TRACING SCARS
pairing arkhamverse! jason todd x gender neutral reader
in the quiet hours between nightmares and dawn, jason todd lets himself be vulnerable—just for you. tracing scars instead of reopening wounds, sharing breath instead of bullets, he learns that some things are stronger than the past.
this is for the anon who requested arkhamverse jason todd! thank you so much for the request! literally enjoyed writing this one cause, well, you know, jason-
the dim glow of the city spills through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in muted blues and grays. gotham never sleeps, but here, in this quiet space, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you. the sheets are tangled around your legs, warm from the shared heat of your bodies, and jason’s arm is draped over your waist, his fingers lazily tracing circles against your skin.
you shift slightly, turning to face him, and his eyes—sharp, stormy, always so full of something unspoken—meet yours. there’s a flicker of hesitation in them, a ghost of the pain he still carries, but then his lips quirk into that half-smile you love so much. the one that’s rough around the edges but soft just for you.
“what’re you thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, voice low, rough from disuse.
you don’t answer right away. instead, your fingers drift up, brushing against the scars that litter his chest. some are thin, faded, barely there. others are jagged, raised, reminders of wounds that never quite healed right. each one tells a story—some he’s shared, others he hasn’t. your touch is feather-light, tracing the lines as if you could memorize them, as if you could take the hurt away just by knowing it was there.
jason tenses under your fingertips, just for a second—a sharp inhale, the slightest flinch of muscle beneath your palm. he always does. scars aren’t just marks on the skin for him—they’re memories, ghosts that cling to him like shadows. the jagged one along his ribs? a knife fight in the narrow alleys of crime alley, back when he was still just a scrappy kid with too much anger and not enough fear. the rough, uneven patch near his shoulder? the crowbar. (you don’t linger there. not unless he guides your hand himself.) but then he exhales, slow and deliberate, the tension bleeding out of him as he leans into your touch instead, like he’s reminding himself that your hands aren’t meant to hurt. that this—you, here, now—is something safe.
“you don’t have to be careful with me,” he says, voice rough but softer than usual, like the edges have been worn down just for you. there’s no bite to it, no defensiveness. just quiet understanding, the kind that comes from months of learning how to let someone in.
“i know,” you whisper back, thumb brushing over a faded bullet graze along his side. “but i want to be.”
his breath hitches, just slightly—a tiny, almost imperceptible catch in his chest—and for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hangs between you, thick and heavy. the warehouse. the joker. the sickening crack of the crowbar, the mocking laughter that still echoes in his nightmares. the betrayal he thought was real, the way it festered inside him for years, twisting into something jagged and raw. the anger still simmers beneath the surface, even now, a low burn that never fully goes out. you can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch like he’s itching for a trigger.
but then your fingers brush over a particularly nasty scar—a knife wound, he’d told you once, back when he was still learning how to let you in—and something in him softens. he catches your hand before you can pull away, calloused fingers wrapping around yours, and presses a kiss to your palm. slow. deliberate. like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you.
“you’re too good for me,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough with something that isn’t quite guilt but isn’t not guilt either. there’s that ache in his words, the one that says he still doesn’t quite believe he deserves this. deserves you. like kindness is a language he’s still learning to speak.
you shift closer, until your forehead rests against his, noses brushing. “shut up,” you murmur, smiling even though your chest feels too tight. “you’re stuck with me, todd. no take-backs.”
he huffs a laugh, rough but genuine, the sound vibrating against your lips. “yeah? what if i wanna be unstuck?” there’s no real heat behind it, just the ghost of his old defensiveness, the armor he’s still learning to take off.
“too bad,” you whisper, pressing closer. “you’re mine.”
his breath stutters at that, just for a second, before he pulls you tighter against him, his arm a solid weight around your waist. his heartbeat is steady under your palm, a quiet reassurance, a reminder that he’s here. alive. yours. the city outside might be chaos—sirens wailing, gunshots ringing out in the distance—but here, in this moment, it’s just the two of you. tangled in the sheets, breathing each other in. and that’s enough.
eventually, his breathing evens out, the rise and fall of his chest becoming slow and steady against your side. his grip on you loosens, fingers going slack where they'd been curled possessively against your hip, but even in sleep he keeps some contact—a knee brushing yours, his forehead nearly touching your shoulder. you stay awake a little longer, fingertips ghosting over the landscape of his skin—the raised ridge of that knife scar along his ribs, the rough patch of a burn near his collarbone, the faint indentation of an old bullet graze. your thumb traces the curve of his jaw, committing to memory the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks, the way his lips part just slightly when he's really asleep.
“you're staring,” he mumbles suddenly, voice thick with sleep, and you startle—you hadn't realized his eyes were half-open, watching you through the haze of exhaustion.
“can't help it,” you whisper back, brushing a curl off his forehead. “you're pretty when you're not being a grumpy asshole.”
he huffs a tired laugh, nuzzling into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “liar,” he murmurs, but there's no bite to it. his hand finds yours in the dim light, lacing your fingers together and bringing them to his lips for a drowsy kiss. “go the fuck to sleep.”
you smile, pressing closer as his breathing deepens again. because this—the weight of him beside you, the quiet sounds of his sleep-soft breaths, the way he reaches for you even when unconscious—is something you'll never take for granted. him. here. alive. choosing to stay.
and when you finally close your eyes, it's with his warmth wrapped around you and the certainty that no matter what ghosts rattle at the windows of his mind, no matter what shadows creep in from the past, you'll be there when he wakes. to kiss the nightmares from his skin, to remind him with every touch that he's not alone. not anymore. not ever again.
