#joker!reader

[invincibledc]

⋆.˚🃏⋆✮⋆˙𝑫𝑨𝑴𝑰𝑨𝑵 𝑿 𝑱𝑶𝑲𝑬𝑹’𝑺 𝑲𝑰𝑫⋆.˚🃏⋆✮⋆˙

☆genre: drabble

★synopsis: catching a certain kid his age wearing green and purple clothes with a face caked up with makeup, Damian cant help but tie them up and interrogate them 

☆Word count: 101

Wearing clothes of green and purple with a painted white face of clown makeup. They sat there being tied up as Damian fed them a batburger. “What’s the reason for killing that guy?” Damian questions as he pulled the burger back when the clown kid didn’t answer his question quickly enough.

“Why not? He’s just some thug who would’ve died anyways. Less talkin' and more feeding me bird boy.” They let out a similar laugh like joker before pouting. “But for real. Feed meeee.” Damian couldn’t help but groan before feeding joker’s kid. He hates how he isn’t turning them in. He hates how… he cares for them.

[elect1z]

Batman enters the Batcave with a kiss mark on his face Alfred: Master Bruce, I think there is something on your face... Bats turn his head away Batman: It's.. nothing, Alfred... Goes to wipe it immediately ---Meanwhile--- Joker!Reader comes back to their hideout with a smeared lipstick Harley: Welcome back, puddin'! Harley: Uhh... Hey, what happened to your makeup..? Joker!Reader suddenly holds Harley's shoulders Joker!Reader: YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED!!

A/N: skibidi gyatt

[electric-guitarz]

Joker!Reader: Can I rizz you up? Batman: Uh...yeah, sure..? Joker!Reader: Batman: Joker..? Joker!Reader on their knees and tugging bats cape Joker!Reader: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

[lanae111]

When he’s a red flag but you need him

[iydiamartinx]

ALL IT TAKES IS ONE BAD DAY

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a spending a year in a loveless marriage, you find your husband with another woman. warning: cheating, bruce is an asshole

The manor had never been a home. Not truly.

Its towering halls echoed with silence, its antique chandeliers glinting like frozen stars, untouchable and cold. You’d tried, in the beginning, to warm it—fresh flowers in the vases, candles lit at dinner, even soft music playing in the background some evenings.

But Bruce never noticed.

He came and went like a ghost—impeccable in tailored suits and always busy. And when he did speak to you, it was clipped, distant. A nod. A thank you. A hum of acknowledgment as he passed you in the corridor, the same way one might regard an acquaintance and not someone they chose to bind themselves to.

You’d grown used to the solitude. Learned to fill it with books, walks through the garden, dinners eaten in silence. On rare occasions, Alfred would try to bridge the gap, lingering just a moment longer in the room, a small reassurance here and there trying to cover up for his master, but there was no mistaking the disappointment in his eyes every time he saw the way Bruce treated you.

You were a Wayne by name only.

And maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe you would’ve endured it forever—the cold bed, the colder stares, the knowledge that this union was forged for reputation and power, not love.

But deep inside you felt that hollow aching loneliness, the insecurity of wondering why you weren’t enough. You always dreamed of a love that would consume you, of freedom and adventure. You never thought this might be your life, you played your part well but the posh dresses, the pearls, everything that came with being Bruce Wayne’s wife felt like a cage. 

You never wanted his money, in fact you never even took a penny from him, you were wealthy in your own name. You married him because it was arranged yet you had hoped the two of you could find some middle ground or at least be amicable yet he never even tried.

You he had secrets and you tried to respect it. But there was no mistaking the way he seemed to sneak out in the middle of the night, doing god knows what. How he always seemed too tired or too busy to even attend important functions and meeting, always leaving them to you.

It seemed you finally got your answer. It was late when you returned from the charity gala. You hadn’t expected him to come—he rarely did. But the photographers had still clamoured for pictures, still whispered about Bruce Wayne’s wife, wondering if the man even remembered he had one. 

You tried to ignore the humiliation but sometimes it became too much, like tonight, and you found yourself sneaking away early.

The silence greeted you first when you returned to the manor. Then the soft creak of the stairs under your heels.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar.

At first, it was the flicker of candlelight you noticed. Then the shadow on the wall—two forms, tangled together. And then the soft, breathy laugh. Familiar.

Selina Kyle.

Your throat closed. You stepped closer, silent as a ghost. Your eyes met the scene and for a second, you didn’t breathe. Her mouth was against his neck, one leg hooked over his hip, sheets disheveled. The way she touched him, kissed him, it was clear she knew his body intimately and that this wasn’t the first time.

His hands were on her. His eyes—those usually cold, unreadable eyes—closed with pleasure.

The sound you made must have been small, but it was enough. Bruce’s head snapped up. Selina glanced over her shoulder, entirely unfazed.

You stood in the doorway, lips parted, frozen. Your body refused to move. Your mind, however, was screaming.

A year.

A year of silence and patience and pretending that the chill in his eyes didn’t hurt you. That his absence at every dinner, every event, every attempt you made to be more than a burden, didn’t pierce straight through your ribs.

And this was what he gave you in return.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at you like you were the one who’d intruded. Selina at least had the decency to look like she felt at least a little guilty but you didn’t want nor need her pity

It was the silence that broke you more than the act.

Not even the decency to lie.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Your gaze flicked from him to Selina then back to him. You tilted your head. “I hope she was worth it.”

Then you turned. Trying to keep the calm and controlled facade, even as the world crumbled around you.

You didn’t look back.

Not even when he called out your name. You’d done everything to keep your sham of a marriage together and you were done.

And for the first time in a year, you were the one who walked away.

You hadn’t even bothered to grab your stuff, you were still in your gala dress as you grabbed the keys to your car, getting ready to get as far away as you could from this place.

“Madame, I’m sure—“ Alfred tried to do as he always did and make it better but for once you were in no mood to listen.

