#fat sirius

[queerlybelovedwerewolf]

No one alive knows Sirius is trans.

He told his family when he was thirteen, because it hurt too much not to. They weaponized it immediately — Regulus stammering “my brother is a girl” at every meal, his mother spitting the words “unnatural” and “unworthy” whenever she looked at him.

So Sirius shut it down. Buried it. Leaned into the chaos and violence and fire of being a boy in every way he could. And when he was slender and sharp and fast, it was easy. His chest was flat enough, his hips narrow. He wore arrogance like armor and no one looked too closely.

But Azkaban aged him.

There was no food. No movement. No sunlight.

Then there was too much — in Grimmauld Place, the food is rich, and Sirius eats like he might never again.

His chest comes back. Softer. Heavier. His hips round out. His thighs grow thick, his waist soft. Every curve makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

He wears layers — too many for summer. Pulls on coats and robes and oversized jumpers. Wraps belts tight to hide the way he’s padded and round.

He never says a word.

Until Snape does.

——————

It’s an Order meeting. Sirius is standing in the kitchen doorway — Remus at his side, robes hanging loose but not loose enough.

Snape’s voice cuts the air like a spell.

“You’ve gone soft, Black.

I suppose prison took its toll — though I never thought you’d return with birthing hips and a milkmaid’s shoulders.

What would your father say? Seeing his heir shaped like a housewife.”

It’s meant to humiliate. To emasculate.

But it’s too close. Too sharp. Too specific.

Remus turns on Snape like a wolf mid-snarl.

But Sirius — Sirius just stares, frozen. Then leaves the room without a sound.

———————

Remus finds Sirius in the bathroom, stripped to his binder, curled on the floor and sobbing.

Sirius chokes out the truth. About his body. About his name. About how he never wanted anyone to know.

Remus kneels beside him. Doesn’t speak at first. Just wraps himself around Sirius like a shield.

Then he says, low and unwavering:

“You’re still the man I’ve always loved. And I’ll burn anyone who tries to say otherwise.”

Sirius laughs through the tears. “You love me?”

Remus presses his forehead to Sirius’s chest. “Every inch. Even the ones you hate.”

[queerlybelovedwerewolf]

In their sixties, kisses came slower. Their bodies had softened, both of them slightly stooped, and Sirius’s bad knee meant he didn’t bend the way he used to. But he still pulled Remus close every morning, still brushed kisses over knuckles and temples and shoulders like rituals.

One quiet evening, Remus was reading in bed with a hot water bottle pressed to his hip. Sirius came in wearing that awful tartan robe he refused to throw away, and without a word, leaned down and kissed him. Slow. Long. Reverent.

When he finally pulled back, Remus raised an eyebrow. “What was that for?” Sirius smirked, brushing grey curls behind his ear. “Because I’ll forget to later. And you always complain when I forget.”

[queerlybelovedwerewolf]

Before the war, Sirius was radiant.

All cheekbones and lean hips and laughing arrogance. A walking, snarling twink-god in leather and eyeliner.

Now his skin is grey. His hair is streaked white. He has a permanent hollowness under his eyes, and a small, soft belly that his old trousers cut into.

His old clothes — the ones still in Grimmauld’s wardrobe — fit wrong. Too tight in some places, hanging limp in others.

Snape says something cruel at an Order meeting. Something that cuts deep. Something about how some people age harder than others.

Sirius barely makes it upstairs before collapsing in silence.

Remus finds him curled in the wardrobe.

“You don’t have to fit those clothes,” Remus murmurs. “They don’t deserve you anymore.”

[queerlybelovedwerewolf]

It starts like it always does lately—hot, quiet, a little frantic. Remus straddling Sirius on their old creaky bed, mouth warm and biting at Sirius’s neck. They haven’t even gotten all their clothes off yet, just enough to rut against each other through layers. Sirius’s trousers are shoved down to his thighs, his shirt still half-on. Remus’s chest is pressed close, hands steady on Sirius’s hips.

Sirius is flushed. Sweaty. Breath hitching. But when Remus sits up, angling down to grind against him properly, Sirius catches sight of himself and falters.

His belly spills slightly to the sides. Round, soft, still damp with sweat. He tries to suck in. The angle’s wrong. They’re close—so close—and suddenly his stomach is pushing into Remus’s lower abdomen, getting in the way of everything.

Sirius stammers, “It’s—fuck, it’s in the way.”

Remus doesn’t stop. He just groans, loud and low, and shifts forward to press more against Sirius’s stomach. “You think I don’t like that?”

Sirius blinks, dazed. “You—you like this?”

Remus rocks into him. Deliberately. The soft give of Sirius’s belly presses right into his clit and Sirius feels it—feels the way Remus ruts against it, uses it. “It’s fucking perfect, Pads. You’re warm and full and so much, and I—oh, fuck, don’t pull away.”

Sirius swallows hard. His face is burning. His belly’s in the way, his thighs are spread wide, he’s panting and red and wrecked—and Remus looks like he’s starving for it.

And the embarrassment? The helplessness of being seen, like this, taken apart like this?

It makes him harder.

Remus notices. Of course he does. He leans in and whispers, “That turns you on, doesn’t it?” Then kisses Sirius’s cheek, soft as anything. “Being wanted like this?”

Sirius can’t speak. Just nods. Shuddering. His belly shivers between them and Remus groans like he’s going to come from the feel of it alone.

And Sirius—flushed, overwhelmed, so much that he can barely breathe—is finally, finally not afraid to let go.

[queerlybelovedwerewolf]

He stopped binding after the second month.

He tried — Merlin, he tried — but his ribs cracked in the cold, and the damp cloths festered with rot, and after the third infection he stopped caring.

His hips widened. His thighs thickened. His chest grew heavy again.

The Dementors didn’t see gender. They just saw shame.

And Sirius had so much of it.

The horror wasn’t that he was seen as a woman. The horror was that he didn’t feel like a man anymore.

Not without a voice. Not without a body that belonged to him. Not after they took every edge he ever sharpened.

He didn’t try to look like a man anymore.

So when Remus comes back into his life — pale, scared, still beautiful — he sees Sirius in rags, with a visible chest and wide hips and sunken cheeks.

And Remus doesn’t flinch.

He kneels beside him and whispers:

“You came back as yourself. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Sirius doesn’t believe it. Not yet.

But maybe, maybe, he wants to.