people are so fucking weird. what james & sirius did to snape is NOT s/a. it is something most of the school was doing to each other, using a spell literally invented BY snape. plus pantsing was, and still is (at least when I was in school), a fairly popular thing to do?? like as a prank between lads??
THANK YOU oh my GOD . bullying ≠ sexual assault will now get you flamed ??? the amount of random ass shit people are saying is crazy too omg "you’re coming to me and saying that if a victim was in their abuser’s house and was naked, then you wouldn’t interpret it as sexual abuse" HOW did we get here. also omg the fact that SNAPE INVENTED THE SPELL . like that's such a major detail but snape dickriders are never gonna bring it up
FBR actually introduced me to the song so now whenever i hear it i am plagued by visions (sad brothers) (who kiss)
AHHHHH anon im so glad to plague you with heartache<3 i miss FBR dearly so have a draft of some teen stans i wrote while writing black water lilies :3
The scent of bleach and old mop water clung to the air, thick and biting, as Ford adjusted his glasses and carefully laid out his homework across the dingy floor. The janitorial closet was small, the kind of small that made it impossible to breathe without feeling like the walls were pressing in. Shelves lined the space, crammed with rusting cans of floor wax, half-used bottles of ammonia, and an assortment of grimy rags that looked like they’d been repurposed one too many times. Somewhere in the corner, a slow, rhythmic drip echoed, like a clock ticking down the minutes until their inevitable release.
Ford had expected to be here. This wasn’t his first time locked in the school’s basement closet. It wouldn’t be his last.
But Stanley?
Stan was a new variable.
Ford stole a glance at him—his twin, his mirror image, except where Ford was wiry, sharp angles and slouched shoulders, Stan was solid. Strong. He was still jiggling the door handle, cursing under his breath, jaw set, hair mussed from the scuffle. His lip was split, his knuckles raw, bruises already beginning to bloom on his cheekbone. Ford took a mental note to make sure he iced those later.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Stan was never around for it. His brother had boxing practice, which gave Ford the perfect cover—if he got home late, he could just say he’d been at the library. He’d perfected the lie, worn it in like a well-loved sweater. But today, of all days, Stan had cut practice early. Just needed to hit the bathroom, he’d said. And that’s when he’d caught sight of Ford being dragged toward the basement by a pack of meat-headed morons with letterman jackets and an apparent grudge against kids who could spell "Pythagorean theorem" without stuttering.
Stan had fought. Of course, he had. Five-on-one was unfair, even for Stan, and even worse when he’d already exhausted himself running drills. They’d left him bruised for the trouble before shoving him in alongside Ford and slamming the door shut.
Trapped.
The only light came from a grimy, small window set high on the wall, barely enough to cast more than a few weak streaks of sunlight against the linoleum floor.
“Stan, just leave it,” Ford sighed, adjusting his grip on his pencil as he started scribbling in his notebook. “We’re gonna be here a while.”
Stan twisted to glare at him, his face flushed from exertion, his knuckles already bruising from the fight.
“Ma and Pa are gonna kill us if we’re gone all night,” Stan muttered.
Ford checked his watch. “Realistically, we’ll be out by 5:45. That’s when Tony—the janitor—usually comes by to grab his supplies.”
Stan stilled, then turned slowly, squatting down in front of him with a considering look. His foot landed on one of Ford’s papers, and Ford made an irritated sound, yanking it out from under him before it could get smudged.
Stan just grinned like an idiot and, without missing a beat, poked Ford square in the forehead. “How d’you know that?”
Ford froze.
Right. Stan didn’t know.
Didn’t know this had been happening for a while. Didn’t know how many times Ford had been shoved into this exact closet, left to sit and wait, tracing the patterns of mildew creeping up the walls while he kept his head down and his mouth shut.
Ford cleared his throat, backpedaling. “It’s just an assumption.”
Stan snorted, loudly, with all the grace of a pig choking on its own spit. “Oh, yeah? You don’t do assumptions.”
He even mispronounced it—"assump-tins"—and Ford clenched his jaw against the immediate urge to correct him. It would’ve been funny, if Ford weren’t currently feeling like he’d been caught smuggling contraband.
