are you ready punk

orphan black starters, episode 1-5.
     (suicide ment.)

  • i’m back in town. 
  • well that’s not fair, is it? 
  • bitch. 
  • stop the train! 
  • you look like crap. 
  • i hit him first this time. with an ashtray. so he’s a little blue. 
  • you’ve been gone for almost a year. 
  • i saw a girl kill herself. 
  • when you’re a poor little orphan foster wretch, anything’s possible. 
  • i haven’t seen her in like a year.
  • any second, someone’s gonna ID the body, and it’s game over. 
  • you’re damn right. 
  • suddenly you don’t give a damn, i get pissed. 
  • you’ll probably take off again. 
  • i panicked. where’s your wit gone? you haven’t called me dipshit all day. 
  • you don’t have to babysit me, dipshit. 
  • i know this thing has got you all twisted up, but you gotta forgive yourself. 
  • i’m having trouble with detail, so i’m not sure i should say anything at all. 
  • try to separate mistake from result. 
  • can we get the elephant out of the room? 
  • the last thing i am is special. 
  • if that was my boyfriend, i’d jump in front of a train too. 
  • the whole sad point is nobody would notice if i died. 
  • let me finish what i started and the i’ll come back for you and her, yeah? 
  • you’re gonna disappear again? 
  • you’re already dead. 
  • it’s gonna be an intimate memorial piss-up. 
  • you know what, first though, you need a shower and a xanax. 
  • are you back on the meds? 
  • call me or i’ll squeeze your bloody bollocks in a vice– 
  • it was always fight or flight with her. 
  • i still want us to be together. it can work, yeah? 
  • someone shot her right in front of me. 
  • there’s blood everywhere! 
  • you need to get rid of the body! 
  • i can’t figure out why she killed herself. 
  • i have a knife and i will stab you in the face. 
  • i was mad at you so i decided to blow all the money from your stolen coke on it. 
  • why are you suddenly dressing like a punk rock ho? 
  • you’re not ready for this. you need to take more time. 
  • i can see it’s killing you, but you stopped talking to me months ago. 
  • i can’t keep waking up every night, checking your breathing, worried you’re mixing your meds, booze, god knows what else – 
  • i’m not dirty. i just freaked out. 
  • i told her to freeze. she didn’t. she ran. 
  • you’re making me nervous. 
  • they’re gonna start to dig. and if they dig, they find the pills. 
  • i’ve got to carry what i did. 
  • do you want a cuppa? 
  • i think whatever she found out drove her nuts and she topped herself. 
  • i’ll call back at midnight. 
  • why would you go in my room? 
  • rock and roll. 
  • who am i speaking to?
  • i’m a few, no familly too. who am i? 
  • why lord, why me? i never wanted any part of this. 
  • do i wear a huge ‘kick me’ sign on my back?
  • hide your ugly face on the way out. 
  • i had to go to bed, bath and beyond, okay? nobody wants to admit that. 
  • what the hell did you say to the shrink? 
  • what are you gonna say to change her mind? 
  • what’s the difference between a mood stabiliser and an antipsychotic again? 
  • why do you have to be such a hard-ass? 
  • i just need you to be my backup, okay? 
  • you’re gonna shoot me while your kids are sleeping? 
  • i was running from my own shit. 
  • she was losing it. like, clinically. 
  • you’re not supposed to be parked here at night. 
  • do not shoot me please! 
  • you point a gun at my brother again and i will kick the living shite out of you! 
  • last i checked, it was illegal, let alone impossible. 
  • am i going insane? 
  • body’s chewed up pretty bad. 
  • i think that some idiot didn’t realise they were burying a body next to an active quarry. 
  • do you have a criminal record? 
  • wasted youth, alright? 
  • wow… welcome to the trip, man. 
  • let me see your weapon. 
  • just give me an hour or two to get up to speed for christ’s sake.
  • if you ask me about that money one more time, i swear to god, it’s going in the shredder. 
  • do you know who shot her in the head? 
  • who’s killing us? 
  • that’s good. try and keep your sense of humour. 
  • you think someone’s jerking your chain? 
  • i should probably get back to my real job now. 
  • you could rob me blind. 
  • we’re hoping you realise you can’t run away from this. 
  • you cannot hide in minimalist furniture! 
  • i think you’re being a bitch.
  • how would you like it if i started pulling this schizophrenic hot-and-cold crap on you?
  • the body dump doesn’t match the professional hit. 
  • this perp’s got some deep-seated spiritual problems. 
  • i think he went into one of the abandoned buildings here. 
  • i should have had your back. 
  • look, shit happens fast, okay? 
  • i’m not gonna let you drive me home like an invalid. 
  • hey, you’re not gonna hug me, are you? 
  • now can you please tell me what in the hell happened to your face? 
  • it’s not about revenge.
  • she was on this killer’s hit list and now i am. 
  • if she’s not dead, we need to find her. find out what she knows. 
  • just need some time to myself. 
  • name me one homicide ever pinned on a female sniper. 
  • female killers tend to suffer from chronic detachment. isolation breeds sociopaths. 
  • you could have killed me, but here we are. 
  • anybody else feel like they have a target on their back? 
  • i don’t think you understand the situation here. 
  • you’re a punk! be one! 
  • no wonder she wants to leave.
  • you’re like a completely different person these days. 
  • it’s this case. it’s a bitch. 
  • we don’t bring that shit in here, right? 
  • what’re you gaping at? 
  • you ever fight a woman? 
  • they do say, crazy makes you strong. 
  • if you’re hearing this, you found a body. 
  • you’re different than the others. 
  • i think i’m dying. 
  • i came out the woodwork. where did you come from? 
  • i’m sorry about this but it’s very important that you keep this a secret. 
  • well, unleash the doves. world peace must be right around the corner. 
  • i came back to prove that i could, but i’m not doing anybody any good. 
  • so the killer is still out there? 
  • you’d stab me in the eye with a nail file? 
  • you’re shaking like a leaf. 
  • there’s the gun you wanted. 
  • last time i checked, i’m the only one defending us. 
  • i’m gonna shoot his balls off. 
  • i don’t leave prints when i burgle. 
  • she wasn’t messing around, was she? 
  • you silly bitch, would you get your fanny out of there? 
  • i’m entitled to a little privacy. 
  • you were the one who introduced me to punk rock. 
  • stay in school. 
  • you bitch! you faked it! how could you goddamn do this to me?! 
  • are you still concerned about her mental health? 
  • how’d you do it? 
  • we were on top of the world! 
  • we were parasites. 
  • is every man in your life a complete wanker, except me? 
  • i’m about to go in and shoot him in the balls. 
  • this is our chance to get answers. 
  • i thought you handed in your sidearm. 
  • well, apparently, i’ve got a stalker. 
  • i didn’t mean to get all tangled up with you. 
  • if she really is dead, how do i know you didn’t kill her? 
  • she killed herself because the man she loved turned her whole life into a lie.
  • this is a sick test, isn’t it? isn’t it?! 
  • you think i had a choice? 
Chapter 1

