#this is the mid-90s baby

[emeryhall]

for @wolfstarmicrofic: prompt #22, Azkaban also for @r33sespieces: my #1 wolfstar cheerleader rating: M word count: 1460 (sorry!)

The North Sea feeds into the Thames, and Padfoot—aka Sirius Black—is too exhausted to do much besides, well, doggy paddle. Float, paddle, float, paddle. He passes the Tower of London and shivers at the thought of imprisonment, or perhaps just the bitter cold water that’s bled through his mangy fur and into his barely covered bones. Under London Bridge, which still hasn’t fallen, even after his twelve years of absence. He doesn’t clamber out of the river until he sees Big Ben. Then he locates a cluster of tourists and gives himself a good shake, flinging wet-dog-river-once-used-as-London’s-sewer-system water onto them, before transforming back into a skinny, tattoo-encrusted naked man who cocks an eyebrow at the oldest tourist who faints dead away. He snorts, flips the V to the rest of the crew, and sets off to find clothes. 

He lands in some muggle used clothing store where all the garments are organized by color, the reds being nearest the door, so he snags a couple of red items and yanks the trousers over his skinny hips before the other customers can get too hung up on his dick which is definitely hung if not up. Weirdly, the red jeans he’s grabbed button up the flies instead of zip, so he buttons away trying not to snag his pubes. He should steal some pants next. The top is apparently a red sweater vest. It’s not a good look, but he’s not in a position to be picky. 

“Hey! Mister! You gonna pay for those?” some minimum wage brat demands. 

Sirius considers. He’s got no money, no wand, no pants, no shoes, no friends (as far as he knows). What he does have is fucking dead-ass eyes and a brain full of nightmares and revenge fantasies. 

“How about, rather than pay for these, I promise not to pull off every single one of your fingers and feed them to your arsehole?” His voice comes out strange—scratchy, barely a whisper—which turns out to be more effective than a shout in this situation. 

The kid nearly pisses himself and Sirius walks out of the shop looking like a cherry lollipop. 

Next up is food. There are rats to be had everywhere, scurrying about the London streets, but he walks down Haymarket until it turns into Regent and finds a chippy. (He’s not in the mood for rats. Not just yet, that is.) He orders chips with cheese and a slice of pizza on top and tells the kid behind the counter that if you break a rat’s spine you can spatchcock it just like a chicken. Then he laughs because rats don’t have spines. He’s not sure if it’s the laugh that does it or the spine comment, but the kid doesn’t bother asking for money—just looks like he’s trying not to breathe through his nose, which, fair enough. Sirius smells like arse. 

He leans against the wall of a building in Soho and licks pizza grease off his fingers, licks down his arm where it dribbled, and pays no attention to the posh bloke in khaki trousers and a pocket tee standing next to him until the man holds a lighter to a fag, inhales, and says in a waft of delicious smoke, “What’s your sign?” 

“Go fuck yourself. But give me one of those ciggies first.” 

The man is not put off. Instead, he scans Sirius from his grungy bare feet to his tangled hair, taking in the button flies, sweater vest, and neck tats. Sirius tugs at a belt loop where his hip bones jut above the waistband. 

“How’d you like to make some money?” The man’s accent is sharp. American. 

“How’d you like to fuck yourself?” But Sirius considers. Money could be useful. He’s gotta get to Hogwarts, after all. 

“Ah, if only I were that flexible.” 

Sirius snorts. “I’m not a charity case.” 

“Never said you were. You’d have to earn it.” 

What’s this guy want? His dick sucked? Sirius could probably manage that. It’s been over a decade but the dementors couldn’t have sucked—ha!—that knowledge entirely out of him. Must be like riding a bike. 

“How much?” Sirius asks. 

The man eyes him. “I could make you rich.” 

“From blowjobs? No thanks. I just need to get to Hogwarts.” 

Now the man looks puzzled. “I’m talking about your dreams.” 

“My dreams?” 

“What are your wildest dreams?” 

Sirius is a simple man, or at least he’s become one, so he ticks his dreams off on his fingers. Doesn’t even require a whole hand. 

revenge

Remus

a cigarette

“That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” 

“Well, I can help you with all three.” 

“You can help me find Remus?” 

“When I’m done, Remus will come to you. I’m assuming Remus is a person.” 

“Remus is a person.” 

“And revenge?” 

“Revenge takes money. I’ve already promised you that.” 

“The cigarette?” 

“You smoke?” 

“Quit twelve years ago.” 

“You sure you want to start back up?” But the man pulls a fag from his pack and hands it to Sirius. Even lights it for him. “So, should I get you a contract?” 

“For what?” The first sip of cigarette burns his insides. Cleans him out. Phoenix rising from the ashes and all that. (The metaphor matches his outfit.) 

“Modeling.” 

Sirius laughs so hard he chokes (although that may be the cigarette). The laughter feels good. It’s been a long, long while. “Sorry, did you say modeling?” 

“I did.” 

“Modeling, like Jerry Hall.” 

“Mick Jagger’s wife? Well, yes. Or Cindy Crawford.” 

“Who?” 

The American raises an eyebrow. “Have you been living under a rock?” 

“On, under. Something like that.” 

“Cindy Crawford.” The man points with his cigarette at a newsagents on the corner—racks of glossy magazines on display. 

Sirius squints. “What am I looking at?” 

“Far right. Rolling Stone cover.” 

There’s a bird with big hair and bigger tits on a beach, pink leopard print fabric fwapping about her. 

“You want me to do that?” Sirius glances down. His stomach is so concave you could serve ice cream in it. 

Khaki trousers laughs and fluffs some of his greying hair. “Not at all. I want you to be the opposite of that. I want you to be the face of my new fragrance.” 