Ford pressed his lips together.
“This ain’t your first time in the ‘closet of the damned,’ huh?”
Ford said nothing.
“Multiple times…?”
Still, Ford didn’t answer.
Stan inhaled through his nose, exhaling slow and long, like a guy trying real hard not to yell at someone. “Y’know what? Lucky for you, I’m too tired to chew you out for not tellin’ me.” He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. “But we’re not sittin’ here ‘til six.”
Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “The door can’t be opened from the inside, Stanley. There’s no way out.”
“There’s always a way,” Stan shot back, determination setting in his face like stone.
Ford shook his head. “I can just tell Ma I was at the library—”
“Yeah? And what am I supposed to say?” Stan interrupted, arms crossed. “I get home before you. You think they’re gonna believe I wasn’t involved? They’ll think I got us both into trouble.”
Ford pursed his lips, but Stan wasn’t finished.
“And you think it’s fair?” Stan jabbed a finger at him. “You get to sit here in your own personal study hall—”
“This is hardly an adequate space to do homework,” Ford interjected, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just convenient.”
“—And I get stuck listening to Ma and Aunt Irina bitchin’ about God knows what all evenin’?”
Ford chuckled at that. “You really think Ma’s gossip is worse than being locked in here?”
“Yes!” Stan threw his arms up. “You don’t know what it’s like! You left me in the trenches, Ford! Irina’s a freakin’ yenta, man!”
Ford laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t just call her that.”
Stan smirked, giving him a light shove. “Try an’ stop me.”
Ford swatted at him in return, the brotherly back-and-forth breaking through the stagnant air of the room.
Then Stan stood up, stretching, his arms reaching above his head, his muscles shifting beneath his thin, sweat-damp shirt. Ford’s eyes followed without meaning to, tracking the movement, the subtle roll of his shoulders. Then he started pushing things aside—shoving a mop bucket, shifting a couple shelves, moving a stack of dustpans like it weighed nothing.
“We can probably get out through the window,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Ford stared. “You’re joking.”
Stan turned, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”
“Yes.”
Stan rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Poindexter, get off your ass and help me move this crap. We got an escape plan.”
Ford sighed, collecting his papers with quick, meticulous hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”
“Better than bein’ stuck listenin’ to Irina’s third retelling of that time she got thrown outta Macy’s.”
Ford groaned as he stood. “Point taken.”
Stan grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now help me lift this.”
Ford will not admit that Stan was right. He absolutely, categorically, in no uncertain terms, will not admit it.
That would mean admitting that their ridiculous makeshift staircase—haphazardly constructed from precariously stacked paint cans, overturned buckets, and a few wooden crates—actually worked. That it reached the window with just enough height for them both to crawl through. That, hypothetically, they could squeeze out and land on solid ground in one piece.
Moving around, however, was another ordeal entirely. The closet wasn’t made for two teenage boys, let alone two teenage boys maneuvering around each other. It meant bumping elbows, brushing against shoulders, and being uncomfortably aware of the way Stan smelled—sweat and cigarettes, the sharp musk of exertion, but also something lighter, something floral and lingering.
Carla’s perfume. God, that perfume.
It had been giving him a headache for weeks, ever since Stan had started seeing her. Or—more accurately—ever since Ford had started noticing why it bothered him so much.
Being locked in a closet with Stan was one thing. Being locked in a closet with Stan while Ford was knee-deep in questioning the nature of their relationship was an entirely different kind of torture.
He would not think about it now.
Instead, he latched onto the only thing keeping his brain from spiraling: the efficiency. The teamwork. The problem-solving. Yes. Good things.
They were working well together, moving with an almost practiced rhythm. Stan was standing back now, hands on his hips, chest puffed out as he admired their work. He flashed Ford a grin, raising both arms with a triumphant, "Ta-da!"
Ford crossed his arms, eyeing the unstable structure with suspicion. “It hardly seems… stable.” He pressed his fingers against the top paint can, which wobbled slightly, tilting downward at an unsettling angle.
