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Theirs was a functional relationship. It worked for them, and probably wouldn't work for anyone else, and that was fine by Jason. He only needed one person alive to know about his— his affliction. What a kind word, for the sort of thing that lived inside Jason on the best of days.
On the worst of days, he came to see Slade.
Bruce knew some. Half, maybe. If he was being generous, he'd call it a half, and feel less guilt on the whole. But there was something so black, so dark, about looking him in the eye. Saying that the worst thing that had ever been done to him, was done again and again and again, and he'd fucking enjoyed it.
In real shit motels and Jason's throwaway apartments and Slade's basements, where other, less fortunate people had probably died, too. And Jason had asked for it, again and again.
Slade made no excuses on his end. It was pleasure in its purest form. A sadistic tendency, one Jason was more than willing to fulfill when the itch grew too much. With or without him, Slade would get what he wanted, so it may as well be with. He didn't like to think of all the ones without him.
"Best you don't," Slade had murmured, once, right against his ear while he'd rutted into Jason with bruising force. "Might get jealous, boy." And Jason had shook apart on his cock like it was a command, undeniable and woven into his very skin.
Aside from the fat paycheck and the particular satisfaction of having one of the Bats — no matter how much Jason insisted he wasn't — Slade seemed to genuinely enjoy it. That would be worrying, if he hadn't seen everything else Slade was capable of.
He knocked on the door, a nondescript apartment in a nondescript apartment block on a nondescript development. It was quiet, and mostly empty, and overrun with illicit safehouses. Slade shared the building with a half-dozen professional criminals, and none of them cared what noises came from across the hall, and that worked fine in their line of work. Mutual respect.
It took the usual way-too-long for Slade to get the door, but once he did Jason didn't bother with the pleasantries. Their kiss felt like a punch, Slade grunting once before he was meeting Jason just as ready, hands sliding to his hips. It was late, but he'd called ahead of time, and was pleased to find the other man had stayed in sweatpants and a soft, cotton shirt.
Slade made a noise of protest when Jason slid his fingers under the hem, no doubt chilled from the trip over, and kicked the door shut. Tugged Jason against him until they were hip to hip, enough for Jason to grind against him, let Slade feel the pounding of blood through his veins in a real, tangible way.
"Hello to you too," Slade murmurs between bites of Jason's against his lips, his jaw.
He makes a noncommittal noise. Tugs on Slade's bottom lip, red and wet. It used to be harder to get at him like this. But Jason had grown a lot since then, and the difference was palpable, more proof than ever that they'd been doing this too damn long.
He'd do this forever, if he could.
Slade's back hits the nearest wall, perfect for Jason to close in, hungry when he slides his hands up and maps rough lines over Slade's abdomen, up to his chest. He's hot, always running a little warmer than Jason expects, and only shivers when Jason's nails drag back down to the waistband of his sweats.
"You paid me?" Slade asks, when he breaks free. Thunks his head against the wall and lets Jason bite at his throat, at his jaw, licking a stripe from his jugular to his collarbones.
That's what it does to him, he knows. Makes him desperate. Can't fucking get enough, and he is aching at just the thought of Slade's hands around his throat, fragile and breakable under his skills. Jason ruts against his hip bone. "Always do." He snaps.
Slade huffs a laugh. "Worth checking," he mutters. "Wouldn't put it past you to forget, too busy thinking about me."
"You wish," he growls. He's thought of nothing besides how it feels at the very end for days now. It hangs in the back of his mind like a cold shadow, calling to him in the quiet moments and Jason is tired of biting his nails bloody.
Slade laughs again, a low sound that Jason knows well, and nudges him back with controlled strength. It sends Jason back a few inches, and one quick jerk of Slade's head has him heading for the bedroom, stripping out of his clothes as he goes. Nearly trips when he's kicking off his shoes, definitely bumps into a wall when he's pulling his shirt over his head.
He doesn't care, and Slade's gonna do him regardless, there's no real need to make it worthwhile. The chance to get at Jason's insides is enough enticement. It's a price he pays. One he pays, when his skin itches and his limbs feel cold, dead, and his insides are preferable to his outsides.
Slade can have them, if that's what gets him off.
He makes it all the way to the bed before his hands start shaking, a trembling in his fingers that make him fumble with his belt buckle. And then there's weight, heavy and hot pressed along his back. Forcing him onto his hands and knees, Jason's elbows barely staying locked. Slade's hands skirt around his skin, down to his belt, unbuckling it in silence.
