Team Anarchy - Round 3 - (fic) Whoops...part2
Title: Whoops...part 2!
Author: medorikoi
Prompt: Bad luck…
Word count: 1,683
Disclaimer: I own a substantial amount of debt and not a lot else.
Rating: R
Warnings: A Joker amount of 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.
Not funny.
This was NOT funny.
He was not sure what to do, where to go.
He wanted to run, to hurt and be hurt… but he was still sick.
Sicker than ever before. Fucking pregnant with the Bats baby.
He wanted to throw up in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.
At least it would be amusing to watch the horror if he puked off the edge of the building onto some idiot below, to pour stinging bile onto stupidly upturned faces.
He had gone skyward the moment he escaped Arkhams suffocating rooms. The streets of Gotham were filled with the petty individuality of cookie cutter people in a bland and petty world.
Up here he could hear the cries of the night, see the madness of the pulsing city, feel the cold insane rush of the wind trying to push him loose, a whirl of anarchy catching him in its cold embrace. Up here he was free even while his own body was a prison, crippled and sick and disgustingly human. An unwilling incubator.
A cold, terrible whisper echoed loud and relentless in his numb mind and hollowed ears.
Maybe if he stayed here long enough the Bat would come.
But for the first time in all his years…he was not sure he wanted that.
He sunk to the ground, his knees pressed against his chest, feeling for the first time the sick little bulge of his belly. He wanted it to stop, to push it away, but it hurt too much to move.
Didn’t the sick little parasite in him realize what it was doing? It was leaching away his body and soon there would be nothing left of him- devoured from the inside by the devils spawn.
At some point he heard his cronies, loyal as beaten dogs, searching the streets below for him. Stealthy as a herd of elephants they trampled through the night but fleeting ideas of projectile vomit vanished when his body shook, trembled with a ferocity that chained him painfully to the ground. Dreams of going back to the hideout and crawling into a ball until he woke up from this nightmare died when his sandpaper voice could not break through the dull roar of his mindless men.
Fuck them. He did not need their help anyway.
But he wished the freak in his gut would stop for one fucking minute.
He though fleetingly of punching the fucker but he was sure it would get its revenge. How was he supposed to get it out anyway?
Oh Fuck.
Oh FUCK.
This was not fucking funny.
His arms were shaking as they wrapped around his legs, he buried his face in his knees and tried not to feel it.
Crane was lying. There was no way - not even he could do this. It would be in character for Mr. If-I-only-had-a-brain to fuck with his head, to feed him lies just to watch, just to see. His own brand of fire.
He wanted to say the bastard was lying but ever since the words were said he could feel it.
‘You are pregnant.’
The word made him cringe but deep in himself he could feel it. The tiny insignificant lecherous creature within him- feeding his death. The new life hiding within him.
He could not lie to himself. He could hide the past, hide the truth, but this was real and growing before his eyes.
And actively killing him.
Fucking Bat.
Fucking Bat…knocked him up.
He repressed a shudder but at least it was better than Preg-, no, knocked up, it sounded more painful, more brutal, more them.
Less horrific.
Oh god.
Oh shit.
Gross. He could feel the alien writhe within him.
No pain or weakness could stop him from rolling onto his hands and knees and dry heaving stomach acid onto the coarse ground now.
“Joker.”
He looked up with blond green curls sticking to his face with sick sweat. His heart thumped in his chest. The creature twisted. The Bat was standing, a dark god, just feet away.
“Bats.” The name was relief and horror and he wished it had not tasted like vomit in his mouth.
“Dr. Crane was found dead in Arkham. He had been stabbed over thirty times.”
He did not say anything; all of his energy was used to claw himself into a standing position. He would not face the Bat on his hands and knees.
Not now.
Too bad the Bat had other ideas. A fist impacted with his face, an explosion of pain went down his spine and nausea radiated into his very bones. He stumbled backward, watching through half closed eyes as the Bat advanced.
“What are you planning Joker?”
The Bat took another step forward, his fist winding back for a devastating blow to his gut.
