Team Anarchy - Round 3 - (fic) Whoops...
Title: Whoops...
Author: medorikoi
Prompt: Bad luck
Word count: 2,141
Disclaimer: I own a substantial amount of debt and not a lot else.
Rating: Pg-13ish
Warnings: Swearing, violence...MPreg
Summary: All these things seem random, schizophrenic even until they all come crashing together in the most brutal of circumstances. Not drunk, not hung over or high, dressed impeccably in his tailored purple suit and his smiling face Joker was on his hands and knees vomiting in the bathroom.
A/N:Because nothing says bad luck like a Joker-whoops-a-baby
There were some things that no one knew about the Joker. Stupid things he never intended to hide, he just never really thought about them. They had never seemed relevant until now.
He felt like an adult looking back at their teenage years and asking themselves ‘what was I thinking?’, a teenager looking back to last year, and asking ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’.
The Joker did not drink, not anymore. And whenever he could manage it he refused drugs, psychotic, fun, and otherwise. Too many tortured nights in Arkham. Nights and then weeks had started to disappear in a haze of drugs as if he was black out drunk. Sometimes he had flashes of bleary memory, of white washed rooms, biting needles, and nurses with cold eyes and blank faces. Sometimes he would wake up with new scars, pink and fresh.
He just wanted to wake up and know where he had been, wanted his memory, wanted the memories that had been taken away from him.
He had thought they were untouchable and that they always would be. They were above the law, or below it, out of the league of the police either way. Vigilante and Villain, it made no difference when they were the only two creatures in existence. The police tried, desperately they tried. It was almost cute how they would surround buildings, fire wads of burning metal into the night, effective as pebbles thrown into a river. They were your little brother begging to come along, promising to be good, to be quiet, and to not say anything uncool in front of all your cool older friends.
And then had to pee every five minutes.
They were gods in their prime, years spent dancing and frolicking, years spent in their sweet torturous foreplay. From the moment they had met a bittersweet tension had existed between them, thick and tangible. He could taste it on his tongue the way he tasted blood when Batman smashed his face, the desire that rose within him.
They were two of a kind and they knew it. Before he had ever heard the dark gorgeous timber of the Bats growl he had known that one day they would be together, one soul, one existence, and that someday much sooner they would no longer be able to stand it and they would have each other in the most basic perfect way.
It was three months ago now that Batman had found him in his abandoned toy factory, alone and dormant as a sleeping volcano. Three months ago since The Bat had come to him with a look of anguish, like life had finally taken too much from him. Three months since the Bat had marched up to him without a word until the tension was too thick to breath and pressed him to the wall, never looking back.
They were immortal, forever young, forever brilliant. Gods did not get sick. Who ever heard of Zeus calling in sick with the cold? Of Death saying ‘sorry today is not a good day for you to die, I have a touch of the flu, how does rescheduling for next Monday sound?’ Who ever heard of an Adonis with fair skin, piercing blue eyes and a mask all of black being asked ’Are you clean? Do you have a condom?’
No.
So he didn’t.
And neither would you if the Bat has you pressed to the stone floor and pieces of armor are falling away, handcuffs are securing your hands and fuck yes.
I do not care who you are. You wouldn’t. Trust me.
The last thing people did not seem to know or understand was the suit, the makeup, the smile.
The smile is permanent, not coming off, no way to change it. How hard is that to get? But he liked it. It is beautiful in a way only some people can truly appreciate.
The suit and the makeup are not a choice made to scare, to intimidate or stand out. They are beautiful. They made him smile. People colored their hair, they had surgery to become more beautiful, to change their nose, and fix their boobs. Who says any one thing is more beautiful than another? People change themselves to who they are, who they want to be. If you can change what you look like to match your mind then your old body holds no meaning. What do random genetics have over the mind?
Why should he have pink skin and wear jeans when this face, these clothes are what he finds beautiful?
All these things seem random, schizophrenic even until they all come crashing together in the most brutal of circumstances.
