TWO Prompts, whuddup
ii. How would you have been different if you were born the opposite gender?
Because I would be playing with my tits all the time.
(Instead of half the time.)
i. When was the moment you realized you were an adult?
Sirius still couldn't be buggered to know if he was truly an adult, yet - certainly something approaching, but then adults probably didn't tell quite so many porny jokes, did they? Or the fun grown-ups he knew did, but then a grown-up was entirely different from an adult, insofar as he'd noticed. A grown-up, for example, could be about eighty years old and not act a day about eight years old. 'Adult' sort of denoted... responsibility. Maturity.
Maybe this was less 'moment he realized he was an adult', and more 'moments in which severe maturity was garnered'. Of which he probably could have named several. Some weren't even moments that were particularly big or important or pivotal, he didn't think. They just stuck out. For odd reasons. Regulus having an accident on his robes at Sirius' eighth birthday party, when Sirius had hurriedly rushed him into the next room, gotten him cleaned up and changed before the parents noticed - he was rutting glad that someone was looking out for Regulus' well-being, at least. Back before his brother had turned into something Unspeakable.
Or like feeling a bit bad when he and the cousins played another rousing game of Purebloods and Mudbloods (again) (not his choice), eleven years old, when Bellatrix, surprise surprise, made herself Pureblood Queen and once again demoted Andromeda to the Mudblood peasant. She'd cried and Sirius would have offered her to switch for once, but there was a look in Bellatrix's eyes whenever the lot all played that had nobody wanting to challenge who played what.
Oh, hey, or when he'd had a bad dream, wet his bed, five years old, and instead of the consolation he'd have liked to get a bit of, he got a very long lecture on self-control, confined to his room all day with the soiled sheets, something about having to face his mistakes and accept them. No, really, the Black house was a ball.
First time he'd turned into Padfoot, too. That'd been a good one.
Semi-important and all, maybe, but, okay, not the top ones - he didn't want to think too hard about it. Or. At least about accidents and stupid childhood games. No, he can narrow his adulthood down to a smaller field: three separate occasions.
Twelve. Was a very noted age.
Just, oh, a little moment accumulated after weeks and months or speculation and wondering, when the truth came out about Remus and, oh, hey, his friend was a werewolf. And he was oddly okay with that. Not that it was okay - a bit tragic, really, considering how many stories he'd heard, about painful transformations and violent natures, and for a while all Sirius could picture was the poor guy all alone and having to go through that. And Sirius punched his arm and asked why hadn't he told them that from the start, then, stupid Remus.
Stopped calling the kid by last names enough to call him Remus. And stopped being preoccupied with his family's Pureblood mania and their cursing his being the wrong house to help research - Sirius Black! Researching! - and try to figure out just how the hell they could help.
Sixteen was prominent enough too, wasn't it? It wasn't even anything particular that had set him off that night. Maybe it hadn't been the one big thing. Maybe it had been sixteen years worth of it, piling on top of his shoulders. And he'd sat there at that incredibly impersonal fifteen foot long dining room table, eating some delicacy that he couldn't pronounce (though he was fairly certain it was something squiddy), staring down at this very unappetizing meal and poking things around with his very silver fork when his mother had so calmly asked him about his year, as if she actually cared.
"Still friends with that-- What's His Face? The half-blood?" his father ground out.
"The Mudblood," his mother corrected.
"Remus," Sirius wanted to upstage them both.
"Shut the fuck up," he'd shared instead, in his kindest (loudest, cruelest, most barking of a) voice, and Regulus dropped his fork onto his plate when Sirius informed them all that he was leaving. The packing went smoothly. It was when his mother grabbed him by the hair on his way out and pulled him into the tapestry room, that was the part he'd never talked about.
Tergeo, was the spell she used for these special occasions. Tergeo, which literally translated to 'I wipe', 'I clean', I scour' - ridding the tapestry of some sort of stain that should have never been there. She points her wand at his shoulder when he starts refusing to watch, and as a circle of fabric burns through and his shoulder smolders, she holds his chin in place. Sirius watches his name disappear in a tiny puff of flames and revels in the moment.
