Authors note: I came up with this idea at work and have fallen in love with this.
WARNINGS: None. Just a bit fluffy.
Joker as a father hits me in the feels.
It had been 4 years since the Joker had left Gotham city. It had been crime free. Well relatively. J broke things off when he found out I was pregnant with twins,
what he didn’t know was that one of the girls, Ava, had been born with spina bifida. Not that it made any difference, I loved her all the same and she was one of happiest children I knew. Always smiling and never put down by her disability. She knew she couldn’t do all the things her sister, Mia, could but Mia was very good at including Ava in her games. He sent me $5000 every month so I could live comfortably with my babies, he also bought us a house to live in with security and guards, well henchmen. Although he didn’t want to be a father he still protected us and I still loved him. Our girls had a picture of him in their room and I was always telling them stories about him. He may be the most wanted criminal in Gotham city but he was still their father.
we went to this little “village” of boutiques which has a huge display of witches, and did a free scavenger hunt while enjoying a long walk in the autumn sunshine! we even got a bunch of free samples of fudge, caramel, and taffy; it was a lovely afternoon.
Note: I’ve been a fan of TFIOS for a looong time. Months ago, my mom bought me this signed John Green book set and it had four John Green books, including TFioS. Of course, I became hopelessly in love with the book, and have since read it over 17 times. Most likely, you’ve heard of or have seen the trailer for the movie adaption of the book, and I for one am hopelessly excited for the movie. In honor of both the wonderful book that the upcoming movie originated from (and tbh I’m kind of caught up in the crazy world of tfios rn) I created this imagine. Enjoy! Xx
Harry: A scare. Just another scare, they told you. Just another trip to the hospital, another painful lung draining while you lay helpless and desperate, waiting for the morphine to kick in. Your Cancer Doctor Jean (she’s nice, has this short blonde hair that bounces when she talks) told you that your lungs had filled up again, and that it was because of lack of oxygen. You’d be doubling up on oxygen regiments, as well as using a BiPAP for sleep. You’d just adjusted your little nose nubs when Harry walked through the door, rolling his oxygen tank not far behind him. “Hey,” he called out, smiling as he walked over and pulled up a nearby chair. “You didn’t have t—” “Yes, I did,” Harry interrupted firmly, sitting down and rolling the oxygen cylinder next to the chair. Harry had a type of lung cancer called Non-small-cell lung carcinoma (or NSCLC. Harry called it “N S Click” because the abbreviation was too long for his liking). His chemotherapy was going well, and the doctors were optimistic now that the tumor was shrinking. You always had faith that if there was a possibility of someone getting better, it would happen. Even when you had no chance of healing, you were so glad to see Harry get better. You both met back in the hospital months ago, both of you being set up for chemo, (your first time, Harry’s fourth). It was funny; you never imagined that such a horrible, deadly thing that cursed your existence would also help you find the love of your life. “You think they’ll let me off these leashes soon?” “I don’t know. You kind of scared everyone pretty bad,” Harry said, somewhat comically. But not very much. He ducked his head a little, his eyes drooping. Harry was always tired, but you knew the difference between tired and sad. “Hey,” you snapped, leaning over to rest your forehead on the metal railing of the bed. You put your hand through the metal bars and grabbed hold of Harry’s. “I’m not giving up now. So don’t cry, or I’ll start crying. Got it?” That was what he first told you in chemo. He said “don’t cry, or I’ll start crying. You don’t wanna see me cry like a baby, do you?” to make you feel better. He wiped his cheek underneath his oxygen tubes before smiling at you. “Got it.”
Niall: You rolled across the sidewalk and balanced on the curb before dropping off and rolling into the middle of the street. You preferred wheeling your wheelchair in the middle of an empty street, instead of sticking to the sideways. It had a free feeling to it. “Niall? Niall James?” you chirped as you rolled up Niall’ driveway. And there he was, just stepping off the porch. “I hate when you call me that,” he grumbles. He’s holding something behind his back, though his blue eyes refuse to give it away. “What’s that?” you ask him suspiciously. “Just…wait for it, okay?” he said, almost begging you. You nodded and wheeled around, treading down the driveway. Your purple wheelchair gloves skid along the wheel, and you pushed down abruptly to stop the chair. You had bone cancer a few months ago, and although it took a leg off you, you were lucky. You could get a prosthetic in a couple weeks, and had been in the chair for over two months. Niall had been your best friend for years, and helped you every step of the way. You remember your last night having your right kicker, when you crawled onto your roof and sat down on the tiles, face to face with Niall. “Last day?” “Last one on the roof. For a while anyway,” you had said. And now here you were at the bottom of Niall’ driveway. “Now what is this little gift?” you asked, wheeling around to look at him. He was holding a flower, a big orange tulip, and had the most nervous look on his face. “Y/N, I uh, I was wondering if…you’d be my bird? My girlfriend I mean, like—” “Ni,” you said flatly. “You’re babbling again. You’re not even giving me a fair chance to say yes.” “Wait, yes?” Niall said, his blue eyes lighting up. You smiled and nodded exaggeratedly. “Y-e-s. Yes Niall, I would love to go out with you.” “I…you’re…great,” he said, too excited and baffled and wonderfully amazed to actually think of something creative. You smiled and looked down at the soft tulip in your hands. Orange always was your favorite color. And Niall was the only one to ever remembered that.
