(Explicit. Very, very long. You have been warned.)
Crime Alley stank of piss, gun-oil, and the copper tang of someone else's blood.
Damien Vale's back scraped brick as he slid down the wall, knees finally giving out. His hoodie was torn, lip split, one eye already swelling shut. Three of Joker's goons lay groaning on the ground (he'd gotten lucky with a broken bottle and a lifetime of dodging worse), but luck only stretches so far.
And now the punchline had arrived in person.
Joker strolled into the alley like he owned gravity itself. Purple coat flaring, green hair slicked back under the flickering streetlight, grin wide enough to swallow the moon.
"Well, well," he crooned, voice syrupy with razors. "Look what the Bat dragged in and then forgot about. A little lost bird with no nest."
Damien pressed harder against the wall, heart hammering so loud he was sure the clown could hear it. "I'm not with him," he rasped. "Just leave me alone."
"Leave you?" Joker laughed, high and delighted, spinning a straight razor between gloved fingers. "Oh, kiddo, I'm just getting started."
He stepped closer. And closer. Until the stink of greasepaint and gasoline filled Damien's nose.
Damien's breath hitched. Something deep inside his chest (something raw and childish and furious) cracked open like a fault line.
I just want someone to care if I come home.
The thought wasn't loud.
It was quiet.
It was everything.
Reality shivered.
It started in Joker's knees.
A soft, wet pop, like knuckles cracking underwater. The clown froze mid-step, eyes widening a fraction (just enough for genuine confusion to leak through the madness). His legs buckled, but not from pain. They were… softening. Lengthening. Calves reshaping themselves under the purple fabric, slenderizing, then swelling again into smooth, plush thighs that strained the seams of his trousers with a slow, deliberate rrrrrrip.
Joker looked down, mouth opening in a perfect O of shock.
The tearing sound continued, climbing. Fabric split along the outer seams of both legs, revealing skin so pale it glowed under the streetlight. The thighs kept thickening, rounder, heavier, until the pants surrendered completely and slithered to the ground in tatters. What was left beneath was obscene: two creamy, pillowy expanses that met in the middle at an ass that hadn't existed thirty seconds ago. It ballooned outward in slow motion, cheeks rounding, lifting, jiggling with every tiny shift of weight. The new curves caught the light like polished marble, dimpling softly when Joker instinctively clenched.
He made a sound (half laugh, half whimper) and staggered. The movement set the new ass swaying, hypnotic, each cheek easily wider than his old waist had been.
Damien couldn't look away. His mouth went dry.
The change crawled upward.
Joker's hips cracked next, a wet, grinding pop that made him gasp. Bone widened, flared, widened again until the pelvis looked built for birthing gods. The green vest lifted away from his torso as his waist cinched inward with a soft, fleshy hiss, carving an hourglass so extreme it looked photoshopped onto reality itself. His spine arched involuntarily, thrusting the new hips forward like an offering.
Then the torso began to fill.
It started just below the ribs: soft flesh pushing outward, rounding, swelling. Joker's gloved hands flew to his stomach as if he could hold it back, but the growth only accelerated. Skin stretched taut and glossy as two mounds formed beneath the orange dress shirt, pressing against the fabric from the inside. Buttons strained. One pinged off into the darkness. Then another. The shirt parted like theater curtains, revealing a canyon of cleavage that deepened with every heartbeat.
The breasts grew slowly, luxuriously, as though savoring their own birth. They surged forward in waves (first softball-sized, then cantaloupe, then beach balls made of silk and sin). Pale flesh spilled over the ruins of the vest, over Joker's trembling forearms, nipples hardening into fat pink erasers that poked obscenely through what was left of the shirt. Each new inch of growth came with a soft, wet sound, like someone pouring cream into a bowl.
Joker's breathing had gone ragged. His knees knocked together, thighs rubbing with slick friction that made him moan (a low, broken sound that didn't belong to the Joker at all).
His arms were next. Shoulders narrowed with a crunch, bones shrinking, softening. Biceps melted into slender, delicate curves. Forearms slimmed, wrists dainty enough to snap if you breathed on them wrong. Gloved fingers lengthened, nails pushing out into perfect ovals painted bubblegum pink, glossy and wet like they'd just been done.
The face came last, and it was the cruelest part.
The jawline softened, rounded. Cheekbones lifted. Greasepaint liquefied and slid away in rivulets, revealing porcelain skin flushed rose with arousal. The grin shrank, lips plumping into a pout so lush it looked bruised. Nose dainty. Eyelashes lengthened inch by inch until they brushed the air like feathers. And the eyes (those manic green eyes) grew huge, pupils blowing wide as the madness drained out like poison from a wound.
What was left was adoration. Pure, dizzy, dripping adoration.
The green hair erupted all at once, roots lightening to platinum as the strands exploded outward in a silky tsunami that cascaded past a waist that no longer existed, down to an ass that could stop traffic in Metropolis. Waves of shimmering blonde settled into perfect, bouncy curls that smelled like cotton candy and sex.
