A/N: Hiiiii, guys. So the holidays are here. Let us rejoice and prance cheerfully along the aisles of Walmart to the sounds of Christmas carols, arguing customers, and crying kids.
Happy Holidays, little ones. Hope you enjoy. And review. That helps. A lot. Hint, hint.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling. I love you. Thank you for your characters. Which are most definitely yours, and not mine.
I am a whore. It is official. I. Am. A. Whore. A dirty, low, vile, disgusting, easy, fast, bloody slut. Before, I was just flirty. But over the past year, I have become a bloody harlot. A fucking prostitute.
Well, not quite a prostitute, as I do not exactly get paid for, well, it, but still. I cannot even sit on my bed, my own bed, not a girl's or some other bloke's, but my own, personal, private, Hogwarts, four-poster bed, and meanwhile avoid my imagination travelling to some fantasy land filled with fruity, lovey-dovey, and, Merlin have mercy, even gentle, romantic, sex.
And while I suppose not all would say that gentle and romantic sex is quite whorish behavior, I know in my case, it is entirely different. Because I likesex far, far, far too much. Even the fruity, lovey-dovey, and Merlin have mercy, gentle, romantic sex, which I have never even had. And I know I would enjoy it. Because I am a tramp. I am a bloody scarlet woman.
Well, not quite a scarlet woman, as I do not have girly bits used for, well, it, but still. Even I know it is bad when I cannot stop thinking about dear Remus throwing himself at me, batting his lashes and broadcasting his everlasting, imperishable, undying love and affection. And even though Remus is open-minded, and I am sure that he would not abandon me forever if I told him I felt this way, he certainly would not throw himself at me, batting his lashes and proclaiming his love, because it would be a very un-Remus thing to do, because Remus does not bat his eyelashes and could only ever proclaim brotherly love, because he does not love me in any other way, and I do not want him to, because I, myself, agree that the idea of intimacy with him is about as good as incest.
And I just want him to catapult himself at me babbling odes to our infinite devotion to one another, for the sake of a fruity, lovey-dovey, gentle, romantic scenario of a sexual fantasy that I have, that obviously has nothing to do with the fact that I absolutely love him, because I do not hold any sort of romantic adoration for him and I am just a horny, teenaged hustler.
I could try to justify myself, by saying that I do not exactly pressure anyone into sex, and it is not as if I walk the streets at night to point out random strangers, shimmy, and say, "You, sexy, come here," but I know that I do attract people, acquaintances and strangers, males and females alike, for the sake of a quick tryst. And I refuse to do that to Remus.
Even though I do quite love the idea of shagging him until he is sore. Or the other way around. I am not particularly picky about who is on top.
Which only circulates to prove my loose, promiscuous, corrupted, immoral, imprudent, whorish tendencies.
And how often I think about it, with Remus or otherwise, is definite, unavoidable, fool-proof, incontrovertible evidence of my slutiness. I can hardly go through an entire conversation without catching an unintentional innuendo. It is sad.
And as of late, every time I think of it, it is not just the little noises and the obvious anatomical parts, no. It can never stop there. Remus' face must be attached to it. And perhaps if I were hopelessly in love with him and truly found my normally completely coherent thoughts drifting to the bedroom every time it seemed that his dark-rimmed, golden flecked, brown-swirled, amber undertoned eyes were anywhere in the vicinity, I would not have come to the conclusion that I am the equivalent of a streetwalker.
But I never studied Remus's eyes and I only know they are darkly rimmed, golden–flecked, and brown-swirled with a lovely amber undertone because I have lived with him for the better part of six-and-a-half years.
Therefore, I continue to be a whore, because I could promise to go the rest of my life sleeping alone, if not with someone that I love, and someone that I love only, but there would be no point in promising such a thing to myself, as I am terrible at keeping promises, and proved it in my slip to Snape about the Whomping Willow. I would end up loving absolutely everyone, even James, Remus, Peter, Snape, Evans, and Regulus, which would result in an attempt at shagging each and everyone of them in turn, even if the idea is somewhat repulsive, because I do like sex far, far, far too much, and because I never learn from my mistakes… like breaking promises.
