Childhood Friends and Adult Foes - A Prompt List

Anonymous said: Ahhhh your prompts are A M A Z I N G. could you do some where the villain becomes the possessive hero’s prisoner?? maybe they were close friends years ago???

Anonymous said: Lol so i loved your prompts of villains taking care of their sick heroes. Could we have heroes taking care of their sick villain? Extra points if the villain is whiny and clingy xd

wanderingmind18 said:Hello! Could you do a prompt where a hero helps an injured/sick villain or vice versa? If that’s already been done, then sorry for asking twice but can you please direct me to it? Thank you so much! Your prompts are always inspirational :)

Anonymous said:more hero and villain childhood friends prompts? 

1) “I promised I’d save you,” the hero said. 
The villain glared up at them, expression edged feral and desperate. “I don’t want your help! I don’t need your help! There’s nothing wrong with me.” 
“They’d kill you if they caught you, after what you’ve done,” the hero said, as if they hadn’t even heard the villain. “So for your own safety, I’m going to keep you here for a while.” They knelt down, looking at earnestly at their enemy, cupping hold of their face. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”
“If you wish that - fucking uncuff me!”

2) The hero looked down at the villain, pallid on the bed, bent over and wracked with coughs that hacked through their lungs so hard it made tears spring to their eyes. They couldn’t help reaching out, rubbing their back, fussing over pillows, stroking their hair. They couldn’t help noticing, too, the way that the villain melted into touches with fever-glazed eyes. Docile. Nasty as anything otherwise, when they felt so wretched, but instantly docile at a touch. It would be very wrong to feel powerful. Not proper. And yet - they wished it was that easy to render their enemy harmless normally.

3) “Don’t look at me like that,” the villain rasped. They appeared utterly pitiful - hair lank and greasy, eyes bagged, nose blocked and reddened, shivering with temperature. “Like we’re still friends. We’re not friends. Don’t do this. I don’t need your help!”
“Of course you don’t,” the hero agreed placidly. “This isn’t help, it’s guard duty. You’re no use to us dead.” And if that was a truth, but not the whole truth, they looked away. Tried not to be hopelessly reminded of the young kid they used to know, because oh the villain seemed so much younger like this. 

4) “You forget, I know you.”
“You think-” 
“-I know you,” the hero said, more fiercely now, flatly. “I know how you think, your fears, your dreams, your first crush. I was your best friend. So drop the fucking act and tell me what the hell you’re playing at that or I’m calling your mother.” 
The villain gaped at that. 

5) “How exactly did you manage to wangle getting me into your custody?”
“Save the world once, people will give you anything you want,” the hero said. “Perhaps you should have tried it.”
“Anything in the world you could have and you picked me? I’m flattered,” the villain purred to hide their unease. “Feeling guilty that you didn’t nip me in the bud back when we were kids?”
“Guilty? No,” the hero said. “But you are my responsibility, and you know I take my responsibilities seriously.”
 It sounded rather like a threat and the villain shifted. “Ah, you shouldn’t have. Wouldn’t want to put you out. I’m sure there’s plenty of prisons you could come and visit me in to perform your heroic duties.”
“Plenty of prisons you can escape from, you mean?” The hero tugged them inside. “Nah, I think I’ll keep you. The world doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“But you do?”
The hero smiled. 

in black

oh devious me, void of heart
& purely foul demeanor!

i have commissioned a portrait
of the most vile of humanity,

i have created a throne
of hollow hymns,
of fluting bone,
for the subject
of evil perversity
to thereupon pose,

i have allowed myself
the pleasure
of sleeping with each
of his succubi (

gods, the wondrous violence!

) to collect all
of their dark fluids
for our paint.

i have shattered
every source of illumination
just to give shards
& bloody dust
to a hopeless atmosphere -

a perfect, strangling blackness
for the canvas background.


there is no painting.

there is no art here!

all that i have framed is you,
& (

while you were enthralled
by the trompe l'oeil

) i have already

it hangs,
in my empty basement.

Neighbours - Part Ten: Tommy Shelby

The Introductions

Part One | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven |

- Warning for racist comments -

My mother returns from America full of stories and gifts, her face bright and excited while father and I sit opposite her nodding along.

“So Georgiana, is there anything new with you?” she says, finally turning to me, her perfect eyebrows raised. I know what she’s really asking, ‘have you found yourself a man’ and my blood boils.

Keep reading

following fire

What does it look like
To watch childhood hollow
To feel a heart harden
And soul to follow

From lighting sparklers in the driveway on the Fourth of July
To giggling at mushroom clouds in the sky

Blossoming guile
Shriveling conscience
The danger of dissent
Daring and dauntless

High over all, remember how it feels
Getting stuck at the top of stopped Ferris wheels

Whatever it takes
For the world to submit
Enchanting incantations
Wangling wit

One who once made cards and wrote letters to mother
Now searching faces for favors and attention from others

The heart wants to believe it’s made the right choice
Rejecting the past
Finding its own voice

Call it empowerment
Call it maturity
In the end, still taking cues from

No truth was discovered
So the soul will stay empty


Moonlit waves swoop like seagulls
Crash like angels falling
The ache pummeled burden held too long

Waves like beaks laden, coming
With lacteal fur-lined robes

My hair salted scorpions!
Swarm me, sting me, stagger back
Poisoned with chimerical power
No soul, a body, alone

Bow! I hack homage to shreds
Wangling ‘til my longing fills


You're All the Proof I Need

I hear people talk,
Saying you wangle
Your way into my heart.
But I’m a grown woman
With enough smarts
To see through such things.

What you do is prove
Day by day, touch by touch,
That your devotion
Is no mere ruse.
If they could only see
How your eyes light up
When they find mine,
Crinkling with your smile
Every. Single. Time.
And hear the way you speak
To me, so freely
But still respectfully,
Your voice rich with adoration
Even when we disagree.

And who are they
To say anyway?
They devote no more
Than a hurried “Hello,
How are you?” to me
Once in a blue moon…
So they have about as much right
Giving me advice for my life
As a penguin would to a baboon.

They are on the far fringes,
Too outside to know the truth–
Which is that while they may
Have a place in my heart always,
You take up more acreage
Than they ever have or will.

Rolling Stone Magazine, August 30, 1984

Prince Reigns

Satyr or shy boy? Shaman or skilled manipulator? The contradictions within rock’s most controversial superstar dominate his dazzling new movie — and, it seems, the artist himself

By Kurt Loder

PRINCE HAS COME. IT IS A WARM summer morning in the Minneapolis suburb of Eden Prairie, and a black-clad rider on a purple Honda has just pulled up to a nondescript modern warehouse on Flying Cloud Drive. Inside, a photographer is waiting. He has flown in from Toronto with an assistant and most of the contents of his studio to photograph Prince for the cover of this magazine. A standard rock-star shoot, he figures, scoping out the concert-size rehearsal stage, the costume room, the banks of musical equipment. 