Harvey’s Bar and Grill, Park Row, Gotham City. April 20th, 2028. 11:34 PM.

“To seven years, old friend,” Gordon said, his glass of Scottish whiskey raised, “and my finally joining you.”

Bruce stared silently back at his old partner, his face blank. Despite the sizable age difference between them, they both looked about equally as worn down; their white hair, the lines covering each of their faces, the seasoned look in their eyes. One might never guess that Jim had already been a grown man when Bruce was a boy. But living the life that Bruce Wayne had led comes with a price: being fifty-five years old and looking eighty-six.

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Selfless- Pre-Serum!Steve Rogers One Shot

Pairing: Skinny!Steve X Reader

Prompt: (1940s) Steve has liked you for ages, but is too shy to ask you to dance. One night, he sees you getting harassed and steps in to save the day.

Word Count: 2440

A/N: Inspired by the song “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel (it really has nothing to do with it though). This is my first Skinny!Steve one shot, so I hope it is okay.


“Come on, Stevie, why don’t you ask one of those lovely girls to dance?” Bucky asked his friend, leaning on his arm against the top of the bar. Steve shook his head, not moving from his seat on top of a barstool-his eyes watching his fingers trace the edge of his drink.

“No, thanks, Buck. You dance-I’ll wait here until you’re ready to leave.”

“I’m not going to let waste your night sulking.” He replied, tugging on his friend’s shoulder.

“I’m fine right here. You go do your thing. I’m sure there is a whole line out there for you.” Steve stated and Bucky took a quick peak behind him and noticed that there was, in fact, four girls staring at him from across the dance hall. When they saw him looking, they turned and conversed with each other, giggling softly. Bucky moved his attention back to his friend and tried to hide the disheartening look on his face.

“Why won’t you dance?” He asked, giving up and sitting on the stool beside him.

“I just don’t want to. Those girls would reject me in an instant-I’d rather not suffer through that humiliation.”

“But you would rather be an outcast at the bar alone?”

“Bucky-” Steve started, but was cut off by the door to the club opening. His breath hitched in his throat when he laid eyes on the incoming person. You gingerly stepped inside with two of your friends by your side. You three were dressed to the nines and headed over to a secluded table, where you could talk, laugh, and drink mostly in private, until someone came and swept each of you off your feet to dance. Bucky followed Steve’s gaze over to you. He didn’t even question if it was your friends who had caught the little guy’s eye. Bucky had known you since school and Steve had developed a large crush on you. If you were even in the same room as him, Steve became a spluttering mess.

“Go ask her to dance.” Bucky stated, nudging his shoulder. Steve’s trance was broken as he looked back to his friend.

“Y/N? No. Do you see her? And do you see me? There is no way she would dance with a fellow like me.”

“Yes, I see you and I see her. And I also see no reason why she should deny you a dance. You’re a great guy, Stevie. I know Y/N-she wouldn’t reject you like the others.”

“But she would still reject me.” Steve said, going back to his original position of being hunched over the bar, playing with his glass.

“I bet she’d love to dance with you.”

