easily dwarfed the demons beside it. Power, as easy to see as his grandfather's, or his mother's.
Then the creature is gone, and he looks away from the open door and returns to his work; deciphering the Enochian texts laid out before him. It gives him intense headaches to read it — the angel blood in his veins isn't thick enough to make it painless — but he can, which is more than the rest of his family.
His mother never even knows he saw the creature at all.
It's years later that his mother guides him into the depths of their stronghold, far past any of the corridors he's ever seen before — his studies don't leave him much time to wander — and into a length of cells that's dark and hot enough to make him uncomfortable, though his mother is unaffected. He can stand it colder than she can, thanks to his split heritage, but there are heats that will make him falter where she does not.
He's been told time and time again that his mixed blood makes him near unique in history; a miracle or curse working to bring him into existence where it should not have been possible. There have been others, centuries or sometimes millennia apart, but few survived their term of pregnancy and even fewer survived infancy. If he reaches adulthood without being discovered and killed — his health seems to be fine, as far as anyone can tell — he should have nearly unmatched power, with the exception of some archangels.
His mother's hand stays between his shoulderblades, guiding him forward and to the very last cell on the left. "Damian," she starts, as she opens the door, "it's time to meet the other half of your blood."
He steps inside at her none-too-gentle push, gaze drawn immediately and inevitably to the form lying on the floor at the back wall.
It's not the magnificent, powerful creature he remembers, but that hardly surprises him. After years in his family's captivity, he's only amazed it's still alive at all, though they do like to make their captives suffer. Clearly, this creature was no exception, and they've certainly done quite a bit of work on it.
Chains run from its wrists to the side walls, lying slack on the floor, and more from its ankles to the floor beneath it, with far less give. It's nude, stripped of the shredded clothes he remembers, and those enormous wings no longer glow white and strong. They're loose, no longer bound to its back either, but the awkward angles to them suggest that even though they're free, they're hardly in working condition. In addition to being obviously broken, the feathers are spotted, some tips blackened and he honestly can't say if it's coloring or them having been burned that way. There are patches where feathers are missing, and he can see a few of the obviously ripped out ones scattered across the floor of the cell. Those are a dirty gray, with none of that slight shine.
Its skin has an unhealthy pale tinge beneath the apparently natural tan, and is covered in all sorts of marks that scream of torture. Bruises, half-healed burns, welts, scratches, and even one or two deeper, longer lacerations with actual stitches holding them closed. The muscle remains, but it's closer to bone now, more desperate and starved looking than a measure of strength. The black hair is a little longer, shaggily cut and falling around its neck.
"This is an angel," his mother informs him, closing the door behind them.
When the creature lifts its head its eyes are a blue-green mix, no longer glowing with brilliant power but not the hazed, broken things he was expecting. Instead, they're narrowed in a mixture of wariness and anger, and they capture his attention intensely enough that it takes him a moment to notice the dark, leather muzzle strapped to the bottom half of its face, holding its jaw closed and only allowing it to breathe through its nose.
He recognizes what his mother is doing; attempting to give him only this beaten version of an angel for him to base his opinion off of, and trying to convince him that the angel half of him is weaker and inferior to the demon as a rule. He's been witness to his mother and grandfather's manipulations too often for them to work nearly as well on him, and he still remembers that glimpse of this creature when it was powerful and probably exquisitely dangerous.
"The cell seems too small for any real work," he comments, instead of any of the other thoughts in his head.
The angel gathers itself, legs shifting beneath it to brace on the floor, and arms pressing to raise itself partially off the stone. Though it must undoubtedly hurt for the creature to move, given the state of its wings and the injuries he can see, there's no trace of it in the gaze fixed on him. Instead there's a predatory sort of grace to its movements, and to the look it's giving him. Something that implies that given a moment's chance it would try to rip his throat out with its bare hands. It might actually even be capable of that.
His mother gives a soft sound of amusement, hand sliding away from his back. "The castle is malleable, this deep into its depths. Watch."
He's loath to turn away from the angel, but he forces himself to look back and watch as his mother presses her hand to the wall beside the door, dark power threading through the stone and sliding around the walls. Chain rattles, and he jerks his head back in time to catch the angel slide to a crouch — balancing on its toes and the fingers of both hands — as the walls start to move with a loud rumbling grind of stone on stone. The back and side walls move away, leaving the angel in the center of a much larger room, and the purpose of the long chains becomes clear as the slack lessens, eventually dragging both of the creature's arms up and forcing it to stand, exposed and much more vulnerable.
