Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Let me do the talking,” he warns. “Jay?”

He turns, expecting to find his brother a few steps behind him but Jason’s silhouette lingers at the mouth of the alleyway. Drizzling mist slicks the shoulders of his leather jacket and catch the shine of a distant street lamp. He has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up and his back to Dick as he peers into the dimly lit streets. Dick wonders what he’s looking at. Ever since he’s come back, Jason’s been… distracted. It’s not infrequent in the middle of conversation for his eyes to track to one side or the other, or into the distance as if seeing something no one else can. Maybe he is.

Dick shudders. It’s been almost two years since he came back to them with grave dirt under his nails and an unholy rage in his eyes, and another since they managed to exorcise the demon riding around in his skin. Dick had hoped that after freeing him from the parasite manipulating and feeding on his emotions that his little brother would return to them. But the rambunctious little boy Dick remembers is gone, a deeply traumatized and volatile young man left in his stead. 

He knows it will take more than one short year for Jason to fully heal, it’s just… He misses his little brother. He misses the snarky back-handed compliments from the gap-toothed kid who would practice drawing sigils on his pizza in ranch dressing. Sometimes he wonders (shamefully and silently to himself) if this taciturn version of Jason is even wholly human. Most demons burn through a host in a handful of months. Jay had one in him for almost a year. What effect would that even have on a body? On a soul?

“I’m serious, Jay,” Dick snaps, sharp tone finally catching his brother’s attention. “Deathstroke is dangerous. I’ve dealt with him before, let me handle him.”

Jason’s head ticks over his shoulder to look at him. Dick locks eyes, staring intently until the younger man shuffles over to join him.

“Relax, Dickie. I heard you. This is your show.”

He shrugs sullenly, cheek distended where he’s pushing his tongue against it. As much as the insolence rankles Dick, the sight of the old mannerism is simultaneously relieving. 

“It’s still your case, Jay,” Dick promises him. “I’ll follow your lead from here on out. It’s just… Deathstroke is… He’s crafty.”

“Well, yeah,” Jason agrees matter-of-factly, “He’s a demon, Dickhead.”

Dick fights back a sigh. He wishes he knew how to make Jason believe he isn’t about to pull a Bruce and stage a take-over. Jason is more than a competent hunter; studious in a way Dick never bothered with - his Latin incantations would make Alfred weep with pride, and his instincts for sensing supernatural trouble is uncanny. Honestly, Dick was thrilled Jason had even reached out to him. Preferring to take cases on his own, it’s a rare thing for Jason to ask for help. He doesn’t want to risk the opportunity to team-up again over a misunderstanding.

But this is Slade, who is always looking to take advantage of a situation. Dick wouldn’t be bringing Jason anywhere near him if it weren’t necessary. Unfortunately, they’ve hit a wall in the case and Deathstroke is the only one Dick can think of with both the ability and inclination to help. For a price.

Dick scans the lattice-work of fire escapes and barred windows climbing the wall in front of him. He sees movement on the fourth floor; a shadow hopping in and out amongst the others. Dick reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a chile.

“Hello Adeline,” he croons, “I have a present for you.”

He has just enough time to extend his other arm before the oversized raven lands heavily on his sleeve. It juts its head towards the treat and snips the chile out of Dick’s fingers. She tears into it, scattering seeds onto the old cobblestones that poke up through the asphalt. Once she finishes she shuffles up his arm towards his shoulder, stabbing at his jacket with her beak. 

“No. No more treats. I’m all out.” He blocks her, trying to keep the chuckle out of his voice. “I need to speak with your master. Tell Deathstroke I’m here to see him. And that I have a guest with me.”

Adeline fixes one preternaturally blue eye on him, then jumps on top of his head with a disapproving gronk to get a look at Jason. Dick winces as her talons scrabble across his scalp and muss his hair.

“Holy shit,” Jason rasps, “What’s up with its eyes?”

There’s a buffet of air as she launches herself up, disappearing into the darkness above. Dick turns to his little brother and closes the distance between them. He reaches up to make sure the mask is properly sealed onto Jason’s face. Latex works just as well as smearing sacred ashes over their faces for obscuring their true identities from overly curious spirits, and it’s a hell of a lot more convenient.

“Remember, codenames only from here on out. Deathstroke’s already seen me without my mask so I may take it off. But keep yours on no matter what, okay?”

“Got it, Mom,” Jason drawls unhappily, batting his hands away.

Dick grins and gives a tug on the drawstring of his hoodie. The distinct sound of a lock unbolting draws their eyes to a metal door tucked back into a corner, hidden from view of the street. Orange rust bubbles up through a layer of black paint over its metal sheeting. It opens with a shriek of unoiled hinges. And Slade calls him dramatic. He shoulders his way into the pitch black waiting beyond. Jason mutters a curse and follows him, startling when the door slams ominously shut behind them. 

Dick leads them by memory and touch down a narrow hall that ends in an equally narrow staircase. He doesn’t bother counting the landings as they twist between floors, but comes to a stop at the only one leaking a thin line of light under the doorway. He raises his hand to knock but the door swings silently inward before it makes contact. His knuckles hover over an imposingly muscled chest.

“Hello, Deathstroke.”

“Nightwing.” 

Damn. Somehow he always forgets just how tall Slade is. As tall and broad as Bruce, and then some. His sheer size is intimidating on its own, but Dick knows that the figure hidden beneath the inky black material of his clothing is lethally strong and fit as well. Jason makes a noise behind him like he’s trying to bite back on a gasp. The eye Slade doesn’t keep hidden behind a patch, fluoresces blue and roves over Dick and his brother.

“So what brings not one, but two little birds to my doorstep in the middle of the night?” the demon rumbles, voice grinding like a fault line.

“A proposition for you. May we come in?”

Technically as humans they don’t need to ask, but it’s considered polite. While Slade doesn’t seem to be much concerned with false trappings of civility, he does demand respect. It’s better to play it safe. Slade scoffs dismissively as if he knows what Dick is thinking, but steps back and waves them in. The room they enter is dark by human standards but not uncomfortable, its rich furnishings clashing with the building’s decrepit exterior. The walls are covered in a charcoal damask paper and washed in the warm glow of two glass hurricane lamps, one on the mantle and one on a desk.