“Buck, I think she’d reject me quicker than she rejected you.” He stated, causing his friend to sigh. The incident happened less than a year ago. Bucky was out with Steve when he saw you and asked you to dance. He knew how much Steve liked you and had hoped dancing with you would get him jealous, making him work up the courage to talk to you sooner. All he did was smile as he approached your table and you told him no. Bucky immediately regretted that decision and Steve had never fully forgiven him. He tried to act as if it didn’t matter, but the soldier could see right through him.

“That was one time and you know I was only trying to help you out.” Bucky said.

“Well, maybe I don’t need your help, Buck.” He snapped tensely.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky held his hands up in surrender and scooted off the barstool, “I’ll go dance with a dame and I’ll find you when I’m ready. Please, don’t do anything too stupid. Alright, punk?”

“Go have fun, jerk.” Steve said, easing up from the use of their brotherly nicknames. Bucky flashed him a quick smile before disappearing to find a girl to dance with.

The blond boy let out a huff of frustration and sipped his drink. He set it back against the hard wood of the top of the bar and turned slightly. Maybe if he just caught a glance of you, he’d feel better about himself. His eyes rested on you as you laughed at something your friend said. He noticed that your second friend was missing and looked around to find her dancing with Bucky to the upbeat jazz tune. Steve focused back on you as you took a small sip of your own drink.

He watched as a man approached your table, making your friend sit up straighter; you, however, kept the same posture. It was something Steve loved about you-you wouldn’t allow yourself to change for anyone, no matter what society says you must do. Standing up straight with his chest puffed out, the man was tall and muscly. Steve knew he must have been in the army. The man was bigger than Bucky; it was practically a given.

Steve let out a short laugh as he saw your lips move to form the words “no, thank you”. Instead of stepping away and leaving with the rejection, the man stepped closer to the table. Steve tensed up seeing how the tall man was not taking no as an answer. Anger was pulsing through his small body and Steve heaved himself off his seat and made his way over to you.

“I don’t think you understand, sweetheart, I asked you for a dance.” The man said.

“And I don’t think you understand, sir, I said no thank you. No means no.” You replied, not allowing the fear in your veins to show in your voice.

“No one says no to me.” He stated, gripping your wrist.

“Let go of me.” You tried to pull put of his grip, but he only tightened it.

“Hey, man, let her go.” Steve said, stepping in as he arrived at the scene.

“Oh, yeah? And what are you going to do about it?” The man taunted.

“Just let go of her.” He stated.

“What makes you think I should listen to you?” The man paused and you let out a small whimper from the bruise forming on your skin, “Tell you what, pipsqueak, I’ll let her go and you and I will take care of this out back.” He dropped your wrist and you immediately rubbed it soothingly with your other hand. Your friend stepped in to comfort you. Steve looked around quickly for Bucky, who was focused on talking to your friend. He followed the taller man outside to fight while you were distracted.

It only took you a moment to realize that the two were gone. Your nerves kicked in at the thought of Steve fighting the stranger for you. Sure, you two weren’t close at all, but you knew who he was and you had always adored his selfless personality. You just wished he wouldn’t be reckless while being selfless.

“Let’s get Jennie and get out of here.” Your friend said. You two made your way over to her and Bucky, who were currently sitting alone at the bar together. It appeared as if Bucky had turned on his charming personality to flirt with her.

“We’re leaving. Are you staying?” Your friend asked Jennie, who had been dancing with the dark haired soldier.

“Why are you leaving so soon? You two haven’t even danced yet.” Jennie replied.

“Y/N rejected a stranger and he didn’t take it too well. It took some guy stepping in for him to leave us alone.” She explained and Bucky perked up instantly.

“The one who stepped in wouldn’t happen to be a short little blond fella?” Bucky asked.

“Yes, do you know him?” She questioned.

“Yeah, where did they go? The back alley?” He asked. You nodded and he stood from his seat, anxious to save his friend.

“I’ll go with you.” You said, “It’s my fault anyway.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, doll.”

“James, I don’t want Steve getting too hurt on my behalf.” You replied and ignored the surprised looking in his eyes. Not only did you know Bucky’s real name, but you knew Steve’s name. Your friends left the club and you followed him to the back alleyway, where the sound of a fight could be heard.

“Hey, pick on someone your own size.” Bucky called out to the unknown man and threw his own punches. You stayed off to the side, out of the way of the whole ordeal. It took a good three punches from Bucky for the guy to scamper off with a bloody nose. Bucky wiped the blood on his hands onto his tan handkerchief. He pulled Steve up off the floor and examined his swollen, black eye and bloody, busted lip.

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Bucky laughed.

“I had him on the ropes.” Steve replied, softly wiping his beaten face with his own handkerchief. He had yet to acknowledge your presence in the alley-presumably due to only being able to see from one eye since the other was swollen. “Is Y/N okay?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” He chuckled and Steve’s jaw dropped when he finally saw you. You stepped closer to him and your finger gently ran over the cut from his lip down to his chin.

“Steve, why did you do this? You could have seriously injured yourself.” You said, examining the cut. He seemed shocked that you knew his name and that you were touching him with absolutely no disgust in your face.