Its knees are slightly bent, weight swung a bit towards the left, probably in some instinctive attempt to protect a rather vivid splash of bruising across the right side of its waist that suggests some degree of internal damage. Its hands are in loose fists, but there's almost no give in the chains holding its arms, unlike the foot or so of slack at its ankles.
"You can approach it, Damian. Keep a step away though; it will harm you if you give it the chance to, beast that it is."
"Is that the reason for the muzzle?" he asks, as he takes the permission to heart and moves closer to the angel, studying it. It studies him right back.
"Indeed," his mother confirms, slipping forward until one of her hands can snap out, grabbing a handful of the angel's black hair — despite the growling, angry sound it makes, like some kind of real beast — and yanking its head back a bit to bare its throat. "It had a nasty habit of biting, even after we made it regrow all its teeth a few times." The angel swallows, pulls a bit against the chains, and his mother smiles. "Angels don't need to eat, and its mouth was no use, so we sewed it shut and locked this muzzle on him. Wouldn't want to give it a chance to rip out our hard work, would we?"
"Of course not," he answers, because it's expected.
His mother lets go of the hair between her fingers, and the angel's head lowers to guard its throat again, eyes narrowed and furious as it growls down at both of them. It turns on him, growl rising to a sharp snarl as it lunges tight against the chains, only actually gaining a few inches but the intent behind the action and the sharp flare of white power in its eyes is enough to make him jump back, his own power rising to the top of his skin and his wings bursting from his back as fight or flight kicks in.
His mother strikes in the next moment, landing a precise blow to that bruised section of the creature's side. It twists into the attack, white fading from its eyes to leave only pained blue-green as it gives a muffled shout, before his mother grabs it by the throat with her other hand. He stares, eyes wide, as she shakes the angel once, nails digging into its skin.
"Do not threaten my son," she hisses, teeth baring for a moment before she raises her other hand and beckons him closer. "Damian, put those away and come here. Even if this creature had the power left to do anything more than scratch you, the chains prevent it from being used." Her grip tightens, and the angel jerks backwards the half inch it can to try and get away. "And if it were to harm you in any way, I would ensure that the harm was repaid to the fullest extent. Somewhere in that tiny mind, I'm sure it knows better than to tempt such a fate."
He's not entirely convinced, considering the look in the angel's eyes, but he does as he's been ordered. He forces his wings back away, absorbed into a more human — or demon — form where they belong, if he is not actively using them, and approaches his mother again. Cautious as he is, he tries not to let it show. His mother would not approve of the weakness, and it is her displeasure he ought to fear, not the anger of a weak, bound, injured angel.
Even if what his mother has been trying to drill into his head all his life is incorrect (that angels are weaker, pathetic, of a lesser intelligence), this angel is no real threat to him. Not with the injuries it already bears, and the presence of his mother right beside him.
He steps up beside her, and her hand presses between his shoulder blades as she glances down to him, still maintaining her grip on the angel's throat. "This angel is intended for you, my son; a gift from your grandfather. When you are older, it will be officially given to you, to do with as you please. He expects you to keep it as a pet; for the status it represents."
The angel snarls, jerking again; probably at the revelation that its eventual purpose is to be a simple trophy, but a second blow to its injured side silences it.
His mother lightly ruffles his hair as she releases the creature's throat, and then offers him a thin, dangerous smile. "Until then, your study of torture will be refined on this beast's skin. Barring a few more permanent aspects, of course."
"What aspects?" he asks, even as he stares up at the angel.
"Anything it does not have the power to reverse; full loss of larger limbs, similar damage to its wings, or the loss of its purity." He looks up at that, and then watches as his mother reaches out and drags her fingers back through the creature's hair, holding it still again. "That's yours, Damian, for when you're old enough. An angel's loss of purity can only happen once, and this one's belongs to you. I suppose, if you wish, you could have it taken whenever you wish, but I would advise waiting until you can do it yourself. A memory like that is to be treasured."
The angel shudders, pulling back though there is nowhere to go, and makes a noise that sounds remarkably similar to a fiercely unhappy cat; a muffled yowl of both fury and desperation that rises and then slides into a low, growling snarl. He almost shivers at the sound, but luckily manages to restrain the reaction, even as something deep in his gut curls at the thought of further harming the only angel he has ever met.