His shoulder aches and seethes in complaint when he yanks on a sweatshirt, and he doesn't hear the curses yelled after him until he's halfway up the street and grabbing at a lamp post to try and take some of the pressure off his newly wobbly limbs. What he'd thought had been nerves and some awkward twisting into his gut ended up being his mother's work, and even as he was ill, nearly all over his shoes, Jelly Legs making it a fun time trying to stand, this was a strangely eye-opening experience.
He was free. From the Blacks.
And had a very important choice to make, at that juncture, regarding a home. It took him approximately ten seconds to decide - who else but the Potters, honestly? - just a few long hours of him sitting at that lovely, sidewalk, next to his own vomit waiting for the worst of the hex to wear off. He'd picked out a new home, and for a short while, up 'til he'd passed the Potters' threshold, it was a pretty damn refreshing moment in his life, thank you.
Not that Sirius had particularly matured since then. There was less reason to act out, when he wasn't simply trying to piss his parents off, of course, but, well. It would've taken a few rutting horse tranquilizers to calm Sirius Black down.
Three, he'd said there was, and the last was the most recent.
Seventeen was a big age to hit, in the wizarding world, and what else was new that Sirius had rung it in smashed. He still remembered it all, though. The quiet conversation, the fire, the quilt, the scattered kisses, and there was a kind of assured way that Remus' and Sirius' fingers fit together so tightly. He'd been thinking of Adam's tips on loving someone, the moon later that week, and it kind of frightened Sirius, all at once, how the hell he could just care for someone that much.
Turning the legal age, the two boys getting back together, the fingers, the warmth that spread from Remus' body, and that kind of stupid way that Sirius couldn't stop smiling around him. He didn't know what it was; he didn't know if it was love. He didn't know what love was like. But it was just something Big, in capital letters, that kept swelling against the walls of his chest and it ached and he couldn't explain it. It felt good.
And he was going to work at this harder than most of anything else he could think of. Fuck it.
Because I would be playing with my tits all the time.
(Instead of half the time.)
i. When was the moment you realized you were an adult?
Sirius still couldn't be buggered to know if he was truly an adult, yet - certainly something approaching, but then adults probably didn't tell quite so many porny jokes, did they? Or the fun grown-ups he knew did, but then a grown-up was entirely different from an adult, insofar as he'd noticed. A grown-up, for example, could be about eighty years old and not act a day about eight years old. 'Adult' sort of denoted... responsibility. Maturity.
Maybe this was less 'moment he realized he was an adult', and more 'moments in which severe maturity was garnered'. Of which he probably could have named several. Some weren't even moments that were particularly big or important or pivotal, he didn't think. They just stuck out. For odd reasons. Regulus having an accident on his robes at Sirius' eighth birthday party, when Sirius had hurriedly rushed him into the next room, gotten him cleaned up and changed before the parents noticed - he was rutting glad that someone was looking out for Regulus' well-being, at least. Back before his brother had turned into something Unspeakable.
Or like feeling a bit bad when he and the cousins played another rousing game of Purebloods and Mudbloods (again) (not his choice), eleven years old, when Bellatrix, surprise surprise, made herself Pureblood Queen and once again demoted Andromeda to the Mudblood peasant. She'd cried and Sirius would have offered her to switch for once, but there was a look in Bellatrix's eyes whenever the lot all played that had nobody wanting to challenge who played what.
Oh, hey, or when he'd had a bad dream, wet his bed, five years old, and instead of the consolation he'd have liked to get a bit of, he got a very long lecture on self-control, confined to his room all day with the soiled sheets, something about having to face his mistakes and accept them. No, really, the Black house was a ball.
First time he'd turned into Padfoot, too. That'd been a good one.
Semi-important and all, maybe, but, okay, not the top ones - he didn't want to think too hard about it. Or. At least about accidents and stupid childhood games. No, he can narrow his adulthood down to a smaller field: three separate occasions.
