Chapter Text
Jason dropped down in front of the warehouse. He’d been tracking this damn demon trafficking ring for weeks and only days ago had he managed to convince the leaders of the ring that he wanted to make a deal. They’d promised a “taste of the merchandise” in exchange for free reign to continue their beneath-the-table trafficking at the Gotham docks. Obviously, they were out-of-towners. Anyone with half a brain knew Red Hood didn’t buy or sell people—even demons.
He still had memories of his demon brother curling around him on the couch while they watched a movie, purring softly and nuzzling Jason’s hair. The shattered bonds after his death had left an unfillable, gaping hole in Jason’s chest despite being human himself. The warmth of the bonds was a feeling he knew he’d never get back. He had no family or pack anymore.
Jason strode briskly through the warehouse like he owned the place, exuding confidence and danger with every step. He stared at the thugs guarding the entrance to the main room through unblinking white lenses until they backed off and let him enter, immediately casing the area; men positioned at each exit, likely guarding imprisoned implings and demons, all armed with guns. The room was dimly lit, furnished only with a few couches up ahead. The ringleader, Walter Maxwell, had his arms thrown over the back of the couch, manspreading in his smooth, fine-pressed suit. His cardboard-brown hair was slicked back with too much gel.
When he saw Jason approach, he rose, flashing a nasty smile with a single silver tooth glinting in the poor light. He spread his arms wide in greeting.
“Hood! How nice of you to join us,” he said smarmily, gesturing to the couch in front of him. “Have a seat, have a seat. We have so much to talk about!”
“Of course,” Jason responded, allowing the modulator in his helmet to do the intimidation for him. The crime bosses sat eerily in sync, neither pair of eyes straying from their associate. “I believe I was promised a sample?”
Maxwell offhandedly lifted a hand towards one of his men and twitched two fingers. The goon disappeared into a nearby room and Maxwell winked at Jason. “Eager, are we? You’ll love this. We’ve got just the pet for you.”
Jason’s eye twitched. “We’ll see,” he said flatly, words sour on his tongue. “You could say I have a refined taste.” As in no taste at all, because he’s not a horrible person.
Maxwell just laughed, and Jason turned when he heard the sound of clinking. Behind one of the nameless thugs, a black-haired, slim-built figure with wrists tied in front of him was being led in on a chain connected to something around his neck, forced to stumble after the man who walked too quickly for the injured and restrained demon. An incubus, Jason determined, based on the black-feathered wings tied up behind their back. They were one of two demon species with wings, and the only with feathered wings. Lucifereans’ were leathery and bat-like.
Wing bands were the type of thing available in stores and worked much like hair ties, shaped like oversized rubber bands and often made with a soft fabric. They were meant to gently hold an incubi’s wings together against their back when they wanted them out of the way—not this cruel mockery of tight leather, pinching fragile feathers and locked with mechanisms out of the demon’s reach.
The goon shoved the incubus to his knees on the floor beside Maxwell, garnering a small whine from behind the muzzle. Maxwell backhanded him. The whine cut off into silence.
Jason tried not to make it clear how tense he was, remaining quiet as he watched the other man grip the incubus’s chin and force his head up. The blue collar around the demon’s throat was visible from this angle.
“Beautiful specimen, ain’t ‘e? Found this one wanderin’ near the borders of Crime Alley wearin’ rich people clothes.” Maxwell leaned forward into the demon’s face, still holding his chin and stroking the demon’s hair with his free hand in a deceptive kindness. “Pretty clothes like that ain’t for you, demon. Sex toys should know their place.”
The demon visibly shuddered, ducking his head when Maxwell let go of him. They had him in leather booty shorts with horrible coverage, hugging the natural curve of his body, and they’d forgone a top entirely. There were scars marring his back that looked like they could’ve come from a whip.
Jason needed to get the demon away from that man.
“He’s for me, isn’t he?” Jason said cooly, leaning casually against the side of the couch and spreading his knees slightly. The implication was clear.
Maxwell chuckled and pet the incubus again before shoving him in Jason’s direction. “Go on. Show him what you’re good for. I know you’ll be gettin’ in lots of practice soon.”
