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your-worst-knightmare · 4 years

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Operation Get Out of Marriage

Jaytemis Week Day 3: Arranged Marriage

Ao3 Link

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Night had settled upon the gardens of Wayne Manor, blanketing the sky in her quiet embrace. Jason stood and watched form his balcony, his mind still racing from his father’s dumbfounding speech. The serene bubbling of the fountains should have quelled his anxiety as he’d hoped, but it seemed to do nary a thing.

The head of Wayne Manor had called Jason into his study to talk. That was bad news in itself, as dear old dad wasn’t known for setting aside time for friendly conversation with his sons. Deep down, Jason had always known that conversation was bound to happen in some way or another. Still, it didn’t make the news seem any less like a blow to the face.

Bruce’s words still rang clearly in his ears. “I have made an alliance with Themyscira and we have decided that a union is in order to strengthen our bond. You will be meeting your betrothed tomorrow. I expect you to do your part.”

Jason was left to stare at Bruce, gaping like a fish. Betrothed? To a woman he’d never met, from a nation whose culture he knew next to nothing about, without either his or his betrothed’s consent. An alliance with Themyscira was certainly nothing to sneeze at, and Bruce always had been politically inclined, but would he do this to Jason? To his own son? Several seconds passed in silence and Jason knew the answer was yes.

He huffed in annoyance. Bruce was a jerk. A powerful, wealthy, influential jerk at that. Marrying your son off at nineteen to solidify your own political career only proved that further. Jason tried, tried so hard to be the perfect son, but all Bruce saw him as was a tool. Jason’s gaze hardened. To hell with Bruce. To hell with his political career. If Bruce wasn’t going to love him as a father should, then Jason wasn’t going to exhaust himself trying to earn his affections.

A wonderful idea sprung up in Jason’s mind. What if he just left? Abandoned this mess to live on a livelihood of his own making. The idea sounded appetizing. But what about his bride-to-be? She was likely in a very similar situation. He thought for a moment. No, he didn’t have time to worry about coercing this faceless woman into abandoning a life of luxury with him. There was too much risk. He could live with his disappearance being a one-man show.

Jason retired to his chambers a little too smugly. He’d play the part of the perfect son for the next few days before requesting to take his betrothed on a private outing. Then, under the cover of night, he could sneak out and vanish, free to live the life he wished. Jason smiled. It was all coming together beautifully. He’d need to begin preparing as soon as possible.

_____________________________

“I do not require your help,” Artemis snapped, swatting away the pilot’s hand that had been so generously offered to her. As constricting as the dress she wore was, she could manage herself. The fashion of Man’s World was ridiculous, but Diana had insisted that she get used to the style, seeing as she was marrying the son of the most influential man in Gotham. How insufferable.

Her betrothed– Jason– had greeted her at the runway. Artemis resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Loverboy had to come to see her as soon as she got off the plane. Outwardly, she attributed her foul mood to her intolerable dress and the fatigue of travel. However, perhaps since she’d been miserable since the news of her marriage was broken to her, she had been lying to herself. She knew for a fact that she did not want to be married, but she’d promised herself that she was not to do anything rash. So, as her betrothed talked up a storm of saying nothing, she set to work devising a plan.

Jason was polite as far as suitors went, but Artemis didn’t particularly care for his mask of grandeur that he hid behind. All of his words seemed rehearsed, all his questioned practiced.

“Your dress looks very beautiful, your Highness. Good craftsmanship is so hard to come by nowadays.”

It took all of Artemis’ will to not bite out a snarky ‘Thanks, I hate it.’ “Why thank you, Jason. Of course, I would settle for nothing less.” If he was going to play a game of propriety, Artemis was going to beat him at it.

He nodded politely. “Well, I was thinking that we should get to know each other better. My father owns a vacation home off the coast and I hoped we might spend a few days there.” His mask broke– if only for a second, a look of nervousness flashing over his face before disappearing.

It surprised her, as brief as it was. Artemis sensed that not everything was as it seemed with her betrothed. She covered her thoughts with a smile. “ That does sound like a good idea. Tell me, when do you plan to depart?”

“In three days’ time, if you don’t mind the short notice.” He smiled at her again, and Artemis couldn’t believe how fake it was. He may as well draw one on his face for a chance at being more genuine.

“Oh no, I don’t mind at all.” An idea began to flower in her mind, one that would further both her and Diana’s agendas. She would let the union take place and then her husband would fall ill under mysterious circumstances. To keep the alliance, she would remain “faithful” and wheedle her way back to Themyscira where she could live like none of this ever happened. It was nothing personal. This private outing presented a perfect opportunity to gather intelligence for her plan. “You will find I can be quite spontaneous.”