Stan blew a raspberry. “It’s perfect. You’re just mad my big dumb caveman brain thought of it first.”
Ford rolled his eyes. “That is not what I said.”
Stan snickered and stepped onto the lowest shelf, testing his weight before climbing higher. The shelving creaked under him, but held. He reached the window ledge, fingers fumbling against the frame, and Ford could see at least a million and one ways this was going to go horribly wrong.
Stan could lose his footing, come crashing down onto the paint cans, split his skull open—Ford braced himself for impact, fingers twitching, heart climbing up his throat.
But then, a soft click—a creak—and a gust of icy winter air swept into the closet.
A gust of frigid air swept through the cramped closet, sharp and biting against Ford’s exposed skin. Stan exhaled triumphantly. “Woulda been frozen shut if we waited any longer,” he muttered. Then, with an awkward shimmy, he hoisted himself up, sticking his head out like a groundhog emerging from its burrow.
He turned, hair wind-mussed, looking down at Ford. “You just gonna sit there, genius?”
Ford sighed, shoved their bags up first, and squared his shoulders. Stan extended his arm, and Ford hesitated—only for a second—before gripping his brother’s hand.
He had just enough upper body strength to haul himself up. His occasional, reluctant participation in Stan’s boxing lessons hadn’t been completely for nothing, apparently. He scrambled up onto the ledge, feeling the strong pull of Stan’s grip, the muscle flex under his fingers.
But what he hadn’t accounted for—
Was the ice.
Or the fact that Stan had pulled just a little too hard.
Or the undeniable, inarguable momentum of it all.
His sneakers skidded the second they hit the frozen ground. The momentum of Stan pulling him out was just strong enough that instead of landing cleanly, he crashed right into his brother.
Thud.
For a second, he didn’t understand. His brain blanked, skipping like a broken record, stuttering over the scene in front of him.
Then he looked down.
Oh.
He was straddling Stan.
His knees were planted on either side of Stan’s hips, hands braced beside his head in the frost-dusted grass. The press of their bodies was unavoidable, warmth bleeding through layers of winter clothes. Stan was looking up at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks darkened—probably from the cold, right?
Ford could feel the heat pooling in his stomach, coiling like something hungry, something dangerous.
This was doing horrible things to his brain. His logical, analytical, very intelligent brain, which had, at this moment, decided to betray him completely by memorizing this position. Burning it into his mind like a red-hot brand.
They were staring at each other.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
Ford could feel the way Stan’s chest rose and fell beneath him, fast, uneven.
Could feel the way their hips—
Stan coughed.
The sound was rough, a little strained. His voice came next, also rough, and Ford could swear he was struggling to get the words out.
“Uh. You… gonna get off, or what?”
"Right—yes—" Ford scrambled so fast to untangle himself that he nearly slipped again. “Yep. Off. Definitely off."
His knee knocked into Stan’s side as he jerked back, and Stan sucked in a sharp breath.
No. No.
Stan wasn’t—he wasn’t, right?
Ford did not have time to think about it.
Not when Stan abruptly reached for his duffle bag, very deliberately positioning it over his lap. Not when his cheeks were still pink, and his eyes were darting anywhere but at Ford. Not when, after a beat of tense silence, Stan suddenly fished something out of his bag and chucked it at Ford’s head.
A scarf.
Ford barely caught it in time, his fingers clenching around the soft wool. “Oh,” he blurted. His voice came out high, too high, and he had to clear his throat before managing a stiff, “Uh. Thanks.”
Stan nodded. Nodded.
Didn’t say anything.
Just adjusted his sweater. Lowered it slightly.
Then, finally, mercifully, changed the subject.
“C’mon, nerd. Let’s get home before we both freeze.”
The walk home was surprisingly easy.
Their legs were stiff from the cold, their breath puffing white into the evening air, but neither of them brought up what happened. Not the janitor’s closet. Not the window. And definitely not—
Ford swallowed hard, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck.
By the time they got home, Ford had convinced himself things were normal.
Normal enough, anyway.