“W-well, he needed to learn to never treat such a beautiful dame like that-or a beautiful woman-a woman-you are beautiful, but a-a woman.” Steve stuttered, ignoring how Bucky clamped a hand over his own mouth and turned away, attempting to conceal the laughter that was bubbling up inside him. It barely worked. To any bystander, Bucky sounded like a dying dog, but you and Steve both actively chose to ignore him.

“Thank you, I guess.” You let out a soft laugh, “We need to get you cleaned up. Come on, my apartment is just around the corner.” You turned and started out of the alley. Steve stood frozen in his place until Bucky, who had finally composed himself, nudged him.

“Go ask her out, Stevie. She likes you, I can tell.” Bucky whispered as the two boys began to walk.

“It’s only because I saved her.” He said.

“It’s more than that.” He laughed. Bucky cut it short when you turned back to them.

“Well, are you coming?” You asked.

“Yes, ma'am.” Steve and Bucky both replied in unison and hurried to catch up with you.

You led the boys back to your apartment and got out the first aid kit for them. Bucky didn’t need much medical attention-all he suffered was a punch to the jaw and a few scrapes on his knuckles. Steve, on the other hand, was much worse. He sat still as you cleaned his face carefully with a rag; on the inside, he was going crazy from the close proximity to you.

“Y/N, may I use your restroom?” Bucky asked.

“First door on the left.” You replied, keeping your focus on Steve. Bucky disappeared down the hall and the silence started to overwhelm you.

“You know he would have left eventually. You didn’t need to fight him for me.” You said, breaking the silence.

“Even if he did leave without a fight, who’s to say he wouldn’t do it again to you or another woman.” He replied and you smiled.

“You’ve always been so selfless-it’s the trait I’ve always admired about you.”

“R-Really?” He mumbled in disbelief.

“Yes, really. I don’t say things I don’t mean, Steve.” You stated. He desperately tried to calm his heart at the sound of you saying his name. It made it his heart flutter that you care enough to know it. You looked up to meet his eyes, but he was already looking at you.

“I like you, a lot.” Steve blurted out. When he realized what he said, he grimaced and closed his eyes with a groan.

“Steve, what was that for?” You questioned.

“It’s just-I really like you, Y/N, and you could never like me back in that way.” He said.

“Who told you I’d never feel the same?” You asked.

“No one, but I know that-”

“You’re wrong then, Steve. I do like you. You were just never brave enough to ask me to dance.” You replied.

“Wait-me? You like me?” He asked, suddenly confused.

“Why wouldn’t I? Your charming, sweet, selfless, courageous-”

“Short.” He added.

“But handsome all the same.” You said, softly running your hand through his hair.

“I must be dreaming.” Steve replied.

“I can assure you-you’re not.” You leaned in to kiss him, but the moment was soon interrupted.

“I used the rest of your soap, Y/N.” Bucky declared as he walked back into the room. His eyes went wide as he noticed what was happening. You had your hands on Steve’s face and his hands were on your sides. You were close to each other and both of you closed your eyes in disappointment.

“Well, Buck, you’re timing is perfect as always.” Steve said sarcastically, causing you to laugh. You let go of each other and turned to face Bucky.

“Who wants to kiss someone with a busted lip anyway? Wait until it’s healed-it’ll be better that way.” He winked with a smile.

“It’s late-we should be heading home.” Steve stated, reading the time on the clock.

“Right, well, thank you for earlier.” You replied.

“Thank you for cleaning us up.” He answered as you two stood up, “Do you want to go dancing tomorrow night?”

“That sounds amazing.” You smiled.

“Great, I’ll-um-get you at eight.” Steve said.

“I’ll see you then.” You led Steve and Bucky outside and on their walk back to their house, Bucky clapped his friend’s shoulders enthusiastically.

“See? I told you you could do it. Who was right? I was right. I’m always right.” Bucky grinned.

“Thanks, Buck, but we should acknowledge the fact that I took care of everything on my own.” Steve responded.

“Except for the guy who was beating you into a mashed potato.”

“I had him on the ropes.” Steve repeated, “No really-I actually did this time.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Bucky continued to laugh, but Steve knew his friend was proud of him all the same. Finally, something positive came from a fight for Steve.

Very punk rock ways you can help your friends with mental disorders, as written by a person with Bipolar II and severe anxiety.
  • Do not guilt them about what they go through, and don’t make their plight all about you. Guilting people is not punk rock
  • Delete stigmatizing language from your vocabulary - stop using the R-word, saying you’re “so OCD about” something or calling another person “bipolar.” This language is not punk rock.
  • Stop calling people crazy, while you’re at it. Harmful words are not punk rock
  • If a friend is having an anxiety or panic attack, practice deep breathing with them. Inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Calming techniques are very punk rock.
  • In reference to the above, make sure it is OKAY before you touch them. It is very tempting to want to give them a hug or something of the sort, but it can actually make a situation worse. Not asking for consent to touch your panicking friend is not punk rock.
  • Make a safe and comfortable environment for them and don’t ask them what they have. If they feel comfortable with you, they’ll tell you. They might not tell you even if they do feel comfortable. A safe environment is totally punk rock.
  • Have an emergency contact on hand in case something gets very severe. You never know when you might need to be ready. Being prepared is super punk rock.
  • Do not fawn over them like a child in regular everyday life. This will only make them feel like you see them in a weak, inferior state, and that’s not punk rock.
  • Be willing to listen to their problems, be open, and love them just as much as you did before you knew they had these issues. Being a loving and caring friend is the most punk rock you can ever be.