“I don’t care.” You cut off not harshly but firmly. “He’d made it clear since the beginning that he didn’t want this marriage, no matter how hard I tried. I’m done, Alfred. I have more self respect than to stay and continue trying with a man who clearly doesn’t want me and doesn’t respect me. I deserve someone who does,” you finished, voice low but steady, the final word catching ever so slightly on your tongue.

Alfred stood there in the entryway, a halo of warm light behind him, his face drawn with quiet sorrow. He didn’t argue. He only bowed his head slightly in acceptance because what could he say? You were right. You deserved more.

“I’ll have someone collect your things,” Alfred said softly, after a long moment. His voice, always composed, was tinged with quiet regret. “Where should I have them sent?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know—but because saying it aloud made it real.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” you murmured.

He gave a nod, the smallest motion. And though he was just the butler to some, to you, he had always been the one constant in that frozen palace of a home.

You offered him a faint, grateful smile.

“Thank you… for being the only one who ever treated me like I mattered.”

That got him. His throat bobbed slightly, and he looked away, just for a second—composing himself as always. But when he met your gaze again, there was nothing but pride and sorrow in his eyes.

“You always did,” he said. “He was simply too blind to see it.”

You nodded once, then turned on your heel. The dress rustled around your legs as you moved down the steps. You were still in heels. Still in diamonds. Still wearing the same red lipstick he hadn’t once complimented.

You slipped into the driver’s seat of the black car—the one you’d always parked at the edge of the Wayne fleet, never quite part of the collection.

The door shut with a soft click.

And for the first time in a year, you didn’t look up at the manor as you drove away. You didn’t wonder if he’d come after you.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

Even if he did, It no longer mattered.

The city blurred past your windows in streaks of gold and steel. Gotham’s skyline loomed like jagged teeth against the night, familiar and yet cold—just like everything else lately. The gala dress clung uncomfortably to your skin now, a mocking reminder of the life you’d just walked away from.

You tightened your grip on the wheel, trying to breathe through the storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, grief—all coiled in your chest like a venomous thing. But at least you were free now.

Free from him. Free from the expectations that came to being married to him. 

The light ahead flickered from yellow to red. You slowed, fingers tapping anxiously against the wheel, when—

BANG.

The car jolted with a deafening metallic crash. Your head snapped forward as the vehicle was rammed from behind. Airbags didn’t deploy. Your foot slammed on the brakes, tires skidding—but it was too late. A second hit came, this time from the side, and the world tilted as your car spun across the wet street and slammed into a lamppost.

Smoke hissed from the engine. Your ears rang.

You tried to move—unbuckle your seatbelt, reach for your phone—but the driver’s side door was ripped clean off.

A hand reached in—gloved, pale, too fast.

Before you could scream, a needle jabbed into your neck. Cold fire rushed through your veins, and the world slipped sideways.

Voices echoed. Laughter.

A man’s voice, high-pitched and giddy, like a child who’d just unwrapped a present he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Well, well, Mrs. Wayne. What a delicious little surprise.”

You tried to focus through the haze, your limbs too heavy to fight. The world went dark and spinning, but not before you saw a flash of white skin, a grin painted in what looked like blood, and eyes that burned with manic delight.

The Joker.

[alixandra-multifandom-version]

How different marvel and dc characters would hold your face:

Tony stark, loki, bucky Barnes, Bruce wayne, Oliver queen, Dawn Granger, donna troy, Carter Hall

Thor, Clint Barton, Agatha harkness, rio vidal, Jason todd, Arthur Curry, Hal Jordan, Diana prince, Dinah lance,

The joker, poison ivy, harley Quinn, Jason todd, logan howlett, Mystique, Erik Lehnsherr

Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, Peter quill, natasha romanoff, wanda maximoff, bruce banner , dick grayson, Tim drake, Barry allen, John Stewart

[saintlucretia]

the feeling when your fictional crush is so wild you can't even defend them:

[sharkie-ds]

🦈My type🦈

[acid-ixx]

(name) wayne, gagged and tied to a chair:

the villain, untying their gag: hahaha! i have kidnapped you for ransom and your father only has 5 hours left to save you by paying me!!!

(name) wayne: damn bruh my father hasn't spoken to me in 13 and a half years i don't think he's coming for me at all, better if you shoot me instead lmao cause i don't think batman would save me either

villain: ...

yan! villain, untying your ropes: welp, kidnapping is basically illegal adoption, am i right?

(name) wayne: as long as i'm fed three times a day and you read me bed time stories before i sleep then i guess that counts?

yan! villain: sweetheart, you are getting more than that.

[kenwio]

Joker's kid reader! Blamed just for existing: how batfamily pushed them away

Route: black fog

Author`s note: study workload is crazy and I keep getting sick, but I finaly manage to work on the Black fog route. Sorry and hope you will like that

Warning: angst

Living in a manor was certainly better than living in the crime alley. You were safe, you had food, you even had your own room. All of this was great, sure, and for all of this you were deeply thankful for... but you couldn't shake of one icky feeling that was there no matter what. You never felt welcomed.

And taking the fact that you didn't even lift your hopes up that all of the batfamily members will love you, you couldn't deny that you got this uneasy feeling around them, it felt too heavy, too suffocating, too unbearable, too familiar. You felt like a plagued sick stray cat that was picked up from streets and placed into house with clean breed cats, and for all you knew, you hated how it felt. You felt like you were part of yet another experiment, and you hated this even more.

Yeah, Alfred was trying to care, and he genuinely tried to, but his gazes send chills down your spine, you felt like he was trying to analyze you, and it reminded you of how your father uses to stare at you, when he had experimented on you, as if he tried to figure out every single detail about you. And it didn't help that in trying to prove yourself helpful you ended up breaking things: dishes, cups, some electronics. You wished you were less clumsy, so that the old butler sees you are not that bad, that he sees you were trying to do something, to be less useless and more grateful for your new house. But all your hopes crumbled with every attempt. And in the end, you started giving up. If you are incapable to do things right, why doing them at all?