“Please, sit.” Slade indicates a black velvet divan, settling himself at the desk.

Dick is surprised when Jason looks to him before sitting. Perhaps he hadn’t turned a deaf ear to his earlier cautioning after all. Dick lifts his chin in assent and ushers Jason to the far end of the sofa, taking the seat closest to Slade. He angles his body subtly to block Jason from the demon’s sight as much as possible. Slade counters by crossing an ankle over his knee and leaning to the side of his chair in a casual sprawl.

“So. You have a proposition for me. Business… Or pleasure?” the demon asks, sharp teeth glinting in the lamplight.

“Business,” he growls.

“Not both, are you sure?”

Dick bristles at the demon’s goading. “I’m sure.”

Slade claps a palm over his crooked knee. “Let’s hear it then.”

“There’s a—”

“Not from you,” Slade cuts him off and points to Jason. “From him.”

Dick opens his mouth to protest.

“I don’t do middle men, Nightwing. You know that. If it were your request you would have come alone. Introduce me to your friend.”

Anxiety like ice water drips down his spine.

“Deathstroke, please. I vouch for him. Isn’t that enough?” he scrabbles to keep Slade from wrenching the situation out of his control.

The demon levels him with an unimpressed look.

“You overestimate my esteem for you. My reputation is my business and I won’t risk that by working with an unknown factor.”

Dick resists the temptation to tap his fingers against his thigh, a tell he knows the demon will pick up on. He should never have allowed himself to become so familiar with the demon. What would Bruce say if he knew they were on a true-name basis? Next to him Jason squares his shoulders and clears his throat, edging closer to the divan’s edge. Dick wants to shove him back and hide him away somewhere safe. 

“Red Hood,” Jason offers up, his voice a touch deeper than usual as he presents himself.

Slade leans forward in interest. 

“I’ve heard of you. Eight heads of Hell’s lieutenants in a duffle bag. The whole underworld was in an uproar over that. No wonder you come to me. I’m guessing no other denizen of the dark realm is willing to do business with you,” the demon hypothesizes shrewdly.

Dick winces. In his periphery he sees Jason grimace as well.

Slade smiles. “And what have you come to me for, Red Hood?”

“There’s a demon that’s set himself up as a mobster topside. He’s been violating—”

“I don’t care what he’s been doing. You don’t have to justify anything to me. You just have to be able to pay. Who is this you’re going after?”

Jason’s mouth twists, about as happy as Dick with Slade’s penchant for cutting people off, though it smoothes out a second later with Deathstroke’s simple acceptance. It makes Dick uneasy. Maybe he should have been less concerned with exposing Jason to Slade, and more concerned with introducing Jason to a potential collaborator with none of the moral inhibitions Bruce instills in the other hunters of their clan. 

“He’s going by the name Black Mask.”

Slade’s pale brows arch up. “I’ve heard about him. Aiming high then.”

Jason nods curtly.

“And you want me to… Banish? Seal? Kill?”

“No,” Jason shakes his head. “Nothing like that. I just need his true name for the summoning. I’ll handle the rest on my own.”

“You mean we will,” Dick reminds him.

He’s here because Jason asked for his help. He wouldn’t have done that unless he thought Black Mask was too strong for him to take on alone, right? Jason hums noncommittally and shrugs. Deathstroke chuckles at his cocksure display.

“Confident in your abilities, aren’t you?” the demon observes, only slightly mockingly. He reclines back in his chair, “Well, that’s none of my concern. Let’s move on to what is: payment.”

Dick sits on his hands to keep them still. This is the moment that has loomed over him like the Reaper himself, ever since making the decision to come to Deathstroke. He has his own special deal with the demon that they’ve worked out over the years, but he’s asked other people who have hired the mercenary in the past to get an idea of his more conventional rates. They should have plenty. 

Jason reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a bottle of Glenfiddich. Then from another pocket he pulls out a packet wrapped in brown paper. He stretches past Dick and holds it out to Slade, careful not to let his gloved fingers touch the demon’s. Slade sets the bundle on his desk and picks at the thread holding it together. He sorts through the contents discerningly: a fragrant plug of native Virginia tobacco, a pouch of fetal bones, a length of frayed rope, and a good old stack of cold hard cash. The bit of hangman’s noose had been a particular pain to acquire since execution via hanging had gone out of popularity with the advent of lethal injection in the 1970s.

Slade flips through the money and puts it to the side. He spills the pouch contents into his palm and rubs his thumb over the assortment of miniscule bones before funneling them back inside the bag. He holds the tobacco beneath his nostrils, inhaling deeply. After he’s assessed everything he grips the whisky bottle by its neck and taps the glass contemplatively.

“Not enough,” he sniffs.

“What?!” Dick cries out, rising to his feet. “This is twice what you accepted from Aresnal!”

“Arsenal wasn’t asking for the true name of a Duke of Hell,” Slade replies coolly. “It won’t be an easy job. Mask is temperamental. There’s high-turnover in his hordes. It will be difficult to find someone who has been with him long enough to know anything worth betraying. I’ll probably need to cross the border into Hell and back a few times.”

“Damnit, Hood,” Dick sighs.

Jason refuses to look at him, his masked gaze sticking to the toes of his boots like glue. A Duke of Hell? No wonder Jason had called him in for back up. The room is silent, lamplight wavering on the walls.

“So… What would be enough?” Jason asks.

Slade’s eye flicks up and down the younger man, then returns to land heavily on Dick.

“I want my normal rate.”

Dick closes his eyes behind his mask. He was afraid of this. That regardless of what they brought, this is what the demon would demand. He swallows his pride, steels himself, and takes a breath.

“Alright,” he accepts.

“Alright?” Slade questions, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

He stands in one sinuous motion and circles Dick like he’s prey.

“It’s a deal. Just give me a few minutes to talk with Hood and walk him out.”

Slade comes to a stop in front of him. “And why would you do that?”

The demon’s hand ghosts over his hip and he shivers.

“You know why. We can’t—not with my—not with Hood here. Come on, Deathstroke,” he whines.

“Not with your…” Slade pauses, letting the seconds stretch tortuously, “Friend? Lover? Brother?”