anonymous asked:

Can I have Kise finding out Aomine punched Haizaki to save him? AoKi fluff please thank you :33

Hi dear! Sorry if it took me so long and thank you for asking AoKise, I missed them! I tried to write it giving a fluffy and daily atmosphere, considering their relationship as already established! Ps. Protective Aomine is the best!

Hope you enjoy it!

Aokise, Fluff, Slice of Life


Good Boyfriend


It was a summer midafternoon and in the middle of a street court four boys were laying panting and sweating. Aomine was seated with his legs crossed and kept his eye closed to focus on his breath, while Kagami next to him was bended with the hands on the knees and a tired but satisfied grin on his lips. He and Aomine had defeated the other two, who were laying sprawled on the ground. Kise was whining about their stupid destructive strength, while Kuroko was too occupied gaining back some strength to speak. They had put up a fight, but the other two aces, even without managing to coordinate, in the end had won by sheer force.

They were laughing and chatting quietly, when Kuroko dropped the bomb with his straight expression.

“What?” Kise stuttered, his head perking up suddenly and he fumbling to straighten. The blonde immediately focused on the tanned friend.

“Tetsu!” Aomine growled menacingly narrowing his eyes, but it was too late and Kuroko had stopped being intimidated by him long time ago.

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Let me tell you why I love Billy Idol as much as I do, and why he has become the personal symbol of All That Is Good & Will Be Good - and also the personal Ass Kicker when I need good kicking.

When Idol was a child, he knew he wanted to be a singer and play guitar. He wanted to be a rock star - it was clear as a day! However, his parents were against the idea of their son playing a guitar. “If you want to play something, you’re going to play a violin and that’s final,” they said. So, he had to go to the violin lessons.

Around age 8-9 he managed to get 5£’s acoustic guitar, which he hid from his parents, and started to make his own songs. He loved to write and be creative, but at school things didn’t go that well. He was a smart kid and school felt boring - he rather wanted to read, create, write, sing and play than do math (which he was lousy at).  

In his teenager years punk movement was born in London. Idol heard punk bands and thought “This is it! I love this! This is the music I want to do, this has the freedom and attitude that speaks to my soul!” But punk was hated in London. Oh hated so very much. It wasn’t good idea at all to go to punk scene if you wanted to be a successful artist, but Idol didn’t care. He loved punk and knew what he wanted. 

Originally posted by eerievons

When he finally managed to form his first own band in his teenager years, dislike for punk had grown more. His father stopped talking to him for years, because he was so disappointed with his son. When his band performed, audience threw all kind of shit on him. But Idol stood there and performed without blinking an eye. He was “I love to perform, I love this, I love my music and I don’t care a shit if you dislike it. I’m not moving anywhere from this stage and I’ll quit only when I’m finished with my performance.”

Later he got to university to study music. The uni was full of higher class’s jazzy kids, completely different from Idol. He had no friends as everyone just stared him down; “Ugh, there goes that freak again, did you know he listens to those shitty bands… Look at his style, so gross, what does he even do here?” But Idol kept listening his fave bands, dressing as he liked and continued his studies, despite he told later it hurt his feelings when people left him out and he didn’t fit in at all.

By the time his first band was doing fine, hate for punk had gotten so bad all places forbid punk bands from performing in their facilities. There was literally no place for Idol to perform anymore and to continue his path towards the dream of being a performing artist. He said “Fuck it” and arranged with his punk friend a place for punk bands to perform. 

Originally posted by gifsofthe80s

Soon after that Idol started to feel that he should go for a solo career, because the band was restricting him from expressing himself as freely as he wanted to. He wanted to make HIS kind of a music, create FREELY what inspired him. People were very against this idea; “You aren’t a solo artist, you can write music, you can’t make it on your own. Just forget it, you can’t do it, you aren’t good enough.”

But he didn’t listen to that. He left the band and made his first solo album in early 20′s, and created the alter ego Billy Idol for himself. 

When the first album was doing pretty fine, Idol thought how London and Europe were too small. “I want to go to USA, I want to become a successful solo artist there with my music, with my punk sound and personality.” AGAIN everyone was against it, all odds were against it. The Europe’s most successful punk bands had gone to USA and came back completely failed - what could this just brand new almost never-heard solo artist Billy Idol do? “You’ll be wasting your time, USA isn’t ready for punk, you will come back home crying, don’t waste your breath, don’t even dream about it because you can achieve it,” the odds told him.