Tim analyzed your every move even more than Alfred did, but if you felt like old butler did it a subtle way, Tim didn't even hide it. And this was even more sickening, making you feel like a lab rat. You were sure that Tim would not hesitate to experiment on you too, and only thig stopping him now was the fact that Bruce took you in with another purpose. You felt like he was waiting for the time, as if you were the time bomb about to blow. Well, it was the same for Joker so automatically it's the same for you, Tim reassures himself. When you tried to approach, he didn't let you to, whether he walked away or closed the door. When you tried to speak, he put on his headphones. And it wasn't that bad, at least he looked at you, you thought hoping you could build your relationship on that. Maybe you two could find a way to get along, you thought catching another observant and hostile glare of the icy blue eyes.

And if Tim with Tim you felt like he hated you, with Jason and Damian it was more than obvious. Especially with Jason. It got to a point that you had to hide in your room when Jason was coming over. One time you noticed him in library when he was visiting the manor, and you decided to see what he was up to because you wanted to get to know him, but feared to approach him straight.  Seeing him choosing a book, sitting in the sofa comfortably and reading the book was strangely comforting and fascinating view, the one you couldn't look away. But he caught you peeping, and the result of that was really ugly. He was livid, yelling at you with unimaginable anger, while all you could do is to shake as you listened to it all. After that you had to stay in your room when he was staying for dinner, night over, breakfast. You just didn't want to be yelled at like that anymore. You made him angry. You made him angry because all he saw in you were your father. You had to clue how to act with him, he to resolve it.

And as for Damian, you learned he saw you as threat, because of your background and his family background. He didn't even hide that he was ready to attack you any given moment. You felt unsafe when you noticed him. Every last bit of your self-preservation instinct was telling you he was a danger, even though he wasn't as enraged as Jason. You hated living in one corridor with him knowing that you will bump into each other, you will receive another mean comment from him. His comments cut deeper any knife your father used in you, but reviving them became a routine at this point. You just wish he could give you one chance. You just wish you could make him see that you were trying to adapt to your new life, but he didn't even give a second to think that you are not that bad. He knew you were the threat because of your father. He was going to protect his family, and you knew it held deep importance for him, but it broke your heart that he was protecting his family from you, who wanted to be in that family so bad.

It was better with Dick, much much better, but you swore the hostility others felt towards you was there with him, and you both could clearly feel it. Yet, he didn't seem to notice how this hostility of others made him hesitant to approach you too. Even though your first meeting gave you some hope that you still had a chance to make them see that you were willing to do anything to be close with someone, to have family. But he made clear you'll never be. He only played you a second of this attention before running off to do his stuff. You couldn't blame him, of course, he was busy you get that. But seeing him care about others, seeing him so bright and warm made you feel sick with jealousy, because you wanted what he gave him. But in the same time, you felt immense guilt. Not only for the jealousy, but for the thought he could care for you and for talking his precious time. His little siblings needed his help all because you came and disturbed their life. Dick was too sweet to try to act nice to you at all, because clearly you did not deserve it.

And as for Bruce, he was busy, and when he wasn't, he was awkward around you. Anything you did he analyzed even more than Tim and Alfred combined, he was even more distant than anyone and when he was trying to be nice with you it seemed even more forced than with Dick. Sometimes, you felt like he didn't see you, he saw someone else in you, but again, so did the rest of batfamily. And you knew oh so well who they saw. The joker. But for you it was even more hard, since he was the man who took you in. Why he did that if he didn't like you so much. You saw him being mentor, being dad, but he couldn't be it for you all because for your father. And you saw that he was trying to help, he even got you to psychiatrist, but he failed to realized what you truly needed was warmth, care and true parental figure.

And of course, you knew why exactly everything was so bad with trying to build your life in manor. You were the Joker's kid. You couldn't erase it. It printed in your being. You were the Joker's kid. The kid of the most famous Gotham villain, the kid of the wildfire of Gotham crime itself. And maybe even if for you it was obvious how different from you from how he was, even though even if you hated the man, even if he hurt you too, but it didn't matter. You couldn't change it. And it seemed no matter how hard you trued you couldn't prove you weren't like him.

You didn't choose it. You didn't want a father like that, you didn't want to be his test subject or goon. You didn't want to live in crime alley.  But you had to live the life you so hated, feared and despised.

You were trapped in the shadow of your father, even though you hated it.  But it seemed this shadow was stronger than anything else. This shadow followed you. This shadow poisoned your life and broke your pitiful attempts in trying to rebuild it to pieces. This shadow made you cry. This shadow took all the good things from you. This shadow made you miserable. This shadow broke your hopes and dreams.

This shadow was casted by a single fact.

You were the Joker's kid

That`s why batfamily would never be close with you.

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think about my work! Hope you have a good day

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[ginnysgraffiti]

BRUCE WAYNE x yn.

bruce wayne with breeding kinks head-canons:

he doesn’t mean to fixate — but he does, almost daily, in the quiet in-between moments.

bruce will be reading reports, monitoring security feeds, running a silent operation across the city… and then his mind just drifts.

he’ll glance at you curled up on the couch, flipping through a book or brushing your hair back with one hand — and some invisible trigger pulls.

a thought forms: what would you look like, full of him, with your belly round like the moon and his little heir inside you?

oh god.

he can picture it too clearly: your face softer, fuller with a glow; his hand resting over your stomach like it belongs there.

and for a man who prides himself on control, that kind of fantasy scares the hell out of him — because he wants it.

he talks to alfred about it in the most bruce-wayne way possible: indirectly, but unmistakably suggestive.

one morning, he’s sipping black coffee in the kitchen while you’re still asleep upstairs, and he says, “you ever think this place is too quiet?”

alfred lifts an eyebrow. “you mean ‘quiet’ as in peaceful, or ‘quiet’ as in missing the sound of little feet running about and breaking priceless antiques?”

bruce won’t admit anything at first — he’ll just smirk and say something vague like, “hypothetically.”

but by the third conversation, alfred’s already chuckling behind his tea.