When Prince walks in, the first thing the photographer notices is how small he is: he seems slight even in his five-inch stiletto-heel boots. He is wearing a dramatic black hat, a skintight black shirt open to the navel and tight black trousers ringed with ruffles from the knees down. He is carefully unshaven — only his cheekbones have been scraped smooth, then caked with makeup — for that stylish New Wave-wino look. He seems to be saying something: Hi? He speaks so softly that the photographer actually has to lean down to within several inches of his face to hear him. He is making it quietly clear that, while he has agreed to pose for the cover, he will not pose for any photos for the magazine’s inside pages. To be completely frank, he really doesn’t even want to do the cover, but. … The photographer presses ahead, flourishing concepts and assetting his magazine’s insistence on a white backdrop for the photo. Ach! Prince had his heart set on hot pink. The session gets off to an uneasy start.

It is decided to wheel in the purple Honda, a perfect prop. The motorcycle is a central visual ornament of Purple Rain, Prince’s custom-tailored movie debut — a picture with so much prerelease “top spin,” as they say in Hollywood, that the media, anticipating a major sleeper, have been abasing themselves for weeks in the hope of wangling interviews with the recalcitrant star. But Prince does not do interviews anymore. He is, however, full of advice about camera angles and poses, and the photographer fights back a gathering urge to whack him with a light meter. Quickly, he snaps off some preliminary test shots with a Polaroid. Prince seems to approve of the results, then slips away while the photographer makes some final lighting adjustments. An assistant appears and carefully confiscates the seven Polaroids. When Prince returns, he seems restless and even more remote. He’s decided he doesn’t like the original setup, so they do another Polaroid, a full-length shot. Prince disappears again. The photographer hears the sound of drums and cymbals being bashed in another room. Then silence. After half an hour, the assistant reappears and announces that he’s just driven his employer home. Prince, he says, is extremely sensitive: “He actually gets physically ill at having his picture taken.”

On his way out, the photographer can’t help but hurl a silent curse at the warehouse walls. They are lined with photographs — blowups, big ones. All studies of the same smooth, unsmiling features, the same inscrutable sensuality and unfathomable flamboyance. All of them dominated by those liquid, Keane-kid eyes. All of them pictures of Prince.

JUST WHO IS THIS SELF-ENVELOPED STAR? HOW IS IT THAT he’s outselling both Bruce Springsteen and the mighty Jacksons in the record racks? What sort of monumental chutzpah must it take to step away from rock videos and make a feature-length movie — one based on the hopes and deepest fears of your own brief life? How accurate is the portrait so exuberantly painted by Purple Rain? How much painful truth remains hidden beneath its often dazzling exterior?

The picture one acquires of this twenty-six-year-old wonderkid from scanning his songs and canvassing his colleagues and acquaintances is murky and uncertain — which is the way he wants it. As Owen Husney, his first manager, once advised him, “Controversy is press.” And Prince, for all his vaunted reclusiveness, has certainly been controversial. Husney started the mystique ball rolling in 1977, trimming two years off his protégé’s age and obscuring his full name. But Prince — Prince Rogers Nelson, actually, born in Minneapolis on June 7th, 1958 — had his own ways of getting attention. Raised in an overwhelmingly white environment, he became as adept at playing hard, guitar-based rock & roll as he was at funkier black styles. (In early interviews, he also emphasized a multiracial background — half-Italian father, mixed-blood mother — even though, by most reports, both his parents are light-skinned blacks.) And then there was his frankly lubricious sexuality, relatively subtle at first, but later leading him to perform in heavy makeup, bikini briefs and thigh-hugging leg warmers, singing songs with such single-entendre titles as “Head.”

These ploys got him noticed, all right. But to most of the record-buying public — even as he began spinning off such provocative satellite groups from his hometown as the Time (led by his favorite foil, Morris Day) and the all-girl Vanity 6- Prince was, and remains, essentially a mystery. In fact, about the only thing on which his friends — and even his foes — agree is that Prince appears to be the genuine article: a musical genius. And not since the Fifties, when that accolade was applied to Ray Charles, has the term seemed so attractively apt.

Signed by Warner Bros. Records in 1977 on the basis of an astonishing one-man-band demo tape, Prince was awarded what is said to be the most lucrative contract ever offered by the company to an unknown artist (“Well over a million dollars,” claims Husney) and was granted near-total creative leeway in the recording studio. He wrote all the music, played practically every instrument, produced all nine tracks and delivered an album, For You, that kicked off with an ethereal, gospel-drenched mélange of a cappella voices (all Prince’s), concluded with a screaming rock-guitar feature, touched down in between on a carnal classic called “Soft and Wet” and was dedicated to “God.” But For You was not a commercial triumph: six years after its release, that first Prince LP has yet to sell 400,000 copies and remains his least-known album.

He’s been riding a rocket to the top ever since, however. His next three records — Prince, the groundbreaking Dirty Mind and the even more successful Controversy — all went gold (sales of 500,000 copies). And then, late in 1982, came the dazzling 1999, a double-record set that has sold nearly 3 million copies and is still on the pop charts more than ninety weeks after its release. The album fairly bristled with hits — the title track, “Delirious,” the masterfully metaphorical “Little Red Corvette.” In the view of Warner Bros., it marked the long-awaited point at which Prince’s seamless fusion of white rock & roll and black dance-funk became commercially undeniable; and it was seen as setting the stage for Prince’s next album to create the kind of cultural explosion that traditionally heralds the arrival of a true superstar.

But there was one unknown and slightly troubling factor in this commercial equation: along with his sixth album, to be titled Purple Rain, Prince would deliver a feature-length movie of the same name. Filming had begun in Minneapolis last November 1st, and details of the project were not such as to excite keen anticipation among music-biz moneymen. The director, Albert Magnoli, had never been in charge of a feature before. The cast, including all five members of Prince’s band in key roles, had, with only two exceptions, no acting experience. The tight budget ($7 million) and rushed shooting schedule (seven weeks) did not augur well for stellar production values. And, of course, who ever heard of making a movie in Minneapolis? In the winter, yet? In addition, the script was said to be … autobiographical?

WILLIAM BLINN KNEW NOTHING ABOUT PRINCE, REALLY, when he was approached roughly two years ago about writing the script for a very vaguely conceived movie in which the singer would star. But Blinn, a mild, middle-aged man who’d written such Emmy-winning tube fare as Brian’s Song and a Roots segment, had reason to be interested in the task, proffered by Prince’s management company, Cavallo, Ruffalo and Fargnoli. At the time, Blinn was executive producer of the Fame series, and there was some doubt as to whether it would be renewed for a third season. A screenplay would be a handy diversion. What did the managers have in mind, exactly?

That was unclear. Prince had been jotting down ideas in a purple notebook for some time, and one night out on the road, he told Steve Fargnoli: this is great and all, but there must be something else. He wanted to do a movie. Unfortunately, Fargnoli knew little about the moviemaking business. With his partners, Bob Cavallo and Joe Buffalo, he managed music acts, including such major attractions as Weather Report and Earth, Wind and Fire. But Prince was the one. they all knew it. Prince could do anything: why not a movie? Fargnoli shopped the pitch around to some major studios — got a black kid here who most ticket-buying citizens have never heard of who wants to make a movie about himself with some friends in Minneapolis — and got a lot of laughs. But he was unfazed. The managers would finance the film themselves. But they needed a script.