He reaches out, touching the skin near the angel's hip and then sliding his fingers up the warm flesh, to the heat of the swollen, bruised side. It feels no different than a regular human's skin.
Narrowed, blue-green eyes with more than a touch of desperation look down at him, a second shudder shaking the angel, and he finds himself asking, "What is its name?"
His mother rolls her shoulders in a graceful shrug, and releases her handful of black hair. "Whatever you wish it to be. If you choose to give it one at all. It is a possession, Damian, not a person. Do not forget that." The angel jerks against the chains, snarls again at that, but his mother ignores it. "Let's get started; I believe heat is an appropriate first tool."
And though the twist in his gut remains, though the gaze of the angel pleads with him, he obeys.
The day of his eighteenth — in human years, ignoring the distortion on time in hell — birthday is when the gift becomes official. His mother has kept both him and the rest of the demons away from the creature for a few months, and it was a fairly closely guarded secret to begin with, so when it's led out at his celebration an immediate hush falls.
He straightens up in his chair — to the left of and below his grandfather's — and feels his breath catch in his throat.
It's being led by a demon, bound by nothing more than shackles with an attached chain and heavy straps of leather binding its wings closed, with dark, glowing runes worked into the leather, undoubtedly to keep its power contained. The years of injury are gone from its skin, leaving only that perfect tan in its place, and though the creature is not the same powerhouse of muscle he remembers, it has regained some of its bulk and its glow. The muzzle is still there, but its hair has been cut more professionally, with just enough to get a good handful in left on its skull, and its been dressed in simple cloth; a pair of white linen pants and a matching sleeveless top.
It seems to be obeying the pull of the chain attached to its wrists, seems willing to be pulled to the front of the room and the base of the steps leading to his grandfather's throne, but there's a sharp edge to its gaze that he recognizes from all the time he's spent with the angel. It's not willing, it's simply waiting.
"Damian," his grandfather calls, and he pulls his gaze from the creature and stands from his seat at the beckoning tone.
"Yes, Grandfather?"
The words are ritual and unnecessary; completely for the benefit of the uninformed in the room as his grandfather gives a sharp smile and extends a hand towards the angel. "My gift to you, Grandson. It is yours, to do with as you wish."
The demon holding the chain kneels, offering it up, and the angel strikes in a sudden burst of movement. One leg lashes out, slamming a heel into the side of the kneeling idiot's head, and the first crunch is only slightly less loud than the second one when its head hits the ground. The angel calmly pulls its so-called 'leash' from the twitching demon's lax hands, curling the length of chain in one of its hands, then steps forward and crushes its downed opponent's throat with one brutal downwards stomp. The flick of its gaze up to meet his is clear challenge, and he can't help smirking.
"Good to see that the pleasure of breaking you will be mine," he says, as he gets to his feet and lets his wings flare outwards from his back a bit, showcasing their mix of black and golden feathers. He hasn't hidden his wings in years, not since he fully realized the fear they inspire in his subordinates. Neither his mother nor grandfather much appreciate the sight, but they haven't stopped him either. He's nearly as powerful as his mother, these days.
The angel faces him, blue-green eyes narrowed and without even a thread of the fear he's usually viewed with. He remembers how refreshing that is. Even in its most agonized moments at his hand, the angel never looked at him with fear. Wariness, generally, and with flat knowledge of the pain he was capable of dishing out, but it was never scared of him. Never scared of any of them, as far as he's aware.
"I believe a show of force is in order," his grandfather comments, clearly as an order, and not the suggestion it's worded as. "Damian, perhaps you would do the honors of putting it in its place?"
"As you wish, Grandfather," he concedes, not taking his gaze away from the angel's.
If he could see the creature's mouth he imagines it would be in a snarl, given the anger in its gaze and the way it shifts, muscle coiling but not quite tensing. He flares his wings further, watches that anger make the small jump into fury, and then leaps. His wings beat down once, slowing the fall just enough to make him hover in the air for a moment as he gathers power to his hands and lashes out in the same breath. The dark power slices downwards, just a fraction ahead of him as he starts to fall.