And for that same reason, that I never learn from mistakes, I will continue to screw people senseless while imagining that they are Remus, even though it never quite works, because I am lusting after Remus and not those other people who I know for a fact that I am not in love with, because I never lose articular attention when I look into their eyes.
The fireplace in the common room is just barely emitting any warmth and the leftover flames are flittering up and down, between the spaces left open by the wood. James is on my right, probably thinking similarly whorish thoughts to my own about Evans, except his are not quite so immoral, as he is completely debilitated by his worship for the girl.
Evans' hand is attached to her pen, as she furiously scribbles her essay concerning wandless magic, and it reminds me of how Remus is probably doing the same thing. Except Evans' handwriting is atrociously neat, and Remus' is just barely tidy, and no matter how fast her hand scrawls across her parchment, she is a girl, with girly handwriting and girly tendencies to make things girly and pretty, so Remus will finish faster. And I cannot forget the fact that Remus is doing his homework in the library, because he did not feel like borrowing the book, because no matter what it may appear like to the rest of the school, Remus doesn't like homework and he does not like studying, and the books he is always caught up in are fictional and center around mystery or adventure or both. So he does his homework in the library so that his nightstand does not look so cluttered, because it already has all eight of the installments in his favorite series strewn across it.
And in some ways, I wish he was here, because the way the flickers are so dull and erratic right now, they would highlight just the right angles of the imperfections that are exactly what make him so perfect.
Not that I would do anything if he was here. Except perhaps stare. Unintentionally. And I would never think to touch him, because no matter how much of a male wench I may be, I will not extend it to Remus, because he wouldn't care for it and he is my friend and he does not need to find himself involved in my nightly activities.
When Remus clumsily clambers through the portrait hole, the first thought that occurs to me is that I was right on two accounts; that he has, in fact, completed his essay before Evans, and that the dying firelight really does do wonders for his already wondrous complexion.
Evans is still scribbling, and James is still staring at her, and I am just sitting on the couch next to him, deficient of any cause except to observe and brood, because homework is not really a priority and I do not much feel like rejoicing, and even if I did, I think I would be too tired to carry it out.
And I am not quite sure how, but Remus in some way or another managed to get himself right next to me, and he is studying my face.
"You're tired," he states simply, and I find it oddly amazing how he is sure enough to say that I am tired, and not that I just look it. And sure, that probably has everything to do with the fact that he and I have been sleeping in the same dormitory, attending the same classes, and sharing one another's friends for six years and some months, and has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he completely loves me, but it makes me happy either way. And it should, as I have no romantic ties to him whatsoever.
And I am so busy contemplating his completely casual observation that I pretty much just stare at him, and my mouth is half-open and I probably look like a cross between a goldfish and a caveman.
"I'm heading up. You should, too," he adds with an amused turn of his lips and a cool sort of smile in his eyes, and I close my mouth because he is probably laughing at my goldfish-caveman expression. Then I follow him. And when we reach the dormitory, nothing particularly important hits me. Until I sit on my bed. Because Remus has not taken a shower yet, so he is gathering his clothes. But I have showered, and I am taking off the sweater that I was only wearing for the sake of not being topless in the common room and consequentially losing our house twenty-three-and-a-half points.
I feel briefly guilty for my constant defamation of her character, but brush it aside, as I suddenly realize that I am taking off a sweater. As in stripping… of a sweater, but still stripping, nonetheless. And Remus is still in the room. Not that I have ever been particularly shy about stripping, but, well, I am very aware that Remus is going to be very naked in a few minutes. Granted, he might head off to the prefect's bathroom, but still naked. And I will be half-naked. And one can very easily go from half-naked to starkers.
"I don't love you," I state seriously. Remus looks at me.
"Well, I doubt that," he replies, looking both amused and the slightest bit uncomfortable.
"No, I really don't, you see," I begin.
"Thanks. Really. You're doing loads for my ego."
"Don't get me wrong Moony. I mean, I do love you. But I don't love you. I'm not in love with you, you see?"