No.
“NO!”
The Joker stumbled back in blind desperation, his arms curling protectively over his abdomen, chest arched forward, defensive but offering his head without cover.
Batman’s step faltered but he carried on. His fist changed direction, taking the easier target without question. Another punch slammed without mercy into his face. The force of the blow sent the Joker spiraling back, his body landed splayed on the cold gravel, body curling in around itself, protecting his bulging stomach no matter what the cost.
The Bat advanced still, cold and ruthless and for the first time the Joker was not unsure if he wanted the Bat here. He wanted him gone. His head reeled; he did not have the strength to pull himself back up. Desperately he tried to get to his knees.
Yes this thing was vile and unnatural and a freak in ways even he could not understand. Yes it was trying to kill him, sucking the life out of him. But he never said he wanted it dead!
The Bat was close now, not leaning in and down to punch, standing straight, ready to kick. A kick he once thought of with reverence, a kick that would shatter bone and rupture organs…a kick that would be the end of all this. Unbidden, unwanted, horrified tears sprung to his eyes as adrenalin and hormone rushed through his veins, through his bleeding brain.
The thing writhed and he could feel its terror. The thing that was part himself, part the Bat…it was a part of the Bat that was all his.
His child. His part of the Bat. The dark creation of Frankenstein and Brave New World that had stolen part of his soul and made it its own, stolen part of the Bat and fused the pieces together.
The Joker lay bleeding and broken, unable to move except to struggle finally to his knees and curl himself, a broken shell, around his torso even as nausea spilled over him again.
There was another thing no one knew about the Joker. Something that no one cared to guess of his ‘crazed’ mind lest they see humanity in it.
He would do anything for the Bat.
For any part of the Bat.
And this part was his now.
“No.” He whispered. Maybe the Bat took pity on him, at this strange unseen humanity, maybe he saw the attempt at concealment because his booted feet stayed planted. A fist reared back and punched him once more. In the face.
He could not move, blood spilled from his mouth in a trickle and vomit would have too if there was even stomach acid left to wretch. His arms laid splayed out to his side, his legs caught in a tangle beneath him. His stomach lay bare, not even his shirt remained as an illusion of protection, it caught in his open vest, pulling in up as he fell.
For the first time pale rounded flesh and unconcealed ribs lay bathed in moonlight. He could almost see it from where his head lay. He felt the revulsion and possessiveness take hold at once, a strange mixture of perfect rightness and terrible unnatural wrong. The sick angles of his mutated body.
“Crane-” The name gasped from his split lips halted the Bat, froze him looming above like the devil in black waiting to take him. Blood spilled into his eyes, hot and red, blurring his vision. Another time, another day he would be in heaven. This was hell.
“Crane did something to me.” His chest heaved, pulling in the night air, hoping it would cool the fever rising in him. The Bat understood now. His blue eyes took in the body before him and saw something intrinsically wrong. He saw the unnatural illness that had invaded him. Black armor clad knees sunk to his side, head coming down to hear the words lest they be lost to the wind. “-did something to us.”
The Joker gagged as his body took advantage of his supine position, trying to force acid up his throat. Even as he tried to save the thing it insisted on killing him. But that is life isn’t it?
His arms scarped across the ground, leaving skin and blood as they dragged to his body, over his torso, dragging the Bats eyes to rake over exposed flesh. He could see how his eyes lingered, how they saw surgical scars and began to work behind the cowl, his mind moving like a million cogs turning.
What could he see in this bump of flesh and sunken body? Did he see bombs meant to ensnare the Bat at last? Did he see cancer eating at his life and growing, fed by Arkhams own mental cancer? Did he see a victim or did he see at last the Joker?
His other hand curled around the Bats armored wrist and dragged it, more to say that Batman moved both of their hands, letting the Jokers weak body guide them, to lay open palmed over the bulge. His arm fell, shaking with fatigue, his hand left weak, laying over the Bats in a sick parody of holding hands. A travesty of how this moment would have been if they were anyone but themselves.