He's not positive what he's expecting his opponent to do, but it's certainly not for the angel to spin in and underneath the spread of one of his wings with an ease that speaks of long practice. His power crackles harmlessly into the ground, he lands on his toes and starts to turn, and the angel slams into his back. The shackles hook around his throat, a leg impacting with the backs of his to drive him to his knees before the angel buries a knee in the center of his back and draws back on the chain against his throat. His spine arches, and he chokes for a moment before he gets his hands up and around the angel's wrists and beats his wings, pushing himself back as he snarls and bodily flips the angel over his head.
It might be bigger than him, but it's clearly not at full strength and he has the advantage of power.
It's already twisting as it falls, landing on the tips of its fingers and toes instead of flat on its back, and he can see the white power sparking in its eyes, contained beneath its skin but definitely there. Excitement brightens his senses, the ache of the forming bruises against his throat forgotten in the face of the creature already gathering itself to attack.
He meets it, mouth curling in a feral grin as instinct overwhelms thoughts of strategy and he just attacks. The angel grapples with him, nails digging into his skin as it slams him into the ground, and then he retaliates with a knee to its gut that makes it fall backwards with a huff of air that slides into a growl. Despite the animalistic nature of its attacks, he's discovering there is skill behind it. More skill than he has, if he's honest, and that thrills him in a way that's probably a little bit too dangerous to allow. It's not as though he'd forgotten that the angel was deadly, but more that he'd forgotten that it was quite this deadly.
In every practiced twist, within every glance of its almost glowing eyes, there's a vicious, calculating, intelligence. It's the reminder he needed to recall that not only is the angel dangerous just by virtue of what it is, but that it is a warrior. This is a creature that's been fighting demons and waging war for likely hundreds of years, and it still lives. Even bound, even weak, it is nothing to be trifled with.
But he has the strength, and he's spent every moment of his life in training in one thing or another. A large part of that has been devoted to combat, and while he may not have this creature's experience, he is not something to be trifled with either.
He manages to get on top of the angel, slam its head back against the stone floor to stun it, and then shreds the linen shirt, tearing it from the creature's chest as he slides to his feet and backs several feet away. He does not believe either his grandfather or his mother would allow him to actually be killed — his kind are too obscenely rare for that — but they might allow him to be seriously injured before stepping in, if he lets the angel get the upper hand. He's had his time to explore the angel's strength and experience, now's the time to wind things higher before it ends.
This is more than just a fight; it's a show. He's supposed to be putting the angel in its place, and proving himself master of it. If he falters, if he doesn't perform correctly, it makes all of them look bad. His power will be questioned, his position, his right to even have such a creature if he cannot properly control it. That cannot be allowed.
The angel slides back into motion, rising to a crouch and then to its feet in the span of a moment. He starts to circle the angel, and it snarls in the back of its throat and, instead of simply turning to keep him in sight, starts to circle him as well. It's a strange, back and forth sort of dance, but it gives him the time to realize that his victory is not so far as others might imagine.
Whether it's from the exertion, the lingering weakness, or the blow to its head he doesn't know, but the angel is tiring. He can see it in the slight downwards curl to its shoulders, the dip of its head, and the lack of that sparking white power to its eyes.
He smirks and it glares at him, clenching its hands to tight fists. Then it's coiling and lashing out with one arm, the loops of chain held in its hand flying out towards his chest with a rattle. Without really thinking about it he jerks an arm up, catching the end of the chain as it flies through the air towards his head and yanking it towards him. The angel's eyes widen and it stumbles at the pull, arms pulled harshly forward by his strength. Combat instinct has him raise a leg, reeling the chain in with his hand before getting his foot on top of it and pushing down to pin it against the floor. The angel falls to its knees, the shackles pulling tight against its wrists and yanking it to the floor as the chain drags it down. Then he spins, pivoting on the foot pressed down over the chain so he can crack his other foot across the angel's face with all the force of that spin.
It slams to the floor, giving a muffled shout of pain into the muzzle, eyes squeezing shut. For a moment he wonders if he struck it too hard, before he casts the thought aside and steps off the chain, keeping it in his hands to keep the angel held close even as he kicks it in the side to put it on its back. It's breathing hard, almost imperceptibly trembling, and when it tries to gather its legs he kicks its right thigh back down hard enough that he hears something crack, and it cries out.