Sure, he had to sit through Aunt Irina’s latest tirade—this time about their cousin Eugene, who was apparently ruining his life again doing God-knows-what. Their mother balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear, her expression flat with practiced patience as Irina’s screeching rang through the receiver.
Stan, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the fruit basket.
He grabbed an apple, bit into it with a loud crunch, and locked eyes with Ford across the kitchen. Then, without missing a beat, he mouthed yenta at him.
Ford snorted, biting back a laugh.
This felt normal.
Except they weren’t.
Because later, during dinner, Ford found himself staring blankly at his plate, his fork resting uselessly against his palm. He blinked—and suddenly, he was back in the snow. On top of Stan.
His heart kicked against his ribs, a flash of heat rolling through his gut as the image burned fresh in his mind.
His weight pressing Stan down. His hands caging Stan in. The frozen air thick with silence, with heat, with….something that coiled tight between them.
Ford swallowed hard, shifting in his seat, gripping his fork like it might anchor him to reality. He wished—God help him, he wished—the position had been reversed.
His appetite vanished.
And it didn’t stop.
Not when they finished eating, not when they cleaned up, not even when Stan stepped out of the shower, his skin damp, hair mussed, smelling like—
Himself.
Not smoke, not sweat, not artificial strawberry, or any other trace of Carla. Just Stan.
Ford gritted his teeth against the thought, burying himself in his work, ignoring the way his pulse felt too heavy, too loud. It didn’t help that Stan was right there.
Not in any meaningful way—he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t watching Ford, wasn’t doing anything suspicious—but Ford was still hyper-aware of him.
Stan sat cross-legged on his bunk, surprisingly doing his homework, head bent over his notebook, twirling a pencil between his fingers.
He shifted slightly, watching Stan through the metal reflection of their pencil sharpener. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows over his face, highlighting the bruise still darkening along his cheekbone.
Ford frowned.
Without thinking, he got up, padding quietly to the kitchen.
Their father had already retired to bed, which was a relief—less chance of him asking questions. Their mother, still half-distracted by her soaps, didn’t even glance up as Ford dug around in the freezer until he found—aha.
Two Italian ices. Lemon and Cherry.
He was fairly certain they’d been in there since two summers ago, but they’d serve their purpose.
He grabbed them both, heading back to their room. Without a word, he tossed one at Stan, who caught it with a raised brow.
“For your cheek,” Ford muttered, settling back at his desk and tearing the lid off his own.
Stan chuckled, pressing the frozen treat against his face. “What, no bag of peas?”
“Would you prefer the bag of peas?”
“Nah,” Stan grinned. “This one’s got flavor.”
They both sat in comfortable silence, scraping their wooden spoons against the ice, the occasional skrrk the only sound between them.
Then—“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stan’s voice was even, but there was an edge to it—something quiet, simmering just beneath the surface.
Ford didn’t look at him. He stared at his Italian ice, willing himself to sound neutral. “Tell you what?”
Stan gave him a look.
“Didn’t need you worrying about it,” Ford said eventually, keeping his voice even. “It only just started happening.”
Stan gave him a flat look. “Bullshit.”
Ford clenched his jaw.
“Being shoved around is one thing, ” Stan continued, voice low. “ But getting left there?” He shook his head. “That ain’t right.”
“That isn’t right.”
Stan shot him a sharp, unimpressed glare.
“God, you’re insufferable,” Stan muttered, shaking his head before taking another bite of his ice.
“There wouldn’t have been any way to tell you, anyway,” Ford continued. “You have practice. You’re always busy.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “Busy with what, exactly?”
Ford’s spoon scraped his ice just a bit harder. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe Carla or something.”
“Sure,” Stan said, drawing lazy circles against the plastic cup with his thumb. “But you know you’re my priority, right?”
Ford nearly dropped his ice.
His breath caught—his pulse hammered—his whole body locked up for a fraction of a second, his fingers stiff around the frozen plastic. He forced himself not to react. Not to think about what that meant. Not to want it to mean something it didn’t.