Each option is more vulgar than the last and has Dick huffing with anger. Slade delights in his discomfort and inches closer until they are standing chest to chest.

“But why would I let him leave when he’s the one who needs to pay?” the demon whispers in his ear.

Dick goes rigid, eyes darting over Slade’s shoulder to where Jason stands with his hands in his pockets looking bored and uncomfortable with the scene taking place before him. There’s a mean tilt to Slade’s mouth. Dick snorts and shakes his head.

“Not funny. I know you get off on riling me up, but this is low even for you.”

He rocks back on his heels ready to yell at Jason to pack up their remuneration and head out when Slade hisses.

“Your ego is showing, Nightwing. Do you really think you’re the only pretty boy I’ve made such arrangements with? I assure you, any interest I have in your associate rests entirely upon his own merits.”

Dick experiences a split second of relief that if Slade is referring to him as an associate, then Jason’s identity is safe from him at least for now, but that relief fades as soon as the rest of the demon’s words sink in. He recoils in disgust. His face feels like it’s on fire, though he isn’t sure if it’s burning in embarrassment, rage or shame.

“C’mon, Hood,” he growls, reaching behind him to grab his baby brother by the sleeve and bodily drag him out of the apartment. “Coming here was a mistake. We’ll figure something else out. We don’t need his help.”

But the leather slips free from his fingers when Jason refuses to follow, hesitating just inside the threshold. 

“Hood?”

Jason’s tongue prods at his cheek again. “My case, my call, you said.”

“Hood,” Dick breathes out, shaking his head.

“I need that name,” his brother rejoins softly, deceptively. There is steel beneath the hushed words.

Dick’s squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists at his side, because of course now is when his little brother is going to decide to be so stupidly noble as he used to be as Robin—when he has no idea what the stakes are. 

“Yes, Nightwing. This is his decision,” Slade purrs.

His hands reach for the escrima sticks holstered under his jacket; forged from sanctified steel and blessed by the Pope during his visit to the Vatican his first year as Nightwing. They may not have the power to banish Slade from this plane with a single swipe, but they still pack a punch. Hopefully, enough of one to buy him time to drag Jason out by the collar if need be. 

Slade isn’t some low-level peon of perdition though. He’s a Knight of Hell who spends his days tracking down other super-powered creatures of the abyss. Dick has never won in an all-out fight against him. He doesn’t now. Before the escrima even clear their holsters Slade slides a finger down his sternum. He shakes his head and tuts at Dick’s attempt as the hunter’s arms fall uselessly to his sides. 

“Now, Nightwing. As you’re not a party in this exchange, your intrusion will no longer be tolerated. Please wait while the Red Hood and I finish our negotiations.”

Power blooms out from Slade’s touch and suddenly he’s flying backward. His back cracks into the mouldering plaster of the landing, forcing the air out of his lungs. Before he can gather his senses the door to the apartment holding his brother and sometimes ally, sometimes adversary slams shut, the light beneath winking out. 

“No!” he screams and throws himself at the door, roiling with anger. 

It splinters beneath his weight and he trips into an empty abandoned room with mouldering walls and sagging floorboards. There’s no sign of the desk, the divan, the ornate wallpaper or his brother. There’s nothing he can do to stop his brother from making the biggest mistake of his second life.

Chapter Text

"What the fuck did you do to him?" Jason snarls, eyes snapping back and forth between the demon and the door his brother just disappeared behind. 

Concern and relief churn uneasily in his gut. On one hand, he doesn't exactly miss his brother's well-meaning but overbearing attempts to make decisions for him. On the other hand...

"I swear on the Cup of the Carpenter, if you've hurt him I'm going to—"

"Relax, pup," Deathstroke drawls. "He's fine. All I did was lock him out in the hall so you and I can talk without his meddling."

He frowns. There's more to it than the demon is saying he's sure. It's suspiciously silent and if there's one thing anyone who knows Dick is familiar with: it's his chronic inability to shut up. Dumbass can't keep from hurling quips and puns even in the middle of a battle. If he's as fine as the demon claims, he'd be trying to kick down the door and cursing Deathstroke up and down. 

"Look, kid. All hurting him would accomplish is bringing a whole bunch of angry bats down on my doorstep and that's the last thing I need."

That Jason believes. Or believes enough to tear his eyes away from the ebony paneling for the moment. Of course that leaves him with nothing else to focus his attention on than the extremely dangerous demon he's now trapped in the apartment with. He's no waif, but Deathstroke towers over him by several inches and at least fifty-pounds judging by the way his black dress shirt strains over his chest. And that's just the humanoid part of him. The dark horns that curl up behind his ears and the giant leathery wings folded at his back make him positively colossal.

"So, shall we continue?"

Jason nods. The less he talks, the less likely he is to give away how intimidated he is. It's not that he wasn't taking Dick's warning about Deathstroke seriously, but how the hell was he supposed to guess Goody-Two-Shoes would have the home address of an upper-tier harbinger tucked into his back pocket? He wouldn't have reached out to Dick at all if hadn't needed access to his contacts. While extremely satisfying, the ichor-soaked swathe he'd cut through Gotham hadn't left him with many beyond the veil willing to work with him.

They'd deserved it. Jakob and all those creatures like him, hijacking bodies that weren't theirs. Infecting them, warping them, trapping their hosts inside their own minds. Sometimes he can still feel the tentacles writhing under his skin, can feel bone splintering between his teeth as he tries to get to the marrow...

"Excellent," Deathstroke smiles and pulls a scrolling piece of blank parchment out of thin air and lays it flat on the desktop. 

Jason swallows. He's wary of getting within reach, but he won't be able to read anything this far away. He steps forward cautiously. Deathstroke stays where he is, arms crossed over his chest. He'd appear perfectly patient and poised if not for the lashing of his tail. It whips close to Jason's elbow. He flinches and Deathstroke narrows his eyes. The demon's tail swipes through the air deliberately close again. He doesn't flinch this time but tracks its movement from the corner of his eye.

"So you can see through my glamour."

"What of it?" Jason snaps acerbically.

The situation has him more on edge than he cares to admit. Deathstroke smiles, revealing rows of sharp, slightly pointed teeth.