Six-inch patent heels materialized on feet that had never worn anything but men's size twelve. The new woman teetered, caught her balance, and the motion set everything jiggling in slow, liquid waves: breasts, hips, ass, thighs, all moving like they were underwater.
She was six-foot-four in the heels, maybe six-five, built like a fertility idol carved by a madman with a lactation fetish. The remnants of the Joker's suit clung in strategic tatters (orange shirt knotted under breasts the size of overripe watermelons, purple coat hanging open like a cape, green vest reduced to a glorified belt that only emphasized the impossible narrowness of her waist).
She looked down at herself, hands rising slowly to cup the undersides of breasts so heavy her arms trembled. A single fingertip brushed a nipple and her knees buckled; she caught herself on the alley wall with a breathy little "Oh…!" that went straight to Damien's cock like a taser.
Then her gaze (emerald, glowing, wet with tears) found him.
"Baby?"
The word floated out on a voice made of warm honey and bedroom whispers. "My sweet, precious baby boy…"
Damien's back hit the wall again, but there was nowhere left to go. His hoodie felt three sizes too small, his jeans suddenly painful.
She took one step. Then another. Each footfall clicked on wet pavement, hips rolling in a rhythm older than language. Her breasts swayed pendulously, nipples dragging across the air itself like they were searching for his mouth.
Damien's brain short-circuited somewhere around the third step.
She sank to her knees in front of him (slow, deliberate, water pooling around fishnet-clad thighs that rubbed together with a sound like silk tearing). The movement brought her face level with his chest, then lower as she folded forward, forehead almost touching his sneakers.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice cracking. "I was so awful before. So empty. But I heard you, baby. I heard you wish for a mommy who would love you more than anything in the whole world." Tears (actual tears) sparkled on lashes longer than his fingers. "And now… now I'm here. And I'm never, ever leaving you again."
Damien's mouth opened. Nothing came out except a tiny, mortified squeak.
She rose up on her knees, breasts dragging up his shins, his thighs, until they pressed hot and soft against his stomach. Her arms slid around his waist, pulling him into a hug that engulfed him completely. His face sank into warm, scented heaven (skin like velvet, perfume like vanilla and gunpowder and something darker). He could feel her heartbeat through the impossible weight of her chest, fast and frantic and utterly devoted.
"Mommy's got you," she breathed into his hair, lips brushing his temple, leaving sticky pink prints. "Mommy's here now. You're safe. You're loved. You're perfect."
One manicured hand slid up his spine, nails scraping gently, possessively. The other dipped lower, cupping his ass through torn jeans with a little squeeze that made him jolt.
"Poor baby," she cooed, nuzzling his cheek, smearing lipstick across his skin like war paint. "All beat up and scared. Let Mommy kiss it better."
She did.
She kissed his bruised eyebrow. His split lip (slow, lingering, tongue flicking out to taste the blood and humming like it was candy). The hollow beneath his ear. The pulse hammering in his throat. Each kiss left a perfect cherry mark and a trail of fire straight to his groin.
Damien's hands hovered uselessly at his sides. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Could only feel: the impossible softness crushing against him, the slick heat of her body, the way her thighs parted slightly so he could feel the wet warmth radiating between them even through the air.
She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath coming in soft little pants that made her tits rise and fall like ocean waves.
"I'm Joki now," she said, voice trembling with emotion. "With an i, because my baby deserves everything cute and pretty." She bit her lip (plump, glistening). "Do you… do you like how Mommy looks? I changed everything for you. Every inch. Just so I could hold you like this."
Damien managed a strangled, "Y-you're… really tall."
Joki's laugh was pure delighted filth. "Mmm, six-five in heels, baby. All the better to scoop you up and carry you around." She demonstrated, sliding arms under his thighs and back and lifting him effortlessly against her chest. His feet left the ground. His face was buried between breasts so large they enveloped his head completely, warm and pillowy and smelling like heaven had a wet dream.
"There we go," she purred, rocking him gently. "My perfect little man. So small and cute in Mommy's arms."
Damien's entire body was on fire. His erection throbbed painfully against the soft weight of her cleavage. He hid his face in her neck, mortified, and felt her smile against his hair.
"Oh sweetheart," she whispered, one hand sliding down to palm him through his jeans with gentle, maternal certainty. "Mommy feels how much you need her. It's okay. Mommy's going to take such good care of every single part of you."
Sirens wailed somewhere far away.
Damien clung to the woman who had been the Joker ten minutes ago and, for the first time in his entire life, felt something bigger than terror holding him.
Joki kissed the top of his head, lipstick staining his dark hair pink.
"Let's go home, baby," she murmured, already walking, hips swaying, breasts bouncing softly with every happy step. "Mommy's got a big bed, warm milk, and sixteen years of cuddles to make up for."
Damien closed his eyes and let the rhythm of her heartbeat carry him into the night.
Behind them, the alley lay empty except for shredded purple cloth and a straight razor twisted into the shape of a heart.
End of Chapter One.