Letter // 01 March 1978
Dear Mr Pad foot ‘Ice Feet’ Black,
Before I refer to the use of the current letter heading or refer to your previous letter, let me point something out to you that you seem to constantly forget.
I HAVE A COCK.
No, really. It’s definitely there. I stand up to pee. I grow facial hair. Or I’m sure I could if I had any desire to. (Note: do you think I should grow stubble? What is your opinion on stubble, Padfoot? I don’t think we’ve ever actually discussed it really. I mean, apart from your occasional little diatribe in the mirror when you look at yourself and turn from side to side and touch up your chin as though you’re going to snog yourself. Aha! Yes, you girl, I’ve seen you do that.) Anyway, I do all those things and I have a cock. A cock that you have seen (and yes, thank you, done other things with) and which, you inform me is of a substantial size. (It is right? You’re not just saying that? Because if it’s all wrong you could always tell me in a letter to soften the blow.)
All these things quite clearly show that I, Remus John Lupin, am a boy. Boy, boy, boy. A funny looking boy, with too long limbs and a weird kind of ridiculously floppy hair, but a boy none the less.
Now, let us consider you, Sirius Lady-boy Black. You have hair that is definitely too long to be manly, regardless of how attractive it is. Your eyelashes are long and thick. You whine a lot and you’d probably wear lacy knickers if I hinted that you should. Actually, you’ve already done that, haven’t you? (Would you wear them if I hinted? Out of interest, do tell.) And the cherry on the cake has to be that yesterday you asked me if you should start moisturising.
Moisturising? NO (you utterly strange and painfully attractive person).
So perhaps before you so happily call ME your wife, you should take it into consideration that you, ‘Mr’ Black, are about as girly as it gets. You called me a girl yesterday as well! Usually you stick up for me when James is calling me a girl (something that really doesn’t bother me, by the way, as I know things about that Potter boy that would make your toes curl… rather like the other thing I know that makes you toes curl. Mmm.) but you just went ahead and agreed with him. You’re lucky I had sex with you last night because I was tempted to refuse. Damn you and those hands of yours, sliding beneath pyjama bottoms and …. That’s a bit filthy, isn’t it?
Anyway, yeah! You are a girl. Not me. End of story.
You’re very pretty though. I mean, a girl. A complete girl. But your body is rather male. And nice. Did I mention that it’s very nice? Sometimes I swear I’m going to go blind if I keep looking at you. I’m sure you’re not meant to be so good looking. There really must be a lot of inbreeding going on in your bloodlines because something freakish made you that attractive. Humans are not that attractive. Maybe you’re an alien.
Out of interest, are aliens real? I might look that up actually. It strikes me as the kind of thing that we’d make up in order to trick Muggles. Damn. I hope not. I really liked Star Trek when I was growing up.
I’m down by the lake. Well, while I’m writing anyway. By the time you probably read this I’ll probably be on the sofa with you or something similar. Or in bed. BED! I knew there was something that I had to write a letter for.
Your feet are like sodding ice.
Seriously, do you know that I actually couldn’t sleep last night? You were rubbing those bloody slabs of ice against my shins and I thought I was going to get burns or something. (Does it ever occur to you that it’s mad that you can burn from ice? You can, right? I didn’t make that up.) I think you should go and see Pomfrey. I know you hate the hospital for some unknown reason, but I think you should just have them checked out. And I know if I spoke to you about it like a normal person you’d just get defensive. I mean really, what’s the big deal? I spend a ridiculous amount of time in the Hospital Wing, in case you hadn’t noticed. It never does me any harm.
Well, no, that’s not true. Being in the Hospital Wing makes me miss you terribly. It’s boring as Binns, though so I feel justified. Not that I’m complaining about having to go as, truth be told, it could be a lot worse. Pomfrey lets me eat shocking amounts of chocolate too which is, quite frankly, bloody fantastic.
I wonder what would happen if Pete was the you-know-what. If she fed him so much chocolate, he’d put on pounds and that would be really rather unfair on the guy. I mean, I know he doesn’t really bother worrying about it but I reckon on some level he’s bothered by it. Did you know that that Samantha girl told him she wouldn’t go out with him? That’s probably because she fancies you, actually. Most of the girls really do, don’t they?
As I mentioned above, you are ridiculously attractive and are most likely an alien.
Really though, Pads. You should just go to Pomfrey and get yourself checked out. You seemed tired yesterday as well and don’t say that was because of the sex because you seemed tired before we had sex. (Quite amazing sex, it must be said. It would be perfectly legitimate to die after said sex, never mind be tired.) And don’t just say I worry too much and call me a girl because the entire beginning of this letter proves that, (1.) I have a cock and (2.) it’s surprising that you do, as you are a great big sodding girl.
As well as being a ridiculously attractive alien. Maybe you’re from the future, sent here to dole out spectacular blowjobs or something. (OH MY GOD, I just wrote blowjobs. OH GOD. I wrote it twice. I hate you. That is definitely your fault.)
Go to Pomfrey? Go? Please? Please, please, please? If you do, I’ll make it worth your while. I have absolutely no idea how. I really am quite unimaginative when it comes to … that sort of thing. I also think you’ve made me worse, to be honest. Not having to come up with things to try and seduce you has made me lazy. Seducing you seems to happen without me realising most of the time. The way I see it is that you must have a particularly vivid imagination, and that’s why you’re constantly jumping me throughout the day without much warning. I mean really, how attractive can anyone look while eating a sandwich. I despair. Genuinely, I despair.
It’s lucky, though. If I wasn’t going out with you I’d have absolutely no idea how to go about doing... that sort of thing. I mean, I always figured there was quite a lot more poetry and flowers involved and a lot more dignity to the whole thing really.
Then again, I always assumed there would be quite a lot more breast involved as well and that never really happened. (Breast? Maybe that would be ‘breastery’ or ‘breastage?’ Ha.)
You are a girl, though.
Whom I love. Love. Go to see Pomfrey and I’ll do ANYTHING THAT YOU WANT. Within reason. I mean, anything that you want that we’ve agreed on before hand. That’s within certain kinds of boundaries and limits, obviously. (I’m sorry, but giving you free reign is just a little bit stupid and will only encourage you.)
By the way, if you get this before you see me (as you’re in Divination and I’m going to Arithmancy in ten minutes so it’ll spend a lovely hour sitting on your bed if you don’t get it) then find my digestives. I stole them from the kitchens yesterday before we… did that stuff and I want them. I’ve been craving them for hours, and I know damn well that you would not have eaten them as they are my favourite and you, supposedly, love me.
If you have eaten them I am never speaking to you again. Or at least not until you go and fetch more. So think through how best to use your hour while I’m in Arithmancy. (Hint: DIGESTIVE BISCUITS x 6.)
I rather fancy you, cold feet aside. Just saying.
Yours,
Moony, The Digestive King.
P.S. Go and see Pomfrey.
P.P.S. I really hope Pete didn’t eat them. I really would be sad if he did because then I wouldn’t have any and I couldn’t bully you into getting more.
P.P.P.S. It’s not really bullying. I’d pay you. (Yes, in that way.)
P.P.P.P.S. Love you.