Nevertheless, the took his back bag and left to USA. There everyone said the same thing; “Listen kid, your music is shit. No one likes punk here. No radio station will ever play any of your songs. No record studio will ever take you in. You are a Britt and you sing with wrong accent - you will not make it. And your personal style is hideous, you dress like a bag of shit and your white, messy hair is revolting. No one will ever come to see artist as ugly as you.”

Idol thought only “Okay, if learning to sing with American accent will help my career, I’ll do it - but I won’t change my music or my style. I am who I am, I do what I love and that’s it. I will be successful as my own self.”

And he did it. He did become successful. His white ugly hair became his brand trademark - 40′s later he still has it! He became one of the male sex symbols of the 1980′s. He never double guessed could he make it or not. He refused to sell his soul, his voice, his inner being - his heart’s true calling - under any pressure, under any odds. He knew what he wanted and did it. 

Idol at age of 8  = “I want to play guitar and become a singer”
World = “We are your parents and we say you can’t. Here’s violin for you.”
Idol = Gets the guitar anyway behind his parents’ backs and starts making music.

Idol at early teenager years = “I want to create, sing and write. I have an electric guitar now.”
World = “You are bad at school, forget your stupid dream of singing, you will not make it.”
Idol = Continues making music and playing guitar.

Idol at teenager years = “I love punk! I want to do punk music. It has everything that I hold important to myself.”
World = “Whole London hates punk bands, we will literally throw shit on you when you perform with your band, all punk bands will be banned from performing, punk is a bad choice”.
Idol = Continues to love punk and get inspired by it, aspiring to be a punk artist.

Idol at university = “I’m studying music so I can become a performing artist.”
World = “Pretty much everyone at this uni hates you, you are a freak, you don’t fit in because you like wrong bands, wrong music styles and you dress in a wrong way. Your white hair is horrible.”
Idol = Continues his music studies, keeps listening his fave bands and dressing as he likes. Keeps the white hair. 

Idol with his own band = “This is nice, but I want to make my kind of a music. I need more freedom. I’m going to solo career.”
World = “You aren’t and will never be a solo artist, you can’t write or compose, you can’t make your own songs, forget this stupid nonsense and stay in the band.”
Idol = Goes after a solo career.

Idol, after becoming a solo artist known as Billy Idol = “I want to go to America and become successful there!”
World = “Everyone in USA hates punk, you are no one, the Europe’s most successful punk bands have failed miserably in USA, you are nothing.”
Idol = Goes to USA.

Idol, after landing to USA = “I will go to show my album to different music moguls, because here I am!”
World = “No radio station will ever play your songs, no record label will ever take you in. Your music is utter punk shit, we hate punk. You have a wrong accent, you should sing in American accent. You look hideous, your style is ugly, your white messy hair is so horrible you better get rid of it. No one will come to such ugly shit’s gigs, ever.”
Idol = Learns to sing with American accent, but keeps his music style and looks as they are. 

Idol later = Still being his own self, hasn’t changed his music style or physical appearance at all, still has the white hair which is his trademark now, has become super star and a sex symbol, released multiple albums, is cast to multiple movies like Terminator 2 (he had to drop out only due his motorcycle accident, otherwise he would have been the famous T-1000), is known all around the world, and continues doing what he loves and being who he is. 

How to Hold a Memory - snowbaz

day 4 lads are you READY for this angst fest - pastel/punk heck yeah.


Mentions of death, homophobia, bullying, cancer.

One last thing, before the slate is wiped clean. One last memory of Simon Salisbury.

I am adamant that there is something slightly wrong with a boy like me getting a tattoo in a place like this.

See, I’m clean-cut: pressed cotton shirts and folded sweaters, golden toed oxfords and ankle-biting skinny jeans, all in pretty shades of pastel rainbows and not a lot of black. I belong in my sweet shop over the road. Literally. I don’t have time to be here and spin yarns with the boys behind the counter. I just need to book it in, tell them what I want, and go. This place gives me enough anxiety just knowing it has sharp objects, controlled by people I don’t know - people who could hurt me. Not to mention, I don’t look like I should be here. Graffiti and flower don’t exactly go together very well.

“Hello?” One of the boys calls from the counter. “Can I help?”

Fuck my life he’s gorgeous.

I step forward awkwardly. He raises an eyebrow. Neither of us have time for this, clearly.

“Yeah, uh,” I stammer. I think he’s sees my hands shaking on the dark wood, so I shove them in my pockets and continue as efficiently as possible. “Can I book something for tomorrow?”

He frowns at my insistence to be here. Crap, I hate this place. I can’t believe I’m promising to come back. The boy pulls out a pen and notepad with a sigh and taps the desk impatiently. “Tomorrow’s pretty busy,” he observes. “You could come over after your shift?”


Slightly pissed off, his grey eyes glare at me through his ridiculously rogue fringe. “You work at the flower place, right?”

Oh. Oh. “Shit, yeah. Sorry, I’m… Yeah, that’s fine - about 5:30.”

He nods, grinning slightly before reverting back to his standard, bitter expression. “I’ll be taking care of you, then. Do you have a design I could see?”

