♡ Asks ♡

Give me Sirius Black who has self harm scars on his arms and thighs. Sirius who has bruises on his wrists from hair elastics. Sirius who digs his nails into his arms when he’s stressed. Sirius who bites his hands when his nails don’t work. Sirius who rubs the insides of his wrists just to feel the scars because they comfort him. Sirius who punches walls when he’s overwhelmed. Sirius who is so used to pain as punishment that he thinks he deserves it whenever he does something he perceives as wrong. Sirius who learns when he’s young that pain is the best way to calm down.

Remus “I apologize to the grass when I trip on it” Lupin. Remus “I broke my wrist trying to lift too many books at once” Lupin. Remus “I run when the wind blows the wrong way” Lupin. That’s the one that is apparently an alpha bad-boy.

rj lupin - dominant alpha badboy? remus *gulp* lupin - keen problem solver n prank mastermind? sry. u mean rj lupin, limp of shrug and wet of sock? that one?

James sits with his legs crossed and Peter sits with one leg pulled up on the chair.

Remus Lupin doesn’t manspread, he sits with his legs crossed like a good little gay boy. Sirius Black manspreads.

Entirely correct, full marks!

more sirius black headcanons <3

hates being photographed but has a few old polaroids of him, mostly blurry shots of the marauders and one of himself laughing that he can’t bring himself to throw away

always smells like cigarette smoke, leather, and the faintest trace of something musky, like old cologne he barely remembers putting on

has a habit of flicking his lighter open and closed

picks at his nails constantly but keeps his hands clean, especially because of his tattoo work. his fingers are often stained with ink, though, and they always smell like nicotine

can fall asleep literally anywhere: on the floor, the couch. insomnia hits hard sometimes, so when he crashes, he crashes

reads poetry when he can’t sleep, the darker and messier the better—plath, bukowski, rimbaud. underlines lines that hit too close to home

collects random trinkets

hums under his breath without realizing—usually old rock songs or whatever tune is stuck in his head

terrified of hospitals. the sterile smell, the quiet—it all feels too close to the worst parts of his past

taps his rings against hard surfaces when he’s agitated, a rhythmic clink that drives people around him a little crazy

gets restless if he’s in one place too long—needs to be moving, even if it’s just pacing the room or fidgeting

rarely cries, but when he does, it’s silent and overwhelming, like he’s been holding it in for too long

knows the places he’s lived in better than most, could tell you where every hidden alley or late-night diner is, even the ones no one else seems to know exist

fiercely protective of his friends—would walk through fire for them without thinking twice

feels most alive when it’s late at night, the streets empty, cigarette in hand, music playing low in his ears

broke into his own flat more times than he can count because he loses his keys

keeps fostering pets

bites his lip when he’s trying not to cry so hard he’s drawn blood before

hates being told to calm down. it makes him immediately more defiant

always the one to suggest risky ideas—sneaking into closed places, midnight drives with no destination, climbing rooftops just for the view

his flat is a mess, but the chaos feels lived in, not dirty

fears being forgotten, like he never existed. he’s not scared of dying, though

has a scar on his knee from crashing his motorbike once

rolls his own cigarettes most of the time

awkward with affection, both giving and receiving

knows exactly how to break into places but rarely does—except when he gets really bad

can’t handle feeling trapped—needs windows open, needs space, hates locked doors

tall

Little Teddy doesn’t know what Daddy’s name is, but they figure it must be either “Moony,” “Love,” “ma Lune,” “Amour,” or “Chéri,” because that’s what Papa always calls him. They assume that at a few of the names must be nicknames, because, as far as they know, people only have one name. They’re pretty sure his name is Moony, though, because that’s what James and Peter call him, too.

Papa laughs for five whole minutes when they tell him their conundrum. Daddy just smiles like he does when they show him their cool jumps and tells Papa something in Welsh.

I would like to have all of them… please…

A bit of a pallet cleanser for everyone.

you can click on this button once daily to help palestine and support other causes in the middle east for free. it takes literally 5 seconds and could help save lives so please take the time to click and share this link.

Shit, man, why are all of your takes so correct

tall sirius black with his long hair and tattoos and a cold stare under long eyelashes and furrowed eyebrows emanating aristocracy and arrogance and his tanned curly blonde haired shorter but friendly middle aged dad vibes loserboyfriend remus lupin

Canon: They’re roommates! Best friends! Siblings! Colleagues! Sidekicks!

Fanon: They’re in love.

canon: they died

fanfic: fUCK YOU

You fucking prick I’m going to tie your shoelaces together

reblog this to have people guess what you look like in your inbox :3

IF YOU POST PICTURES OF YOURSELF YOURE CHEATING >:( /j