“if you want my opinion, master wayne, you’re not fooling anyone. not with the way you look at them when they’re holding that neighbor’s baby.”

he starts quietly adjusting things around the manor, like the idea has become less of a fantasy and more of a pending plan.

without even realizing it, he begins noting the safest rooms in the house, noise levels, stair railings.

he’ll catch himself researching security upgrades with childproofing in mind, all under the excuse of “renovation.”

alfred notices immediately. “are we preparing for a miniature vigilante, or is there something you’d like to confess, sir?”

and bruce just grunts. but the corner of his mouth lifts — just slightly.

his desire for legacy isn’t about ego, it’s about rewriting something broken, something he misses.

he’s painfully aware of what was taken from him. a family. a sense of innocence.

and if he ever lets himself imagine being a father, it isn’t with the cape, or the gadgets, or the weight of the cowl.

it’s a version of him that’s real in the morning — sleep-ruffled, quiet, watching you and a small version of you both tangled up on the sofa, alive, safe.

he doesn’t just want a child. he wants a future that feels untouched by crime scenes and vengeance.

but most of all, he wants to believe that you loving him enough to start that kind of life with him isn’t just a dream.

he’ll try to play it cool when he finally brings it up to you, but his voice gives him away.

he’ll say something like, “have you ever thought about having kids? not now, obviously. just… one day.”

and when you say yes — when you say you’ve maybe thought about it too — he’s quiet for a long time.

but that night, he sleeps with one arm around your waist, pulling you just slightly closer than usual, like he’s holding something priceless.

he’s already naming the future in his head. already imagining what it would feel like to hand them the world — just a little better than the one he inherited.

his desire starts bleeding into your intimacy.

bruce isn’t reckless. not usually. but lately, the thought of you — the possibility of leaving something inside you, of creating something permanent — lives just beneath his skin.

he kisses slower now. touches you with a careful sort of ownership, like he’s memorizing you before he changes you forever.

he’ll bury his face in your neck during those longer, quieter nights and whisper “you’d look beautiful pregnant.”

soft, almost bashful — not dirty, but devotional. like you’re something holy and he’s already praying.

his movements get slower — not to rush toward release, but to press the idea of it into you. his thrusts deeper, more relaxed, more painful almost, while his groans get guttural and his moans lower.

he never says he’s not using protection, but he doesn’t correct the situation either.

it’s intentional. quiet. calculated.

he never says the words, but there’s something about how still he gets when you look up at him and say “are you sure?”

and he’ll reply — breathless, firm — “yeah. i want all of it.”

he might not say he’s thinking about putting a child in you, but you can feel the weight of that want in every motion.

he doesn’t treat your body like a playground. he treats it like a legacy in motion.

sex.

he becomes hungrier in bed, not just with desire but with intention.

after he’s come down from patrols, bruised, raw, with gotham’s filth still on him — you’re the one softness he allows himself.

and yet, even then, there’s this primal weight behind every kiss, every thrust.

“you’d carry it well,” he mutters into your skin one night, almost too low for you to hear.

he doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t have to. and god, as nights pass, he can’t help but come inside each time, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

and unfortunately for alfred, wayne manor’s walls are too damn thin.

it starts with a closed door. but the soft noises grow louder. not vulgar, but intimate.

a creak of the mattress. two, three, now he can hear the springs begging for mercy. low groans. his voice, raspy and bitten off mid-syllable.

alfred walks by with a tray one night and pauses.

from behind the door, bruce’s voice, low and straine: “fuck- no, oh god- no, please move faster.”

a beat of silence. a breathless laugh from you.

alfred sighs deeply, sets the tray down quietly, and mutters, “well. that explains the increased grocery bill.”

he never jokes about it, but the intimacy turns gentle post-coital — almost boyish.

after, bruce doesn’t pull away like he used to. he’s quiet. holding you close. hand pressed low on your belly, like he’s willing something into being.

he’ll ask, in a soft, speculative tone, “do you ever wonder what they’d look like? if we had one? a mini you? a mini me?”

his voice is full of restraint — but underneath it, that hope is unmistakable. not romantic. animal. he presses his sweaty forehead against yours.

if you say yes, he relaxes. and you realize.

he wasn’t just fantasizing during sex. he was fantasizing about forever.

alfred starts knocking a little louder in the mornings — and a little more frequently.

the first time he hears it, he tries to politely pretend it’s the pipes.

the second time, he knocks on the bedroom door just a bit harder than necessary and says, “coffee’s ready — if you two are…finished rewriting the family line.”

bruce opens the door shirtless, sweaty, hair damp, that lazy post-coital calm still resting behind his eyes.

he doesn’t respond. alfred mutters, “well, i suppose that’s a ‘yes.’”

alfred starts putting prenatal vitamins in the cabinet “just in case”

you gently ask him one morning, “alfred, why are there like…maternity teas in the pantry?”

he barely looks up from his crossword. “oh, no reason. just thought the house ought to be prepared, considering the late-night symphonies i’ve been treated to.”

you’re mid-sip of tea. you nearly choke.

in the distance, bruce’s heavy footsteps creak across the upper hall.

“and speak of the devil,” alfred adds flatly, “our maestro descends.”

alfred sometimes tells bruce to be quieter, and bruce absolutely pretends he doesn’t understand.

“sir, i’m not one to interfere in your personal endeavors, but the acoustics in this house are far too generous.”

bruce looks up from the security feed, sipping black coffee like a sinner after confession. “i’ll look into soundproofing the bedroom.”

“yes, or perhaps consider pacing yourself before someone files a noise complaint.”

bruce smirks. doesn’t deny it. he knows alfred is being sarcastic — but the comment secretly delights him.

he’s loud because he wants it to be known. because for once in his cold, compartmentalized existence, something real is blooming.

when alfred finally catches you both at breakfast, post-‘incident,’ he acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

you’re wrapped in one of bruce’s robes. your hair’s still mussed. bruce has a faint mark on his collarbone.

“eggs?” alfred offers neutrally.

“…yes please,” you murmur, half-embarrassed.

he serves them perfectly, of course. but just before leaving the room, he mutters dryly:

“if i may suggest a night off from the opera, master wayne. the house staff are beginning to speculate.”

bruce hums into his coffee, eyes fixed on you.