(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
you wake with a gasp, the sharp inhale tearing through your throat like broken glass, heart pounding so violently you feel it in your fingertips. the nightmare clings to you like second skin—cold hands dragging him away, his voice calling your name as the shadows swallowed him whole. the phantom sensation of empty sheets still burns against your skin, the echo of his absence carving hollow spaces between your ribs.
but then—
warmth. solid and real against your side. the familiar scent of gunmetal and cheap shampoo. the steady rhythm of his breathing, deep and even, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your trembling fingers as they press against his skin, desperate for proof. jason.
moonlight spills through the half-open curtains, liquid silver pooling in the hollow of his throat, dripping along the ridges of scars that map his body like constellations written in a language only you understand. your fingers trace them slowly, reverently—the jagged lightning bolt along his ribs (a knife in the dark, a fight he walked away from), the rough, twisted patch near his shoulder (fire and pain and the smell of burning flesh), the bullet graze on his hip (too close, always too close, his blood warm between your fingers as you stitched him up that night). each one a love letter to survival, a promise etched in flesh. each one a silent scream: i'm still here. i'm still here. i'm still here.
your thumb brushes the faint circle on his bicep—a cigarette burn from a life before the bat, before the mask—and his skin pebbles under your touch. alive. real. yours.
your fingertips drift higher, over the curve of his bicep, the dip of his collarbone, tracing your finger along his jaw. he’s beautiful like this, in the quiet hours—face relaxed, lips slightly parted, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. the tension he carries in daylight is gone, leaving only the man beneath the armor.
“mm. creepy,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. one eye cracks open, glinting in the dim light. “you plannin’ to sketch me later or somethin’?”
“shut up,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in it. your thumb brushes the scar above his eyebrow—a childhood fall, he’d told you once. “just... needed to make sure you were real.”
his expression softens. he catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat over his heart. “feel that? steady as fuck. ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
you swallow hard. “promise?”
he tugs you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him, his arms locking around you like steel. “cross my heart, sweetheart.” his lips find your forehead, lingering. “now quit worryin’. i’m not some ghost you gotta chase away.”
“could’ve fooled me,” you mumble one of his favourite phrases into his chest, but you’re smiling now. his heartbeat thrums beneath your ear, strong and sure.
“oh, so now you're sassin' me?” he huffs, the words rough with sleep but laced with amusement. his fingers never stop moving through your hair, calloused tips catching gently on tangles before smoothing them away with infinite patience. the contrast makes your chest ache—how someone with hands that have known nothing but violence can touch you like you're something fragile, something precious. “real cute,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your temple. “wanna tell me about the nightmare? could shoot whatever scared you. just say the word.”
you shake your head, pressing closer until your nose brushes the warm skin of his throat. his pulse jumps beneath your lips, steady and alive. “not important,” you whisper. the nightmare is already fading, dissolving like smoke in the face of his solid presence. “you're here. that's all that matters.”
he hums, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. you can practically hear the gears turning in that stubborn head of his—calculating whether to push or let it go. “alright,” he concedes after a long moment, but his hand slides down to rest at the small of your back, broad palm spanning the curve of your spine. possessive. protective. a silent vow. “but if you change your mind…” his lips ghost over your forehead, barely there. “i'm listenin'. always.”
outside, the city murmurs its endless symphony—distant sirens wailing like wounded animals, the occasional shout cutting through the night, the ever-present hum of traffic that never stops in gotham. but here, in this tangled nest of sheets and shared breath, where his heartbeat echoes against your skin and his warmth chases away every shadow, the world narrows to this single, perfect point. small. safe. yours.
minutes or maybe hours slip by in comfortable silence before you whisper, “jason?”
“yeah, sweetheart?” his voice is thick with sleep but instantly alert, because he's always listening, always waiting for your call.
“...i love you.”
his breath catches—just a slight hitch in his chest, but you feel it everywhere. for a heartbeat, the entire world stills. then his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer until there's no space left between you at all. “‘course you do,” he mutters into your hair, but his voice is rough with something tender, something vulnerable that he'd deny if you pointed it out. his lips press against your temple, lingering. “go back to sleep, idiot. i'll be here when you wake up.”
and as you drift off, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the safety of his arms, you know it's the truth. you always know with him.
“so will i,” you murmur, already half-gone to sleep.
you feel his smile against your skin before he huffs a quiet laugh. “you better be,” he whispers, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. “or i'm hunting your ass down. swear to god.”
the last thing you hear before sleep claims you is the fond exasperation in his voice, and the way his heartbeat never once stutters in its promise.
2.1k words of soft, scarred, stupidly perfect arkhamverse jason todd... my heart does that thing where it cracks right open for him but also stitches itself back together. i cannot be normal about this man. hope you liked this little midnight cuddle session—i wrote it curled up in a blanket burrito with ‘soft spot’ by keshi on repeat once again (as one does). let me know if it made you feel things... or if you, too, need to gently hold jason’s face and whisper ”you deserve nice things” into his traumatized soul.