Using its pain, he hooks his foot underneath its side and flips it onto its stomach, dragging its arms up above its head with the chain and then planting his foot right between its shoulder blades to hold it down, feathers brushing his ankle on either side as he bears his weight down into it. It struggles a bit, but it's the work of just a moment to loop some of the slack of the chain around its throat, pinning its hands at its own throat and then dragging the chain tight enough to dig in and make it choke. Which is when he steps off, pulling on the chain and dragging it across the floor by its throat until he's standing at the foot of the stairs to his grandfather's throne.
He takes the moment of silence — there's pride in his mother's eyes — to press his foot back down between the angel's wings, pinning it just in case it gets any more ideas to struggle, despite its losing fight to gain air against the wrap of the chain around its throat.
"Was that an adequate enough show of force, Grandfather?" he asks, holding the chain taut.
His grandfather has a pleased smirk on his face, one leg crossed over the other. "Yes, Damian. Now you have a prize to claim, do you not? An angel's loss of purity is something to be remembered, and the angel clearly needs a lesson to teach it its place."
He can hear the other demons in the room — semi-useful lieutenants and the like, as well as servants — stir, hear the murmur and nearly feel the envy and greed at his back. Logically, he knows what his grandfather — what they all — want. A show. His grandfather is trying to play him to his best advantage and he understands and respects that, but this time he has no intention of going along with it. There's a fierce curl of possessiveness in his chest, and while he'll give them the show they want, he is not willing to allow them to share in the taking of something so rare. That is his.
The angel gives a breathless growl, probably reacting to the idea of being violated so publicly, but he ignores it and only offers a sharp smirk.
"I prefer to save that for somewhere with no eyes other than mine, but perhaps just a taste."
He yanks the angel around so they're not facing his grandfather directly, kneeling down over its back and the tightly bound mass of its wings, keeping the chain at its throat held tight as he works open his pants with his free hand and grasps himself. He's hard from the fight, from the thrill, and he doesn't bother with slow or teasing. He strokes himself fast, knows the angel understands when it starts to really struggle again, and he has to press the hand holding the chain to the back of its skull to bear his weight down and keep it pinned.
Ignoring his audience comes as second nature; this isn't his first public coupling and it likely won't be his last. There is very little shame among demons, and he is a god among them because of his heritage. The rare few who managed to get him interested enough to take what he wanted were more likely to desire that it happened in public, so everyone would know that he had touched them individually. He's never cared for privacy before, was raised with only the barest modicum of it given his family and his various trainers and watchers, but this is different. He'll humiliate the angel for their enjoyment, hurt it if he must, but what he wants to do to it? He has no intention of ever allowing anyone to see the angel's pleasure but himself, not if it's as glorious and amazingly sacrilegious as he thinks it's going to be.
The energy in the room rises as he does, as the angel beneath him spits breathless sounds of anger and desperation, struggling but unable to break away from him. His wings flare outwards as he hits breaking point, back arching up a touch and his mouth curling into a snarl as he forces his eyes to remain open so he can watch. Pleasure bursts beneath his skin and in his gut, and he strangles back any sound as he comes, the angel jerking beneath him as his release splatters between its shoulders and along the top of its wings.
He takes a moment to breathe, and to watch the trembling of its muscles, though he's not positive whether the shaking is humiliation or rage. He supposes he'll find out when he lets the creature up.
Tucking himself away one-handed is easy enough, and once he's positive that he can react properly to any abrupt attacks he slackens the chain around its throat and pushes himself up to stand over it. It curls onto its side as he steps away, legs drawing in and for a moment he thinks he's managed to actually really scare it, until it looks up. There's frustrated, humiliated, fury in its eyes, and it looks like it would be lunging for his throat if it thought it could get away with it, but it stays down as he looks up towards his grandfather.
The only thing he gets is a pleased smirk, and he dips his head and then jerks on the chain so it draws tight again for a moment. "Thank you for the gift, Grandfather. Please excuse me so I may properly appreciate it."
His mother is smiling, gaze lowered to the angel, but he gives only a glance before holding his grandfather's gaze. If it is demanded that he give more, he will have no other option except to risk that the angel be taken from him entirely, but if he has guessed right, this should have been sufficient enough to grant him the ability to explore the angel in private.
As expected, his grandfather nods and flicks one dismissive hand. "Go, Damian. Enjoy your gift."