Men throughout the room laughed, a dozen pairs of lustful and sadistic gazes tracking the squirming incubus.
The demon hesitantly crawled a few feet toward Jason, settling between Jason’s knees. From this close, Jason could see each tremble wracking the terrified demon’s frame, the way his blue eyes (familiar blue eyes?) were locked onto his every move, and the slight quiver in his probably-aching wings. The pleading expression half-hidden under a muzzle sent a clear message.
He was begging for mercy.
Jason swallowed. He wanted to reach out and comfort him, but it would have to wait. Instead, he began running a hand through the incubus’s matted black hair and pointedly ignored the full-body flinch. Couldn't the demon—Blue, he’d call him for now, because of those eyes—sense his lack of lust or desire? Incubi were emotion demons with the ability to sense, manipulate, eat, and interpret emotions in others. Blue had to know Jason wasn’t interested. He knew why Blue was likely still afraid, but the demon knew Jason didn’t want him for that, right?
“Wings still in working condition?” Jason asked casually, looking back up at Maxwell. Blue froze beneath his hand, eyes widening in horror as he watched Jason.
Hang on, bud. Just a little while longer.
Maxwell waved a hand. “‘Course. Wouldn’t want ‘em to go to waste, now, would we? It’s up to you what you want to do with ‘em. Pretty enough for harvesting.”
The incubus was so still that Jason thought he might not have been breathing.
“Let’s see them, then,” he said, and Maxwell tossed him the key. He leaned over and unlocked the wing restraints, pulling it off as kindly as he could. “Fluff them up,” he demanded when Blue just sat there and shivered, injecting as much impatience into his voice as he could.
Flinch. Hesitantly, Blue obeyed, wings fanning out to an impressive length and showing off fantastic coloring. There was a sluggishness to the motion, a subtle wince from the demon that spoke for the ache of his wings after being restrained so long.
Jason went cold. Pure black on the outside and along the top coverts. Blue feathers lined the inside. And, if Jason was correct, an iridescent shimmer of color when the light hit just right…yes. There. A glint of red, yellow, green, and then it’s gone.
All demon wing patterns were unique, and Jason would recognize these anywhere. Dick Grayson. Jason’s brother.
Jason reached out to thread his fingers through the rumpled feathers the way he once did during their nightly preening session before bed. He’d been so proud that Dick let him preen him, knowing the older boy had always been violently protective over his wings. But now, the moment his fingers touched the softness, Dick whimpered, and Jason realized he was trembling so hard that his wings were visibly shaking.
Right. He wasn’t Dick’s brother anymore.
“Certainly easy on the eyes,” Jason said agreeably, although it made him sick. “A quality incubus. I’ll take him.”
Maxwell reclined in his seat. Jason wanted to punch that smug look off his face. “Did you want to talk business first or have your entertainment? I’m sure my men would pay heftily if you felt like sharin’ him.”
“No,” Jason said quickly, clearing his throat to cover up his momentary second of panic. “I don’t perform for the public. He can sit tight for a few minutes, can’t he?” he asked, lowering his voice to sound slightly accusing. He knew this was a dangerous move, questioning if the other man’s ‘merchandise’ was well-trained. He could see the flicker of irritation in the hard set of Maxwell’s jaw.
“Obviously. I’m a thorough man,” Maxwell grunted, leaving the implication that it’s not his first time doing this out in the air. Jason almost scoffed.
He patted his thigh, keeping still so that the incubus— Dick, this was Dick —could climb into his lap. Green rage surged in his veins when he felt how light his brother was, how small he felt when once upon a time he’d been larger than life itself. The incubus was curled in on himself, wings furled tight against his back, head tilted down to avoid accidental eye contact.
Was Dick really that afraid of Jason? He knew he was different now, but he would never…
As gently as he could, Jason reached up and tilted Dick so that he could rest his head against Jason’s collarbone. “Sure,” he humored the other mob boss. “What’s keeping him so pliant?”