“It is yours.”
Author: medorikoi
Prompt: Bad luck…
Word count: 1,683
Disclaimer: I own a substantial amount of debt and not a lot else.
Rating: R
Warnings: A Joker amount of 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.
Not funny.
This was NOT funny.
He was not sure what to do, where to go.
He wanted to run, to hurt and be hurt… but he was still sick.
Sicker than ever before. Fucking pregnant with the Bats baby.
He wanted to throw up in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.
At least it would be amusing to watch the horror if he puked off the edge of the building onto some idiot below, to pour stinging bile onto stupidly upturned faces.
He had gone skyward the moment he escaped Arkhams suffocating rooms. The streets of Gotham were filled with the petty individuality of cookie cutter people in a bland and petty world.
Up here he could hear the cries of the night, see the madness of the pulsing city, feel the cold insane rush of the wind trying to push him loose, a whirl of anarchy catching him in its cold embrace. Up here he was free even while his own body was a prison, crippled and sick and disgustingly human. An unwilling incubator.
A cold, terrible whisper echoed loud and relentless in his numb mind and hollowed ears.
Maybe if he stayed here long enough the Bat would come.
But for the first time in all his years…he was not sure he wanted that.
He sunk to the ground, his knees pressed against his chest, feeling for the first time the sick little bulge of his belly. He wanted it to stop, to push it away, but it hurt too much to move.
Didn’t the sick little parasite in him realize what it was doing? It was leaching away his body and soon there would be nothing left of him- devoured from the inside by the devils spawn.
At some point he heard his cronies, loyal as beaten dogs, searching the streets below for him. Stealthy as a herd of elephants they trampled through the night but fleeting ideas of projectile vomit vanished when his body shook, trembled with a ferocity that chained him painfully to the ground. Dreams of going back to the hideout and crawling into a ball until he woke up from this nightmare died when his sandpaper voice could not break through the dull roar of his mindless men.
Fuck them. He did not need their help anyway.
But he wished the freak in his gut would stop for one fucking minute.
He though fleetingly of punching the fucker but he was sure it would get its revenge. How was he supposed to get it out anyway?
Oh Fuck.
Oh FUCK.
This was not fucking funny.
His arms were shaking as they wrapped around his legs, he buried his face in his knees and tried not to feel it.
Crane was lying. There was no way - not even he could do this. It would be in character for Mr. If-I-only-had-a-brain to fuck with his head, to feed him lies just to watch, just to see. His own brand of fire.
He wanted to say the bastard was lying but ever since the words were said he could feel it.
‘You are pregnant.’
The word made him cringe but deep in himself he could feel it. The tiny insignificant lecherous creature within him- feeding his death. The new life hiding within him.
He could not lie to himself. He could hide the past, hide the truth, but this was real and growing before his eyes.
And actively killing him.
Fucking Bat.
Fucking Bat…knocked him up.
He repressed a shudder but at least it was better than Preg-, no, knocked up, it sounded more painful, more brutal, more them.
Less horrific.
Oh god.
Oh shit.
Gross. He could feel the alien writhe within him.
No pain or weakness could stop him from rolling onto his hands and knees and dry heaving stomach acid onto the coarse ground now.
“Joker.”
He looked up with blond green curls sticking to his face with sick sweat. His heart thumped in his chest. The creature twisted. The Bat was standing, a dark god, just feet away.
“Bats.” The name was relief and horror and he wished it had not tasted like vomit in his mouth.
“Dr. Crane was found dead in Arkham. He had been stabbed over thirty times.”
He did not say anything; all of his energy was used to claw himself into a standing position. He would not face the Bat on his hands and knees.
Not now.
Too bad the Bat had other ideas. A fist impacted with his face, an explosion of pain went down his spine and nausea radiated into his very bones. He stumbled backward, watching through half closed eyes as the Bat advanced.
“What are you planning Joker?”
The Bat took another step forward, his fist winding back for a devastating blow to his gut.
No.
“NO!”
