#jokermolester

[jokermolester]

We all got a type 🤷🏻‍♀️🥵

[engagemachine]

I feel like other than using the practical anonymity of the masks from time to time, and enjoying the desperation in the air caused by the pandemic, the Joker would not care for the virus or tolerate any of its rules. And the evil fuck would probably catch it multiple times. Sooo what if...

“Joker has the covid and a worried mess of a Taylor wants to take care of him.”

Hungry for that delicious domesticity. 👀

Originally, I was going to answer this with a fic, but honestly? Let’s bulletpoint this, I feel like I can cover a lot more ground with bulletpoints.

NOTE: I saved this ask to my drafts and have been adding to it a little each day, and TWICE I have had to retype what I’ve written because Tumblr crashed. The third time it happened, I gave up, so this ended up being a lot shorter than I had planned. I should have just moved it to a Word document after the first time Tumblr crashed, but I didn’t and that’s on me. This is the last time I try to answer lengthy asks without backing up my work. SIGH. 

Anyway, here we go: 

“The evil fuck would probably catch it multiple times” -- the Joker has caught it approximately four times, and each time was due to his refusal to wash his hands before eating/touching his face. We all know the Joker’s hygiene habits -- rather, the lack thereof -- leave a lot to be desired. Taylor is positively begging him to wash his hands when he gets home. She periodically steers him into the bathroom, both hands planted at the small of his back as she pushes him past the threshold, pulls his hands under the sink faucet and washes them for him with way too much soap while he watches her reflection in the mirror, smirking. 

The first time he gets it, he thinks it’s just allergies. Maybe a mild cold. But day 3 of Covid positively knocks him on his ass, and Taylor is panicked. She saw the signs early on, the sore throat, the dry cough, the way he felt a little warmer than usual, but he irritably brushed off all her feeble attempts to check his temperature, glaring at her when she pads over with a thermometer to stick underneath his tongue. 

“You get any closer with that and I’m gonna stick that thing somewhere you really aren’t going to like,” he growls. 

Taylor is gripped by fear for a split second -- stopping dead in her tracks --  but then she’s scowling at him and stomping her foot. “You’re impossible!” she shouts. She storms away and goes to her bedroom. Slams the door. He’s so stubborn sometimes, it drives her crazy. What if he’s really sick? He could die! She sits on the edge of her bed with her arms folded across her chest, her anger bleeding into annoyance bleeding into worry. Ten minutes later, she’s opening the door a crack, poking her head out into the hallway and then creeping out to check on Mr. J, where he’s now moved to the couch and is lying on his back, a forearm draped over his eyes. It makes her heart pulse with a confusing mixture of both affection and concern. 

He sleeps on the couch all afternoon, and Taylor periodically tiptoes into the living room to check on him, to watch the rise and fall of his chest from a safe distance, make sure he’s still breathing nice and steady. It’s late and dusk is falling when she goes to stand next to him where he’s still passed out on the couch -- and she sighs a little wistfully, wanting to reach out to touch him, to wipe the sweat beading along his brow. She knows she shouldn’t. 

“If you’re gonna just stand there,” he says, his voice making her jump. His eyes are still closed, and she didn’t think he was awake, “you might as well make yourself useful.” Taylor opens her mouth to ask what he means by that, but then she’s squealing in surprise when he grabs onto her shirt, yanks her on top of him. “Mr. J?” she says. She tries to prop herself up onto her elbows on his chest to look down at him, but he throws an arm over her back, curls his hand around her waist and uses his other hand to press her head down against his chest. “Lie down,” he says. “Be quiet.”

She swallows. Licks her lips. “O--okay.” She keeps very still. Listens to the steady cadence of his heartbeat, where it thumps in a comforting rhythm just beneath her ear. She nuzzles her cheek against his chest, the weight of his hand still pressed against her head, holding her in place. She closes her eyes. 

She’s woken an indefinite amount of time later -- squealing in surprise -- when she’s shoved off the couch and onto the floor. He steps over her as he stalks towards the bathroom and slams the door shut. 

“Well good morning to you, too,” she grumbles. The light coming in through the blinds is dusky -- early morning, then -- and she dusts off her hands and stands, eyeing the bathroom door. She finds herself hovering just outside of it as she waits for him to come out, a little anxious and wanting to make sure he’s okay. When he finally emerges, greasepaint fresh applied, hair neatly parted (or, as neat as it can be, anyway. She can see he made an effort to make it lay the way he likes it) and wearing a different suit. He looks nice -- handsome -- even if his makeup still frightens her a little. She’s mostly used to it by now. Mostly. 

