(Still very R. Still very long. Still no sign of the changes wearing off.)
The penthouse condo in the Narrows looked like a bomb made of cotton-candy and latex had gone off in it.
Pink neon signs shaped like hearts and the words "MOMMY'S BABY" glowed over a California king bed draped in satin the color of bubblegum. A mountain of plushies (bears, bunnies, and one suspiciously Joker-faced clown doll wearing a "World's Best Mommy" apron) took up an entire corner. The kitchen counter was already covered in mixing bowls, whipped cream cans, and heart-shaped pancake molds. A giant flatscreen played a loop of lullabies remixed with sultry bass.
Damien sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but an oversized pastel hoodie that definitely belonged to Joki (it smelled like her, vanilla and gunpowder and warm skin) and a pair of boxer briefs that were doing heroic work. His hair was still damp from the bubble bath she'd insisted on giving him an hour ago. His cheeks still burned from the memory of her soapy hands sliding everywhere while she cooed, "We have to get every inch clean for Mommy, don't we, sweetie?"
Joki herself was currently in the kitchen, humming off-key, wearing only a tiny purple apron that read "Kiss the Cook" in glitter and a pair of six-inch fuzzy slippers shaped like bunnies. The apron did absolutely nothing to cover the sides of breasts so massive they rested on the counter while she stirred batter. Every time she reached for something on a high shelf, the apron rode up and revealed the absolute perfection of an ass that could make a priest reconsider his vows.
Damien was trying very, very hard not to stare. He was failing.
A sudden pounding on the door made him jump so hard he nearly fell off the bed.
"Boss! Boss, open up! We got problems!"
It was Frost—one of Joker's top lieutenants, the one with the frostbite scars and the bad attitude.
Joki's humming stopped. She turned, spatula in hand, platinum hair swishing like a shampoo commercial. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous, protective slits.
"Baby," she called sweetly, "Mommy has to deal with some very rude gentlemen. Stay right here and be a good boy, okay?"
Damien opened his mouth to protest, but she was already gliding toward the door, hips rolling, breasts bouncing so hard the apron strings looked ready to snap.
She flung the door open.
Frost and six other goons stood there, guns half-raised, mouths open.
Frost found his voice first. "Boss, what the fuck—"
Joki smiled. It was the same smile the Joker used to give people right before he fed them to hyenas, only now it was framed by pillow-plump lips and a dusting of glitter.
"Language," she scolded, wagging the spatula like a schoolteacher. "There's a child present."
Frost looked past her. Saw Damien on the bed, hoodie riding up to his thighs, face scarlet. Something in Frost's brain short-circuited.
"Boss, you're… you're a chick. A really, uh… stacked chick."
Joki's smile widened. "I'm Mommy now. And you boys are tracking mud on my carpet."
One of the younger goons whispered, "Holy shit, those tits are bigger than my head…"
Joki's eyes sparkled. She stepped forward, and the hallway light caught every glossy curve. "You know what I think?" she purred. "I think you boys have been working too hard for a very bad man. And now you get to work for a very good mommy instead."
Frost raised his gun. "Lady, I don't know what kinda Freaky Friday crap—"
He never finished.
Joki moved faster than any six-foot-five woman in bunny slippers had any right to. One second Frost was aiming, the next his gun was on the floor and he was on his knees, Joki's manicured hand gently but firmly holding his chin.
"Shh," she whispered, thumb stroking his cheek. "Mommy's not mad. Mommy's going to make everything better."
Frost's eyes glazed over. A dumb, happy smile spread across his face. "Yes, Mommy," he mumbled.
The other goons watched in stunned silence as Joki kissed Frost on the forehead, leaving a perfect pink print. Then she turned to the rest of them, apron slipping dangerously low.
"Who wants cookies?" she asked brightly.
Twenty minutes later the living room was full of grown men in clown masks sitting cross-legged on the floor, happily eating heart-shaped cookies and milk while Joki fussed over them like a den mother on ecstasy. Frost had a little paper crown that said "Mommy's Best Helper."