The Joker stumbled back in blind desperation, his arms curling protectively over his abdomen, chest arched forward, defensive but offering his head without cover.
Batman’s step faltered but he carried on. His fist changed direction, taking the easier target without question. Another punch slammed without mercy into his face. The force of the blow sent the Joker spiraling back, his body landed splayed on the cold gravel, body curling in around itself, protecting his bulging stomach no matter what the cost.
The Bat advanced still, cold and ruthless and for the first time the Joker was not unsure if he wanted the Bat here. He wanted him gone. His head reeled; he did not have the strength to pull himself back up. Desperately he tried to get to his knees.
Yes this thing was vile and unnatural and a freak in ways even he could not understand. Yes it was trying to kill him, sucking the life out of him. But he never said he wanted it dead!
The Bat was close now, not leaning in and down to punch, standing straight, ready to kick. A kick he once thought of with reverence, a kick that would shatter bone and rupture organs…a kick that would be the end of all this. Unbidden, unwanted, horrified tears sprung to his eyes as adrenalin and hormone rushed through his veins, through his bleeding brain.
The thing writhed and he could feel its terror. The thing that was part himself, part the Bat…it was a part of the Bat that was all his.
His child. His part of the Bat. The dark creation of Frankenstein and Brave New World that had stolen part of his soul and made it its own, stolen part of the Bat and fused the pieces together.
The Joker lay bleeding and broken, unable to move except to struggle finally to his knees and curl himself, a broken shell, around his torso even as nausea spilled over him again.
There was another thing no one knew about the Joker. Something that no one cared to guess of his ‘crazed’ mind lest they see humanity in it.
He would do anything for the Bat.
For any part of the Bat.
And this part was his now.
“No.” He whispered. Maybe the Bat took pity on him, at this strange unseen humanity, maybe he saw the attempt at concealment because his booted feet stayed planted. A fist reared back and punched him once more. In the face.
He could not move, blood spilled from his mouth in a trickle and vomit would have too if there was even stomach acid left to wretch. His arms laid splayed out to his side, his legs caught in a tangle beneath him. His stomach lay bare, not even his shirt remained as an illusion of protection, it caught in his open vest, pulling in up as he fell.
For the first time pale rounded flesh and unconcealed ribs lay bathed in moonlight. He could almost see it from where his head lay. He felt the revulsion and possessiveness take hold at once, a strange mixture of perfect rightness and terrible unnatural wrong. The sick angles of his mutated body.
“Crane-” The name gasped from his split lips halted the Bat, froze him looming above like the devil in black waiting to take him. Blood spilled into his eyes, hot and red, blurring his vision. Another time, another day he would be in heaven. This was hell.
“Crane did something to me.” His chest heaved, pulling in the night air, hoping it would cool the fever rising in him. The Bat understood now. His blue eyes took in the body before him and saw something intrinsically wrong. He saw the unnatural illness that had invaded him. Black armor clad knees sunk to his side, head coming down to hear the words lest they be lost to the wind. “-did something to us.”
The Joker gagged as his body took advantage of his supine position, trying to force acid up his throat. Even as he tried to save the thing it insisted on killing him. But that is life isn’t it?
His arms scarped across the ground, leaving skin and blood as they dragged to his body, over his torso, dragging the Bats eyes to rake over exposed flesh. He could see how his eyes lingered, how they saw surgical scars and began to work behind the cowl, his mind moving like a million cogs turning.
What could he see in this bump of flesh and sunken body? Did he see bombs meant to ensnare the Bat at last? Did he see cancer eating at his life and growing, fed by Arkhams own mental cancer? Did he see a victim or did he see at last the Joker?
His other hand curled around the Bats armored wrist and dragged it, more to say that Batman moved both of their hands, letting the Jokers weak body guide them, to lay open palmed over the bulge. His arm fell, shaking with fatigue, his hand left weak, laying over the Bats in a sick parody of holding hands. A travesty of how this moment would have been if they were anyone but themselves.
“It is yours.”