Not drunk, not hung over or high, dressed impeccably in his tailored purple suit and his smiling face Joker was on his hands and knees vomiting in the bathroom.
He was sick.
Every morning for the a week he had woken and not had the leisure to stretch wherever had had fallen asleep, not gradually coming into wakefulness and wonder how he would next play his city and his Bat. Every morning he woke with debilitating nausea crawling in his guts. Instead of languishing he was scrambling up on all fours to the bathroom.
His first waking moments of every morning were spent with his head in a toilet.
It was just wrong. It was undignified. He was a god; he should be out planning the fate of Gotham with the Bat, larger than life. What pawn, what mortal had spewed their germs at him? Infecting him with their bacteria? Infiltrated his body and brought him crashing to his knees?
What civilian had brought down the Joker?
He could not leave the hideout. Screw that, he could scarcely leave the bathroom. One of the new lackeys, dumb as the rest with bigger balls than brains, had the nerve to approach him with saltines and soup.
The saltines came back up dry and painful.
The soup went down the toilet before it could touch his mouth the way it had his stomach and nose.
It was another week, longer, when the clothes he wore were dirty and stained and his legs were splayed out in front of him, cheek pressed against cool porcelain and he was left staring into the toilet that he wondered if the Bat would come visit him if he was too sick to go out and play.
Before thoughts of a play date and calling the Bats cell phone could enter his head he stood up, hands clenching his stomach, but up. He needed to fix this. He needed to fix this now.
He changed before he could fall down. When was the last time he had eaten? The last time he had been able to take in liquid and keep it down? The knives slipped into his pockets, his favorites, extensions of his own hands. The only ones he could hope to operate right now.
Thank god for lackeys. He rested as they drove, flicking his knife open and closed. Open and closed. He watched the buildings as they passed, watched the skies. Had it really been three months since then? Longer now. He missed the Bat.
They only had to stop once to let him puke out the car door but afterward he felt better, as if he had reassured his body that there was nothing left in it.
What if the Bat had come right at that moment? Is it proper to bash someone’s face in while they puked on your boots? Could have asked the Bat to hold back his hair?
The doctors quarters of Arkham were almost abandoned, no sane person wanted to work there, hiding from normalcy with the darkest minds the cruelty of the world had to offer. Most of the doctors ended up taking the short walk next door. Their very own private cell, secretly coveted all along. The man he was going to see should have been in one of those for a long time.
His men took down the guard who stood watch for arrant crazies.
They waited for him to catch up at his own pace.
It took awhile.
As he walked, tripped, and fell through the too familiar halls his hands caressed the knives in his pockets, caressed the thin fresh surgical scars, fading slightly now, that adorned his torso.
Weeks gone missing. Memories wiped away. He wanted them back now.
Crane was a small man, lanky, pale as if he had never spent a day in the sun, all his life spent in the towers of Frankenstein, tinkering as the madman with a million willing wards.
It was telling of his strength or lack thereof when his men did not ask him but rather rushed into the small office and pinned the man to the wall, one at each arm, trying to stay out of the way. A sick Joker was still a Joker, still that capable mind.
The Knife switched again, open, shining. It pressed against the long pale throat in front of him. Shock registered for a moment in Cranes face. He had seem a million emotions flash over the faces of those about to die, of those held and waiting for the cold touch of death. Fear and pleading seemed popular. Desperation a close second.
Cranes interest was not. He was afraid yes, but he remained more wondering than anything. The mystery intrigued more than death scared.
“What did you do to me?”
Was that his voice? That raspy terrible thing?
Blue eyes widened, excitement poured off of him, his body trembled beneath the blade.
“What is happening? Tell me everything!” He was as excited as a child. The blade pressed deeper, a trail of crimson escaped his flesh, pouring into the hollow of his neck, pooling and falling into his white collar.
“I am sick. What did you do?” His voice was more real now, clearing but as raspy as before. Acid had been eating at his throat and he could feel it with every word. Crane could hear it, pick it apart.