"Well, that's nice, Sirius. I'm going to go shower now."
"No, wait. Hear me out, because I am truly beginning to believe that nuts are bouncing around my skull. It's almost as if squirrels are attacking my cranium," I tell him, and mostly because it's true. He nods, signaling me to continue.
"Yes, so, you see, I have never fallen in love with you. I just wanted you to know that I would never, ever sleep with you. I mean, it is not that I find you unattractive, at all, really. But you are not a whore. You see, you do not sleep with people for fun, and you certainly do not do it pretending that they are someone else. Only whores do that, you see. And you are not in love with me either, so that is really okay.
"I just did not want you to go around thinking, 'Well, gee, Sirius might just jump my bones at any corner,' because I wouldn't. I mean, again, why should I? The only reason the thought might have possibly crossed my mind is because you truly have lovely eyes. Really, though. I do not love you," I finished, punctuating my reasoning with a curt, assured nod. Remus tilts his head slightly to the side, and squints just the tiniest bit.
"Right," he begins, "well. Sirius. while I am truly flattered that you like my eyes, I must ask, what prompted such an onslaught of honesty?"
I have my answer prepared.
"Well, obviously, you do not screw random people for fun. And I was just thinking about it not so long ago, and quite honestly, I really do not think I would mind spending that kind of quality time with you. But you would never do that, so I figured I should tell you that I will never, ever have sex with you. Just so you do not get scared away and all."
Remus's eyes are awfully shiny. I think he is sparkly on the inside. If someone were to turn him inside out, the sun would reflect off the golden glitter that makes up his intestines. That is why his eyes get so shimmery when he is amused, and so glossy when he is sad.
"I still do not understand why you felt you had to bring this to my attention," he says with a half-smile.
"But it is truly the most conspicuous reason ever, Remus. Obviously, you are fantastic. You are a wonderful, adorable, cheerful soul. At least, most days out of the month you are. I think your time of the month might coincide with Evans', if you'll remind me to check. But yes, you are a wonderful, adorable, cheerful soul. And you always complete your assignments in some sort of impossibly short time.
"And no matter how much you and James poke fun at my girl-handwriting, yours is pretty tidy as well. But not in any sort of womanly way. And even though your hair is shorter than mine, and neater than James', and your uniform is always immaculately worn, your fingers always have these ink stains, which make you look so much more like a messy teenager than you will ever know, in an oddly cute sort of way. Your eyes are not one color either. They are sparkly, like your insides, and they are this swirly brown color, sprinkled with gold and with some sort of amazing amber gleam underneath.
"You are outstandingly creepy, too, because you understand everything. But you are not creepy like an eerie cross-dressing old man in a thong or anything of that sort, you are just Remus-creepy. It is its own special brand. And you truly are a fabulous bloke. But I am not in love with you. I just notice a lot about you. But I swear it all comes from living with you for so long. I just had to let you know, so that you would not hide under a library table when you learned of my true feelings."
"I would not hide under a table, Sirius."
"That's nice, but really, you might want to. Because I really do enjoy sex, and even though I would never do anything to you, of course, I might undress you with my eyes every time you are around, because I am a slut," I explain. Surely, he understands, because he is Remus, and Remus understands everything. He starts shaking his head, and looks as if he is about to protest, but I know what he is really thinking.
"No, no, Remus, love, no need to comfort me. I am. Except for some reason, every time I have been with someone else, it never quite works the way I want it to," I say, and Moony's head snaps up, looking at me as if I had just said something I was not supposed to.
"I-It doesn't work?" he stutters.
"No! No, no, no! I mean, yes! Yes, that works!" I defend my anatomy, "What I meant was that mentally, I am very aware that whoever I am with is not you. But I will get over it, really. Because that is what whores do, you see. They move on from person to person, just oozing of promiscuity and leaking sex all over the place."
"You are not a whore. You just shag. Often. And in abundance," he clarifies for me. I am about to interrupt, but his voice overrides my own, saying, "You want to know what I think, Sirius? I think that you are in love with me. And that is saying something. Because I am not really pro-self-esteem, and you are not really pro-functional-relationship. But you are."