Blinn first met with Prince and Fargnoli at an Italian restaurant in Hollywood. He immediately knew there’d be strange days ahead. “I never met anyone in the world who ordered spaghetti with tomato sauce and orange juice to drink,” he recalls. “He’s definitely got his own drummer going.” As they talked about the movie, Blinn found that Prince was “not conversationally accessible. He’s not purposefully face-to-the-wall, but casual conversation is not what he’s good at. It was as if I asked someone what they wanted for dinner, and they said they weren’t sure, but they’d like it to have some tomatoes in it, and some beef, and some onions. And I’d say, ‘I think we’re talking about beef stew here.’”

During a meeting at Prince’s home — a purple but otherwise unremarkable two-story affair situated on a lake in a well-to-do suburb several miles southwest of Minneapolis — Blinn realized that an important part of the story Prince was trying to formulate concerned his father, John L. Nelson, a piano player who had led a Minneapolis jazz trio in the Fifties under the name Prince Rogers. Nelson had separated from his wife, a singer, when Prince was seven, leaving a piano behind for his son to learn to play. The father, who reportedly still lived in Minneapolis, obviously remained a troubling figure.

“He was semicommunicative about his dad,” says Blinn. “He played me some of his father’s music on the piano, and when he played, and when he talked about his father’s life, you could tell that his father is very key in what he’s about. It was as if he were sorting out his own mystery — an honest quest to figure himself out. He saved all the money on shrinks and put it in the movie.”

Blinn began pounding out a script called Dreams, a dark story in which the parents of the Kid — the character to be played by Prince — were both dead, the mother dispatched by the father, who in turn killed himself. Prince’s Minneapolis music scene was in there, too, and so was the beautiful Vanity, lead crumpet with Vanity 6. Born in Ontario of Scottish and Eurasian parents (her original name was Denise Matthews), Vanity had been a model and sometime nudie actress who, under the name D.D. Winters, appeared in such Canadian-made films of the early Eighties as Terror Train and Tanya’s Island. Vanity was also Prince’s girlfriend — or one of them — and in Dreams, she was to play the stabilizing influence in the Kid’s otherwise chaotic life.

Blinn’s story was beginning to sound very much like Prince’s life. Following his parents’ breakup, Prince had been bounced from mother to father to an aunt and finally, at age thirteen, of his own volition, into the home of Mrs. Bernadette Anderson, the mother of his best (and at the time, she says, only) friend. Prince and André Anderson had both attended a local Seventh-Day Adventist church as young children, and they shared a consuming interest in music. It was with André (and a young drummer named Morris Day) that Prince organized his first band. Grand Central. “Music is obviously a cloak and a shield and a whole bunch of things for him,” says Blinn. “It’s a womb.”

Halfway through the second draft of Dreams, Prince told Blinn he wanted the word purple in the title. “At first, I thought it was a kind of strange request,” Blinn says. “But he really identifies with purple. There’s a whole dark, passionate, foreboding quality to the color and to what he does. Yet there’s a certain royalty to it, too.”

After finishing a second draft of the script, Blinn got word that Fame had been renewed for a third season, and so he returned to television-land, leaving the Prince management team with a script of sorts, but no director. After seeing a film called Reckless, they approached its young director, James Foley, and asked if he’d be interested in Purple Rain. He wasn’t, but he recommended his friend, Al Magnoli, who had edited Reckless.

At first, the thirty-one-year-old Magnoli wasn’t interested. Nevertheless, he agreed to meet with Bob Cavallo for breakfast one morning. Cavallo asked him what he thought the Prince team should do. Magnoli tried to be helpful. “I said, "This is what I would do’ — and right there I told him the entire story. It just came out. I knew they had this character Prince, the script had introduced me to this other character, Morris, and I knew that there was a girl in the middle. So it was like: where do you go with this? And I said Prince should do this, and Morris should do this, and Vanity should be this kind of girl and not this other thing in the script. And then the mother and father — and all of a sudden the world was shaped. And within ten minutes, I had convinced myself that this would be an extremely exciting film to make.”

Cavallo liked what he heard, and Magnoli felt the stirrings of a buzz. He agreed to fly to Minneapolis. “The minute I met Prince, I realized that I hadn’t gone far enough. That because of the nature of this person, I could go much further into the private sort of area. We had dinner, and he let me speak for about twenty-five minutes, and I began working off what was emanating from him. And I got very involved with the parents at that point: the father became a musician, the mother became sort of a woman wandering the streets, things like that. I was just basically watching the person in front of me, just feeling what that was all about. And at the end, he said okay, let’s take a ride. So we took a ride, and he looked at me and he said, 'I don’t get it. This is the first time I’ve met you, but you’ve told me more about what I’ve experienced than anybody in my life.’”

Magnoli told Prince that if he was willing to reveal the emotional truths of this material, of the character that they would create, then the movie could be made. Prince agreed, so Magnoli went to Minneapolis for a month and hung out with the people who would populate the film: Prince and his band (now to be called the Revolution), Morris Day and his group, the Time, the women in Vanity 6. Then he locked himself in a room for three weeks and completely rewrote Blinn’s script.

In the completed Purple Rain, the Kid is an up-and-coming attraction at the First Avenue & 7th Street Entry Club, where he revels in his burgeoning musical powers despite the derision of the club’s manager and the petty humiliations inflicted by a hilariously snide headliner played (to near perfection) by Morris Day. Offstage, though, the Kid is miserable, plagued by his parents’ incessant domestic rows, increasingly alienated from his own band members (whose musical offerings he ignores) and awkward and inarticulate in his pursuit of a beautiful new—arrival on the scene called Apollonia (the part originally intended for Vanity). When Apollonia announces her intention of joining a girl group being assembled by Day — for the express purpose of dislodging the Kid from his slot at the club — the Kid, like his bitterly abusive father, lashes out at the woman he loves. Meanwhile, Morris Day and Billy, the club manager, keep up a steady assault on the Kid’s fragile ego, chorusing just the sort of criticisms that have been directed at Prince himself over the years. (“Nobody digs your music but your—self,” says Billy. “Ya long-haired faggot!” screams Day.) Following an explosive encounter with his father, the Kid redeems himself with Apollonia and blows away all professional competition at a climactic concert at the club. It’s not a happily-ever-after ending, exactly, but when Prince and his band dig into the luminous title tune at the end, a definite feeling of uplift is imparted.

“We are now in an era where films should in a sense have something uplifting going on,” says Magnoli. “We’ve gotten away from the antihero of the Sixties and early Seventies, where films ended sort of with a thought and a dismal aspect, like: Okay, we’re in the gutter. We wanted to say: Life’s a bitch, but wow, if you can just get it together. …”

PATTY KOTERO — OR PATTY APOLLONIA KOTERO, AS she currently calls herself — is kneeling on the floor of her immaculately tidy West Hollywood apartment, picking through a pile of tape cassettes. David Bowie, Eddie Murphy, Thomas Dolby — ah, there it is. She reaches up toward a small stack of stereo equipment arrayed against the wall, and suddenly the room is filled with the sound of cool, autumnal piano chords. It is “Father’s Song,” a haunting instrumental piece composed by Prince’s father and performed by Prince. In Minneapolis, during the hectic shooting of Purple Rain, Patty had trouble getting to sleep each night. At five o'clock one morning, she remembers, Prince appeared at her door.