Stan stretched his arms, the muscles in his back flexing slightly beneath his shirt. “Not like I even see Carla that much anyway. She’s got French lessons, clarinet crap—” He made a vague gesture. “She’s been on my ass a lot lately. Annoyin’.”
Ford bristled before he could stop himself. His grip tightened around his spoon, but he forced himself to keep his tone even. “She’s probably just—” he cleared his throat, “—invested. Just give her time.”
God, what else was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to think?
Carla wasn’t even—she wasn’t a bad person.
She was smart. She was capable.
If Ford had any sense, he’d be interested in someone like her.
But the thought of her expecting something from Stan, of wanting something from him that Ford couldn’t even acknowledge wanting—
He hadn’t even realized Stan was looking at him until he turned his head slightly, catching the faintest trace of something unreadable in his brother’s eyes.
Stan searched his face for a second—long enough that Ford felt like he was waiting for something, some kind of reaction, some kind of tell—but whatever he was looking for, he must not have found it.
Because after a second, he just shrugged.
“Yeah,” he muttered, dropping his gaze back to his homework. “She’s pretty okay, I guess.”
difference between wolfstar and moonchaser is that sirius is not aware that remus looks like he snuck onto earth and then immediately got mauled by a bear whereas james loves his fugly man
james is disgustingly in love with sirius, he's been stealing clothes and items to jack off to since he discovered jacking off and now he's sixteen and the boy of his dreams comes running to him. sirius is in his house and they've been lowkey dating for a while now (neither of them will call it that, sirius because internalized homophobia, james because... Fear) and james has been so totally 100% chill about it. sirius is with him in his room in his bed and james is very very very possessive won't even let his parents talk to him for too long and doesn't even tell anyone sirius is there just keeps him inside the room. sirius is very happy with it - he doesn't want to talk to anyone, just wants james' company, and for now in his weakened state the possessiveness doesn't feel infantilizing (well, it does feel infantilizing but he doesn't hate it as much/thinks it's deserved) but comes off as james' love (which it is). peter finds out because james and him live close together and he comes over one day and effie mentions it to him. <- james seethes and screams and throws a fit about this btw. peter finds out and he's soo pissed because james should've told him ??? he's not jealous, so much, he's never wanted to deal with sirius' emotional baggage in long periods of time/knows sirius would never come to him anyway but he's also in love with sirius but in a diff way ? like he's doing the same things james does (looking at him in the shower, driving people away) but his is more stalker-y and james is more possess-y. james and peter fight and it's bad and bloody because they're both sportsy guys and they're both violent and they're both angry and want sirius. sirius is sooo out of it this is happening in the same room as he's in and they're strangling each other and he's just sitting there high as a kite trying to manually blink because his brain won't work anymore. he finds it weird but james basicallyyy gaslights him into thinking his doped up brain made it way bigger than it was and it was really just a little bit of shoving around for some totally unrelated reason to sirius. peter is pissed and 100% wants to correct him (he's the only one brave enough to admit that he's a total creep AND get off in it) but james will literally cut him up and set his insides on fire so he. refrains against it.
hogwarts starts and remus finds out and he's wallowinggg and he's so sad and cries about it for HOURS because of course the object of his affection was sleeping in another man's bed and he's so pathetic for thinking sirius would ever want to be with him and want him and love him and sirius is still disoriented and mentally ill -> constantly high so he's like huh i wonder what's wrong with him and james is 24/7 tailing him so he's like "idk baby let's go over there <33". remus is in love with sirius in a very wet cat way where he smells his sheets and jacks off into his pillow and sits in his bathwater and just overall cries a lot. he tries to romanticize it by writing in his journal but his handwriting is shit and it's so tear soaked it's impossible to read. remus tries to comfort him and get him things and weed and stuff to make sirius like him and sirius is like um ok james got me the good kind but thanks ig and yeah
eventuallyyy sirius catches on the three of them and he doesn't really change the behavior bcz he lowk finds it funny and he also really really needs everyone to love him now that he kind of doesn't have a family anymore. he goes to peter's games and twirls his hair and smiles all pretty and cheers super hard when he scores and gets high with remus and touches his hair sometimes and jamesss he's always with james, touches his bicep, kisses his cheek, wears his clothes. he leads them all on and they're aware of it (not james, he thinks he's the only one for sirius ummm ever) but they let it happen because sirius is paying attention to them too !!!