“Drugs,” Maxwell said gleefully. Fuck. Jason glanced inconspicuously at the inside of Dick’s elbow to check for track marks, praying to whatever gods were out there that they hadn’t gotten his brother hooked on anything. “A new cocktail we recently whipped up from some up-and-coming business partners to keep our darling demon sweet and obedient for the meeting.”
Jason exhaled silently, the weight of that particular worry dissipating at the unintentional reassurance that it was a one-off, and instead perked up at the intel. A new drug ring in his territory?
“Fascinating. You’ll have to give me their contact information so I can test the products myself. Now, did you want to discuss your next incoming shipment or keep beating around the bush?”
Maxwell had his men bring over the schedule for the next shipment as asked. Jason ran his hand up and down Dick’s arm and tried not to let the stuttered breathing or soft trembling get to him. He could feel the cold metal parts of the muzzle against his skin.
This is fine. This is fine. He’s safe with me. He’s safe.
Dick was so dead.
He was so, so tired of spending days lying on the floor in his dark, cramped cell. He missed his dad and his little brother. He missed flying. He missed feeling arms around him, cuddling him in his nest, bonds thrumming with life.
The absence of bonds felt like he’d been stabbed a dozen times in his chest and was left to bleed out. The first day of shattered bonds was agony, his painful wailing punished with the muzzle he still wore, and when he began to get slow and weak they’d started ‘training’ him. Dick eventually found that obeying was easier than fighting, threats hovering over his head that he couldn’t ignore: harvesting his wings, renting him out, selling him to someone worse.
Apparently, it hadn’t mattered. He was still on his knees in front of a dangerous crime lord, one he’d been warned about, one that made Mr. Maxwell’s men whisper to each other and gossip like schoolgirls. Dick heard that Red Hood had decapitated several mob bosses and stuffed their heads in a duffle bag. He heard that Red Hood had once killed an entire warehouse full of dealers who dealt drugs to children in less than three minutes.
He’d also heard that the Red Hood hated traffickers, that he would never buy a person, but Dick knew that rumors were no reliable source. Besides, he wasn’t a person. He was a demon.
It was no surprise that Mr. Maxwell got tired of him eventually. He couldn’t be the man’s favorite plaything forever. He’d expected to feel resigned, but now that the moment was here, he couldn’t summon anything but fear and anxiety.
The Red Hood was a big man, and Dick was not at his strongest. It was going to hurt.
He wished he had his full range of senses, but Mr. Maxwell had been injecting him with so many suppressants that he’d nearly overdosed more than once, and his incubus instincts were so foggy that it was getting hard to recognize anyone completely. Usually, by the time he did, the danger was already present. Much like dogs relied on smell instead of sight to recognize a human, incubi needed to sense a person’s distinct emotional aura to distinguish between faces. Otherwise, it was like being nearsighted and trying to read a street sign in the distance.
Bruce’s emotions tasted and felt like oak-cinnamon-leather, strong and formidable as the man himself. Tim’s were coffee-pepper-winter, sharp and clever like his mind with undertones of something soothing. Alfred’s were fresh linen-lavender-sandalwood, unassuming but crisp and bold. Jason’s . . . Jason’s had been old books-rain-cookies. They reminded Dick of home (he’d never taste Jason’s emotions again).
He couldn’t feel anyone’s emotions, and it scared him. Dick had to rewrite the way he saw the world and he felt blind more often than not. It was torture.
Not only that, but his limbs felt clumsy and heavy today. He was pretty sure that Mr. Maxwell gave him more than just suppressants.
The Red Hood was staring at him, he was pretty sure. It was hard to tell with the helmet and all. Dick was grateful that he didn’t have to see the sneer on his face or the incriminating look of lust as the man combed through his hair. All these men looked like they wanted to eat him, so much so that he wondered if he was really the demon here.
Dick felt a little sick. Mr. Maxwell and Red Hood were speaking over his head, but Dick couldn’t make out the words over the sound of his heartbeat. Distantly, he wondered if his family thought he was dead after the bonds broke.
Mr. Maxwell was saying something about harvesting his wings. No. No.
“Fluff them up,” Red Hood commanded, voice hard and cold and terrifying. Dick spread his wings and wondered if it were the last time he’d ever do so. It felt so good to let his sore, cramping wings stretch freely. He didn’t want to lose them.