He smiles at her when he sees her, cuffing her chin. “Thanks for the, uh, cuddles last night, baby doll,” he says, and she blushes. It’s the way he says it, as if they’d done more than just cuddling. “Feel right as rain.” His gaze lingers on her a little longer than she expects it to, and she shifts uncomfortably, looking up at him, biting her lip. Waiting for him to say something. When he cocks his head, he reaches out to tilt her chin a little farther back, as if inspecting her. “You’re just the perfect medicine, aren’t you?” 

His voice makes goose bumps ripple all over her skin, and she opens her mouth to reply, to say something, but in the next second, before she can even blink, he’s gone. Out the door and out into Gotham. It’s not until several moments later that she considers the fact that he’s still contagious and he’s not wearing a mask -- he knows she would have scolded him for that if she had known he was going out. 

“You sneaky bastard,” she grumbles. 

[knit-wear-it]

The Rabbit Hole

Chapter 2

Harley & the Joker learn more about what Ed has up his fabulous sleeve. Helena gets a visit from a friend of her father’s before date night.

Theme 👇🎧

Read Chapter 2 on AO3 or FFN ♦️♦️

Master List Here.

Please review! 😘

(Guest Staring @dreadart, @jokermolester & @vanessavanjiemateoo)

[jokermolester]

Happy Pride Month y’all 😏🌈

[jokermolester]

I-

[jokermolester]

Way too pretty to be evil

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[jokermolester]

It’s silly but I had an urge

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[jokermolester]

Archie gets it.

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[jokermolester]

Is the Joker really crazy?

Someone who is truly crazy can not tell right from wrong, or control their actions. Joker however knows the things he does are wrong, painful, and destructive. He just doesn’t care. We’ve all seen that he’s perfectly capable of self control too. He just doesn’t want to.

Don’t get me wrong, Joker is a sick man. He is not someone to be identified as “normal”, and not only because of his mental illnesses and anti-social tendencies, but also because of his genius and the way his brain operates.

He has become a man so broken he is beyond repair. A man so sick that he has become infectious, a disease. A man poisoning everything and everyone around him. A man poisoned by himself.

So yes, he’s different, but is different crazy? Or is crazy just a disguise for him to justify his unspeakable acts. Killing, raping, torturing, maiming, destroying.

Is it possible that he was trying to convince the Batman and himself in the Killing Joke that it was possible to go crazy with just one bad day?

Can it be because deep down he knew that he was always rotten?

Not to say that he’s all black, but I’m pretty sure that the white he once had drained from his body from the moment he jumped off that abyss.

Of course it’s easy for people to just put the crazy label on him and carry on with their lives without any anxiety.

Because otherwise, it would mean that a man, flesh and bones, sweat and piss, a man who eats, sleeps, breathes, bleeds. A man just like us, can be this evil. It would mean that anyone could be like him. They would just need one bad day to snap.

And maybe this “snap” in question doesn’t necessarily mean losing your mind, but maybe it’s just the sound of the strings popping that hold all of us back.

Maybe it means that humans are fundamentally evil and a skinny pale dude with makeup was the only one smart enough to accept this and set himself free.

But no matter how euphoric freedom may be, it’s better to hold onto our strings, and just let the Joker hide behind the word crazy while he infects the whole world like the disease he is.

God, I love him.

To further prove that the asshole isn’t crazy but just evil:

Well... you get the point.

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[jokermolester]

A rare picture of Heath Ledger. Look at that smile. Look at that “yo/peace” sign. Look at those socks. Look at the smile again. AGH!

I can’t stop staring at this, so enjoy.

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[jokermolester]

Found this tune called “why is there so many hot boys using my audio” so I had to make an edit to it with the hottest boy I know

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[jokermolester]

When people think of classical music, they think pretty and elegant. But if they’d take some time to explore, they’d see that it can also be violent, chilling, and even vulgar. Which are pretty good fits for the Joker in my book.

This was one of my first edits but still remains as a favorite of mine.

There is just something so right about Sibelius and Joker.

Let’s see if you agree 👀

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[jokermolester]

Just fuck already.

[jokermolester]

This is the kinda photoshoot I imagine Joker and Harley doing during their waiting period.

I’m seeing J crouched in the corner in his boxers, ciggarette in mouth, squinting from one eye, unnecessarily serious as he gives directions.

[jokermolester]

[jokermolester]

I really love this one. It’s basically him being an absolute fucking legend for 6 minutes straight.

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