"Nothing. It's interesting is all. Not many humans can. Nightwing can't."

He can't quite smother the flare of pride that blooms in his chest. It's rare for anyone to compare him favorably against his perfect older brother. There's lots of things he can do that Dick and the other bats can't. Or won't. 

"Yeah, well. I'm not most humans."

"Clearly."

Deathstroke doesn't move when he reaches the desk, forcing Jason to brush past him to look over the parchment. The hairs on the back of his neck rise when the demon leans close and inhales, discreetly scenting him. He suppresses a shiver. Then the demon leans low over the calfskin and blows. Black lines seep into its surface forming words in a long forgotten alphabet. He wonders if this is part of the catch—how Deathstroke tricks hapless victims into making deals against their own benefit. Too bad Jason is fluent in Enochian.

The contract is more straightforward than he's expecting: Deathstroke to provide Black Mask's Mephistophelean name in exchange for a favor.

"A favor?" he snorts, "That's a bit vague, don't you think?"

"Quick translation for a dead language," Deathstroke eyes him appraisingly. 

Jason preens at the compliment, the corner of his lips twitch up into a grin. 

"Yeah, so that favor," he coughs and tries to steer conversation back to the matter at hand.

Blatant recognition of his skills is nice, but he can't let it distract him.

"I appreciate the flexibility it provides," Deathstroke hums, "Don't worry. I won't ask for anything you'll miss. I don't want your soul or your firstborn child or anything like that. Just the promise of a favor to be determined at the where and when of my choosing."

Jason shakes his head. He grew up on the streets; he isn't swindled so easily.

"No. I can't agree to this. Not without knowing more about the nature of the favor you'll ask. I'm not going to unwittingly agree to nail fifty babies to trees or something for a stupid name."

Deathstroke's mouth purses. "The favor will not exceed the worth of the service I provide, I promise," he counters.

Jason pretends to consider it, tipping his head to one side contemplatively and then the other.

"Sorry. Still not going to agree to anything without more regulations in place. Thanks but no thanks. I guess Nightwing was right, I'll just have to figure something else out."

The demon growls. "What kind of regulations do you have in mind?"

"Well, I won't agree to anything that may result in loss of life or limb. Been there, done that, there wasn't even a gift shop to get a shitty t-shirt at. And I won't agree to anything that will harm innocents. I don't just mean physically. Financial ruin and mental scarring are off the table as well."

"Of course not," Deathstroke agrees readily, "I swear that the terms of my favor asked will neither require nor result in the termination or injury of any innocent lives."

Fresh ink bleeds into the parchment. He's surprised by the demon's easy acquiescence. Demons are always trying to hook their claws into innocent souls. Bad people really don't need any outside help in being seduced to the dark side, but good shiny souls are irresistable to Satan's minions. He knows that more than most.

It’s what had cost him his life. All he had wanted was to meet his mo—and that woman, playing at being some shitty Satanic priestess, betrayed him. Tied him down over an altar as a sacrifice to their greatest nemesis and started carving him up like a Thanksgiving Turkey. He still has nightmares of hard cold stone digging into his bruised naked skin, flesh flayed open, limbs bent past their limits. It hurt, everything hurt. His bones, his head, his heart. Where was his da—Bruce? What was taking him so long? Someone, help! Please! And then in his last moments, hate clouded his heart, and he laughed in vicious contentment when the beast turned on its own acolyte and devoured her as well.

"Nightwing required similar assurances." Deathstroke's wings arc up in the approximation of a shrug. "More even. He was very adamant that killing be excluded completely. Regardless of innocence."

Jason huffs,"Typical Golden Boy."

The demon raises an eyebrow. He feels his face heat under the stare and returns to scrutinizing the contract. He reads it over again twice. Once for comprehension, and a second time to try and root out any loopholes the demon might exploit against him. His paranoia is justifiable. Finally he rocks back on his heels and nods. 

"Alright, how do I sign?" he asks, looking at the desk for a pen that isn't there.

Deathstroke sidles up next to him and leans his hip against the desk. Jason can feel the warmth from the demon's body radiating out along his side. He unconsciously slants closer. He's not sure if it's a side effect of having been worm-food or of his possession, but he's cold all of the time now. Standing so close to the demon thaws a little of the ice in his veins. Deathstroke taps a clear space at the bottom of the parchment.

"Sign here. In blood," the demon murmurs. His voice is so deep it ripples through the desk and causes Jason to startle. Deathstroke chuckles, sending more vibrations through the wood. "You don't have to sign your name. Just a drop will do."

Jason takes a deepbreath to center himself and pulls his kris from the sheath on his hip. He flips it in the air with exaggerated casualness and then digs the tip into the pad of thumb, quick and clinical, before secreting it back away. Blood beads up between the grooves of his finger and before he can bring to the page, the demon folds its larger hand around his and guides it to the parchment. Flesh presses to calfskin, leaving a bloody fingerprint in lieu of a signature. The demon doesn't let go of his hand. Instead, it brings it up to its mouth and sucks the digit between its lips, tongue laving any residual blood from his skin.

It takes too long for Jason to come to his senses. When he does, he tries to jerk his hand away. His thumb comes free of the hot wet seal of the demon's mouth, but Deathstroke still holds his wrist tight. He wonders if the demon can feel the frantic beat of his pulse beneath its grasp.

"There now, that wasn't so bad was it?" Deathstroke teases.

His lip curls. "A little creepy and a lot gross, but still got my soul, so not too bad I guess. Would kind of like my hand back now though," he adds, tugging ineffectually at the limb.

"So eager to leave?" the demon purrs.

"Excuse me?" 

It almost sounds like... Like the hulking demon is hitting on him. That can't be right. His face flushes. But Deathstroke still hasn't let go of his wrist, and is now rubbing its thumb over his pulse point in a strangely erotic way.

"You still owe me that favor."

"Yeah, a favor. I got that, but—"

"I think I'll cash it in now."

He snorts, "Might want to brush up on your Human Sociology 101 a bit more there buddy. That's not really how favors are supposed to work."

Deathstroke's wings tremble and arc. He gets the feeling it’s the demon's way of laughing at him.

"Bravado. Cute."