Quickly and far too anxiously for his liking, I pull out the note, the last note she ever left me, folded perfectly to avoid all of the words and leave just the drawing of two roses, intersected by the stems. I suck in a quiet breath and begin to consider that I don’t need to do this.

Then again, I do.

The boy, dismissive as usual, snaps a few photos and pushes it back across the counter. “Where’s it going?” He questions, for more conversational than I expected for someone who seems to have the same emotional threshold as a dead leaf. “Arm? Ankle?”

I try to stop my voice from shaking, but it doesn’t seem to matter as I quietly declare: “Right forearm.”

It surprises us both, how broken it sounds. The boy, grey eyes blown wide and worried, is about to ask something - please don’t please don’t please don’t - so I cut him off with a strategic cough and point to the inside of my right arm. “Sorry. Just there. Right forearm.”

He almost looks sympathetic. I smile briefly and only end up making it a more tense interaction. “Okay…er, could I get a name.”


“And a last name?”

Oh fuck. I can’t say it. I can’t do it. I can’t-



He writes it down, frowns, quirks one eyebrow and sighs again. “I’m Baz. Come by around 5:30, I’ll sort you out.”


I can tell he doesn’t really want me here, but I suppose that’s part of the reason I showed up - spite.

My oxfords click across the expanse of the tattoo parlour, the sound alone over-stimulating my anxiety. Simple things begin to worry me - what if I annoy him? What if he yells at me? What if I sit where I’m not supposed to sit? - and as 1000 worst case scenarios play on a reel behind my my eyes, Baz turns up looking a far sight more concerned than before.

He eyes my appearance - cropped, short-sleeved white shirt (previously hidden by pink sweater), light blue skinny jeans grazing above my ankles, my white, gold-toed oxfords - though I wish he wouldn’t stare. It’s obvious I don’t fit in with the scenery, but I don’t need him of all strangers to put me out of place. I just…need this. One last thing before I let it all go, start a new chapter, and never look back on my life before this day.

“Snow,” he greets lightly.

A sudden dose of guilt rolls through my chest. That’s not me. “It’s Simon,” I correct.

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. Leave your stuff over there, follow me.”

It is degrading to be wanting to sob my heart out in this stranger’s presence, but I push it aside momentarily to do as I’d been told. Baz leads me out the back and points to a seat. I almost laugh at myself for worrying about this part - but I remember Baz is here, so I don’t.

“All right - standard stuff,” he tells me. “It’s gonna hurt. Fuck what anyone told you. A needle is going into your skin, and it’s going to hurt like a bitch. Hygiene is of the utmost importance here, so don’t worry: the needle is clean, otherwise I would not have a job. After this is done I can go over some things to take care of your tattoo. Is this your first?”

I stare blankly at the ground. It’s gonna hurt. How many times has that been said to me these past months? “Yeah, it is.”

Baz pauses his work to stare me down, so I do my best to look like I’ve been intently listening to his spiel. He sighs. “Okay, are you sure you want to do this, Snow?”

“That’s not my fucking name,” I seethe.  Baz looks as shocked as I feel. With a quick cough and a hope for dismissal, I shrink back. “Sorry, I- yeah, I’m sure.”

He sits down on my right and examines his canvas. “It’s fine,” he lies (so obviously lies - he practically sang it out, lips rolled back back, eyes burning). “May I know what the roses mean? Is it a symbol for anything?”

He’s preparing my skin. I remember seeing them doing this in hospitals for IVF tubes, and leaving the room to give them space. I’m good at giving people space. “It was just a drawing from someone.”

He smirks. “A girlfriend?”

I don’t. “No.”

“Do you know how to be happy? Or do you flux between anxiety and anger?”

The needle goes in and jabs at my skin. I gasp at first, then sigh, because I was beginning to feel numb again. “Do you know how to be happy? Pretty sure your facial expressions range from pissed off to livid.”

Ironically, he laughs. “Come on, Snow-”

“That’s still not my fucking name,” I comment breezily, focus on anything but his needle, until it stops.

“What exactly am I engraving on your body right now? Because I feel you’re enjoying this far too much and I’m not about to support that.”

I grimace, head falling back on the chair. Baz is a stranger, cold in emotions and yet somehow warm at heart. His needle goes down onto the work bench. “My name isn’t Snow.”

“Oh, for fuck-”

“It’s literally not my last name,” I admit, slightly shaky. Baz stops, suddenly willing to listen. “It’s Salisbury. Snow is my middle name, but I haven’t gone by Salisbury for months now.”

Baz softens, his hands placed over my wrist. “Why?”

That one words feels more loaded than the entire ordeal of actually getting a tattoo. “It was my mum’s. She died. My father literally only came back to tell me that it’s my fault she got cancer - it was God’s punishment for me and my romantic preferences.”

Baz raises his eyebrows at me. I can’t begin to assume what he’s thinking. At first I assumed it was going to be ‘ha, of course you’re queer’, judging by how he was staring at my outfit earlier, but instead he continues with the tattoo, grimacing when I don’t care too much about the pain. It’s not that I like it at all - no, it hurt like a bitch - I just have a very high pain threshold and a very low desire to have people know I’m in pain.