Twelve. Was a very noted age.
Just, oh, a little moment accumulated after weeks and months or speculation and wondering, when the truth came out about Remus and, oh, hey, his friend was a werewolf. And he was oddly okay with that. Not that it was okay - a bit tragic, really, considering how many stories he'd heard, about painful transformations and violent natures, and for a while all Sirius could picture was the poor guy all alone and having to go through that. And Sirius punched his arm and asked why hadn't he told them that from the start, then, stupid Remus.
Stopped calling the kid by last names enough to call him Remus. And stopped being preoccupied with his family's Pureblood mania and their cursing his being the wrong house to help research - Sirius Black! Researching! - and try to figure out just how the hell they could help.
Sixteen was prominent enough too, wasn't it? It wasn't even anything particular that had set him off that night. Maybe it hadn't been the one big thing. Maybe it had been sixteen years worth of it, piling on top of his shoulders. And he'd sat there at that incredibly impersonal fifteen foot long dining room table, eating some delicacy that he couldn't pronounce (though he was fairly certain it was something squiddy), staring down at this very unappetizing meal and poking things around with his very silver fork when his mother had so calmly asked him about his year, as if she actually cared.
"Still friends with that-- What's His Face? The half-blood?" his father ground out.
"The Mudblood," his mother corrected.
"Remus," Sirius wanted to upstage them both.
"Shut the fuck up," he'd shared instead, in his kindest (loudest, cruelest, most barking of a) voice, and Regulus dropped his fork onto his plate when Sirius informed them all that he was leaving. The packing went smoothly. It was when his mother grabbed him by the hair on his way out and pulled him into the tapestry room, that was the part he'd never talked about.
Tergeo, was the spell she used for these special occasions. Tergeo, which literally translated to 'I wipe', 'I clean', I scour' - ridding the tapestry of some sort of stain that should have never been there. She points her wand at his shoulder when he starts refusing to watch, and as a circle of fabric burns through and his shoulder smolders, she holds his chin in place. Sirius watches his name disappear in a tiny puff of flames and revels in the moment.
His shoulder aches and seethes in complaint when he yanks on a sweatshirt, and he doesn't hear the curses yelled after him until he's halfway up the street and grabbing at a lamp post to try and take some of the pressure off his newly wobbly limbs. What he'd thought had been nerves and some awkward twisting into his gut ended up being his mother's work, and even as he was ill, nearly all over his shoes, Jelly Legs making it a fun time trying to stand, this was a strangely eye-opening experience.
He was free. From the Blacks.
And had a very important choice to make, at that juncture, regarding a home. It took him approximately ten seconds to decide - who else but the Potters, honestly? - just a few long hours of him sitting at that lovely, sidewalk, next to his own vomit waiting for the worst of the hex to wear off. He'd picked out a new home, and for a short while, up 'til he'd passed the Potters' threshold, it was a pretty damn refreshing moment in his life, thank you.
Not that Sirius had particularly matured since then. There was less reason to act out, when he wasn't simply trying to piss his parents off, of course, but, well. It would've taken a few rutting horse tranquilizers to calm Sirius Black down.
Three, he'd said there was, and the last was the most recent.
Seventeen was a big age to hit, in the wizarding world, and what else was new that Sirius had rung it in smashed. He still remembered it all, though. The quiet conversation, the fire, the quilt, the scattered kisses, and there was a kind of assured way that Remus' and Sirius' fingers fit together so tightly. He'd been thinking of Adam's tips on loving someone, the moon later that week, and it kind of frightened Sirius, all at once, how the hell he could just care for someone that much.
Turning the legal age, the two boys getting back together, the fingers, the warmth that spread from Remus' body, and that kind of stupid way that Sirius couldn't stop smiling around him. He didn't know what it was; he didn't know if it was love. He didn't know what love was like. But it was just something Big, in capital letters, that kept swelling against the walls of his chest and it ached and he couldn't explain it. It felt good.
And he was going to work at this harder than most of anything else he could think of. Fuck it.