“i’ll take it under consideration.”

and when you do eventually get pregnant — alfred has absolutely earned the right to be smug about it.

“knew it,” he says under his breath when you confirm it. bruce raises an eyebrow.

“oh please, sir. a deaf man could’ve heard you two plotting this.”

but beneath the teasing — there’s fondness. there’s care.

he places the vitamins on the table a little more pointedly now. makes sure the orange juice is fresh.

and when bruce starts accompanying you everywhere like your own personal bodyguard with a billion-dollar bank account?

“perhaps leave her room to breathe, sir,” alfred says. “after all, she’s carrying the future wayne empire — not an armed nuclear device.”

“yeah…o-of course i know that alfred. tsk.”

[invincibledc]

Joker! reader x Damian has been on my mind lately, where joker!reader is the child of joker and Harley but mostly takes after joker. But in secret, joker!reader just wants their father’s approval as his child, maybe even so scared that the joker would just kill them all cause they’re really not evil.

First Damian hates them, but now.. he slowly sympathizes with the kid who’s the same age as him. He’s supposed to take them down, but he feels like he could possibly help them.

But how?

(Ima write something like this but not a fic…or maybe…)

[elect1z]

Batman x Joker!Reader

Joker!Reader who is excited to see when Batman shows up to their crimes and every time they see him. Joker!Reader who is jealous when another villain tries to kill Batman. How dare they! Didn't those idiots know that he's yours! Joker!Reader who protects Batman whenever a villain tries to murder him. "Joker! Go away! We finally have the chance to kill him!" "Nuh Uh" "Fuck you mean 'Nuh Uh'??!!" Joker!Reader who has a little plushie of bats on their bed and snuggles with it every night. Joker!Reader who flirts every day with Batman. Either way, the chances of him flirting back are low. ( There is a time that he has flirted back tho) Joker!Reader who thinks of Batman every night in their room or in Arkham Asylum. Joker!Reader who always tell bats that they love him every time they fight, And... every time bats arrest them. Joker!Reader who love of their life or their favorite hero is none other than.. 'THE DARK KNIGHT!' >_<

I swear i'll update this, trust 🙏

[electric-guitarz]

Imagine Joker!Reader fighting with Batman. While you guys fight, Bats accidentally trips you both, causing him to pin you to the floor. A blush starts to creep onto your face. Joker!Reader: Oh batsy! I never thought you were like this~ Joker!Reader does the dramatic pose Batman: ... Later... You frown as Batman cuffs you, while the sound of police siren can be heard from outside of the warehouse. Joker!Reader: Oh c'mon bats! wouldn't you play with me for a little longer..? Batman: ... Batman: Don't worry Joker, Next time I'm sure you'll get plenty of time to play with me... Joker!Reader flustered: Are you.. flirting with me..? Batman shrugs and disappears in the shadows... And you..? You are in Arkham Asylum trying to figure out if he is flirting with you or not

[sangunary]

Dc character x *new* hero Reader

Synopsis: Being a hero is actually very simple.

Batman who decided to give Reader a tour of the street.

Batman: "This ally is especially dangerous as it is a blind spot and have man-"

*Joker appearing out of nowhere.*

Batman: "Stay behind me I'l-"

Reader who got so scared that they ran atleast one mile away.

Reader: "I'll watch from here... Beat his ass!"

Joker trying to traumatized Reader.

Reader: "Why are you ugly?"

Joker: "Are you mocking me?"

Reader: "You are ugly"

Joker: "If you dare move I'll slit their throat"

Reader picking up a broken pipe and throwing at the Joker, hitting their knee with a loud crack.

Reader: "God damnit... that was supposed to end your bloodline"

Hal minding his own business.

Reader: *Whispering into his ears* "Nuclear... Nuclear, big boom. Nuclear..."

Hal: "What...?"

Reader: "I just wanted to see how easily distracted you are and how easy it would be to manipulate your thoughts"

Hal: "By saying nuclear? trying to kill us or what?"

Reader: "I mean... There's a great reason why I am not a green lantern"

Wonder woman saving Reader during a big fight.

Reader: "I do love a strong woman... God I wish she could kill me"

Random civilian side eyeing Reader.

Reader: "What? Im being honest"

Lex destroying the city.

Reader: "I can't see! His head is reflective!"

Superman: "what...?"

Reader: "His Baldness! that must be his ultimate weapon!"

Lex now wore wig.

Slade: "What are you going to do now?"

Reader: "Cry"

Slade: "..."

------------ ☁️

Thinking of writing for this <3

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR I

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.6k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This story is inspired by the 2012 movie This Means War. I went back and forth on whether to write it with a named OC or in reader format—and ultimately decided to try something new and go with reader-insert. I usually write in third person with original characters, so this is a bit of a different style for me. As for who the reader ends up with… I haven’t made a final decision yet—maybe one of them, maybe both. Feel free to let me know who you’re rooting for! Hope you enjoy the chaos! warnings: None so far except for the fact that I don't know anything about neuroscience only what my research brings up, so I'm praying the shit I write makes sense

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The lecture hall smelled like old paper and burnt coffee. You stood at the front, spine straight despite the fatigue threading through your muscles. Behind you, the whiteboard was half-covered in scrawls of chemical structures and dopamine pathways, neatly drawn and precisely labeled. It was the kind of lecture that left half the room wide-eyed with curiosity… and the other half silently praying for mercy.

With a quiet click, you capped your marker and continued. “Neurotransmitter binding is not a one-size-fits-all process,” you said, voice steady as your gaze swept across rows of glazed eyes and frantic scribbles. “It’s dynamic. It’s reactive. It’s shaped by genetics, trauma, medication—even what you ate for breakfast.”

A hand shot up in the second row.

“So… like, can serotonin make you hallucinate?”

You blinked. “No. And if it does, someone’s given you something else—and you should go to the ER. Immediately.”

A ripple of laughter. A few groans.

Another hand rose—this one from a sharp-eyed girl near the back. “In Joker toxin exposure cases, have you ever seen synthetic mimicry of dopamine flood patterns?”

Now that was a question worth respecting.