"The usual?" Slade asks, gruff. Wants it just as much as Jason does. The rush, adrenaline and cortisol all in one. He mouths at Jason's neck, over his shoulder and the bumps of his spine.
Jason's tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, choking him off when Slade's hands slip into his pants and nearly crush. It hurts. More than hurts, nausea threatening to hit critical already, and Jason's slow heart skyrockets in his ribcage. He whines.
"I'll take that as a yes." Slade chuckles, a little dark, breathless. His grip loosens to a harsh circle of his fist, pumping Jason's half-hard cock mechanically. There's no real pleasure to be found there, a simple and impersonal jerk of his wrist, but it does the job.
Around him, the room starts to take on a sharpened quality, Jason's veins thudding and pumping and boiling the longer Slade keeps him there, on the edge. His weight is nearly impossible to hold up, especially when Jason can't feel his hands anymore, numbness crawling up his forearms. Slade grunts, digs his nails into the silk-smooth underside of his cock.
Jason fucking keens, the noise punched out of him. Like this, he can feel Slade's cock pressed against him, heavy and solid on his ass through layers of fabric. And he wants. God, does he fucking want. He hears, incredibly distantly, Slade's purred praise, oily and slick.
Anyone else, Jason would put them down like a sick dog. Slade's got mange, and there's no helping him. Slade wants this, and he's fundamentally fucked somewhere along the way, that's for sure. But Jason's selfish. Jason's got an itch Slade can scratch.
Unceremoniously, his pants are shoved down, Slade's blunt nails withdrawing from his cock. There's no doubt blood smeared there, but it only helps when he presses two fingers to his hole. Jason breathes shakily from numb lungs, arms shaking with the effort it takes to stay up, and the world pulses in and out of his view as Slade begins the slow, steady process of sinking his fingers in.
"Atta boy," he murmurs, somewhere around the first bend of his fingers, the burn searing Jason's insides. It feels new every time. Maybe it counts as new. Something to ponder another day, when Jason's head isn't swimming with the craving. The need the Pit put into him. It swirls through his mind like sewage on a drain, green and toxic, and Jason fights back bile in his throat when Slade jerks his fingers in.
There's a hand at his shoulder, grip bruising. Holding him steady as Jason gasps ragged breaths and tastes copper, tongue caught between his teeth. The muscle at the junction of his neck burns, Slade's hand tightening in increments, a near tearing pain that lances through him. Jason sucks in sharp, short breaths, not sure why he's even bothering.
With or without oxygen, he's dying tonight.
Slade works him open in impatient movements. Scissors his fingers roughly, slicked by a tear or two, a little blood and the rest all dry. It's agony, of course it is, Jason's thighs twitching and trembling, heat and fire building at the base of his spine. He wants to crawl away. Slade would just yank him back, and come back at it twice as hard. He'd learned that, somewhere near the start.
There's a low muttering, Slade to himself, maybe, but it all melts into syllables and sound. Jason doesn't care. The release he came here for is within sight, sending his internal systems into fucking overdrive. He feels like he's dying already as Slade withdraws his fingers and replaces it instead with the spit-wet head of his cock, blunt and large, made for hurting.
The hand on his shoulder shoves, and Jason goes down like a ton of bricks, inhaling clean sheets and his own damp breath. Slade's nails scrape fire down his spine, down his sides. He takes skin with him, and Jason moans, a damning noise. If Bruce could see him now, begging for it in the only way he's capable of. How deep and dark the pit in his stomach has become, full of blood and gore and Jason's last moments on blissful repeat.
He wants it. He can't fucking live without it. Slade's going to give it to him, the knowledge thrumming through his veins like live wires. Electric. He scrabbles at the sheets when Slade rocks forwards, not enough to slip in but the pressure behind it is there, stinging at his raw insides. Jason's heart hammers in his chest, choking him up until he can't make a sound when Slade forces his way in.
One sharp, horrible snap of his hips in, Jason unable to breathe in the aftermath. His nerves drag behind the actual motion, feeding him slices of pain in bits and pieces, hot throbs and waves that Slade doesn't give him time to process. Above him, he gropes Jason's skin, bites harsh marks into his throat and shoulders. Bites him fucking bloody, wetting the sheets scarlet.
Inside, Jason feels gloriously— he feels— everything. Every snap of his heartbeat, every quiver through abused muscle. Every ounce of pain that Slade wrings from him, building into a perfect symphony, rising and rising. He's living in survival mode, coping with the force of every thrust in. Dirty and violating, Slade grinding into his hole with gravelly moans. Unrecognizable from the put-together man he was before, professional and removed.