Jason blushes even as he bristles. No one has called him cute in a long time. Not since he came back at least. Attempting to kill his Replacement and Bruce probably put a moratorium on that. That and the fact that he's over six foot, packed with muscle, and has a well-earned reputation as one of Gotham's most ruthless hunters. He wrinkles his nose.

He's not cute.

"Okay, so whaddya want?" he asks, dredging up the coarsest Narrows accent he can just to prove it. "To hold hands? Me to pretend to be your date to the Hellspawn Harvest Fest? Unconventional. But wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've done for a case I guess."

The demon makes him wait a beat for his answer, letting the tension build. Drama Queen.

"Your pleasure."

But that—

"What?!"

"I think you'll feel exquisite."

He chokes, and hates how smug the demon looks as it waits for him to recover. 

"Well... No! You... You can't!"

Deathstroke glances pointedly at their contract. "I think you'll find by the terms of our agreement that I can. And will."

"I didn't think you'd ask for a fuck!" his voice breaks embarrassingly like he's a goddamn teenager.

He pulls at his wrist more fervidly.

"If you wanted to exclude sexual favors from the nature of our bargain you should have specified as such during the negotiation," Deathstroke counters coolly, sound more like a disappointed Bruce than he has any right to.

And like so many Bruce-related things, it triggers something in him. He sinks his teeth into the demon's hand and brings his knee up into its groin. He has a fuzzy recollection of once doing the exact same thing to Batman, and though his memories of his first life are often unreliable, this one has a ring of truth to it.

He's fairly sure sheer surprise is the only reason Deathstroke lets him go. He bolts for the door. When he's one step away from where Dick is hopefully waiting on the other side his feet come off the ground. Deathstroke has him by the collar and has hoisted him up into the air. He kicks at the demon's shins. Deathstroke rolls his uncovered eye and shakes him like a naughty puppy.

"Stop that," the demon hisses. "You are acting like a child."

Yeah well, no one's ever accused him of being the most mature.

"Oh, I'm sorry that not wanting to get fucked by a demon is childish!" he rasps, the collar of his shirt cutting into his throat. "Sáncte Michael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio, cóntra—”

He fumbles for his guns. If he can just get one of his beloved Colt's cross-tipped hollow points in the big horny bastard then he has a chance. But it's awkward reaching the holsters with his shirt and jackets bunched up under his armpits as he hangs. So he reaches for the Kris sheathed at his hip instead. That's when the asshole drops him. He hits the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

"But since you failed to make such specifications," Deathstroke continues, looming over him, "you are held in bond to the terms of the contract until it is fulfilled."

At first he thinks his vision is swimming. Did he crack his skull when he fell? Dark lines waver before his eyes. He blinks, then tries to scramble backwards when he realizes what's going on. Text from the contract is flowing off the calfskin and down the desk, pooling on the floor and running in rivulets towards him.

“Cóntranequítiam et insídias diáboli…”

Oil-slick words crawl onto his skin and sink into his pores. The tattooed lines tickle across his throat and wrists before pulling them tightly together.

"Aw fuck," he gasps.

Deathstroke effortlessly picks him up and throws him over a shoulder.

Chapter Text

He likes the contrast of the boy's pale skin against the black silk. He thinks he'll like it even more when that milky white canvas is flushed pink and bruised purple with his marks. Tense muscle jumps beneath his palm as he smoothes it down one long leg. The Red Hood is more skittish than he was expecting based on his reputation and company. Sure Grayson had whined and pouted coyly at being contrived into his bed, but after years of verbal foreplay the veneer of offense was as thin as spider's silk. 

"You're not an incubus."

The young hunter's voice is strained, clipped words issued from pursed lips. He's scared. He's trying to hide it behind measured breathing and a surly attitude but Slade can smell the sour taint of fear under the boy's unusual scent; damp earth and pine. 

"No," he replies and brushes his hand back up one spectacular thigh to alight on the boy's fly. He toys with the top button of the last barrier between him and his wages. He's already removed everything else. The leather coat, hooded jacket, armored vest, undershirt, shoes, and all of Hood's nasty little hunter's toys have been set aside and well out of reach. 

"So why are you doing this?" Hood asks, voice cracking like ice on a frozen lake. 

Slade raises an eyebrow, "I don't have to be one of Lust's acolytes to appreciate a pretty young thing such as yourself."

Red blooms across Hood's cheeks, almost the same shade as the mask over his eyes. Slade's itching to tear it off. He wonders how hard the boy would fight him if he tried and warmth pools in his gut. Realistically the hunter wouldn't have chance, trussed up as he is in the eldritch chains of the contract, but Slade's sure he'd struggle delightfully.

" 'm not pretty," Hood grunts from behind gritted teeth.

Slade pauses in pulling the button through its hole. His eyes rove over the young man tied to his bed. The way his arms are bound over his head emphasize the ropy muscles of his upper body and the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is cut and pocked with scars, from burns to bullet holes to the grim 'Y' bisecting his torso. Slade can only guess these are the cause of the boy's mortification; he isn't so out-of-touch with the human world to believe the boy isn't considered handsome by his own species' standards.

Dark-haired and well-formed he's certainly attractive enough to fit the Wayne clan mold, even if he's too old and too tall to be one of Grayson's so-called siblings. At least those still surviving. But there had been another hadn't there, between Grayson and the skinny technomancer?

Slade had never met the second Robin, but rumor was the scrawny foul-mouthed bird had something of an inferiority complex: always desperate to prove he was as good as Grayson and never quite succeeding. Wouldn't that match this evening's proceedings neatly? The Red Hood brashly stepping up to make a deal against Nightwing's exhortations, assuming he's big and bad enough to handle anything his elder could.

Slade eyes the gruesome scar with growing intrigue. Coming back from the dead isn't as impossible as most believe. He'd bet his barbed tail there's blue eyes under that mask. 

"Sure pup, whatever you say."

He reaches for the mask and Hood reacts the exact way he predicted; thrashing and hissing like a wet hellcat. His effort doesn't accomplish much, except to exhaust himself. Slade intercepts the kick aimed at his groin, tail lassoing around the errant ankle and yanking it down. Hood's one small victory is that he manages to snap his flat human teeth into the meat of Slade's palm. Slade stares at the ichor welling up incredulously. The little shit bit him. Again.

