#sladeakj

Sometimes, when he’s lying in bed at night, Jason finds himself touching his neck. In the dark, he can picture it so clearly; a thick band of orange and grey wrapping around his throat. It would look good there, he thinks. The brightness of the orange would draw the eye. It would be the first thing anyone saw when they looked at him. Not the scar marring his cheek, but proof that he was wanted.

That he belonged to someone; someone who had chosen him for him, and not because he was a convenient tool to use against the Bat.

That’s as far as his imagination can go.

The second he starts thinking about the feeling of it—the way it would tighten every time he swallowed, the weight of it on his neck, the feeling of it against his skin—

His pulse races. His skin feels clammy.

But even if he manages not to think about it, even if his imaginings stay visual-only, his fingers will catch against one of his scars. It doesn’t matter how light he touches. He’ll find one, touch one, and he’ll jerk his hand away as if he’s been burned.

His eyes will snap open again and he’ll stare, sightlessly, at the ceiling, trying to keep his breathing even.

His Dom is only ever a room away. He could go to him.

He won’t.

He will shake, shudder, as his breaths hitch until finally, finally, he manages to soothe himself.

And then he’ll roll onto his side, squeeze his eyes shut, and try to think of nothing, nothing at all.

(It never works. If he manages to sleep, it’s only to dream of Arkham; of a barbed wire collar digging into his throat, marking him, scarring him, forever; of cruel words whispered or shrieked into his ear; of dropping with no one to help bring him back up.)

All of this to say—

Jason really, really wants Slade to collar him.