Slade in the heat of it was a fucking animal, and Jason felt like prey, caught between his teeth. A particularly hard grope across his chest has a hollow crack sounding out, sending Jason's lungs to a stuttering stop. Slade jackknifes into him with a grunt. In the sheets, Jason's toes curl, calves tense.
He exhales and it's fire blooming across his chest, following the path of Slade's rough, uncaring hands. Weapons when he uses them just right, holding Jason on the brink until he's ready to let him go. He wants so desperately he'd beg if he thought it would do him any good.
Another slam of Slade's hips rips a raw noise from his throat, shouted into the bed, and the drive of his cock is slicker now. Stickier, blood thick and hot, smoothing the path, nerves singing and burning and Jason doesn't fucking know what. He feels it, is all, sensation and motion and pressure. That's all it is, at the end of the day, ripping Jason apart.
A rough, broad palm roves from his abdomen to his clavicle and seals itself around his throat. Jason would sob if he could, eyes stinging, blood rushing through his ears loud enough to block out all else. It's just him, Slade's hand, and the wide violation of his cock, Jason's own cock long gone soft. It's a different sort of pleasure that slices through him when his throat starts aching, when his lungs start burning.
Slade's nails dig bloody half-crescent moons into his skin, fingers like brands. Like a collar on Jason's skin, marking and claiming him while he drags him under for the nth time.
If this was addiction, then Jason understood a little better why his mother couldn't let go. Jason couldn't if he tried. Under unbreakable pressure, Jason's throat quivers, heat rising under his skin. His ears pop painfully, a thumping between his temples in time with the hammering of his heart.
Black spotted his vision as he tried and failed to bring in a little more air, that uncrushable need to keep going. Even when he wanted, his body fought him every step of the way and Slade would— Slade would make it stop.
Slade would switch him off, and Jason could finally rest. He had to. Time and again, he had, and Jason held onto that even when things started getting unfocused and watery, Jason's eyes burning, pins and needles pricking at his limbs and that sharp, hot point of contact inside of him.
Slade bears down on him, grinds his cock in with bruising force and stays there, hot pulses of his cock that Jason feels acutely despite the fuzziness of the world. Both hands take his throat now, a vise that crushes, Jason's world turned dark and cotton-soft, his neck protesting, aching, and then it's searing where the vertebrae connect and he's coming and that symphony crashes into a discordant, horrible crescendo—
Jason inhales thick air, tasting copper and the particular brand of cigarette Slade favours. He's warm and boneless, sunk into sheets that are warm and oddly familiar at this point.
Dimly, he thinks once you've died in sheets, you get to call them familiar.
He feels better, too. His head has been emptied. Reset, like a malfunctioning appliance. Knocked around until it performs as it should. Jason exhales heavily, and chances cracking an eye open, finding himself with a view of the ceiling, at first fuzzy and then clearer.
It's one of the nicer wakings he's had. Sometimes, Slade hasn't been done with his fun, still buried in him when he comes to, twitching and aching and not ready for round two. Instead, there's a muscled arm under his neck, Slade's fingers resting on his shoulder. Tracking a path over his throat and up to card through his hair.
With his other hand, he presses a finished cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand. From this angle, he can't see his face, besides the tinge of red over his beard, Jason's blood painting his skin.
He swallows heavily, throat thick with sleep.
"Back in the land of the living?" Slade drawls. Unbothered as ever. His fingers tug on a lock of Jason's hair, the sensation a little much right then, still busy filtering the world in.
It's always… disorienting. He feels dizzy despite being horizontal, and fucking ravenous, but he's healed up as good as new. Like always. It beats the first time, anyway. Crawling through six feet of packed dirt— He turns his head slightly, pressing his nose to Slade's shoulder.
"Hungry," he finally croaks. Barely has the energy to lift his hand, his whole body raw and tenderised in the most pleasurable way. He basks in the high of it, the warmth when Slade laughs softly. "Pay you enough. Food."
"Sure," he agrees easily. "Can I have my arm back?"
Jason hums. "No."
"Kid," Slade sighs. Tugs on his hair again. It sends a shiver down his spine, a dark memory sliding to the surface at that, the burn and the sharp pain and how Jason had stopped right there. He'd broken his neck. Slade's careful when he extracts himself from Jason's weight, and now he can see that he's changed clothes, not had time to shower yet.
He watches him go quietly, and begins counting down to the next time.