______________________

Jason had one goal: to make it through the night. The simple task seemed to become increasingly difficult as he realized that Artemis would stand no amount of small talk any longer. His scripted responses from the day they met simply wouldn’t work here. It didn’t help that he kept tripping over his words either. Now he didn’t just look like a rich jerk, but an idiot rich jerk. Great.

“Do you want to get some ice cream? I heard that Princess Diana likes it and I thought... well, I’m not saying I think you’re all the same but–”

Artemis held a finger up for silence. “It’s fine. I am going to pretend I didn’t hear any of your rambling, but yes, I would like ice cream.” The Amazon shrugged. “Besides, I should get used to your food seeing as I am to be your wife and all,” she deadpanned.

Jason felt a blush creeping up his neck. “Uh, yeah..., sure. “ God, why was he such an idiot? Maybe if he started a coherent conversation, this would all go away. He followed Artemis as she walked, trying to think of something to say. “So, uh, can I ask you a question?”

Artemis continued walking. “You may.”

“Did you have any say in this union? Between us I mean.”

She paused. “No. I was training in Bhana-Mighdall until I was whisked away to Man’s World one day without notice. Sometimes I wake up and forget I’m not in Themyscira anymore,” Artemis whispered, her tone full of longing. She turned to him. “What about you? Regale me with the tale of how you scored yourself a wife at nineteen without trying.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I was in a very similar situation as you. I didn’t know anything until a day before I met you. I didn’t want to marry you.” God, that came out wrong. “Uh, I mean, you’re really nice and beautiful and all, but I just don’t think I’m ready,” he quickly amended.

Artemis smirked. That was a win, right? She placed on hand on his shoulder and Jason froze. “That was very cute, Jason. Truthfully, I find myself agreeing with you. But, we’re doing this for our families, and as mindless as they are, they’re the only ones we’ve got.

And I supposed that since we will be seeing each other more often, it seems fit that I make this request of you.”

“And that is?”

“Don’t hide behind your mask of propriety, I must say, I find this you, awkward as you may be, much more endearing.” She patted his arm, walking ahead. “Now come on, we can’t leave our ice cream waiting.”

A smile tugged on Jason’s mouth. Her honesty was certainly refreshing. He had to admit, he would be at least a little sorry to leave her without any notice. She was nice and she really did deserve better. But, a plan was a plan, and he wouldn’t crumble over one conversation.

_________________________

Artemis lay in bed, wide awake and reminiscing the night she had just spent with her betrothed. He was certainly much nicer than she’d originally thought, though she didn’t care to admit it. She didn’t exactly have any plans to get attached anyway. The union would happen soon, she was sure, and she wouldn’t have to wait long to carry out her plan.

Her gut twinged at the thought. The plan. It wasn’t as drastic as anyone dying, but she would still feel guilty nonetheless. Jason didn’t do anything to deserve it. He was just as much of a pawn as she was. Was that... sympathy? Artemis didn’t exactly know. She decided to leave the thought. Jason was nice, that was that, and she would think about how she felt later.

A paper rustled as it slid under her door. Most likely from Jason. She had half a mind to leave it, as she didn’t want to encourage any of his advances if she was going to follow through with her plan. It was better if he thought her indifferent. False hope was a very cruel thing.

After half an hour, her will crumbled and curiosity got the better of her. Artemis figured that there was no harm in simply reading his note. She picked up the note gingerly.

Or rather a letter would be a more appropriate term. It was handwritten, if hastily, but Artemis appreciated the time taken to do so. However, as she read, her chest swirled with a disorienting array of emotions. It began simply:

‘Artemis, When I was told that I was to be married off to some princess, I expected to meet an immature, snobbish girl. Instead, I met you; an intelligent, elegant, calculating woman who happily proved all my expectations false. I have greatly enjoyed your company over the small amount of time that we’ve been together, and that has somewhat compelled me to write this. I feel that I am obligated to because I would personally feel guilty leaving you without the full story. I find myself partially grateful to my father for introducing us, but I do not think I can live under his will any longer. I am leaving to live my own life, under my own rules. I hope this also gives you the opportunity to return to Themyscira to continue your studies and training. Although I am leaving this life behind, I do not want to abandon contact with you. You will find a burner phone in my room with my number if you wish to stay in touch. -J’

Artemis threw down the letter, dazed. So he’d gotten to his escape plan first. It was quite idiotic, and would most likely never work, but at least it didn’t involve anyone falling ill.