He bows this time, shallower than any other being but his mother would be expected to, and then turns away so he can drag his angel from the throne room. The demons part to allow him to go, and his angel struggles, but can't get the chain away from its throat with its hands trapped as they are, and whatever damage he's done to its leg. It's unlikely that it's anything serious enough to truly cripple the angel; he's seen the kind of damage it can take over the years, and its lack of scars proves that its regenerative abilities are extremely thorough.
He relaxes just a touch when they're out from under the envious eyes of the demons, letting his wings settle more comfortably against his back and slowing his stride a touch. Navigating to his quarters is simple enough, and he relaxes even further once they're both safely behind the locked, warded protection of his door. Then he lets go of the chain and walks to the bars of his window, pulling the shutters closed before he lights the room with a flick of his fingers. Soft electric lights, to keep up with modern technology, and a few scattered candles for the atmosphere.
He turns at the rattle of chain, watching the angel draw itself to its knees, chain no longer looped around its throat. It stills when their gazes meet, and then he looks away, crossing the room by circling it, giving the angel space as he steps into the adjoined bathroom. Older styles here, with a large, stone bath inlaid in the floor and a smaller shower beside it, to rinse off first. He retrieves a cloth from within the marble and dark wood cabinets, dampens it in the stone basin, and then returns to the bedroom.
The angel has its right leg stretched out, fingers sliding over its thigh in a clear attempt to assess injury, but it stops the instant he's in the room. The leg draws back beneath it as it faces him, not quite standing but clearly ready to attack or run from anything he tries.
As a peace offering, he holds up the damp cloth.
It stares at him, hesitating, and then slowly, carefully, dips its head an inch and turns away the same fraction, offering him a small slice of its back. He approaches just as slowly, and it watches him the entire way, right up until he's standing at its shoulder and the cloth touches its skin. It shifts downwards, bringing itself within easier reach as it sinks to its knees, head twisted over its shoulder to watch him but its back open beneath his hands. In repayment for the concession, he keeps his touch gentle as he cleans the angel's back and wings of both his own release and the grit from being dragged across the floor.
He stays silent as he does, until finally, when he's almost done, he asks, "Did I hurt you?"
The angel stirs at his voice, shifting to look a bit further over its shoulder and meet his gaze. After a moment, it shakes its head a touch and looks away, actually leaving him at its back without supervision. He supposes that anything he can do to the angel, he could do whether or not he's being watched. Observation won't change anything.
"Good," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
He folds the cloth over when he's done with the last bit of his cleaning, rubbing it up and over the angel's shoulders one more time before tossing it aside. Then he circles around to the angel's front, sinking to his knees to be at more equal of a height before he reaches forward. It growls when he picks up the loose end of the chain attached to its shackles, but he doesn't let it phase him. He slowly passes the chain through his fingers until he can follow it to the shackles, holding the angel's gaze the entire time until his hands touch the sturdier metal of the shackles. Then he lowers his gaze, finding the connection of the chain to the shackles and taking it between his fingers.
He pulls a bit of his power from underneath his skin, letting it slide into the metal of the chain until its inundated enough that he can shatter the connecting link with a pointed thought, and the rest of the chain falls to the floor. The angel is watching him when he raises his gaze, something almost confused in its expression, right alongside something considering.
Before he can think about what he's saying, there are words falling between his lips.
"I would not have chosen that show," he says between them, not raising his voice or averting his gaze. "Make of it what you will, I suppose, but I would not have chosen your humiliation if the choice had been mine."
The angel snorts, pulls its hands away with a sharp yank and glares down at him. Even without words, the 'yeah right' is clear enough.
So he picks the chain up from the floor and gets to his feet, drawing away so he can store the chain somewhere the angel can't get to it to use it as a weapon. "Do you think I am lying?" he says over his shoulder.
When he turns around, the angel is standing as well — just barely favoring its right leg — and pointedly, crudely, mimes jacking off before it growls and then makes a gesture he's fairly sure is meant to mean that if it happens again, the angel is going to either rip 'it' off or snap it in two. That part's a bit unclear.
"Fair enough," he agrees, resealing the lock on the chest he's stashed the chain in. "However my choices were that, to risk you being taken from me completely, or to do more than simply 'mark' you. Would you have preferred I take you with that audience watching?"