“He said, 'I’ve got something for you.’ I said, 'Yeah?’” She pops her eyes in mock suspicion. “He said, 'You’ve been having trouble sleeping. Here.’ And he gave me this tape. It’s better than a glass of milk and honey.”

As the tape plays, Patty’s gaze drifts upward and fixes on a large, framed promotional portrait of Prince that’s propped atop the stereo. It’s enough to give one the feeling of having wandered into a private prayer grotto, a tiny temple to the Great Man.

Until last summer, Kotero was just another young L. A. photo model. Then, across the country, in Minneapolis one day, a woman named Vanity walked away from her projected part in Purple Rain. No one will say why she left — rumors range around money, ego and a faded relationship with the film’s diminutive star — but it was Patty who was chosen as her replacement. A casting call had gone out for a woman who met certain requirements, some of them physical. Through her agent, Patty obtained an audition and quickly hied herself out to Minneapolis. Although her own personality is sweeter and considerably more wholesome than that projected by Vanity, the two women are obviously interchangeable within the cartoon context of the character, Vanity/Apollonia is a walking Penthouse wet dream of billowing breasts and plushly upholstered contours, her sultry face, framed by gleaming cascades of raven hair, a frank invitation to frolic.

One criticism of Purple Rain is that it’s insufferably sexist. All of the young women in the picture are inexplicably addicted to décolleté and in many cases wear nothing but the skimpiest lingerie. In one scene, Apollonia is subjected to considerable humiliation in the course of a skinny-dipping interlude at a lake, and in another sequence, Morris Day has a troublesome girlfriend chucked into a trash dumpster by his fawning aide, Jerome.

Though Prince’s female fantasies obviously run in the direction of impossibly pliant sex cookies, in Purple Rain, this attitude toward women is condemned through the character of Day, for whom the women in Apollonia 6 (nee Vanity 6) are simply “the bitches,” assumed to be sexually available after taking a few slugs from his silver hip flask. Since it was actually Prince who invented and produced Vanity 6, the film indicates that he is at least aware of his own worst concept of women.

There are also two women in Prince’s band, and while they too tend to hang out of their dresses a lot (and Prince has concocted an oblique lesbian aura around their relationship), their main purpose is musical. Keyboardist Lisa Coleman and guitarist Wendy Melvoin are lifelong friends, the daughters of two veteran L.A. sessionmen (their fathers both played keyboards on the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations”). Lisa is a classically trained pianist, and Wendy is a longtime jazz student who first attracted Prince’s attention when she peeled off an elaborate jazz chord in his presence after a show one night and later won her funk wings during an extended jam with the man on James Brown’s “Body Heat.”

“The idea of integration is important to Prince,” says Lisa. “To me and the rest of the band, too. It’s just good fate that it’s worked out as well as it has — you know, the perfect couple of black people, the perfect couple of white people, couple of girls, couple of Jews. Whatever. He’s chosen the people in his band because of their musical abilities, but it does help to have two female musicians who are competent.”

In the past, Prince has used his band largely to flesh out onstage the music he wrote, played and produced on his own in the studio. Like the Kid in Purple Rain, though, Prince is now allowing other musicians to contribute to his music. Five of the nine songs on the new album were recorded by the full band, and Lisa and Wendy even get cowriting credit — the ultimate rarity, even though it’s noted only in the film credits, not on the LP — for “Computer Blue.”

“He loves those people,” says Apollonia, “He cares for them, and they care for him.” She crosses the room to a small couch. In her black slacks and plain white top she seems prettier, her face softer, than in the movie. But her dark beauty — both her parents were born in Mexico, but she describes herself as “a Latin-German Jew” — and extravagant figure would seem to suit Prince just fine. Has she also replaced Vanity in the little guy’s affections?

“I don’t kiss and tell,” she says with practiced coyness. “He loves his women, but music comes first. He is married to his music. You can’t compete with it.”

With music, Prince seems to find his most perfect union. Apollonia remembers seeing him in the studio, her oblivious mentor, lost in sound. “It looks like he’s in there in his own spaceship, his own capsule, just taking off, and the sky’s the limit.” She clasps a hand to her heart. “I still pinch myself every morning and say my prayers at night, and thank the good Lord someone’s breathing in my direction.”

RELIGIOUS IMPULSES IN ROCK usually have taken the form either of woozy Easternalia or grating fundamentalist harangues. The musicians in Prince’s orbit share an unlabored, though still deeply felt faith in God. Prince himself has dedicated all six of his albums to the Deity; and out on the road, before each show, he joins hands with his musicians in prayer. There’s an instrumental “love theme” in Purple Rain that’s simply titled “God” (it’s not on the LP), and the album itself is rife with messianic overtones, from the opening sermon of “Let’s Go Crazy” to the suggestively titled “I Would Die 4 U,” in which Prince sings, “I’m not a human/I am a dove/I am your conscious/I am love.” When the album appeared, Bill Aiken, a production staffer at MTV in New York, noticed a snippet of backward dialogue tacked onto the end of the song “Darling Nikki” — the record’s most brazenly salacious track. Reversing it on tape, Aiken discovered a message from Prince: “Hello. How are you? I’m fine. Because I know the Lord is coming soon, coming soon.”

The strange dichotomy between Prince’s compulsive carnality and his spiritual yearnings apparently isn’t puzzling to those who’ve gotten close to him. “He’s a man apart in many ways,” says William Blinn. “But his whole sexual attitude is positive. It’s: This is good, this represents growth, life.”

Not everyone, however, is convinced that Prince is cognizant of his own contradictions. One New York actress who auditioned for the Apollonia role in Purple Rain (and who asked that her name not be used — a common request in the Prince orbit) expressed shock at the things she was asked to do. “I turned it down,” she says. “It was way too pornographic for me. I mean, they had stuff in the script that I wouldn’t even let my boyfriend do to me in my own bedroom.”

Prince looked the actress up during a subsequent visit to Manhattan, and she found him alternately brilliant and pathetic. “He’s got a lot of hang-ups,” she says. “He means well, and he’s genuinely talented, but he’s got a lot of problems. He’s really hung up on God, for one thing. I think he thinks he’s related to God in some way.”

One day, the woman says, she coerced Prince into accompanying her to the American Museum of Natural History to see a celebrated exhibition called Ancestors. “The show of the century,” she says. “All these Neanderthal skulls, and how we evolved from apes and stuff, right? And he just wouldn’t believe any of it. I said, 'Come on, you don’t believe in that Adam and Eve crap, do you?’ He just blankly stared back at me.

"There is a real dichotomy between his sexual hang-ups and God and the Bible,” the woman concludes. “I mean, he’s not leading a godly life. At least I don’t pretend to lead one. But that is the most important thing in his life, God.”