"Pup," he growls. His wings flare up behind him and his voice drops into a subhuman register that makes Hood freeze. He holds the wound up so the hunter can watch as flesh knits itself back together. "If that is supposed to deter me, you've got another thing coming. Bite and scratch all you want, won't bother me a bit."

"Might bother you if I bite your dick off!" Hood snarls back.

"I'll keep that in mind," Slade deadpans.

He absolutely believes the boy would do his best to carry out on that threat, and while he's more or less immortal he's not invulnerable. He's rather fond of that particular part of his anatomy. It's a shame really. The boy has a nice mouth with plush lips he can easily envision wrapped around his dick. Maybe he'll try for that later... Once he has the boy suitably warmed up. 

He gives up on the mask for now and returns to the agreeable task of winding the boy up. He maps out the prominences of Hood's impressive physique, tracing fingertips down his sternum and beneath his pectorals. Swiping his thumbs over the buds of dusky nipples startles an astonished gasp out of the young hunter before he can stifle it. Slade smirks and works his way down abdominals that ripple under his touch and the sharp cut of an alluring Adonis belt until he's back where he started.

He slips his hands beneath the waistband of Hood's loosened trousers and kneads the firm flesh there before working the fabric past the admirable swell of his ass. He strips heavy canvas and soft cotton down long lean legs that thicken into the most tempting thighs he's ever seen. Demons have no incentive to resist temptation so he doesn't bother. He plants himself between the boy's legs, spreads them wide and latches his mouth over a hairless patch high on the inside of the boy's left thigh.

Hood jolts as if electrocuted. "Wait!" 

"What?" Slade barks, the interruption fraying his temper.

"Do you even care that I don't want this?" the hunter accuses.

Slade rolls his eye. "It's too late to back out now regardless," he sidesteps. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I'm bound to the terms of the contract just as much as you."

"But you don't want to, do you?"

"Break the contract? No." He is unapologetic. "Why wouldn't I want to spend the night with a beautiful boy riding my cock?"

The blush on Hood's cheeks spreads to his neck and chest. "You can't—You can't just say shit like that!"

"I didn't say pretty this time," Slade points out.

"That's not what I meant!"

"I don't care. I'm not going to lie just to cater to senseless self-deprecation."

Hood's mouth drops open, stunned into silence and Slade lowers his head once more only for those glorious thighs to close and shut him out. He frowns, takes hold just above each knee and pointedly shoves them even further apart than before.

"Tell me pup, are you really this much of a prude? Or are you just naturally contrary?" he huffs. 

"I—I'm not a prude!" Hood splutters.

"Mary-Mary quite contrary it is then."

Slade sighs and massages the taut muscles beneath his hands. He was never overly paternal with any of the pups he's spawned, but he tries to recall the softer voice and expressions he'd used around them when he was feeling particularly fond. 

"This doesn't have to be a fight pup," he croons. "You're protected by the terms of the contract, remember? I can't hurt you. There's no reason for both of us not to enjoy this. Nightwing's never felt anything but pleasure at my hands during our trysts." 

The boy bites his lip, bearing down until it goes pale and bloodless between his teeth. He releases it with a slow drag that Slade doubts he intends to be half so enticing as it is. 

"I just—I've never done this before," Hood confesses.

Hood isn't a virgin; his blood, while rich, doesn't have that potent purity that makes it so useful for rituals and spell casting. That means the boy has never been taken before and that idea sends every petty and possessive chamber of his coal black heart aflame. 

"Oh, pup."

Maybe he should say more, but those thighs are still waiting and actions speak louder than words. He sucks at the sensitive skin, bringing a bloom of blood to the surface. He pulls back and admires the spit-slicked mark. It looks so perfect he can't stand to leave just one. He wants to send the boy back to the bats covered in proof of his conquest. He leaves a chain of bruises climbing up the boy's thighs, closer and closer to where they join, reveling in the increasingly labored breaths from above. Encouraged, he bites down, sinking his teeth deep enough to feel the skin start to give but not break. Hood moans, low and uninhibited, hips canting up unconsciously.

"Careful," he teases, "Almost sounded like you enjoyed that." 

"Fuck you, you old goat."

Slade nips his sac in retaliation. Hood yips and tries to curl his legs up to defend his exposed privates. He is having none of that.

"What the hell! You said you couldn't hurt me, the contract—"

"Prohibits serious injury or death. That was barely a love bite, and you were being a brat. Didn't realize the Red Hood was so delicate."

"I am not delicate!"

Slade snorts. "Sure pup. Just like you aren't pretty or prudish either. Don't worry, I'll kiss it better." He winks.

He mouths at Hood's scrotum, lapping at the fragile skin before drawing his balls into his mouth. He rolls them over his tongue until they start to tighten and swell, then abandons them. He ignores the thin whine of displeasure to move north. Despite his protestations, Hood's prick is standing tall, precise glistening at the tip. He'll never understand why humans outside the covenant choose to cut the foreskins from their infant males, but he does appreciate the aesthetic of a smooth vulnerable shaft.

He drags his tongue up the velveteen skin and takes time learning its shape, curve, and width from root to mushroom tip. When he flicks the forked end of his tongue over the slit the boy flails, heels sliding in silk, unable to gain purchase. He swallows the boy down and the vibrato of his smothered laughter spurs Hood to try and arc deeper into his throat. He snakes the wicked length of his tongue completely around the boy's member and milks a stream of bitter salty precum from it without releasing him from his mouth. Hood writhes, groaning from behind closed lips as if in pain. Slade's not met many in all his long existence so determined against pleasure. He always enjoys a challenge.

Breathing isn't a necessary function for demons so he stays nose buried in the boy's curls working his tongue and throat until Hood's groans turn into sobbing. It's an intoxicating sound. Raw. Needy. Artless. He sucks harder and pulls away before the telltale pulse of release. Hood keens and twists against his magical bonds. Tears are leaking out from the corner of his mask, dissolving the glue that holds it in place. 

"Wha—What are you? Why are you stopping?" Hood's lifts his head up from the mattress, voice creaking.