You’d specialized in Joker toxin during your postgraduate years, had seen firsthand the neurological carnage it left behind. The clown was a madman no doubt—but a dangerously brilliant madman.

Your mouth tugged into a faint smirk. “Yes. And no. But that’s a topic for next week.”

The clock ticked toward the hour. You fielded three more questions—one insightful, two exhausting—before dismissing the class. 

Backpacks zipped. Conversations stirred. As the last student filed out, you finally exhaled. Slowly. The silence was a relief.

Rolling your shoulders, you gathered your coat and bag, the weariness catching up to you in waves as you made your way toward the door—hungry, tired, and vaguely craving something that didn’t taste like caffeine or sugary energy drinks.

Gotham’s streets buzzed with their usual chaos—honking cabs, barking vendors, motorcycles weaving between traffic like they were flirting with death. You walked with familiar ease, the city noise fading beneath the throb behind your eyes and the pressure at the back of your skull.

Your hand drifted up to your bun. It had been tightly wound since six in the morning, and now it felt like a migraine on a countdown. Mercifully, you didn’t have to be in the lab today—no microscopes, no sterile gloves, no post-doc breathing down your neck. Just freedom. Glorious, unwashed, unbothered freedom.

So you didn’t hesitate. One by one, you tugged the pins from your hair, each metallic clink falling into your coat pocket like a tiny rebellion. The strands spilled down, wild and full of indents, but you didn’t care. You tipped your head back, rubbed at your aching scalp with slow, tender fingers, and sighed like you’d been holding your breath all day.

You looked like hell. You felt like hell. But you were done. No lectures. No lab reports. Your appearance be damned you just wanted to spend the rest of the day in comfort. 

Your boots clicked along the sidewalk as you headed toward Café Nero, already imagining the warmth of a latte in your hands—despite your earlier claim about cutting back on caffeine. A lie, obviously. Caffeine was practically your lifeblood— and something carby in your mouth.

But the universe had other plans.

You turned the corner—and nearly collided headfirst with a ghost.

Jake.

Three years of your life bundled into one name, one face. One half-curved smile that looked exactly like it used to and somehow worse now that it was being directed at someone else.

Three years of your life compressed into one name. One face. One irritatingly familiar smirk. His arm was around a tall blonde, her smile radiant and far too trusting. He wore the same smug charm he always had as he said something that had her giggling. 

He noticed you first.

“Hey!” he said, voice way too bright. “Y/N. Wow. You look…” his eyes flicked over your rumpled sweater, your wild hair, “…great. Still at the university? Tinkering away in your little lab?”

You straightened instinctively, spine snapping to attention like your body was trying to make up for the indignity of the moment. Of all the days to run into him.

“I am,” you replied, polite but clipped.

Three years together, and he still couldn’t grasp the importance of your work—or the lives it affected. Your research had been groundbreaking, and he’d always referred to it like you were tinkering with science fair projects.

The blonde leaned into his side with a warm smile. “You didn’t tell me your ex was brilliant and pretty.”

You wanted to hate her. Truly, you did. But unfortunately… she actually seemed sweet.

He laughed. “I forget sometimes.” Then turned back to you with that same infuriatingly casual smirk. “Oh—uh, Y/N, this is my fiancée, Hannah.”

The word hit like a slap.

Fiancée.

Only a year ago, you’d walked in on him and his yoga instructor, limbs tangled and guilt nowhere in sight. He’d thrown away three years with you like it was nothing—and now, not even twelve months later, he’d found someone new and locked her down with a ring so big it probably needed its own insurance policy.

You managed a smile. A real one, for her sake. Sort of. “It’s nice to meet you.” Your eyes dropped to the large, glittering ring on her hand.

“Wow,” you said with a tight smile. “That’s… that’s a big rock.” You let out an awkward laugh, trying muster the slightest bit of enthusiasm you definitely weren’t feeling on the inside. “You’re engaged. To be married.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. Things just… clicked. It was like fate.” Then he reached out and stroked her cheek with the kind of performative tenderness that made your stomach churn. 

God. How had you ever loved this man?

“Isn’t that right, baby?” he murmured.

Someone gag you with a spoon.

You stood there, frozen in place, as Jake pulled Hannah in for a kiss—deep as if he was trying to fit his entire tongue down her throat. Screw you, you thought. Screw you for rubbing her in my face.

You cleared your throat, the sound awkward and a little too loud. “Well, I should get going,” you began—except your mouth didn’t stop there.

Your brain screamed abort, but your tongue had other plans.

“I actually have to go meet my guy. Yeah, he’s a neuroscientist too. We, uh… met at work.” You nodded like that somehow made it more convincing. “Anyway…”

You cleared your throat again, silently begging yourself to shut up.

“It was… great seeing you. And congrats. On the ring. The upcoming wedding. Your whole… life. All of it.” You winced inwardly. “Well… Peace.”

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, you topped it off by flashing a peace sign like some glitching robot before turning and briskly walking away.

The second you were out of sight, your smile collapsed. You pressed your lips together, debating whether to scream into the sky or crawl into the nearest sewer.

“Someone kill me right now,” you muttered under your breath.

CAFÉ NERO

You finally made it to the café, and with it, your mortification began to loosen its grip. The familiar scent of roasted beans and fresh pastries wrapped around you like a warm blanket, softening the sting of everything that had come before.

Inside, it was calm—the gentle hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of scattered conversations. A peaceful hum that felt like the complete opposite of Jake and his nauseating tongue display.

You slipped into your usual seat at the counter, letting your bag slump to the floor, and leaned against the worn wood like it might hold you up a little longer.

“Ah! Doctora!” Juan greeted you with a bright smile from behind the bar.

He was a sweet kid—maybe nineteen—who’d moved to Gotham from Mexico about six months ago. His English was improving steadily, though every now and then he’d still stumble over a few words. You’d quietly helped where you could. While he knew your name, he aways insisted on calling you Doctora like it was your superhero title. 

You snorted at the thought. You, a superhero? You couldn’t even save yourself from an awkward conversation with your ex.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for your cup.

“Si, please,” you nodded.