EVEN WITH GOD ON HIS SIDE, though, Prince seems a strangely solitary figure. In his pursuit of the success his talents so richly justify, he has ruptured a succession of once-important personal relationships. Bassist André Anderson, his closest boyhood friend, was the first to leave Prince’s band, followed by guitarist Dez Dickerson. Prince fired bassist Terry Lewis and keyboardist Jimmy Jam from the Time, and keyboardist Monte Moir soon left of his own accord to join them. Recently it’s been rumored that Morris Day — whose wild comic persona is more immediately charismatic than Prince’s own — may be leaving the Time. (Inquisitive observers are told it’s not true, but Day, for some reason, cannot be produced to confirm that contention.)

“I maintain we came out better in the end, for all we went through,” says former Minneapolis studio owner Chris Moon, who started Prince off by giving the sixteen-year-old prodigy the keys to Moon Sound studio and getting a manager for him. On the other hand, Moon adds, “Prince may have come out worse off than us. He’s gotta be one very lonely guy. I mean, he’s left a long trail of broken hearts and broken egos behind him.”

Unencumbered by his problematic past, Prince rises higher and higher in the pop-cultural firmament. Who’s to say the trade-off hasn’t made him happy? For the Purple Rain premiére at L.A.’s Chinese Theatre last month, he personally summoned a swarm of the superstars who are now his peers to come and pay homage. And another time, after both Prince and Michael Jackson joined James Brown for jams onstage at L.A.’s Beverly Theatre, the Godfather of Soul was heard to exclaim, “Look out, Michael!” This is what’s called arriving. Whether or not that big limo in the sky he’s pursued for so long has turned out to be otherwise empty is a matter for Prince to ponder in the splendid isolation to which he’s now entitled.

“It’s hard to have that much power and have close friends,” William Blinn reflects. “It’s tough for him. But if he does not have close friends, then neither do I feel that his solitude is threatening or harmful to him. Some people … well, you know, the four-in-the-morning phone call: "I’m alone, what do I do?’ I think Prince is perfectly capable of handling it. He might make that phone call, and he might be alone. But he knows what to do.”

anonymous asked:

You wanted asks, you've got 'em Write me MSR - family holiday (Scully family) bill hates Mulder trope. Never gets old.

You asked for it, you got it! 

Also this got out of hand and I couldn’t stop writing it. I’m sorry. I’ve definitely had to put a Keep Reading insert in because it’s so damn long, but it opens on my computer and on an internet page on my phone. Here’s hoping it works for you. Also I can’t believe I’m writing about Christmas in July. 

This contains spoilers for HTGSC, Emily and the cancer arc. @2momsmakearight I think this is for you!

Mulder jolted awake, his heart pounding as he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He’d fallen asleep sitting upright on the sofa, which explained the kink in his neck and dull ache in his back. He was getting too old for this. As he came to his senses, memories of the previous evening came flooding back. Luring Scully out to the haunted house to go ghostbusting with him on Christmas Eve; saying goodnight to her before they both got into their respective cars to drive home, thinking that would be the last he saw of her until after the holiday; his partner turning up on his doorstep a few hours later, unable to sleep and wanting company; the two of them exchanging gifts on the couch, talking for what felt like hours until Scully nodded off. As her head gravitated towards Mulder’s shoulder he watched her sleep until finally tiredness overcame him and he joined her in slumber. Only now he was awake, and Scully was nowhere to be seen. He tried not to be too disappointed that she’d left without saying goodbye, but then he cast his mind back to the previous evening, when she’d explained she was going to have an early start at her mom’s house on Christmas morning. He counted himself lucky she even agreed to spend Christmas Eve with him, even if he did have to hide her car keys to convince her to do so.

Keep reading

inesherlock  asked:

I searched in the tags but I can't seem to find a fic that corresponds so is there any chance you know a fic with actor Steve and Bucky is his artistic agent? Thank you for your wonderful work!

i only know one where bucky is an actor and steve is his publicist? it’s  The Comeback Kid by emphasisonem :D

but for general actor steve fics:

Starbucks Is Canon by 74days

Bucky’s been trying to book Captain America actor Steve Rogers on his show for longer than he can remember. But when the actor does agree, he’s not expecting their first meeting to be quite so… well documented… by social media.

the Steve Rogers problem by relenafanel

Bucky doesn’t consider his Steve Rogers problem as a problem so much as the solution he hadn’t realized he was hoping for to help him through the transition from the Bucky Barnes he’d been before his accident to the new, shiny version of himself.

No, the problem isn’t with Captain America and The Howling Commandos fandom.

The problem is the amount of porn Bucky managed to write and draw about Captain America before finding out that he’s less than one degree of separation away from Steve Rogers. ‘Less than’ as in he’s sitting across the table from him.

I’m Your Biggest Fan by LadyAJ_13

Bucky Barnes has been Steve Rogers’ number one fan since he first appeared on 'Take Two’, aged 12. Now Clint’s wangled meet and greet tickets for the two of them, but its not so easy to step from fantasy to reality…

Catfish by L1av

Steve Rogers is a famous movie star, known for his role as Captain America. Bucky Barnes is a bored law student who drinks too much wine. Bucky gets on to boost his confidence. What he doesn’t expect is a guy using Steve Rogers’ pictures on a dating profile. Bucky decides to mess with the guy. After all, what idiot uses Steve Rogers’ pictures on a dating site?

Not like it’s really him, right? Bucky may need more wine.

The Hardest Blows by CaptainHoney

Bucky was headed for glory as an Olympic champion boxer, before WWII changed everything. Now he’s washed up and dead eyed, rattling around Brooklyn and fighting in illegal bare knuckle matches.
Years after the war has ended an actor called Steve Rogers sees him fight. Months later, Bucky gets a call inviting him to L.A. to work on a film, and he finds something worth fighting for.

xennariel  asked:

7, 15, or 30 for royai for the cuddling prompts?

Thank you so much Xen. I wanted to do all three. I settled for the cramped space instead, but I do want to do the others too, so …

This is smuttier than intended, but very tame. Hope you enjoy. <3

Riza curses as she rushes down the corridors of Western Command after her superior. He isn’t running, but he is walking at a brisk pace. They don’t have any time to dally about. They could be missed at the party at any time.

Roy has intelligence that Western Command has been compromised, and that one of the highest ranking officers is in cahoots with Drachma. When the opportunity presented itself in the form of a retirement party in Western, he couldn’t let it pass by. It was easy for an officer with Roy’s reputation to wangle an invite and a plus one. That was “Elizabeth” of course. Somehow, he had charmed an invitation for Jean and Rebecca too.

Riza winces as her new heels chafe at her feet. They look great with her long black dress, but they are hardly appropriate for anything more than a circle around the dance floor. She curses herself for letting Rebecca talk her into buying a new pair of shoes especially for the mission.

“Get your General all hot and bothered,” her friend had teased.

Riza had laughed it off at the time, but if she was honest she relished the way Roy’s jaw dropped when he picked her up for their “double date” with Jean and Rebecca.

“Hurry on, Lieutenant.” Roy stops and looks behind him.

He waits for for to catch up. His lips quirk as she stumbles a little and curses.

“Want to take off those torture devices?”