The angel glares harder for a moment, then gives another growl and rolls its shoulders in a way he recognizes as wanting to spread his wings. He's watched himself in the mirror enough times to recognize the muscular tic. He peers at the muzzle, and then firmly decides that this simply isn't going to work. He approaches, holding his hands out to try and show a lack of threat, and the angel lets him approach until he's standing before it. It's when he reaches up towards its face that the trouble starts.
It jerks away from his reaching fingers, and he tries to follow before it lashes out and smacks his hand away with its bound ones. He scowls a bit as it growls, and snaps, "Be still," which, after he's said it, he realizes was probably not the best thing to say to get it to do what he wants.
It snarls louder, steps back, and he grabs hold of the chain between its shackles with one hand and reaches up with the other. He has to dodge one knee aimed at his gut before he gets a hold of a handful of black hair and yanks the angel forward. Its nails dig into his wrist, and he hisses between his teeth and then bares them when he slides his other hand back and finds the lace and straps for the muzzle, giving them a pointed tug that jerks the angel's head back a bit.
Its nails are dug into his skin, but it doesn't dig any further, just blinks wide, startled eyes at him.
He scoffs, tugs at the straps again, and spits, "I cannot undo this one handed, angel."
There's a pause, but then the angel lets go of his hand, and he raises it up to join the other at the back of its skull. It shudders as he loosens the straps by touch, undoes the laces, and then finally, carefully, eases it free. It seems frozen stiff, and as he drops the muzzle off to the side he examines the thick, black string woven through its lips, binding them together. Any wounds surrounding them have long since healed, but the threads are thick enough to not snap just by pulling. He rests a careful hand on its jaw, and it flinches away from the touch, wide, wild eyes staring at him as it breathes in sharp, sudden bursts.
It takes him a few moments to realize that he is touching skin that hasn't been touched in over a decade of human time, and he gentles his touch even further at that realization.
"Easy," he murmurs, stroking his thumb over its cheek, to the corner of that mouth. Slowly, making sure that it sees his hand move, he reaches for the small knife hidden within his clothes. It shudders a bit when it comes out, tenses as if to draw away, and he repeats, "Easy."
He carefully tilts its head a bit downwards, lowering his gaze to its mouth so that the angle is right when his knife comes up. It growls a little bit, tenses further, but doesn't stop him from sliding the knife underneath that drawn thread and very carefully cutting through it. Then the next, and the one after that, until only one connection remains. Then he stores the knife — notices the angel tracking where it is; unsurprising — and reaches back up. It winces when he starts pulling the cut threads loose, but doesn't pull away even though whatever sensation it's feeling is clearly uncomfortable. When the last thread is out he lowers his other hand, leaving only the one resting against its jaw.
The angel shudders, and he can feel the muscles of its jaw shifting, stretching a bit, before those pierced lips part on a small breath. It breathes in, eyes drifting closed as it inhales long and slow, and then exhales just as slowly. The second breath is more normal, and then there's the flicker of a tongue as it slips out, wetting its lips. Its eyes open again, gaze lowering to find his.
"There," he comments. "Unlike my mother, I rather prefer it when the things I speak with are capable of speaking back. Do you remember how, angel?"
Its eyes narrow, and it draws sharply away from his hand as it glares, any gratitude apparently ruined by his choice of words. Unwilling to let the angel withdraw, he snaps his hand forward and grabs its hair, keeping it close. It pulls against the grip, but doesn't outright yank away.
"I asked you a question," he points out, with a bit of irritation. "Can you still speak?" It pulls a little harder, and he jerks it forward again and snarls, "Use your tongue or see it ripped out, angel!"
Anger sparks in the angel's eyes, and then its mouth curls, baring teeth for the first time in probably a very long time. "Screw you," it spits, in a voice low and rough with disuse.
He stares, grinds his teeth together, and then lets go and admits, "I suppose that does count."
It stares at him for a second, snorts, and then it closes its eyes and breathes out something similar to a laugh. Strange and rough, clearly the laugh of someone who hasn't been physically capable of it for a long time, but recognizable.
Some of the irritation bleeds away, and he crosses his arms and asks, "Do you have a name at least?"
Another moment, and then it rasps, "Jason, and I'm not a thing or yours."
He studies the angel. "I suppose since possess at least some intelligence, you are indeed not a thing... Jason. But that does not mean you are not mine ."
"Yeah, we'll see about that ."