come valentines day and he wakes up to six hundred and two bouquets and also peter is dead and remus had a panic attack and is now passed out and james is just standing over there like baby hii i got rid of them <33 let's go on a date <33 and sirius is like ykw no fuck you then he goes to mary and mary's like um ok and then they date for a year and then mary kills sirius and then she gets sick from depression and before she can die from sickness she wants to kill herself and then before she can kill herself james wants to kill her but when james goes there and mary's begging for her life he just looks at her apartment and her manner and thinks how similar she is to sirius and then they both get really sad and make out and have hot disgusting sex and mary tells james she fucked sirius' mom and james starts crying and then mary gets icked out and then james' ego gets hurt and then he kills her and then he remembers sirius is dead and then he kills himself in the hopes that they reunite in heaven (they reunite in hell)
I am once again asking u to give me another creep rjl au... I feel like a drug addict abt to relapse bc ur creep rjl makes me cry but idc
I WAS SUPPOSED TO POST THISSS oka i will post this now its bad and kind of 2 loser 2 b pathetix pls don't cry pretty girl 🙁
sirius gows on trips w his fmlily every summer right, and they always stay at this one hotel thats super massive and grand and awesome. remus qorks as like a helper there (got the job bcz daddy helped him out) ans first theim he saw sirius he decdided that sirius was. the most beautiful person. ever . so he wa slaways the one who cleaned the rooms and he always stayed laye to catch sirius coking in ajd oit,, sirius never paid him any attention bcz ahy wd he ? remus decides that at thw wns of this vacation hesll gey sirius' numebr and decied the vwst way to rizz sirius uo wd b to be sooo good at cleaning so hw works super duper hard and stuff and hes the ine whi delivers room serveuce & everything but sidius litr doesnt eevn nitice that housekeeping,waiters,room service, wtc r the sawm person vcz remus is so. forgettable. ans sirish kinda stares at him skemtimes like 'do ik u...' but enver says it (obv) so rmeus thisnk htat hes totally in lowv with jim and thwyee goin 2 be boyfrnds ... bt when the balcks r checkin g oit wlaburga and sirius r fivhtinggg and rmeus gets too scared so he diesnt ask for his numebr.
till sidius is not here remus looks for him oneline and he feels sooo guilty abr not tajign oictures bcz now he doesnt have ahyrhing to jaxk iff to so he pays ppll to find sirius and gwys scammed 92 tiems and getss oo broek he goes to lyall and lgall is kike wtaf bru ubhave a job and hes like yh but ykyk lief and sguff.... ans lyalls like whatver fine ig haev some moeny. & rmeus does it agn and agn. and agn. &agn.
sieius comes back the netz year and remus is ful creeped UP okay froem the secojd he comes in eemusnis taking 63746 pciturws w his new phoen with a greta camera that he spent food money on adn us dedicate to sirius blaxk ,, hes alrdy deicded to taek all rsp for the valcks bcz hel get 2 see siriis more like rhat and stuff . qhen his first joeb cleaning behind them arrives hw srwals clothes &udnerwear bcz hs needs to hold siirhs and msell srs and idk jack off to him . he breaghes in his liklow ans collects hairs (they all have the same hair idk) abd keeps then saef. wben sirius doesnt coem out v mich he outw a camera inthe room but feels siio guilty he never sueus it unless hes rlky delressed and beeds some1 to live for.