The man struggled to talk but he had pressed the flat edge of the blade into his throat, crushing his air supply, waiting for the excitement to fade and fear to set in. Panic at the very least.
When thin hands were allowed to scratch at the blade, trembling and weak he pulled away. Oxygen seared into Carnes lungs and before the burn could have possibly subsided his hands fell to the Jokers stomach, touching reverently, breath forming words, painful, dragged through the embers and still excited.
“You didn’t!” The hand pushed, just a little. Ribs were prominent now, his shirt hung loose on him but Crane smiled, his face beaming, his hand holding the Jokers barely-there belly.
“You did!” His eyes lit up like a spoiled child on Christmas morning, his mouth falling open.
Joker took a step back, away from Cranes prying hands, they made him feel sick, but Crane did not seem to notice. He was rambling.
“We chose you because we never thought you would….and even if you did I thought you would be the one…” He jabbered mindlessly, in his own world, his mouth falling open to hang when words escaped him. The lackeys were getting anxious, they did not know what to do, who to hurt. Carne was still rambling, his breath filled his chest now and the burning left his words but the excitement, the horror and wonder more than made up for it.
“It was just an experiment…It was never invented to go this far…we did not think it would…I never thought that you of all people would…”
The Joker was through with this. He was weak and sick and Crane just would not shut the hell up. He pulled the knife back out, ready to cut his throat just for the hell of it. Cures be damned. The blade drew more blood. Two rivulets now like a vampires kiss. It made him nauseous.
“Never thought that I would what?”
Crane looked into his eyes as if seeing him for the first time, the wonder never left his face and the words certainly did not process through his sputtering mind before he spoke them.
“That you would be a bottom!”
The blade cut deep, deep enough to cause even Cranes heart rate to rise. He was done. No one did this to him, there would be record somewhere, Carne was nothing…
Blue eyes met green and the moment the Joker was going to push, to drown Cranes words in blood and make up for the new scars covering his body Carne gasped the words, a title from the Twilight Zone, a child’s play house games gone wrong and making a bastard child with science fiction.
“You are pregnant!”
Author: medorikoi
Prompt: Bad luck
Word count: 2,141
Disclaimer: I own a substantial amount of debt and not a lot else.
Rating: Pg-13ish
Warnings: Swearing, violence...MPreg
Summary: All these things seem random, schizophrenic even until they all come crashing together in the most brutal of circumstances. Not drunk, not hung over or high, dressed impeccably in his tailored purple suit and his smiling face Joker was on his hands and knees vomiting in the bathroom.
A/N:Because nothing says bad luck like a Joker-whoops-a-baby
There were some things that no one knew about the Joker. Stupid things he never intended to hide, he just never really thought about them. They had never seemed relevant until now.
He felt like an adult looking back at their teenage years and asking themselves ‘what was I thinking?’, a teenager looking back to last year, and asking ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’.
The Joker did not drink, not anymore. And whenever he could manage it he refused drugs, psychotic, fun, and otherwise. Too many tortured nights in Arkham. Nights and then weeks had started to disappear in a haze of drugs as if he was black out drunk. Sometimes he had flashes of bleary memory, of white washed rooms, biting needles, and nurses with cold eyes and blank faces. Sometimes he would wake up with new scars, pink and fresh.
He just wanted to wake up and know where he had been, wanted his memory, wanted the memories that had been taken away from him.
He had thought they were untouchable and that they always would be. They were above the law, or below it, out of the league of the police either way. Vigilante and Villain, it made no difference when they were the only two creatures in existence. The police tried, desperately they tried. It was almost cute how they would surround buildings, fire wads of burning metal into the night, effective as pebbles thrown into a river. They were your little brother begging to come along, promising to be good, to be quiet, and to not say anything uncool in front of all your cool older friends.
And then had to pee every five minutes.
They were gods in their prime, years spent dancing and frolicking, years spent in their sweet torturous foreplay. From the moment they had met a bittersweet tension had existed between them, thick and tangible. He could taste it on his tongue the way he tasted blood when Batman smashed his face, the desire that rose within him.