Then the crime lord was touching them and Dick kept waiting for the touch to turn cruel and tear out his feathers or break the fragile bones but it never came, Red Hood just pulled away, and time passed and then Red Hood was patting his lap.
Were they starting now? Dick wasn’t ready.
But he knew better, so he climbed into the man’s lap and waited for those gloved hands to wander. He knew the too-tight, too-short shorts were probably riding up. Supposedly, they made his ass look irresistible.
The hands never moved down.
Instead, Red Hood was touching his shoulder lightly, letting him hide his face in the crook of the man’s neck. Dick squeezed his eyes closed and let the frantic pounding of his heart be louder than the voices of the men discussing his fate. He could feel the rumble of Red Hood’s voice below his head, and he couldn’t decide if he was scared or soothed by it.
Then Mr. Maxwell mentioned a new influx of exotic demon merchandise like Dick, and he was choking back his fear and disgust all over again.
Gods, Maxwell wouldn’t stop talking. Jason’s knee was already bouncing with excess energy ready to be burned off. He was so ready to go and get Dick home—and that was another thing. Was he really going to just take his (former) brother back to his apartment? What then? Would the rest of the family come looking for him and subsequently find Jason?
It didn’t matter, truthfully, because there was a damp spot on his collarbone from Dick’s silent tears that was scolding Jason for even considering dumping him as soon as they left.
As quickly as he could, he ‘thanked’ Walter Maxwell for the gift and took the chain leash from the man. Dick slid from his lap and followed Jason out of the building obediently. It hurt something in Jason to know that the demon had lost so much of his fight, but it soothed some of his stronger fears that Dick wasn’t so afraid of him now that he’d fight to get away.
It still felt like a dagger to the heart every time he flinched. Dick was an incubus. He had to have already sensed Jason’s lack of desire or will to cause harm. He just had to remind himself that Dick had had a very traumatizing…however long he’d been with Maxwell, and was reacting through instinct.
Jason brought him towards the car (and thank gods he’d brought the car instead of his motorcycle—he’d expected rescuing an impling maybe, but not– not this) and opened the back. Dick shot a wary glimpse in his direction before clambering into the backseat, hunched in on himself with his wings half wrapped around him protectively.
Jason got into the front and glanced in the rearview mirror. Dick was staring out the window, expression forced blank, and he held his still-bound hands close to his chest. Jason hadn’t undone any of the restraints aside from taking off the chain leash. By all means, Dick knew how to get out of them. Why wasn’t he? Shaking off the lingering anxiety of getting both of them out of that meeting unscathed, the crime lord drove into the night.
He stopped at a gas station on the way back, getting out to fill the pump. It’s not until a minute later when he heard the car door slam shut that he realized Dick had made a run for it.
The Red Hood wasn’t looking. He was focused on the little pay screen, and he wasn’t facing Dick.
It was now or never, and Dick didn’t want to be a toy for the man who bought him. The demon scooted along the backseat, watching closely to make sure that the crime lord didn’t turn around spontaneously to check on him, and made quick work of the amateur rope ties around his wrists. It was easier without the constant supervision and attention, especially now that whatever drugs had kept him dreary were starting to wear off.
When he reached the opposite door, he held his breath, flipped the lock (Really? Not even a child lock? Dick was almost insulted), and popped the door open.
And bolted.
His wings hurt too much to be of any help, folding tightly against his back in response to his urgency. There was a shout behind him but he kept running, out of the parking lot and down the street, passing shady apartment buildings and run-down shops, only absently aware that he was heading for the worse parts of Crime Alley. He was Nightwing. He’d fine, he just had to find a phone and get an alert out to Tim or Bruce—
He stumbled when he turned down a side alley and nearly collided with a party of greasy-looking men pouring out of the back exit of a building, head swimming as the drugs made his movements sluggish. Dick glanced quickly at the rusted sign above the door— The Glass Slipper Gentlemen’s Club.
Fuck.
He’d caught the men’s eyes and it was too late to turn around now that they’d gathered on all sides. A long, low whistle rang out and Dick anxiously tugged the hem of his shorts down, not that it helped much.