Sirius doesn’t even have to lift an arm to smell himself. “Not sure that’s a good idea, mate.” 

“Oh, it is. Your look is perfect. Skinny, strung out, haunted eyes, gender uncertain, those tattoos that look like they’ve been done with a ballpoint pen and knitting needle. We’ll wash your hair a bit but leave it the same length.” 

The man touches Sirius’s hair. His finger gets caught in a gnarl and he has to tug it out. 

“Problem is Mr.…” Sirius waits for the man to fill in the blank. 

“Klein.” 

“Problem is Mr. Klein.” 

“Call me Calvin.” 

“Problem is Mr. Calvin Klein, I’m a wanted criminal. Convicted felon. Just escaped prison. You put me on a magazine cover like that broad”—he gestures with his cigarette towards the newsagents and the bird with the big, smooshed tits—“and you’ll have the whole Wizengamot down on the both of us, and I can’t have that. I’ve got a rat to track down and—” Sirius makes a slitting motion across his throat. 

Mr. Calvin Klein considers him. “I take it you’ve been wronged.” 

“Completely.” 

“Convicted felon but innocent man?” 

“That’s right.” 

“You’re a real life The Fugitive.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Harrison Ford.” 

“Like Han Solo?” 

“Never mind. And I take it the rat’s a snitch?” 

“And not a golden one either, if you know what I mean.” 

Calvin clearly doesn’t know what Sirius means. 

“Then we’ll have to make you too big to fail.” 

“Sorry?” 

“There are two ways to avoid re-imprisonment. One: below the radar. Sneak about. Avoid detection. I imagine that’s what you’re aiming for, but trust me, dressed like that, you’ve already failed. Option two, and the one I’m proposing: I’m going to make you so famous they can’t arrest you. See Cindy Crawford over there? You can’t arrest Cindy. There would be public outrage if you jailed Cindy.” 

Sirius must look skeptical because Calvin goes for another analogy. “How about Brad Pitt? You can’t imprison Brad Pitt.” 

“Who?” 

“Patrick Swayze?” 

Sirius shakes his head. 

“Burt Reynolds?” 

“Smokey and the Bandit?” 

“There you go. Now imagine imprisoning Burt Reynolds.” 

Pffff. “Please. You can’t lock up that ’stache.” 

“Exactly. We’ll make this—” Calvin waves his hands all up and down Sirius’s ‘look’—“so known, there’ll be mob justice if anyone comes for you.” 

“You can do that?” 

“I’m Calvin Klein and this is 1993.” 

“Is it now?” Sirius ashes the cigarette onto his bare foot. Cracks his toes on the pavement. “Where do I sign?”

Hi, Reese! One day I want to gift you a full-length wolfstar, but in the meantime, have this ficlet as a thank you for always supporting my weird-ass wolfstar ideas ❤️

Was this story inspired by the thought that Sirius escaped Azkaban in the mid-90s looking like the epitome of heroin chic? Yes, it was.

[beary-good-finds]

🦋 Butterfly sticker module by Sandylion, circa 2004 🦋

[mikakuna]

jason telling black mask he smells and needs to take a bath in his arkham knight dlc is something i didn't know i needed <3

[missgreeneyartz]

They met in 1995

[detco-hell]

look at him, so cute 💛 why the hell isn't he wearing a seatbelt 💛

[episode 219 - The Gathering of the Detectives! Shinichi Kudo vs. Kaitou Kid]

[hotwaterandmilk]

[vanalex]

[astriiformes]

I've already learned some insane things just skimming all these family history things from my mom too, including that I almost certainly have a truly wild number of German third cousins I'd be genuinely interested in trying to get in touch with, that the portion of my mom's family nebulously from "Yugoslavia" (at the time) were definitely Croatian, which I suspected for linguistic reasons but had despaired of ever proving for sure because of... well... not a lot of info and also the nature of the Balkans, and that apparently when I was a year old I was sent a t-shirt by a German great-uncle who, about 50 years prior, had deserted from the army in WWII.

[moodboards-of-a-loz3r]

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝟗𝟎𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃

"ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴡᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴇʟꜱᴇ'ꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱʜɪᴛ." 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑫 𝑨𝑵 𝑨𝑺𝑲 𝑻𝑶 𝑹𝑬𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑩𝑶𝑨𝑹𝑫. 𝑹𝑼𝑳𝑬𝑺 𝑰𝑵 𝑷𝑰𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑫 𝑷𝑶𝑺𝑻 | 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓛𝓘𝓝𝓚 --V---

[bitchking-of-angmar]

I'd rather someone call me a slur and mean it than be referred to as 'neurospicy' istfg

[theogony]

despite being about sports, blue lock is somehow not about sports at all

[athousandsuns2010]

honestly. based on my parents i'm surprised my fashion sense isnt more extreme

[anamericansinger]

not to get into a generational debate but i don’t want to claim millennials or gen z

[plushie-lovey]

Lowkey thinking about going back and buying a BAB I saw at goodwill yesterday. He was an older styled brown bear with long fur. He was quite handsome, and looked to be in good condition

[vintageseawitch]

it's strange watching MCU films especially No Way Home, like, they either have characters born a decade or more BEFORE i was born or a decade or more AFTER i was born WITH NO IN-BETWEEN. i'm stuck in that weird in-between, relating somewhat to both or neither at all. I'M IN AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS WHILE & ALSO BY JUDGING DOCTOR STRANGE & SYMPATHIZING WITH THE 3RD GEN FILM PETER PARKER & ALSO SOMEHOW VICE VERSA. like how is that even a thing-

[kr-cube]

boss baby fans are the first to complain about laimer not being good enough to play for this team when its THEIR own player's fault hes on the starting xi on the first place