They were two of a kind and they knew it. Before he had ever heard the dark gorgeous timber of the Bats growl he had known that one day they would be together, one soul, one existence, and that someday much sooner they would no longer be able to stand it and they would have each other in the most basic perfect way.
It was three months ago now that Batman had found him in his abandoned toy factory, alone and dormant as a sleeping volcano. Three months ago since The Bat had come to him with a look of anguish, like life had finally taken too much from him. Three months since the Bat had marched up to him without a word until the tension was too thick to breath and pressed him to the wall, never looking back.
They were immortal, forever young, forever brilliant. Gods did not get sick. Who ever heard of Zeus calling in sick with the cold? Of Death saying ‘sorry today is not a good day for you to die, I have a touch of the flu, how does rescheduling for next Monday sound?’ Who ever heard of an Adonis with fair skin, piercing blue eyes and a mask all of black being asked ’Are you clean? Do you have a condom?’
No.
So he didn’t.
And neither would you if the Bat has you pressed to the stone floor and pieces of armor are falling away, handcuffs are securing your hands and fuck yes.
I do not care who you are. You wouldn’t. Trust me.
The last thing people did not seem to know or understand was the suit, the makeup, the smile.
The smile is permanent, not coming off, no way to change it. How hard is that to get? But he liked it. It is beautiful in a way only some people can truly appreciate.
The suit and the makeup are not a choice made to scare, to intimidate or stand out. They are beautiful. They made him smile. People colored their hair, they had surgery to become more beautiful, to change their nose, and fix their boobs. Who says any one thing is more beautiful than another? People change themselves to who they are, who they want to be. If you can change what you look like to match your mind then your old body holds no meaning. What do random genetics have over the mind?
Why should he have pink skin and wear jeans when this face, these clothes are what he finds beautiful?
All these things seem random, schizophrenic even until they all come crashing together in the most brutal of circumstances.
Not drunk, not hung over or high, dressed impeccably in his tailored purple suit and his smiling face Joker was on his hands and knees vomiting in the bathroom.
He was sick.
Every morning for the a week he had woken and not had the leisure to stretch wherever had had fallen asleep, not gradually coming into wakefulness and wonder how he would next play his city and his Bat. Every morning he woke with debilitating nausea crawling in his guts. Instead of languishing he was scrambling up on all fours to the bathroom.
His first waking moments of every morning were spent with his head in a toilet.
It was just wrong. It was undignified. He was a god; he should be out planning the fate of Gotham with the Bat, larger than life. What pawn, what mortal had spewed their germs at him? Infecting him with their bacteria? Infiltrated his body and brought him crashing to his knees?
What civilian had brought down the Joker?
He could not leave the hideout. Screw that, he could scarcely leave the bathroom. One of the new lackeys, dumb as the rest with bigger balls than brains, had the nerve to approach him with saltines and soup.
The saltines came back up dry and painful.
The soup went down the toilet before it could touch his mouth the way it had his stomach and nose.
It was another week, longer, when the clothes he wore were dirty and stained and his legs were splayed out in front of him, cheek pressed against cool porcelain and he was left staring into the toilet that he wondered if the Bat would come visit him if he was too sick to go out and play.
Before thoughts of a play date and calling the Bats cell phone could enter his head he stood up, hands clenching his stomach, but up. He needed to fix this. He needed to fix this now.
He changed before he could fall down. When was the last time he had eaten? The last time he had been able to take in liquid and keep it down? The knives slipped into his pockets, his favorites, extensions of his own hands. The only ones he could hope to operate right now.
Thank god for lackeys. He rested as they drove, flicking his knife open and closed. Open and closed. He watched the buildings as they passed, watched the skies. Had it really been three months since then? Longer now. He missed the Bat.
They only had to stop once to let him puke out the car door but afterward he felt better, as if he had reassured his body that there was nothing left in it.
What if the Bat had come right at that moment? Is it proper to bash someone’s face in while they puked on your boots? Could have asked the Bat to hold back his hair?