But still. Stupid.

With a calmness that was unproportionate to the situation, Artemis made her way to Jason’s room and dialed. To her surprise, he actually picked up.

“You are such an idiot,” was the first thing that tumbled out of her mouth.

“You read my letter?” Jason asked quietly.

“Yes. It seems you got to your ‘Operation get Out of Marriage’ before I did.” She laughed. “I’m glad you did. Your plan was much better.”

“Oh. Can I ask what yours was?”

“It involved having an invalid for a husband. It would have never worked.”

“Why?”

I like you too much for that.”

Jason went silent for a moment. “If I carried through with my plan, what would happen to you?”

The Amazon sighed. “I suppose I’d be married off again to some other poor soul.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Tell me,” Artemis looked down at her fingers. “If we went through with your father’s plan, what would you do?”

“I don’t know. Be a pawn for the rest of my life?”

“Alright, and what would you do once you’ve carried out your own plan?”

Jason snorted.“Are you trying to make me admit that I haven’t thought this through?”

“Yes,” Artemis replied smugly.”I think I have an alternative plan that would work in all of our favours.”

__________________________

The wedding was extravagant. For all of his faults, Bruce certainly knew how to throw a party. Red and white flowers adorned the venue, most likely making the air hell for anyone with pollen allergies, Jason chuckled to himself. He didn’t know how he felt knowing that so much time and money went to waste on this opulent event. But what Jason lacked in interest for the event, the press more than made up for it.

They were everywhere, following every little detail A small part of Jason was glad for that. It would allow his and Artemis’ new and improved plan to run much more smoothly.

The event dragged on painfully slowly. There were speeches, private interviews, food, all before the ceremony actually took place. Jason felt like he would fall asleep if this went on any slower. But finally, the host said the magic words Jason had been waiting all day for.

‘And now, may I present the bride and the groom!”

Music blared and the gargantuan doors of the chapel swung open. There was nobody behind them. The host nervously repeated himself. Nobody. And again. Still, neither bride nor groom had appeared.

Before the host could get any more flustered, a young man ran out of the audience to deliver a note to him. He took a moment to calm his nerves before he began reading.

‘Dear Honoured Guests, By now you may be wondering where we, the bride and groom are. We are pleased to say that are safe and simply not attending out of our own free will. While we are delighted about the alliance between our peoples, we do not feel that we are suited to the lives of diplomats. As a result, we have decided to step back from our families’ political affairs. We do not wish for the alliance to be dissolved, however, we will no longer be associated with our inherited power. Thank you for attending and we wish you all a cordial evening. -Jason Wayne and Artemis Grace’

The venue erupted into chaos, with guests gasping at the scandal of it all and reporters trying to uncover more of the developing story.

Hundreds of miles away, Jason smirked from atop his comfortable lounge in his private penthouse. He turned away from the TV to face Artemis, who lay beside him on the couch. “So how do you think this plan turned out?”

It was rewarding to see her face lit up with that bright grin. She motioned to the screen where Bruce’s face was starting to rival the looks of a tomato. “I think this was our best yet.”

Jason switched off the TV. “I have a better one.”

“Oh. And that is?”

Fighting the grin off his face was a losing battle. “Ice cream.”

#jaytemis #jaytemis week 2020 #jaytemis week day 3 #rhato #jason todd #artemis of bhana-mighdall #artemis grace #arranged marriage au

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potteresque-ire · 4 years

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Happy 30th Birthday Good Omens!

... and here’s a quick ficlet as a present! Aziraphale/Crowley, fluff, based on the Good Omens Lockdown video released today. 😇❤️😈Given the rewards of burglarizing one bookshop in Soho and no one would ever equate burglary with socializing, it is only logical for one demon to slither in and test his luck, as a rather noodly burglar.

ETA: Crowley, I mean, the noodly burglar, mentions Hamburglar in the story. For those who’re too young (or who eat too healthily) to remember Hamburglar, he was a character from McDonald's and here’s his image: https://mcdonalds.fandom.com/wiki/Hamburglar.

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That night, AZ Fell & Co had its second break-in in a week. The burglar was transcendentally professional in his burglarizing, donning the black-and-white-striped attire as required by the human thieving tradition and complete with a face-covering (in accordance with both the tradition and NHS guidelines). He didn’t forget, either, about The Big Money Bag with its Big Dollar Sign that signalled intent. The bag got a drinkable inside because burglary was thirsty business, and because the thirst of this one burglar was particularly, (un)fortunately undeniable.