Slade sits back on his heels and hums. He presses on the bruises he'd left on the hunter's thighs pensively, swirls his thumb over the head of the boy's cock and smears precum over the glans. Hood shivers and bares his teeth.

"What the hell? Isn't this what you wanted? Wasn't the whole point of this so you could fuck me?" He lifts his hips, erection angrily slapping against his stomach.

"Maybe I'm having a change of heart," Slade muses. 

He absolutely has not. But now that he's got the pup wet and wanting, he's curious how much more he can rile him up. 

Hood doesn't seem to believe it either, "Bullshit! You said you were stuck in this as much as I am! So—so come on and..."

"And?" he prompts.

"Fucking fuck me already!"

The demand is far from erotic, but oddly endearing. 

"I didn't think the Red Hood would beg so easily."

"I—I'm not begging," the hunter objects. "I just—I'm trying to get this over with."

Slade snorts. "For efficiency's sake?" he mocks, slyly slipping a hand between the boys legs and pressing a finger to his entrance.

"Ah," Hood sucks in a breath, "Yea—yeah."

He circles his finger lazily around the puckered rim. Hood isn't some slender hollow-boned fae and that's part of his appeal, but Slade is bigger still. As much as the pup may think he wants his cock, he's not ready for it. He'd be torn apart.

"Well, let's get to it then," he grins and hoists the boy's legs up over his shoulders so that they bracket his face.

"Hey! What are yo—"

He licks a strip up between the hunter's cheeks silencing him. If Hood is as unexperienced as he suspects, he doubts any of the boy's previous partners have done this for him before. He spreads the globes of his ass apart and pushes his tongue against his furled hole. Hood nearly levitates off the mattress, arching so dramatically the only point of contact between his body and the mattress is the back of his head.

"Easy, easy there pup," he soothes, patting the meaty muscle next to his head.

When the crush of thighs around his neck loosens, he returns to teasing that furled hole. He alternates between long strokes with the flat of his tongue and tickling thrusts of its bifurcated tip. The little grunts puffing out of Hood sound comically confused by the carnal stimulation. When he finally delves inside, pushing past that tight ring, the incredulous 'Jesus' almost sets him off laughing.

He probes deeper, exploring the boy from the inside out. Hood makes a surprisingly soft noise and shifts his hips back into Slade. It's the first time this night he's not fighting. Slade thinks that's worth a reward. His serpentine tongue reaches further than any human's would and he uses every infernal inch to seek out that special spot. Hood's legs kick out wildly, ankles slamming into his back. He nearly loses his grip. 

He wants to know what the total loss of Hood's control looks like. He summons Adeline and sends her to the head of the bed so he can see through her eye while he remains between the boy's legs, nose pressed up under his balls. She settles on the headboard with a shuffle of feathers and a quiet gronk. Sweet Lucifer, what a sight. 

Hood is a mess. Black curls spill over his forehead and into the lenses of his mask, which is peeling off his face. His lips, bruised and puffy from biting are gaping noiselessly while air whistles in and out of flared nostrils. The flickering lamplight washing over his perspiring body highlights every tendon and vein straining beneath the skin. He looks like he's about to shatter. Slade's been hard since he first got the boy belly up on his bed but now the confining prison of his slacks is painful. He winds his tongue in and nuzzles into the join of thigh and groin.

"What if I kept you here just like this? Hm?" he asks, lips catching against musky skin. He's not sure the boy can hear him. Or if he can hear him, if he's past the point of comprehension. "Poised on the brink. All I have to do to fulfill the contract is fuck you. I don't have to let you come."

It's a darkly attractive idea. Grayson is a treat in the bedroom; all big doe eyes and sinewy flexible grace with a flair for exhibitionism. Slade has never convinced him to indulge in some of his less conventional fantasies though. Too much pride. The same pride that kept him from sharing the nature of his arrangement with Slade and unintentionally letting Hood wander straight into the same trap. And Hood seems even more desperate for attention and validation than Grayson. It would be so easy to groom the boy to his tastes. By Baphomet's Beard, he should send Grayson a fruit basket.

A thin whine pierces the air.

He shelves the idea to pursue later. He wants this mouthy whelp beneath him again, best not to scare him off after just one fuck. He dives back in, renewing his assault on Hood's prostate. The whine splinters into a wail. He lets go of one of Hood's thighs so he can slide a finger in alongside. He drags it in and out, a contrasting movement to the sinuous motion of his tongue. After a few minutes he crooks the digit and tugs down, testing the stretch of the boy's rim. There's just enough give for him to shove a second finger in. 

He's barely begun to scissor the two apart when Hood hiccups and seizes. A jet of white of white splatters up Hood's stomach and chest at the same time the scent of semen fills his nose. He slows but doesn't stop, easing the boy through his orgasm until the rhythmic clenching around him ebbs. He withdraws his tongue and quickly replaces it with a third finger, keeping the boy stuffed, before lowering Hood's lax body to lie flat on the bed.

"There, there." He pets a trembling flank. "Good pup. You came without me even touching you. Did you know that you could do that?"

He takes it as a testament to his skills that he doesn't get an indignant 'fuck you' in reply, just a wheeze and a sideways tic of Hood's head. Slade draws the back of his knuckles down the sparse trail of hair from the boy's navel to groin.

"No, I bet not. You're wound so tight you didn't know you needed this at all did you?" he thrums, twisting his fingers experimentally. The orgasm has relaxed Hood enough he can get all three fingers in up to the second knuckle. He can probably take Slade's cock, and Slade wants to look him in the eyes when he does. "But don't worry. I know what you need."

Hood's brows pinch together, his lips part. Before he can ask whatever's on his mind, Slade adds a fourth finger. While he's distracted by the new intrusion, he strips the mask away with his free hand. It's not the blue he expects, but incandescent green. 

So that's how the dearly departed Robin did it. Interesting. Lazarus pits are rare and meticulously guarded. How the boy managed to climb through the portal between realms without drawing the attention or incurring the wrath of the Demon's Head would be well worth looking into.

Alarm spikes in those glassy verdant eyes, awareness burning through the haze of lust. Hood squirms, trying to escape the fingers spearing him open but only succeeds in jostling them against the bundle of nerves inside him.