He offers her his arm, and she takes it. “Are you talking about my bra or my shoes?”

His eyes widen and he chuckles. “You know as much as I’d love for you to be running around naked, I think it would probably ruin our cover.”

“It’s hardly cover, sir. You were invited. I’m just your hot date.”

“Hot date,” he murmurs.

His eyes meet hers, and she is lost in them. He raises his hand and she holds her breath. She thinks he’s going to touch her face. Then he stops and sighs.

“I wish things could be different,” he says, his voice hoarse, “that we were different. That we never made those mistakes.”

She squeezes her eyes shut before opening them. “We shouldn’t do this right now. This isn’t the time or the place.”

He nods and they continue walking, this time in silence. When they turn the corner, Roy stops. He frowns and points up ahead.

“There - I think that’s it,” he says. “It would make sense at least according to the blueprints.”

The pair look around carefully before they head for the room. Roy opens the door slowly and looks inside.

He turns back to her. “It’s the right place.” He jerks his head towards the nameplate on the desk. He crosses the threshold and turns on the light.

“Like Falman would let us down,” Riza says to his back.

She follows him into the office and closes the door behind her. She leans against the door for a moment, palms pressed against it. Smiling, she watches Roy examine the files on the desk. He looks up and smiles. Her heart skips a beat.

Eyebrows arched, he says, “Are you going to help me or not?”

Crossing the room, she joins him at the desk. She opens the drawers to search for any files that may be hidden. There is nothing of interest there. They are looking for anything compromising. It would make sense if it wasn’t in plain sight. She’s not quite sure what he’s looking for, but she suspects he knows more than what he has shared with her.


She looks up, “Yes?”

He dips his head a little. “I didn’t get a chance to say it before, but you look gorgeous tonight.”

The “thank you” sticks in her throat and she simply nods. He looks good too.
Handsome. Hard to resist.

Why can’t we pretend for once?

The sound of footsteps and talking from the corridor interrupts her destructive reverie.

Roy curses, eyes darting around the room

“The closet,” she says. “Let’s hide in there!”

They realise their mistake the moment Riza opens the door. The closet is full of coats. There is barely enough room for the pair of them, and certainly not enough room to swing a cat. Roy hesitates, but Riza pulls him in after her. There is no time to choose another hiding place.

They stand chest to chest in the dark in between the coats. Riza’s breath catches in her throat and she can see the same discomfort in the way he stands.

He is close enough to kiss, she realises. They are close, so close. She imagines herself grabbing the lapels of his jacket and his lips meet hers.

Annoyed at her unprofessionalism, Riza tries to put a little distance between them, but she loses her balance.

Damn shoes.

Roy puts his hands on her shoulders to steady her. She noticed he keeps his hands there longer than necessary. Not that she minds. But she knows she should.

The door into the office creaks and they freeze. They daren’t breathe.

“I thought I left the light off,” a male voice says. “Now where is it?”

The only source of light in the closet is the crack from under the door. Shadows move across light. From the sounds, Riza guesses there are two men in the office.

Roy’s hand accidentally brushes against her thigh as he moves a coat. He jerks his hand away, but she grabs it and squeezes it.

She meets his eyes meaningfully. It’s alright. We need to keep quiet.

It’s hard to make Roy’s face out in the shadows, but she feels his body tense up like every muscle in his body is coiled and preparing for action. Her breath catches in her throat as his hands move up her arms. She immediately realises what he is doing when he pulls her towards him.

“Is this - uh - okay?” he whispers, his breath hot in her ear.

It takes her a second to realise what he said. She can see the uncertainty in his eyes.

No, she thinks, this is a terrible idea. But yes, she wants to. She’s afraid - afraid of herself and afraid of them. The intensity of her feelings for this man scare her senseless sometimes.

Still, she nods her head anyway and wraps her arms around him.

He’s right though; this is more comfortable than trying to avoid touching each other. It is safer like this, and more dangerous at the same time. Safer because they can avoid moving around, but dangerous because she won’t want to let him go.

If she gets a taste of him, will she still have the willpower to stay away? All this pretending is hard. Not just because she wants him, or because she needs him; she loves him, and as long as she can’t be one hundred percent certain he feels the same way, it’s a lot easier.

Riza wonders if he can hear her heart thudding in her chest, but she supposes he can feel it. They are very close together in a very compromising position after all. If Riza moves even a fraction sideways, she will brush against his groin.

Riza tries to ignore the way her skin is heating up at the thought.

Don’t think about it.

Her gaze goes downward even though she can’t see well enough. Blood is rushing to her face. She’s glad he can’t see the blush on her face.

The rustling in the other room has abated.

“Let’s go,” she hears one of the men say.

The click of the light switch leaves the closet in complete darkness for the first time.

Riza reaches for the door, but Roy catches her hand.

“Hang on,” he says quietly, “we need to be sure they’re gone. Let’s give it a few minutes.”

“So, what do we do if they come back?”

Roy furrows his brow, before breaking into a smile. “If we get caught, we can pretend we’re making out.”

“Nice try, sir, but I don’t think anybody would buy that. Who goes into a closet to make out when there’s a perfectly good desk in the other room?”

He laughs. “Good point.”

Her stomach flutters. Get it together, Riza.

She can feel the intensity of his gaze. She squashes down her desire and tries to get back to business.

“So, do you think there’s any point in looking for intelligence or should we call it quits?”

“He’s probably taken what we’re looking for, but we can’t leave without trying.”

The office door creaks once more. She feels Roy’s body freeze next to her. His hand tightens around her wrist. She moves closer to him almost without realising. They listen to the footfalls which stop just outside the closet door.

The door is about to open, and Riza does the only thing she can think of. She steps up on her tippy toes and kisses Roy. After briefly freezing in surprise, she feels him smile against her lips. The light shines into the closet and after a moment the door closes again.

Riza doesn’t even think about why the person would close the door and leave them there. She is completely lost in the moment. In him. And she knows he’s right there with her. Bodies pressed together, lips against lips, eyes shut.

Heaven. If there is a heaven, this is it.

She pulls back to get her breath.

“Why did they?”

Roy shakes his head, cups her face in his hands and kisses her again. And her curiosity is forgotten once more. Every nerve in her body sings.

Roy. Roy.

She opens her mouth to deepen the kiss. She pulls him closer, as close as she can. The kiss is soft and slow. Gentle kisses that make her hungry for more.

She runs her fingers through his hair and trails butterfly kisses along his jaw. She is intoxicated by the taste of him, how his body feels moulded against hers and how every touch sets her nerves ablaze.

The kisses grow more heated; her skin is on fire. She likes what she can do to him; the way he sighs against her skin and kisses her so hungrily. She moans as his fingers touch her bare skin of her arms before running along her spine, gentle but nimble. Her breaths come out in short pants as his hands explore her body.

I love you, she thinks. Do you want me as much as I want you?

There is something at the back of her mind trying to remind her that they are forgetting something important, but she pushes it away.

Roy manoeuvres them further back into the closet, pushing the coats out of trye way. The material is scratchy against Riza’s bare arms, but she pays no attention as he kisses her neck.

My turn.