“Well, what do we got here?” one of them said, grinning as the other men let out devious chuckles. A golden tooth glinted in the light of a dim street lamp. Dick instinctively reached out with a mental claw as he often did in fights, ready to tamp down any strong emotions that fueled a criminal’s malicious intent, but the suppressants kicked in again and he was left reaching for nothing.
“Looks like one o’ ‘em incu-bitch demons. Ain’t they them ones wi’ the wings?” a second man with a few missing teeth added, getting a little too close for Dick’s comfort. He backed away and jolted when he bumped into another large form.
This man was tall, almost as tall as Bruce and nearly as broad. He laughed and it sent a chill down Dick’s spine. “I’m thinkin’ we done found ourselves a runaway, fellas. It’s got a muzzle an’ collar an’ everything.” His cruel gaze eyed him up and down, lingering blatantly on his lower half, and Dick wanted to punch him in the face. “Didja bite the hand that fed ya, demon? Need to be trained?”
I’m not a pet, asshole. Dick’s feathers began to puff up and he glowered harder to make up for his silence, still eyeing escape routes. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He felt trapped. Caged. Even if he found an opening, his legs were too weak from the sedative to run fast enough, adrenaline being the only thing still keeping him standing. His instincts urged him to fight tooth and claw, dangerously close to leaving him in a feral state.
“We can train it up real nice at the club,” Golden Tooth suggested, drawing murmurs of agreement from the other men. “See if it makes a good fuck. I hear them sex demons never run out of stamina!”
Dick felt a lot more like throwing up now than he did punching. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
Someone grabbed at his upper arm and he snarled, twisting away and lashing out with a wing. A man wrapped his arms around Dick from behind, getting a face full of feathers and a thrashing demon. He nailed one person with his elbow, sending them backward, and went to throw a right hook at another until someone else snatched the fragile alula of his wing. Dick froze, aware that any wrong movement could make that fist clench a little tighter and crush the hollow joint of his wing, leaving him flightless. He refused to let that happen.
Dick Grayson was born to fly.
It could’ve been avoided if he’d been on his game. He could’ve sensed the man’s intent or even his proximity had he not been on suppressants, but now he was caught in the terrifying grip of a man who wanted to do horrible things to him.
They were laughing at him, shoving at one another in amusement as they circled him further. Hands shoved him to the ground, flat on his back with his wings splayed out on the dirty alley floor. His wrists were gripped by thick fingers that would leave bruises later, pressed against concrete. A boot stepped on the edge of his primaries and he keened in fear, terror suddenly squeezing his heart in his chest.
Oh, Dick thought numbly as a heavy body straddled him and worked at their belt buckle. It’s happening right now.
He swallowed shakily. If he fought, his wings could rip or break, still in their precarious position beneath a large man’s dirty boot, and he’d still end up on his back in an alley for these men to take advantage of. He’d just be a lot bloodier, broken, and afraid.
Dick was still terrified, but this was the only other option. Don’t resist, don’t get hurt more than necessary. Get it over with. Be traumatized later. It’s fine.
It’s not fine. The concrete felt like a gravel rooftop against his back, his tears like rain falling from the sky as thunder boomed in the distance (it sounded a lot like the men’s laughter). A hand pressed in the center of his chest to keep him down. “Quiet, mi amor, callado..."
The men’s faces were shifting, and if he squinted through his fuzzy vision he swore he saw Kori’s face melt into Mirage’s sneer. For a moment, Dick was tempted to retreat into his mind so he didn’t have to be here, but he needed to know when it was over so he could get away before someone else came along and decided it was their turn.
He still let the distinct features of their faces fade from his mind, mentally preparing to slot this entire experience right next to Liu, Mirage, and Tarantula.
They were tugging at his shorts, now. For once, he was thankful he couldn’t feed or sense. He didn’t want to taste their desire and pleasure as they took what they wanted from him.
Bang. Bang.
The alley fell silent. Everyone seemed to freeze at the same time, and tension rose as an armored figure emerged from the shadows. Light glinted on a menacing red helmet.
“Let him go.”