The doctors quarters of Arkham were almost abandoned, no sane person wanted to work there, hiding from normalcy with the darkest minds the cruelty of the world had to offer. Most of the doctors ended up taking the short walk next door. Their very own private cell, secretly coveted all along. The man he was going to see should have been in one of those for a long time.
His men took down the guard who stood watch for arrant crazies.
They waited for him to catch up at his own pace.
It took awhile.
As he walked, tripped, and fell through the too familiar halls his hands caressed the knives in his pockets, caressed the thin fresh surgical scars, fading slightly now, that adorned his torso.
Weeks gone missing. Memories wiped away. He wanted them back now.
Crane was a small man, lanky, pale as if he had never spent a day in the sun, all his life spent in the towers of Frankenstein, tinkering as the madman with a million willing wards.
It was telling of his strength or lack thereof when his men did not ask him but rather rushed into the small office and pinned the man to the wall, one at each arm, trying to stay out of the way. A sick Joker was still a Joker, still that capable mind.
The Knife switched again, open, shining. It pressed against the long pale throat in front of him. Shock registered for a moment in Cranes face. He had seem a million emotions flash over the faces of those about to die, of those held and waiting for the cold touch of death. Fear and pleading seemed popular. Desperation a close second.
Cranes interest was not. He was afraid yes, but he remained more wondering than anything. The mystery intrigued more than death scared.
“What did you do to me?”
Was that his voice? That raspy terrible thing?
Blue eyes widened, excitement poured off of him, his body trembled beneath the blade.
“What is happening? Tell me everything!” He was as excited as a child. The blade pressed deeper, a trail of crimson escaped his flesh, pouring into the hollow of his neck, pooling and falling into his white collar.
“I am sick. What did you do?” His voice was more real now, clearing but as raspy as before. Acid had been eating at his throat and he could feel it with every word. Crane could hear it, pick it apart.
The man struggled to talk but he had pressed the flat edge of the blade into his throat, crushing his air supply, waiting for the excitement to fade and fear to set in. Panic at the very least.
When thin hands were allowed to scratch at the blade, trembling and weak he pulled away. Oxygen seared into Carnes lungs and before the burn could have possibly subsided his hands fell to the Jokers stomach, touching reverently, breath forming words, painful, dragged through the embers and still excited.
“You didn’t!” The hand pushed, just a little. Ribs were prominent now, his shirt hung loose on him but Crane smiled, his face beaming, his hand holding the Jokers barely-there belly.
“You did!” His eyes lit up like a spoiled child on Christmas morning, his mouth falling open.
Joker took a step back, away from Cranes prying hands, they made him feel sick, but Crane did not seem to notice. He was rambling.
“We chose you because we never thought you would….and even if you did I thought you would be the one…” He jabbered mindlessly, in his own world, his mouth falling open to hang when words escaped him. The lackeys were getting anxious, they did not know what to do, who to hurt. Carne was still rambling, his breath filled his chest now and the burning left his words but the excitement, the horror and wonder more than made up for it.
“It was just an experiment…It was never invented to go this far…we did not think it would…I never thought that you of all people would…”
The Joker was through with this. He was weak and sick and Crane just would not shut the hell up. He pulled the knife back out, ready to cut his throat just for the hell of it. Cures be damned. The blade drew more blood. Two rivulets now like a vampires kiss. It made him nauseous.
“Never thought that I would what?”
Crane looked into his eyes as if seeing him for the first time, the wonder never left his face and the words certainly did not process through his sputtering mind before he spoke them.
“That you would be a bottom!”
The blade cut deep, deep enough to cause even Cranes heart rate to rise. He was done. No one did this to him, there would be record somewhere, Carne was nothing…
Blue eyes met green and the moment the Joker was going to push, to drown Cranes words in blood and make up for the new scars covering his body Carne gasped the words, a title from the Twilight Zone, a child’s play house games gone wrong and making a bastard child with science fiction.
“You are pregnant!”