He stops again.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

My eyes are closed to drown out the needle, but I don’t open them to frown at him. “What?”

“I- your mum. They tried to tell me that, too, a bunch of kids I went to school with. They said my mother was killed because 'you’re a fag’ and 'she’d hate you anyway’. Sucked.”

Baz is gay.


“Thanks,” I whisper. Almost unrecognised, I add: “And I’m sorry you went through that.”

The needle starts again.

It stops.

“What does the note say?” He asks. “The one with the drawing. What does it say?”

I hesitate. No one else has seen it before Baz, on my lunch break, and even then he didn’t read it. As far as everyone else is concerned, my mother and I never spoke within her last few months. This isn’t true. She’d send me flowers from my own store with little notes exactly like these, and I’d call her every night when she was alone. Supporting her queer son was not something she was allowed to do in front of family members. Despite my personal attachment to it, I pull the note out anyway, still perfectly folded in my wallet, and hold it out for Baz. The ink on his hands worries me to not let him take it, but he reads it from his seat.


I love you!! Hoping to see you this Summer, very much miss seeing you around. Hope you’re studying hard, my rosebud boy :)

Love Mum xxx

“Oh,” he whispers.

“She died three days later.”


I will not cry in front of Baz. No, I will not. I have done all my crying, I have seen every detail and kept ever perspective on this ordeal. I have been blamed, and disowned, and left without family, but this chapter of my life is new. It isn’t one where I’m shaking and crying in a corner like the past few months. Baz sees me getting upset and starts the needle again and continues to work. The pain itches at my arm and leaves an ache running up my arm. I gasp. Baz seems relieved.

He finishes his work and rolls away on his chair, wiping his hands on a stray damp rag. A gauze goes over the ink after a few moments of silent marveling. Baz grins at me, and fusses over me far more than any of his other customers, I’m guessing. Particularly because he does a whole lot of uncensored smiling when I’m looking at him. He seems to be nearly speaking, and then not. It entertains me to press on.

Until I’m paying for the service, he’s quiet and happy. I give him thanks and say goodbye, picking up my sweater and walking out.

Then: “Hey, Simon, wait.”

I swear my blood pulses harder. “Yeah?”

Baz’s hand ghosts over my arm. He’s forward, confident, I’ll give him that on a good turn, but now he’s finding some kind of shyness. “How about you stay with me tonight?” He offers. “You know, so I can look after your ink.”

I turn around, suddenly much closer to Baz than I’d anticipated, knocking my nose against his chin. With a giggle, I ask: “Do you take all of your clients home?”

His lips are scary close to my forehead. (I’m hoping he’ll lean down instead.) “Only the cute ones.”

I bite my lip.

“Go on, then,” I dare. “Which way to your place?”

anonymous asked:

Hoi! I wanted to ask if you could do UT and US main four in the au where you talk to your soulmate through writings on your body? * I didn't explain very well, but basically, you talk to your soulmate through your mind, and whatever they say appears on your body. Usually it starts when you turn 16, but sometimes people have it from early childhood.* I hope that explained it! X333


Prepare to just be completely covered in puns. From head-to-toe, he’s just gonna end up drowning you in bad jokes.


Hello stranger-who-is-also-his-SOULmate! He is the Great Papyrus, & he hopes to one day meet you! He mostly just spends a lot of time telling you about himself, & how great he is, & about his friends & the stuff he likes & how his day has gone–you end up covered in writing (again), just from how much he talks.


HEY, PUNK! You better be ready to get swept the heck off your feet when she meets, cause she’s gonna SOULmate the HECK outta you when she finally finds you! She mostly just sends you stuff like that, or tells you about how her training’s going, how things are for her & her friends, that sorta stuff.


Oh, u-um, wow. This is…weird. Cool! But…weird. She mostly just tries to talk to you as normally as she can, hoping not to send too much for you to read, but if you get her going on something she’s passionate about, like anime or her work–let’s just say there’s gonna be a lot of writing to read.


HELLO, FUTURE SOULMATE OF THE MAGNIFICENT SANS! HE IS EXCITED TO MEET YOU EVEN THOUGH THE TWO OF YOU HAVE YET TO ACTUALLY MEET! He spends a lot of time telling you about himself, trying to build up an image of himself that he hopes you’ll be impressed with.


Hey, pal, what’s up? He also sends you a lot of jokes, but most of your conversations are just lazy back-&-forth pun wars until one of you gives up (it’s usually you). He’s not sure if he’ll ever actually meet you, so he tends to be pretty vague when talking about himself.


Oh, gosh, hi! She’s very shy with her conversations, & tends to mumble a lot of her thoughts, so sometimes her words come out really scribbly & you can only just barely make them out. She does like to talk about her interests though, & will happily explain anything you’re interested in (that she knows about) to you.


HEY–she knows you haven’t met yet, but you better be prepared to, cause as soon as she finds you, you’re getting tossed headfirst into a world of ROMANCE!! Most of the time she just talks about how her day has been, & how excited she is to introduce you to her friends & family.