meanwhule siris is in his #rebel era soooo ges hooking up w . everuone . ans fucks the head chdf and managers & stuff bcz it psisses walburga off but yk what wd piss her off even more ? fuck ing the weird creepy guy whos obsessed w them. so risirus approaches remsu and rmwus cums in his oants and then they oiss ans renus comes in his oants again. sirius is like ewwww bht whatrvr an remus is leik woowow dergading kink hottt wowooww. but sirisu is actullat ewwed oti. but like tjs for pissibg off his mommy so its oka. renus is soooo in loev he flws sirisu aroudn liek "hi 🩷 kiss? 🩷" abd sirius is liek. omg. die
shwnen sirius leaves rmeus si sooo aad and dries sm bcz sriisus wdnt give him his number bcz apparently hes 2 "clingy" (lie vcz he only flws sirius around 80% of the tiem) an d rwmus ia xrying and jakcing off.
sieis returns rhe nwzt year w james and they ksis and james doest cum in his pants somehow and remus dies if jelaousy and also suicide. james & sirius fuxk on his graev the end 🩷
schizophrenic sirius black!! he gets auditory hallucinations and sometimes visual ones too. he's vv embarrassed at not being able to care for himself/being paranoid. when it starts he's just telling james again and again and again how he swears he can hear his mother yelling at him. that's when the paranoia sinks in - when james doesn't believe him and everything goes askew. he's convinced everyone's talking about him - how he's gone crazy, the black family madness' caught up to him - he isolates himself, takes remus' concern as insult, peter's fear as apathy. james tries to ground him and make up distractions but it barely ever works anymore. at home, walburga thinks he's mad. regulus thinks he's stupid. orion doesn't notice, he thinks. sirius stands in front of a mirror and someone else looks back at him, someone he doesn't recognize. then it's his mother. then it's him - pale, small, scared. when he's sixteen he doesn't know how he ends up at james' footstep - he was just going for a walk. after hogwarts, it's so much worse. the order's talking about him - they have to be, they think he'll betray them, james takes it as his duty to "protect" sirius from himself. the first time sirius tells james remus is the spy james outright laughs and sirius slaps him. he dreams about regulus, dead, his father, dead, and his mother - alone, mad. in azkaban he really does forget what's real. sometimes he wakes up in his bedroom. sometimes he wakes up in james'. sometimes he's seven and regulus is chasing him with knives and sometimes he's fourteen and regulus has one against his throat. in grimmauld place, he sees them - sees james and orion. he knows it's not real but he can't help but want to keep hearing james say his name anyway. the house speaks to him - actually, literally, the walls have mouths and teeth and tell sirius it's about time he went crazy. azkaban didn't break him but his own mind did. remus knows, he's too scared to do anything about it, though. harry knows, too, but sirius would rather rip out his finger nails then admit that, even to himself.
I find it interesting that swm is of him being a victim and not telling Voldemort about the prophecy that got his best friend killed and made her child an orphan. Not only did he rip apart the Potter family, he also ripped apart the Longbottoms.
How is that not his worst memory?
I, for one, would feel like complete shit, and guilt would overwhelm me. I would never in my wildest dreams bully those children because what I did to them would consume me. That would have been my worst memory by far. What he did for Harry was not enough. What he did to Neville was pathetic and inexcusable.
How about the things he did as a DE? The people he tortured or even killed? We all know all DE have to do inhumane things to be part of that group. Why isn’t that his worst memory? Why do his fans think he was skipping after unicorns as he got initiated as DE? No, he did vile things that he should have been locked up in Azkaban for, not put into a school to teach children. That should have also been his worst memory.
The fact that swm was that particular scene just shows what type of human being he is. Someone who gaslights everyone into thinking he’s the victim instead of the perpetrator. Everyone else is the problem except him. He sounds like a bloody narcissist. 
honestly don't even have anything to say, i love this, but when i read the first line i got so scared the snapers were in my inbox...
snape's lack of guilt it lowk sickening. he does heinous things over and over and only really seems to care when it effects him personally, calling lily a mudblood was never what he regretted, it was losing his friendship with her. he was used to sprouting out slurs, this was just different because it effected him.
i'm stealing these arguments. his treatment of neville is disgusting and the prophecy makes it even worse. severus snape they will never make me like you.
Sirius and Severus should have been sexed up abusive lesbians
thank you thank you THANK YOU yes they should be crazy bitch fighting in a too small apartment with crippling addictions why is that so hard to understand !!!!