He glanced up with a curious smile. “Long day?”

You let out a soft groan, dropping your face into your hands. “You have no idea.”

The door chimed behind you, but you didn’t bother looking up. Not until you felt someone hovering a little too close to the seat beside you. 

You prayed your luck wasn’t that shitty.

But of course, it was.

Jake’s familiar chuckle slid into your ears like nails on glass. You closed your eyes for half a second, steeling yourself, before slowly peeling your face from your hands.

“This is too funny,” he said with a grin. “What a coincidence.”

“Right! Absolutely hilarious,” you replied, forcing a smile that you hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt as you saw Jake and Hannah standing there.

“I’m assuming this is your boyfriend’s seat?” Jake asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, ye—”

Before you could finish, Juan slid your drink across the counter, cheerful as ever.

“No, Doctora,” he said, accent warm, words slightly clipped at the edges. “Order for one. Always order for one. Seat is free.”

You nearly choked on air.

Hannah giggled while Jake said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows slightly, in that smug little way he used to do when he thought he’d won something.

God, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You smiled tightly. “It is. I’m meeting him back at work. Just stopped in quick. Juan, I thought I said I needed this to-go?”

Juan frowned, brows pinching together. “Mmm… no, I don’ think so. You say you finish work. You always sit here, like always.”

“Not this time,” you said—too sharp, too fast.

Juan’s face fell a little. Guilt bloomed in your chest like a bruise, he didn’t deserve that. It was your own damn fault for digging the hole in you were now.

You sighed, softer this time. “Lo siento, Juan. Can you make it to-go, please?”

He nodded, already reaching for the paper cup and bag.

You turned back to Jake with a forced laugh. “Seat’s all yours.”

The second Juan handed you the new cup and pastry bag, you thanked him quietly, paid, and practically sprinted for the door—mortified, humiliated, and more than ready to go home and bury yourself under ten layers of shame.

MILO & ANTHONY’S APARTMENT

“Ugh! I wanted to die right then and there,” you groaned, collapsing dramatically onto Milo and Anthony’s couch, a glass of wine already halfway gone. Their apartment was across from yours, and you’d made a beeline for it the second you got home, desperate to drink your embarrassment into submission. “I fucking peaced them.”

Anthony winced. “Yeah, that’s… pretty bad.”

“That’s because you need to go out more,” Milo said, waving his wine glass like a pointer. “Meet someone. Rub him all over Jake’s face like a human flex—same way he’s doing with that girl, Hayley.”

“Hannah,” you corrected automatically. “And she seemed sweet.”

“She could be as sweet as cotton candy dipped in honey and I still wouldn’t give a shit,” Milo snapped. “I give a shit about you. And you cannot keep letting that asshole rent space in your head.”

You opened your mouth, but Milo steamrolled right over you.

“Fine if you’re not ready for anything serious, but girl—you need to go out and get some good dick. That pussy is drier than the Sahara.”

You choked on your wine. “Hey! I get some!”

Milo deadpanned you. “Your vibrator doesn’t count. Honestly, it should start charging you. Thing looks like it’s about to file for workers’ comp.”

You blinked. “Have you been going through my drawers again?!”

He shrugged without shame. “I was looking for your face cream.”

“And you thought I keep that in my underwear drawer?” 

“Look, the point is,” he said, sitting forward, “you need to go out. Date. Even just a casual thing. I hate seeing you mope over that troll.”

“I’m not moping,” you muttered.

Anthony gave you a soft smile—too kind for this earth. “We’re just worried about you. And hey, for the record, we’re glad you moved here. You’re part of our chaos now.”

You exhaled, guilt and warmth stirring in your chest. “I know. It’s just… I can’t believe I was that blind. I nearly gave up everything for him. I even moved back to this shit-hole of a city—where clowns and penguins blow up buildings and guys in capes fight crime in full spandex.”

“Well, at least Gotham has a certain… charm,” Anthony offered.

“I mean, it’s great if your idea of charm is daily arson,” you deadpanned.

“We are happy you’re here,” Milo agreed, his voice softer for once. “But you’ve gotta stop beating yourself up. Even I thought he might’ve been your person—but he wasn’t. That’s on him. His loss, not yours. You’ve gotta move forward, babe.”

“I am dating,” you said weakly.

“No, you’re talking to people. You don’t even give them a real shot.” He raised his brows. “You can’t test chemistry without mixing the liquids.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s more complex than just ‘mixing liquids,’ Milo. There’s neural signaling, oxytocin regulation, attachment frameworks, behavioral conditioning… Timing alone can throw everything off. You can’t just drop two people into a room and expect chemistry. That’s not chemistry—it’s chaos.”

“Why not?” Milo shrugged. “People do it all the time. You’re overthinking it—as usual. But if it helps, just treat it like another one of your experiments.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argued. “My experiments have structure. Charts. Data. Equations. Control groups.”

“Exactly!” Milo clapped his hands. “Which is why you should try online dating. They have charts and shit.”

You let out a snort. “Please. In this city? Knowing my luck, I’d end up matched with a serial killer. Or worse—the Joker.”

Anthony tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does the Joker even online date?”

Milo groaned. “You’re both insane. There are plenty of semi-normal people on those apps. It’s how me and Anthony met.”

You gave him a flat look. “Exactly.”

You gave him a long, pointed look. “Point proven.”

“No.” Milo leaned in. “The point is you need to get back out there. Whether it’s for a wham-bam-thank-you-man kind of night, or you end up calling me crying because you just met the father of your future babies—I don’t care. You just can’t keep living in Jake’s memory. Not everyone is like him.”

You groaned, tipping back the rest of your wine in one go. “I know that.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a look.

“I do!” you insisted. “Look, can we table this for now? I just want to drown my feelings and make future-me regret the hangover I’m definitely earning tonight.”

GOTHAM ROOFTOPS

Boots hit the edge of a rooftop with a soft scrape of gravel. Jason Todd scanned the streets below, hands resting at his sides, jacket collar tugged up against the bite of the early spring cold. He moved with restless energy—agitated, impatient, ready for something to go wrong.