Louis: You sat on the park table, watching everyone at the park. A little girl on her bike, a dog chasing after a Frisbee, a couple walking hand in hand. Everything seemed so simple. Must be nice, not being terminally ill. You never really thought about it much. Didn’t like to. Thinking about your inevitable departure, your final drop into the oblivion of time which would eventually flatten out the wrinkle that was your existence, didn’t seem like too much fun. You sat with your hands in your lap, feet up in crisscross position, with your oxygen tank sitting not-too-subtly on the table. You wondered what you should do now. Maybe you should be one of those jump-point terminal patents who think they need to live on the wild side now that they don’t have much time left. Maybe you should cut your hair and do as many illegal things as you can before you kick the bucket. Maybe you should sit around and wait for it. You wondered these many things before someone sat down, right next to you. “It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it love?” a voice chirped next to you. You turned, finding a guy sitting next to you. He seemed slightly older than you, with blue eyes and a sleek face. His hair was tousled and messy, but somehow in his grey sweater, he managed to make his whole “douchebag style” work. Your eyes only flitted away from his for a moment to notice the orange and white stick between his lips. “You mind? Trying to breathe here,” you grunted, scooting slightly to the left to get away. “I’m not hurting anyone,” he shrugged. “Look, I might not be breathing for very long, but I’d like to be able to breathe what little clean air I can,” you snapped. He looked over. “I don’t own a lighter.” You were confused, blurting out “Well why do you have a cigarette?” in a need for him to explain. He smiled at you, the unlit cigarette dangling between his teeth as he started his long explanation with: “It’s a metaphor, love.”
Liam: “I wish it could be like this forever,” you whispered as the wind blew against the side of your face. The breeze was quiet, and the hustle and bustle of Amsterdam was all around you. “We’d both be high as kites for at least 20 years,” Liam stated. “All the more time to try new things. After all, I’ve never taken pot.” “You don’t ‘take’ pot, Y/N,” he said, chuckling madly. “See, I would know that if I lived in Amsterdam. Which I want to do.” “We’ll live in Amsterdam,” Liam imagined. “We’ll live in a tiny little flat, probably on top of a bookstore or a record shop. And we’ll have two cats, one named by you and one by me. And then when my cat runs away, I’ll cry in your lap until you bring us takeaway. And we’ll ride bikes and taste stars and paint funny looking pictures of our thoughts.” Liam’s daydreams were always your favorite. Liam lived his life with Stage 3 lung cancer, and although the drugs were keeping the tumors small, they could only do so much. The tumors have shrunk, but no one knows how long they’ll stay that way before they put Liam on some new medication. Liam still managed, and somehow along the way, you became too drawn to him to stay away when he told you to. Because Liam was not his cancer story. He was Liam. You two spent all afternoon just watching, listening, and before you knew it, time had slipped by. It was dusk now, and you both went up to Liam’s room. The hotel was cottage-style, and had the most adorable blue walls with white trimming. Of course, you didn’t pay much attention to that. You were straddled on top of Liam carefully to not restrict his chest. You tried helping him pull his shirt over his head, but it became tangled in his oxygen lines. You both giggled as you removed his little plastic tubes from his shirt. You pulled them back over his head, adjusting the little nubs, and smiled at him. “What?” he asked. “We’re a mess,” you laughed with an eyebrow raised. “And I love you too,” Liam chuckled, pulling you closer to him.
Zayn: “We’re not watching it!” “But I love it!” “Zayn Malik, if you make me watch V for Vendetta again, I’m disowning you.” “But—” “Pick aaaaaanything else. I beg you,” you said, fighting a smile as you curled up on the couch. You pulled your pink bandana over your head a little more to conceal the slow growing patches of hair. The chemo worked, and you had been cancer free for six weeks now. But of course, the hair thing was an issue… “Well why do you aaaalways read that book? You’re the only person I know to read a book nobody’s heard of over 100 times Y/N.” “An Imperial Affliction is not just a book,” you said dramatically. “It’s a state of mind. A look into the vast wonders of another human brain both relatable and mysteriously unfathomable. Books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.” “I keep telling you to write poetry,” he says, shaking his head before pulling out Tomb Raider. He sits down on the couch next to you, letting his head rest on your lap. You looked down at him from below your book before flinching back up to the pages, trying to focus. “Y/N?” “Hmm?” “Your eyelashes look pretty,” Zayn said quietly. You smiled; he knew everything about you, noticed everything. Since chemo, your eyebrows and lashes had also disappeared, and although you still looked sickly, your hair had just started growing back. Zayn knew just how self-conscious you were about the whole thing. “Thank you,” you whispered back. He puckered his lips and leaned up, waiting for you to stretch down and kiss him back. But you just stared at the pages of your book, pretending not to see him just to toy with him. “Why don’t you love me?” he said, pouting and blinking innocently. You peaked down and smiled. “Just because I didn’t give you a kiss?” “It’s all I want in the world!” he says, lifting his arms up dramatically. “The world is not a wish granting factory,” you said, leaning down and pecking his lips quickly. “But I’ll try to be.”