The burglar was, of course, caught red-handed (and -bellied) by the owner of the bookshop. Mr Fell had, rather curiously, been baking a Kirschtorte in the middle of the night. A bowl of miracled, brandy-soaked cherries sat on the cash box that had somehow been transported to the kitchen.

One could almost suspect that Mr Fell had been expecting a crime.

Almost.

“Wily old serpent,” admonished Mr Fell, picking up the burglar by the neck with his plump hands, floured white and smelling of butter and sugar. He narrowed his eyes at the pair peeking out from the cut holes of the burglar’s face covering. “I should’ve known there’s no rest for the wicked, even during a lockdown.”

The burglar, who, indeed, fine, was a snake (and his black-and-white-striped attire a tube sock; now please shut up and mind your own business), half-heartedly wiggled to try to set himself free. Half-heartedly, because cool criminals never wiggled.

The burglar was also presenting his burglaree a placard from his money bag.

“Give me your cashbox,” the placard said. “I’m burglar-ing.”

“Burglarizing,” corrected Mr Fell, acting quite gay for a burglaree. Couldn’t blame him, for even the burglar had to admit the kitchen smelled good. “You can talk in human as a snake. Why don’t you?” The interrogation would’ve gone on if not for the ding! from the oven. Perhaps this was why Mr Fell’s question lacked the surprise warranted by the situation, per the customs of Earth and its humans. Perhaps this was also why the burglar found himself dropped on the cherries (and the cash box), in not so much a I-shall-fling-you-to-a-scaly-death way than a have-a-snack-if-you-want-while-you-wait way.

The burglar would later respond to the question with yet another placard. Yes, he got one ready. “Loose jaw, long tongue,” this placard said. “Tried fitting on masks that stop droplet transmission from talking. Didn’t work.” The burglar slithered out of the way for Mr Fell to move the cherries onto the freshly baked torte -- every cherry but for the one the burglar had coiled around, along its now alternatively glossy and pebbled circumference where the flesh had been licked and nibbled. Cherries or any food, really, were more palatable with alcohol -- ah, no, the correct term for alcohol tonight was disinfectant. Poison. Smuggled into the bookshop in the money bag also to lower Mr Fell’s guard, ensure the crime would go smoothly. As it would evilly. “Plus,” the placard admitted then, “going for the Hamburglar look.”

Mr Fell looked up, perplexed.

Another placard materialized (say what you want about the burglar, but he was prepared)(...and bored out of his wits at home)(...and really kinda missing someone enough to imagine the entire conversation). “* Sigh *” — yes, that was how this placard started — “Think of Hamburglar as Zorro. Designed by one occult but dashing entity. Tempted many children into coveting.”

“Ah.” Mr Fell looked demystified at the answer, as if any bookshop owner would concur that wearing a Hamburglar-Zorro look while burglar-ing ... burglarizing on his property was perfectly reasonable. While being a snake. During a pandemic lockdown.

Either that, or because the presentation of the placards had revealed the bottle of drinkable in the money bag. “May I?” asked Mr Fell, already reaching inside. The label of the drinkable had been scrawled over. “Disinfectant,” tempted the writing in the same wild hand as seen on the placards. “Inject to fend off the plague!” Inject was underlined and the next sentence capitalised: “This label is not sarcastic”.

Mr Fell stared at the not-sarcastic-but-absolutely-wily temptation, and the burglar took the time to drag a set of silverware and a tumbler to his end of the table. Mr Fell, apparently abysmal at the maths, had retrieved two sets from his cabinet instead of one, and it was only reasonable, and suitably diabolic, for the burglar to covet his share. A look of epiphany soon crossed the bookseller’s cherubic features, perhaps inspired — very much inspired— by the rich amber liquid sloshing behind the label against its glass walls. “To thwart your wile, then,” Mr Fell spoke of his epiphany belatedly and thoughtfully, addressing more so to the disinfectant bottle than to the burglar, “to stop the occult work of a good-for-nothing burglar in its tracks, I shall have to drink this poison before you can ejaculate in me —”

CRASH.

A fork clattered on the floor.

And the burglar had forgotten about his lack of mouth-covering too, along with the use of his tail for proper fork gripping and really, the use of his every other organ for every other grand, ineffable tasks God had possibly created them for. He ejaculated in human speech, no, not ejaculated, injaculated, no, wait, injected, ejected, oh oh oh interjected that’s right. “Inject, Angel, for Heaven’s—ugh—whatever’s sake! Inject!”