“This is a bust,” he muttered into the comms. “Three blocks, no action. Not even a wannabe thug with a pocket knife and poor life choices. I’m starting to think Gotham forgot how to be Gotham.”

There was a beat of silence before Dick’s voice came through, dry and amused.

“Or maybe you’re just scaring the criminals too much, Hood. Ever consider early retirement?”

Jason rolled his eyes behind the mask. “Only if you go first, Nightwing. I thought Blüdhaven was where all the action was—what’re you doing slumming it with us Gotham bottom-feeders?”

“It is,” Dick replied. “But every now and then I like to slum it with my baby brother. Make sure you’re not burning down half the city in my absence.”

Jason snorted. “You’re only older by what, five years and a moral superiority complex?”

Before Dick could answer, Barbara’s voice cut in over the channel, sharp and clear.

“Seems like you’re about to get your wish, Jason. I’ve got eyes on suspicious movement down at the docks—east side, Warehouse Eleven.” Barbara drawled through the comms. 

Jason was already moving, boots hitting gravel as he took off across the rooftop. “Now we’re talking.”

Dick followed a step behind, vaulting over a low pipe with practiced ease. “Arms deal?”

“Most likely,” Barbara confirmed. “Thermal scans show at least four bodies. No confirmed ID yet, but one of them matches a known associate of Black Mask.  “Be smart. And try not to level the building, Jason.”

“No promises,” he said, grin audible.

WAREHOUSE ELEVEN, EAST DOCKS

The docks were dead quiet when they arrived—too quiet. The kind of stillness that always meant something was waiting to go wrong. The air smelled like oil and sea rot, and the only sounds were the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of aging chains swaying in the wind.

Jason crouched at the edge of a container stack, pistols holstered at his thighs, his gaze locked on the warehouse below. His breath clouded in the cool air.

“East lot’s clear,” he murmured into the comms. “Nothing but rats and roaches.”

Dick landed beside him in a soundless roll. “So, your usual crowd.”

Jason didn’t glance over. “That’s twice tonight. Keep it up and I’ll tell everyone you cried during that Pixar movie.”

“I was twelve. And it was Up, you heartless bastard.”

“Still counts.”

They moved in silence, slipping through a broken window high on the warehouse wall. Their boots hit the rafters without a whisper. Below them, four men circled a battered folding table strewn with crates, unmarked cases, and haphazard stacks of cash. A single overhead bulb flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows across the concrete floor.

Jason zoomed in with his HUD. “I know that one—left side. Carlo Mancini. Low-tier runner for Sionis. Looks like he’s about to piss himself.”

“Might mean he knows something,” Dick murmured.

They listened.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Mancini hissed, voice tight and shaky. “It’s gonna be big. Joker-level big.”

One of the others scoffed. “The hell you talkin’ about? Joker’s been off the grid for months.”

“Yeah, and now he’s back. Lookin’ for someone—some guy who used to run with him, then bailed. Word is, he took something. Something important.”

Jason’s fingers curled slowly around the grip of his pistol.

“It’s not his usual stuff either,” Mancini went on, voice dropping to a whisper. “Heard it’s from Scarecrow too. Some freak chemical—don’t kill you right away. Makes you laugh yourself insane. Till your heart gives out.”

A beat of silence.

“No cure for it, either.”

Jason exhaled. “Shit.”

Beside him, Dick’s jaw flexed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Jason gave a tight nod. “If the Joker and Scarecrow teamed up and made something new—and someone stole it…”

Dick’s voice was grim. “Then Gotham just became a countdown clock. And we’re already late.”

Without another word, they moved.

Jason dropped from the rafters like a shadow cutting through fog, landing hard enough to make one of the thugs flinch. Dick followed a breath behind, graceful and quiet. By the time the first man reached for his weapon, Jason had already disarmed him with a sharp twist of his wrist and sent him sprawling with a solid elbow to the jaw.

Dick swept the legs out from under another, zip-tying his wrists with practiced ease. The other two barely had time to shout before they were taken down—one with a stun baton to the ribs, the other with a boot to the sternum.

Mancini tried to run.

Jason caught him by the collar, slammed him against a crate with just enough force to knock the air from his lungs. “Going somewhere?”

The runner gasped, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t—look, I don’t know anything!”

“You know enough to be scared,” Jason growled, pressing his forearm into the man’s throat. “So start talking.”

“Okay—okay!” Mancini wheezed, both hands raised in surrender. “I just heard whispers, man. Word on the street is Joker and the ‘crow are lookin’ for someone—most likely one of his old runners. Said he took something. Chemical notes, maybe the whole damn formula. Whatever it is, it’s important. Real important. Joker’s tearing through people trying to get it back.”

Jason’s gaze darkened. “You know who this guy is?”

“No name,” Mancini coughed. “Just that he used to run logistics—backdoor stuff. Quiet type. Smart guy. Kept to himself. Real ghost.”

“Not smart enough if he got himself tangled up with the Joker and Scarecrow,” Dick muttered.

Jason’s hand tightened. For a moment, Dick thought he might snap.

“Jason,” he said, quiet. A reminder.

Jason let go.

Mancini dropped to his knees, coughing and trembling. Jason stepped back into the shadows, tapping his comm.

“You catch all that, Oracle?”

Barbara’s voice filtered in, sharp and efficient. “Every word. Red Robin and B are already digging. If this guy’s in Gotham, we’ll find him. But until then, you two are off the clock. Get some rest.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dick shot him a look. “Try to actually listen for once. Not everything has to be solved in one night.” 

With that, he clapped Jason on the shoulder and nudged him toward the exit—just as the distant wail of GCPD sirens broke the silence, growing louder with every passing second. Cleanup crew was on its way.

Jason didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his thoughts already miles ahead—backtracking whispers, dissecting clues, remembering the sound of laughter that still echoed in the corners of his nightmares.

It was rare for the Joker to get invested in anything. He thrived on chaos, not consistency. But if he was serious enough to go out of his way to hunt down some nobody, then whoever had the formula was sitting on a bomb.

Next Chapter →