Sometimes I hate being the person I am. Like, I watch and enjoy My Adventures with Superman but don't really interact much with the tag on here. I've seen some of the whole Jon/Kon discourse and it's really kind of irrelevent. Like this show's MO hasn't been throwing things in a blender to see what comes out.
And really... anyone who was thought that he was going to be anything other than Lois and Clark's kid after the character design was released was really gaslighting themselves. The skin tone was not giving two pasty white boys, just saying.
And if they are ripping any comic character off... It's Rachel Summers, not Kon. Like, the aesthetic I will give you but the backstory screams 80s Claremont X-Men. Just have to check out their ability to ship any two characters of the same gender to see if my theory is correct.
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Pairings; Regency AU! Jason Todd x Reader
Part I
Part II
So did I lied about part two being the final part? Yes. Do I regret saying that? Yes. Am I now determined to put everything in order? No, of course not. That would mean I have some sense of normalcy and my ADHD brain says no. I might. So that basically means yes at this point if you haven't learned. lol.
Part III
Before Part II
Letters, as you found them, were consistently the rawest form of human emotion. You felt letters could never lie. Too often, when the words were not the truth, then it was the penmanship of the person writing that betrayed them.Â
You noted that when Mrs. Kent wrote her letters to those she was not too partial to— though the duty of civility commanded some degree of politeness—her penmanship was heavier. The paper was filled with blotches from where she aggressively put the quill to paper and some words ended in a splatter. Even in your own letters, you noted the difference depending on some emotion. When you were angry the words ran together in a jumbled mess, and happy, or in love, they came to be round or in swirls.Â
Soon after this realization, you noticed the words you sent to Mr. Todd seemed as though you were fashioning domes or arches, recreating what Augustus might have once called his marble city now embedded in a lover’s pen.Â
Lost on you are the times you wrote to Mr. Todd, so distracted by his voice, body, and attitude in your mind as you think of the words for him. It is not until you peeled yourself away from the quill do you see, in all pinkness, the words written. You wondered if Mr. Todd wrote the same way in his letters to you, letting emotion and heart run, letting its footprints leave behind many alone would dream of.Â
You sat upon a couch in the Wayne household, watching Jon play with Damian in a game of wooden swords. Slightly amused by the sight, you encouraged them by giving favor to one before switching to the other. They seemed just as pleased by this, giggling and smiling as they threw each other about.Â
Then, Mr. Todd entered. You stood and curtsied from the other side of the room and he only spared you a glance with a slight nod. Tall, broad, and known to be a skilled fencer he critiqued the boys' fighting stances, correcting them before moving over to you when they were well enough distracted.Â
“Is your family in good health?” Mr. Todd asked. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips as his eyes moved over you, happy with every ounce of naked skin exposed.Â
You lied as you did the same as him, letting your eyes scan his body. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Pleased with that answer, he sat close to you, enough so that if you both put your hands down in the space between they would touch. And you did, discreetly sliding a letter to him, letting your fingers graze and caress his before standing up. As you did, the room felt warmer, like it was now summer and not in the middle of winter. It had felt like that the moment your Mr. Todd stepped into the room.
Mr. Todd faintly gasped and you could hear him suck in a breath of air as you crossed the room, rounding the children up.Â
“Come,” You said to Damian and Jon. “Mr. Pennyworth will be very cross if you do not have dinner soon.”Â
The two whined, but you heard none of it. You gave Mr. Todd one last glance, seeing him wink just in time as the door closed to the parlor.Â
It’s evening when you see Mr. Todd again, having just returned from his usual walk around the manor grounds. You were returning to the parlor, where Jon and Damian were now playing chess, from the library. Meekly, cautiously, you look up to see Mr. Todd and noted that he seemed disheveled. His hair tousled as the wind had been at him, with only a half-unbuttoned waistcoat instead of the usual somewhat formal dress that was usual to his character. In one of his ink-stained hands, was a hopeful letter.
“Mr. Todd,” You said. “How was your walk this evening?”
He hesitated in his answer. “It was well.”
“It must be cold,” You stated, eyes trying to not look into his for they were the green seas that drowned out your resolve to act proper. “Your cheeks are pink.”
Mr. Todd chuckled, feeling his cheeks, before bowing to you and then quickly shuffling off. As he passed, he stopped next to you. You could feel his breath against the side of your cheek as his hand slid down your arm to meet your hand. You looked up at him and let yourself drown momentarily. There, he placed the letter.