Mr Fell was remarkably unfazed by the rather human screeches, and more disturbingly, the accidental endearment from his serpentine burglar. Instead, he surveyed the damage done to the fork, the plate that’d tipper over and the burglar half spilled from it with his tongue a quarter tied (side effect of ... ejaculating in another species’ language). He did it all with a rather holier-than-thou flair, his chin so slightly raised, his gaze moving measuredly, majestically from one damage to the next. He did it all before a tiny twitch, no, no, a smirk, that’s what it was, no mistake about it, tugged the corners of his lips.

“Inject, of course. Inject.” But he agreed solemnly, putting back on his usual air again of a tranquil if a bit stuffy professor, the type who’d give you an A if and only if you could quote from his favourite book. (”He was overcome by sleep; and as Paul continued speaking, he fell down from the third story and was taken up dead.” — Acts 20:9) “What other unholy words could I possibly have spoken?” He placed an emphasis on unholy, his blue eyes widened and doe-like with innocence, but the hint of Kirschtorte in his tone more Schwarzwälder than Kirsche.

At that, the quarter-tied tongue of the burglar could’ve won a scouting knot award. Mr Fell must have known it and his plump hands, miracled clean just to showcase just how buttery smooth and sweet and flawless they already were without the cooking stuff, proceeded to give the neck of the disinfectant bottle a long, loving stroke, and repeated doing that twice for good measure before uncorking the bottle. He swirled the liquid inside and gave it a sniff, all the while looking quite smug.

Ngk. The burglar had been played.

The rest of the night has gone as well as it could. Mr Fell has enjoyed with his cake the disinfectant, smokey and as finely aged as expected from its year and origin. The burglar, meanwhile, has enjoyed, no, he’s endured, suffered greatly and painfully, the act of coiling up on the plate he’d dragged across the table and watching his burglaree eat. No social distancing rules have been compromised because one, criminal activities do not count as socializing, and two, what’s distancing anyway to a serpent who can social distance his tail and his head at will? And right now, that long, long tail of the burglar is in the shadows under the table where no angels or demons or God or NHS can see, curled around Mr Fell’s ankle and caressing that soft, soft skin under the sock because ... well, because Mr Fell, because this dangerous, book-hoarding, cash-box-toting being with a cake kink, has to be chained in place while his burglar is about to ransack his shop. Yes. The cashbox is no longer satisfying enough for a loot. The burglar will ransack. In a bit. After his tail gets a taste on Mr Fell’s calf, maybe, just a tiny lick, if Mr Fell is amenable to that. If the width of the leg hole of Mr Fell’s trousers is amenable to that. Or the burglar can do the ransacking tomorrow. Mr Fell mentioned he’ll be making angel’s food cake and at this moment, the burglar is very much for the idea of angels for food. His dips his tongue into his tumbler of disinfectant again to quench his unquenchable thirst, the tumbler under which still lies the placard that explains, while humans have transmitted the plague to their pets, there’s yet to be instances of pets transmitting the illness back to their favourite humans.

“Pets, huh?” That was all Mr Fell has said about it, a breathy ask with an upward glance from under his long eyelashes. The burglar pulled out that placard as an act of courtesy, to assure his burglaree that while he’d be lighter on cash and heavier on disinfectants after the ordeal, he wouldn’t have to worry about catching the plague. And what gratitude was the burglar given for his niceness? That one, breathy huh?, followed by the sight of another one of those shiny, drunk cherries slipping into Mr Fell’s mouth, of his lips, red and just as plump as the cherry, following the fruit’s swollen curve and opening just enough to show a hint of his teeth, the delicate tip of his tongue. The closing of the mouth came with a small, wet smack, as Mr Fell’s lips pursed just a little ...

That’s it. That’s why AZ Fell & Co, The Bookshop from Hell — not that there’re bookshops, or books, or shops in Hell — deserves a break-in from a pet, no, a burglar every night. The burglar, specifically the one who was sent to this world to make trouble, will make sure of that. He’s got lots of placards at home and even more markers. And tube socks. And more importantly, fend-off-the-plague-injectable disinfectants from every year dating back at least a century, from every wine country of the present and the past. Mr Fell deserves to have his cash box forcibly removed from his shop every night because he’s an outright BASTARD — and one day, one day when this stupid pandemic is over and this stupider lockdown is a done thing, the burglar will have his real angel food, made of every blasted cherry being oh-so-daintily popped in the mouth across the table from him...

He’ll set his alarm for July — nuh-uh, June — to have it done.

#good omens lockdown #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #good omens #good omens 30 #pie writes

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