Her fingers are under his shirt, tracing the bare skin above his trousers. She knows this is moving too fast, but she can’t stop. Want has displaced logic. She lifts up her head to allow him better access to her neck.

The shadows shift and she sees a smile on his face. Something is poking into her abdomen, and she grins.

“Gun in your pocket, or are you -ah- happy to see me?”

“I’m always happy to see you, but I think it’s my gun holster.”

She lets out a low moan as he kisses behind her ear, and he smothers it with another searing kiss to the lips.

There is a knock on the closet door and a cough. “Boss, the coast is clear.”

Spell broken, they freeze in each other’s arms and they stare at one another mouths gaping. Havoc?

“I hate to break up whatever’s going on in there,” Jean continues from the other side of the door, “but we’ve got to go. Becca must be having a canary out there. I’ve been waiting for you two to come out. I don’t want to have to come on there.”

“Just a moment,” Roy replies.

They reluctantly pull apart and the pair try to straighten up their clothes. Riza’s hands go to her swollen lips.  

What have we done? How could we be so careless? She looks over at his mussed hair. Can we do it again?

“Ready?” he says.

“Was he the one who opened the closet door?”

He rubs at the back of his neck, “I presume so.”

She sighs. “I thought you were going to say that. Best get it over and done with then.”

Roy inclines his head and opens the door. Jean is perched on the edge of the desk.

“We -uh- thought you were -uh-”

Roy’s stammering is rather adorable, she thinks as she steps out of the closet.

Jean’s eyebrow is raised. “I didn’t see much, Boss, but you can consider it forgotten. Don’t worry.”

“It was - we were playing our part and pretending to be -” Roy trailed off. “We thought you were one of the Western soldiers.”

Jean smirks and scoffs. “Sure, and what was all the moaning in the closet?”

Riza puts her head in her hands. Shit.

Roy pulls his shoulders up, but the imposing effect he is going for does not quite work as he’s straightening his suit jacket at the same time.

“Don’t talk about Hawkeye like that?” Roy’s voice is low and dangerous. “I know what you’re implying but you’re wrong.”

“Relax, Boss, I’m just kidding.” Jean holds his palms out. “If I didn’t know you better, I would suspect there was something you were trying to hide.”

“Havoc don’t try me! You don’t want to end up in front of a court martial.”

Jean shrugs his shoulders. “Well, I don’t think I’d be the one in front of a court martial.”

Riza flashes a warning look at Havoc, he’s really testing Roy’s patience; he’s starting to test hers.

Havoc drops his shoulders, “No offence intended to you, or Hawkeye. I’m just teasing. Besides, I didn’t see anything. It was too dark.”

“You can’t tell anyone, not even Catalina.” Glaring at Jean, Roy makes his way over to the desk.

“Especially not Rebecca,” Riza adds.

Oh no, he’s going to tell her everything!

Riza can just imagine Rebecca will never let her live this down ever.

Jean strands up. “I won’t tell her anything, but I’m sure she will put two and two together.”

“Let’s get what we came for,” Riza interjects before the two men can start bickering again.

Jean pats the breast pocket of his suit. “Already beat you to it, while you two were distracted.”

The three of them leave the office, where Rebecca is waiting in the corridor. She raises an eyebrow as they walk down the corridor.

Rebecca grabs Riza by the arm. “What took you so long?”

“We were hiding in a closet,” Riza says.

Rebecca looks from Riza to Roy, and her face lights up. “Oh no, you didn’t!”

“Yes - oh no, we didn’t,” Riza replies. “How did you know where we were?”

“We were walking through the corridor when we heard someone mention leaving the light on. So, Jean went in, and I kept watch.”

Roy coughs, and the two women turn to look at him. “I suppose we should return to the party for a little while. We can meet back at the hotel in two hours.”

“I need to visit the ladies room first.” She looks over her shoulder. “Lizzie?”

Riza just about refrains from rolling her eyes. “We’ll catch up with you at the party.”

She brushes Roy’s hand as she passes and follows her friend. She is not eager to be separated from him, but perhaps it’s for the best. She can get her head together, eliminate the fuzziness from her brain.

After all, tomorrow they have to get back to normal. Somehow.

But if they have two more hours, there might be a chance for one last dance.



Send me a prompt.

5. JokerXReader part 2!

Anon: I really liked that Joker x Reader when the reader found out she was pregnant, could you do a part 2 when the babys born and when the joker hold the baby and gets use to being a father, he decides he wants the baby after all?

Anon: Hello Can you write one about Bruce Wayne’s daughter getting pregnant by the joker

So, after getting asked to do a part 2 of the 5th JokerXReader, where she finds out that she’s pregnant, I decided to do it and put it together with two other requests I got from you, guys! :) That means there will also be a part 3 of this one here, ‘cause I’ve got another request (the second one I mentioned), that would totaly fit in here. :D Now lovely Anons, hope you two like it. <3

A few months later


The last nine months were the most unnerving ones you ever had.

It was strange  for you, the first weeks after you told J that you were pregnant, he was more protective about you than ever (what he also was before you got pregnant, but now …) .

He doesn’t even wanted you to go on business meetings with him, at his club.

You told him, that you felt good and you will decide on your own, when it is time for you to stay at home, but he doesn’t wanted to hear that from you.

He nearly grounded you to be sure, nothing will happen to you.

You loved him, for being that carrying about you, but also you were sad at the same time, ‘cause you know he blamed the baby for your miserable condition.

He never said it straight into your face, but you saw it whenever he had no choice to talk about the baby, his eyes got all cold and no emotion came up to his face.

No grin, no typical bad jokes, even his voice, no amusement in it, just those serious low words.

He wasn’t like that, when it was just you, who he was talking to or about.

But whenever someone mentioned the baby, he was as cold, as if he stood up in front of a bad employee, who ruined a very important deal.

Nine months later things changed a little bit.

J wasn’t delighted at all, but he stopped being that cold when you were with the baby, ‘cause he saw how that hurts you.

Oh, how he wished this baby was already in a foster family or somewhere he didn’t have to see it, or act like he was okay with it.

It was three weaks after you gave birth to your little daughter, as J decided to ask the final question.

„What about the adoption?“

You felt your stomach sink, as you turned around to your favorite clown prince.

You hadn’t thought of an adoption, since four months now.

And it hits you hard, to remember all the things you argued about that with J.

After carrying for your baby, you didn’t want to give it to someone else.

It was so small and soft; what if someone abused your little child?

What if they don’t treat it right?

J looked at you through squinted eyes.

He knew that would happen, he knew it straight from the beginning.

You don’t want to give it away anymore.

„J, I can’t do this …“, you said with a week voice.

„But you also can’t keep it“, he said rigid.

„We talked about it, (Y/N).“

„I know …“, you whispered.

„Look at me. We will look for someone, who … treats her right“, he said.

No emotions.

He didn’t even called it your baby, he just said, her.

„Maybe …“

„What?“, he asked.

„Maybe, my dad could take care of her. I mean … we weren’t close before I decided to leave him and my home, but he would be the only one I could trust with that.“

„Good, then …“, J stopped  as you turned your back at him.