"Nnn—no. What, what are you—"

Slade shushes him. "Calm down. I'm not going to mesmerize you. I know who you are. You're the bird that died. And now you're back and that makes you something rare and extraordinary. I want to see the hellfire burning in you as you come apart for me."

He cups the boy's boy's face, forcing him to keep eye contact, and withdraws the hand inside him. Hood's nose crinkles up in a grimace at the pull on his insides. Slade brushes a finger over his winking hole in silent promise then  frees himself from his pants. He retrieves a small bottle of fragrant oil off the table by the bed with his tail and slicks himself up. Hood's eyes flick down and widen.

"Yeah, pup. I know." He smiles toothily. "Don't be scared. It won't break you. Promise."

Hood seems less than reassured. He breathes in short shallow puffs as Slade lines up with his entrance. Despite the preparation Hood is still delectably tight and it takes some effort to fit the fat bulb of his cockhead in. It pops through. Hood's body is warm and wet with spit and oil, and nothing but perfect as he pushes in. 

By the light of the Morningstar, all he wants to do is pound in and pump the boy full, but he knows the treasures patience can bring. He gives Hood time to adjust, watching his face intently. Hood is biting at his lips again, this time hard enough a small trickle of blood is making its way down his chin. He drapes himself over the human and laps it up.

"Come on, little bird," he purrs and rolls his hips. "Let me in."

Hood gasps. He takes advantage of the opening to fuck his tongue into that bruised mouth at the same leisurely pace he's fucking his ass. He pushes in and pulls out in long languid movements. The delicious drag of his cocked through the boy's passage is worth savoring. As are the faint vibrating moans Slade can feel more than hear as he drinks them down. A quick glance down confirms the boy's arousal is growing again. He bears down, increasing the speed and strength of his thrusts until Hood's prick is stiff and smearing precum over the fabric of his shirt. 

"Messy boy," he hisses. 

"Please," Hood mewls. In Adeline's sight he sees the boy's hands open and close above his head, grasping at the air.

It's possible it's a trick, but without any of his gear the hunter is mostly harmless. He snaps and the chains of text tying Hood's wrists to the headboard melt off his skin. They immediately fly up. His instinct to protect himself from an attack passes as quickly as it comes, when Hood's hands launch an attack not on him, but his shirt. Buttons scatter, some hitting the floor with little plinks. Any shyness has disappeared into the ether as the boy's hands scrabble over his chest, stomach, shoulders. They ghost up his neck, rake through his hair and then settle on his horns. Like any animal he can't feel the fingers curled around them, but the tug is pleasant. So is the close up he gets of the boy's well muscled arms flexing in his periphery as he uses Slade's horns as an anchor while grinding back on his cock. 

Slade beats his wings, bringing himself up into a seated position and bringing Hood with him. The relentless pull of gravity draws the boy further onto his length. Hood sinks down, releasing a guttural moan as he takes Slade deeper than ever before. 

"That's it," he praises when they're pressed flush ass to pelvis. "You're doing so well. Taking every inch of my cock like you were made for this." He wraps his tail firmly around the hunter's trim waist, holding him in place while he lays a hand over Hood's abdomen as if he can feel the swell of his own organ there. "Now, think you can fuck yourself on me?"

He's answered with a tremulous nod. Then, with eyes squeezed tightly shut and brow furrowed in concentration, Hood rises up on his knees. He slides up an inch before coming down. His pace is glacial. He's clearly exhausted, wrung out from his prior orgasm, and Slade appreciates the effort he's putting forth. He likes the way those thick thighs quake on every upstroke and the way Hood's throat moves as he swallows down air in great gulps like water.

He wonders how long the boy would last like this, before his body gives out and he's left aching with want yet too spent to bring himself to completion. Slade takes pity on him and drags his hands down the sculpted curves of Hood's ass to grip where they meet his thighs. He lifts him up his shaft and drives him back down. Hood's mouth and eyes fall open. The sight of his pink tongue and brimming eyes enflames Slade's ardor.

"That's it. Just hold on," he encourages as he impales the boy harder, "Just like that."

He picks up the tempo and bounces the boy in his lap eliciting a string of sweet little ahs. His shared eye gives him the perfect view of himself ramming up into Hood. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of the sight of those cheeks jiggling with each impact. Hood's cries grow in volume with each savage thrust and it passes his mind that he's toeing the line of too rough, but he's too close to reaching his own end to care. He wraps a hand around the boy's erection and jerks him off in counterpoint. 

Hood howls, back arching as he paints both their bodies with his cum. Slade hauls him down into his lap mercilessly. The walls of the boy's passage convulse around him, driving him to orgasm. His wings flare, the claws at their apex scraping plaster off the ceiling as he cups deep inside the boy. He continues to pump in and out of the boy's wrecked hole just to hear the lew squelch of his excess cum spilling past the boy's rim.

Hood's gone limp, arms falling to his sides as he sags against Slade's chest. Slade isn't sure the boy is entirely conscious as the aftershocks roll through his body, milking every last drop from Slade's cock. He doesn't make any attempt to pull off of Slade or move at all really. Bemused, Slade wraps his wings around him, sealing them in a warm dark cocoon, and gently shifts them around to lay down without pulling out of Hood's snug heat. Once settled, he's surprised when Hood sighs softly and tucks himself under Slade's chin. 

Slade looks down at the curly head pillowed on his chest in consternation. He's succeeded in his goal of wrestling the young firecracker of a hunter into his bed. The contract has been fulfilled. There's nothing more for him to get out of this encounter, nothing more to keep either of them here. Usually at this point the other party is picking their clothes up off the floor, satisfied and weak-kneed but ready to go. He's not quite sure what to do with this one that's apparently decided to stay.

He pets the boy absently with hands and tail, rubbing between strong shoulder blades and kneading away the stiffness and knots brought on by a life of action. Hood will need to be in top shape when he goes against Black Mask. Best to let him rest for now. Grayson can stand to wait another couple hours for his brother to be returned to him. Slade presses his lips to a sweat-damp temple.

"Good job, pup... Jason."

”...Fuck off, you old goat.”

Slade laughs at the sleepy mumble and smacks the back of the boy’s head with his tail.