You felt your breath return once his hand was gone and the only sound left of him was his retreating footsteps. You looked down at the letter in your hand, smiling to yourself at the rounded words that spelled your name.Â
Pressing the envelope to your lips, you took in the smell of smokey wood and orange cologne water that could only belong to one man. Tucking it away in your pocket, you continued on your journey back to the parlor.Â
You looked forward to later that evening when you would be up by candlelight observing the arches and domes Mr. Todd would build you with his words.
My Dearest,Â
If I am like Achillies, as you say, then I hope you are not my Patroclus. For I am not so noble as the Greek hero to bear such a loss and still be strong enough to fight.Â
Yet, if you asked, like Achillies, I would fight the gods to change fate to whatever you wish it to be. For that is the only thing I would ever want-- For you to live life as how you imagine it. I am willing to put my life on the line to suggest that world you imagine would be the only place I would ever live.
Perhaps, if Achillies were blessed with more luck, then he would have realized that being nothing more than a nobody prince and in love would be better than dying a tragic hero who is only remembered for the pride that killed his lover.Â
Forgive me, dear, I digress.
From your letters, I have figured you are a lady of the great classics, which I also pride myself on being keen on as well. Though, if we are to speak of classical characters, then might I interest you in my favorite? It is of a girl, of simple means whose name is lost amongst the readers, but yet remains distinct in my eyes among others in the story. She is clever--sometimes too clever for me-- and has a way of speaking that, despite her immense talent to be able to disappear into the refined obscurity she finds herself in, sticks out to most. She has certainly captured me with her words.Â
And her beauty is unchallenged.Â
It is the type of beauty that only could be captured by the words in a novel. Even then the author would have to invent new words to describe the kind of rare picture she possesses. The author has not seemed to have found a term for such an amazing creature, but if I were that humble author, I could only think of one that has already been invented.Â
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The question was surprising mostly because it was coming from Jon and not King Clark, but also because rarely did people ask about his future role in the kingdom.  He didn’t like to think too much about taking over his father’s throne, not sure he would ever be ready for that.  His father was such a beloved man and his mother made it clear she expected him to be better than his father.  But how did you best that?
“I hope to make my father proud,” was all he could think of to say.  He looked up from the game sitting on the floor between him and Jon, considering the teen across from him.  “My mother has so many expectations, but Father just wants me to be who I am.  He does not tell me to be one way or another.”
He watched Jon hum before looking down at the game and making his move.  “My father is much the same.  He tells me what he would do, but then tells me that I must make decisions on what I think is best.  Sometimes I am not certain what that means.”
Damian could sympathize with that. Â
His father was such a good man, a good king.  He was the ultimate standard to live up to and while Damian wanted nothing more than to do just that, he also knew his father didn’t want that of him.  He didn’t want Damian to be just like him. Â
“When our fathers are such great men, it is hard to not want to be just like them,” Damian admitted as he watched Jon move his pieces.  “But if we are just like them, then who are we really?”  He glanced up at Jon and found the older boy nodded, looking at a spot somewhere behind Damian. Â
“I likely have many years before I am seated on the throne,” Jon told him.  Damian knew Metropolis allowed their king to rule until he felt unfit or he passed, unlike Gotham where an heir took the throne when they reached the age of 25.  Damian would likely be king before Jon, should King Clark’s health hold out and peace remain.  “But I think about whether or not I want the crown frequently.  I know I am my father’s sole heir, but Uncle Kon could easily take the throne if I didn’t want it.”
“And what would your father say if you decided that being king was not what you wanted?”
“I do not know for certain. It is only a passing thought, nothing to question just yet.”  But Damian felt like perhaps it was something that should be questioned.  Why continue with all the lessons and training if ultimately you didn’t want to take the crown?  He had never considered what it would be like to abdicate.  Between his mother’s expectations and the desire to be just like his father, he’s not sure he ever could.
“What would you do?”
“Hmm?”
“If you decided to drop your claim to the throne, what would you do?”  Damian questioned, watching Jon closely.  The fourteen-year-old shrugged and looked at Damian but remained silent. “I was basically born to take the throne.  My parents do not love each other the way your parents do.  My father…he loves someone he can never marry, and my mother came to him knowing, but hoping for more.  Her only purpose was to provide him an heir, me.”  He wasn’t sure where was taking this, but it felt like it had to mean something. Â
“Just because the circumstances were less than ideal, does not mean you were only wanted for that purpose,” Jon commented.  Damian supposed he was right, but if he didn’t become king, what was the point of all of it? “Your father would love you no matter what you decided.  But I know you well enough to know you will be King of Gotham when you turn 25 and your father will be so proud.”