Tears were running down your cheeks silently, as you watched the little pumpkin in her crib.

„(Y/N), come on. It’s only the best for all of us“, J said and wrapped his arms around your body, kissing your neck gently.

„I’ve told you I’m not a dad and now you see how complicated things are, with a baby. Don’t you cry to your Mr J, everything will be alright …“

You didn’t know how to feel, on the one hand you loved J, for being so gentle, even if you know everything what was about the baby pissed him off, but on the other hand you hated him for not even trying to like the baby, or just acting like he would care about it.

And now you had to go to your father, the one person you hadn’t seen for years without his Batman costume, to ask if he could take care of your daughter.

The daughter you had, with his arch enemy.


Wayne Manor


The door bell rang loudly as Alfred was about to open the door.

You’d never seen the butler of your father that speechless.

„Miss (Y/N)?“

„Hello, Alfred“, you said with a little smile.

„Is dad home? I’ve to talk to him, it’s very important“, you said.

„Yes, master Bruce is home. Please come in“, Alfred said.

„Thank you. I’m sorry for showing up, without even … calling the last years … I mean“, you murmured and felt guilty about everything you did.

But mostly for what you had to tell your father now.

„Would you like to have a cup of tea, or- A glass of milk?“, Alfred said even more irritated, as he saw your little daughter you carried into the baby pannier.

„No thank you, Alfred. I just have to talk, to dad“, you said.

„Of course.“

Alfred accompanied you to the big living room, your father sat in, reading the news paper, as always.

It was like nothing ever changed, since you had been gone.

„Master Bruce.“

Alfred hadn’t to speak further, your father throws the news paper onto the side table and stood up in disbelief.


„Hi, dad“, you whispered.

„What are you doing here, that must have been years now“, he said and hugged you, like he thought you were dead.

„I’m sorry“, was all you could say by now.

„Dad, I … I need your help.“

„Yes, of course, what’s wrong? Do you need money? Are you in trouble?“, he asked.

And this man, was the silently, sometimes very depressed looking Batman.

„No, I don’t need money. It’s just … Dad, I wanna introduce you to someone. Dad this is (B/N), she’s my daughter“, you said.

Bruce looked at you, like someone has hitten him in the the face.

„Your daughter …?“

„Yes, Dad.“

„What happened? Why haven’t you told me, that you’re married and were expecting a baby?“

„Dad, I’m not married“, you said hiding the little grin that wanted to come out, after imagining J and you at a wedding day.

That would never happen.

„So you’re alone, with her“, he asked worried.

„No, not exactly …“, you said unsure what to say now.

You couldn’t tell him who the father was.

He would hate you and he would kill J, for sure.

„Come on, sit down. Tell me what happened“, he said.

„It was unexpected, I don’t wanted to have children, that wouldn’t have matched with my lifestyl. But you know, one careless night and … there she was“, you said smiling and trying to hold down the tears.

„He left you“, Bruce said.

„No. I’m still with him. He cared about me all the time, but … He isn’t the type for having babys or being a dad at all. He’s special. Very special, but I love him. We’re living the same life, a life in which children shouldn’t grow up. So, we stipulate with each other to let her grew up in a normal environment. And … because I don’t want to give my child away I … Dad I know it’s not an everyday request and I know I wasn’t a good daughter at all, I mean I never called back, for nearly five years, but if you could take care of her …“, you started to cry before you could speek on.

„(Y/N), hey. Sh. Don’t cry“, your dad said and hugged you.

„Who is the father? He doesn’t want the baby, right?“, he asked and something different swang within his voice.

„Dad, I’m sorry I can’t tell you“, you sobbed.

„(Y/N), if he does not want a baby from you, then he’s not worth everything.“

„Don’t say that, he cares about me. I’m the only person he cares about and I know that“, you cried.

„If he really would care about you, he wouldn’t want that you gave your baby away. A baby that is also from him“, your father said a little angry now.

„You know what, forget it. Forget that I was here. I’m sorry for bothering you, I have to go“, you said and stood up.

Your face was all wet, because of the tears you were still crying.

„(Y/N)! No, don’t go now! I can help you! (Y/N)!“

Bruce followed you to the front door, out to the rainy entry, were your car was standing, but it was too late, you drove away, not knowing what to do now.


It was late at night when Joker came back to your stash.

He saw your jacket wet from the rain laying in the hallway, purse and other things had fallen out of it, what made him furrow his brows.

That wasn’t typical for you.

As he took the stairway up to your room, he heared something crying.

It wasn’t you, it was a baby.

Your baby.

J clenches his fists.

Hadn’t you said, you would bring this baby out of here?

He walked into your room, you weren’t in it, but yours and J’s daughter.

(B/N), cried in her little crip.

J looked down at her, her face was all red, what didn’t match with the little light green hair that grows onto her head.

He never recognised that she had green hair, even when it was not much by now.

„Listen, pumpkin. Laughing is way better than crying“, he said rough and wangled the little crip she laid in, a bit, to stop her from crying at him.

It was annoying.

„Would you please don’t do that?“, he asked impatient.

„Good, fine, cry until your dead. You know where mummy is? Of course not …“

He was nearly out of the door, but something discouraged him, of leaving the room.

The baby was still crying.

He looked back and sighed.

„You can’t cry all the time, you will choke in the end and mummy wouldn’t be happy about it“, he said and carried little (B/N) in his arms.

Suddenly the baby stopped crying and laughed right into J’s face.

He gave the baby a strange look.

„You’re crazy, you know that?“, he asked.

His daughter was still laughing.

She raised her little tiny hands right into J‘s face and slapped his cheek, what totaly amused her.

„Stop it“, J growled at her.

„Would you please stop that shit, before I have to kill you?“

She laughed even more, after he threatened her.

„So you like to punch people in the face, don’t you?“

J smirked a little bit, as she pulled at the clasp of his guns, that he wores around his back.

„Should daddy teach you how to use them, when you’re old enough?“

Another excited sound from his daughter.

„Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought you were first.“


It was midnight when you came out of the bathroom.

You cried more than three hours now and your eyes were all red now and they hurt like hell.

What should you do now?

Your father wasn’t an option anymore, and J would still not want his daughter, even if you would beg for it.

„ … and if you ever see Batsy flying around, wanting to take daddy back to Arkham, you will shoot him, right?“

What, you thought as you heared J’s soft voice into your room.

The door was half closed, so you opened it just a little bit, to see what was going on there.

„Be excited for your first heist, that’s the feeling what fills your body up with laugher when you do it for the first time.“

You couldn’t believe what you saw there.

J sat down on your bed, little (B/N) in his arms, telling her stories about how he would teach her to flee from Batman or doing her first heist.

„You’ll see, that will be funny“, he said, after he recognised that your daughter fell asleep.

You could’ve cried again, as you saw, how J carried her into her crip again.

But this time not because of desperation, this time it was because of joy.

He wanted her now, that means you can keep her.

„Does that mean, we can keep her?“, you asked whispering.

J turned around at you.

He just nodded his head with a serious look on his face, then he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you softer than usually.

„You were right, doll. She’s as crazy as me“, he said.