Damien peeked around the bedroom door, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. "Um… are they okay?"
"They're perfect," Joki sang, wiping chocolate from a goon's cheek. "Mommy fixed them."
Damien swallowed. "Do… do you think this is temporary? Like, what if everyone wakes up tomorrow and—"
Joki was suddenly in front of him, hands cupping his face, breasts pressing soft and warm against his chest.
"Listen to me, baby boy," she said seriously, emerald eyes huge and earnest. "Mommy heard your wish with every piece of her soul. This isn't a trick. This isn't a dream. This is forever." She kissed his nose. "You're never going to be alone again."
Damien's stomach flipped in a way that was half terror, half relief.
The front door exploded off its hinges.
Harley Quinn cartwheeled in, pigtails flying, mallet over one shoulder.
"Okay, puddin's number-two here! Mistah J said we were hittin' the diamond exchange tonight and—WHOA MAMA."
She froze, staring at Joki.
Then at Damien peeking out from behind a wall of purple apron and cleavage.
Then back at Joki.
"Uh," Harley said intelligently.
"Harley-baby!" Joki squealed, opening her arms. "Come give Mommy a hug!"
Harley took one step back. "Okay, either I ate the wrong kind of mushroom again, or my boyfriend just turned into Jessica Rabbit's porn-star cousin."
Damien squeaked, "She's not— I didn't mean— it was an accident—"
Harley's gaze snapped to him. Something sharp and calculating flickered behind the Brooklyn accent.
"You did this?" she asked quietly.
Damien nodded, miserable.
Harley looked at Joki again. At the way Joki's eyes shone with pure, uncomplicated love when she looked at Damien. At the way the goons were happily coloring with crayons now.
Harley's mallet slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Oh," she whispered.
Then, softer: "Oh kiddo… you just wanted a mommy, huh?"
Damien's eyes filled with tears so fast it startled him. He nodded again.
Harley's face did something complicated. Then it smoothed out into the gentlest smile Damien had ever seen on her.
"Well," she said, voice cracking just a little, "lucky for you, I always did want a little brother."
She stepped forward.
The change hit her like a glitter bomb made of hormones.
It started in her legs (fishnets splitting as calves rounded, thighs plumping into creamy pillows). Her waist cinched with an audible creak, hips flaring so hard her shorts surrendered with a cartoonish boing. Her chest surged forward in two massive bounces, red and black top shredding to ribbons as breasts ballooned past Joki's size (because of course Harley had to win at something). Pigtails unraveled and re-braided themselves into twin blonde waterfalls that reached her knees. Lips plumped. Eyes widened into sparkling baby-blues framed by lashes like butterfly wings.
When it finished, Harley (now six-foot-two of pure bouncy chaos) blinked, looked down at herself, and let out a delighted squeal.
"Big sis energy achieved!" she cheered, clapping manicured hands. "I'm keepin' the accent though, it's cute."
She launched herself at Damien, wrapping him in a hug that lifted him clear off the floor and squished him between two sets of impossible tits (Joki had joined in from behind).
"My baby bro!" Harley cried, kissing his cheek with a loud MWAH. "We're gonna have so much fun! Sleepovers! Makeovers! I'll teach ya how to hot-wire the Batmobile!"
Damien's voice came out muffled against Harley's cleavage. "I-I'm an only child…"
"Not anymore, sweetie," Joki and Harley said in perfect, giggling unison.
Damien closed his eyes, surrounded by warmth and perfume and the sound of two former psychopaths arguing over who got to read him his bedtime story first.
Somewhere in the distance, the Bat-Signal swept across the clouds.
Damien decided tomorrow could worry about tomorrow.
Tonight, for the first time in sixteen years, he wasn't sleeping alone.
And the changes showed no sign of wearing off.
End of Chapter Two.