I shake my head, because Remus obviously only thinks that he knows something that I do not.
"No," I am quick to answer, "No, I do not. I can tell, because my thoughts never lose their cohesion and union at the very idea of your essence in presence."
"But Sirius, that is because your thoughts had no cohesion to begin with."
I am pretty sure that Remus knows that I have never really been one to be stricken with emotional epiphanies. Really. It does not happen often. But I do think that one might just have occurred.
"I'm lying," I begin, somewhat abruptly.
"No, no. I'm lying. About the whole being in love with you thing. As a matter of fact, I do not think I could have fallen harder. Or I would have cracked my head open. Painfully. On a rock. I've changed my mind. Just kidding about earlier. I am in love with you.
"Like, one hundred percent, no joke, all the way in love with you. Because nothing really makes sense to me the same way it does to the world until you look at me. Then everything fits.
"I think of you a lot. And I won't lie. I think of you naked, on the floor, illuminated by some fruity, romantic candlelight, and I think of you during gentle, romantic sex, and I think of you in kinky bondage.
"And yes, I do have sex at a more than healthy rate for someone my age, or anyone at any age for that matter, but I always, always think of you. Because I am so deeply, distressingly, desperately, depressingly in love with you… Wow."
Oh, that is adorable. His expression. With the twitching eye. Er. It is cuter than it sounds.
"Did you have to tell me all that now?"
"As a matter of fact, I really did. I swear I will not pounce you. I'm a whore, not a sexual harasser."
Remus rolls his eyes.
"Thanks, Sirius. Really. That's exactly what I need to think about before a shower. You and naked make a lovely combination, really."
"So I've been told. For some reason, I do not think McGonagall appreciated it, though," I reply, thinking back to the streaking incident in 1975.
Remus sputtered a bit. I cleared my throat, preparing to tell him to just go off and have his shower.
"Well, I disagree. Not about the naked and lovely part. I mean, really, they do quite well together for you, but, um… right, no. I meant about the whore thing. You aren't, I think. I mean, you definitely could limit your… chosen partners, but I don't think you are a whore."
"Actually, whore is an ugly word. I quite prefer streetwalker. It sounds, I don't know. Mysterious. That's it. It sounds mysterious."
"Well, you are not one of those either," he replies.
"Remus, love, I am running out of synonyms. I have thought them through a million times, but 'prostitute' is not quite the word, and I cannot possibly be a 'scarlet woman,' and 'wench' sounds awfully womanly. 'Slut' reminds me of lipstick, which I am not particularly fond of, and 'hustler' reminds me of that game, the one with the holes and the balls and the sticks."
And yes, I do realize exactly how wrong that sounded. Perverted, remember?
"You mean pool?" he asks, with a somewhat hopeful look on his face.
"Huh?" I reply intelligently.
"The game," Moony answers.
"Okay. Honeybunches. I don't speak muggle. Remember?"
"Honeybunches?" he hisses, somewhat incredulously. I think it might have been at the condescending tone.
"Well, I suppose pool could be the one. But yes, as I was saying. A whore is a horrible thing to be, no matter how you put it, but those few examples are the only ones I can think of before they get downright nasty."
Remus shakes his head, saying "No, no, no-"
"Ah, but dear Remy-muffin, if not a streetwalker, then what might I be?"
"It's an obvious answer, Sirius."
"I hold that thought in the realm of doubt, Remus."
"Only to yourself. Oblivious is what you are."
"Not completely," I retort.
"No, but you are," he insists, "It is rather infuriating, and… I don't know. Charming, I suppose."
"Oblivious. Am I really? I don't think so," I say, somewhat distractedly. I shake my head. "No, that cannot possibly be it. I am quite aware of my standing as a strumpet."
"But that's just it. You're not a strumpet. What you are is completely enamored by me. And that's quite sad if even I notice it. I think my confidence might just have sky-rocketed thanks to how in love with me you are. And what's better is that I love you, too."
"Do you really?" I ask. He gives a confirming nod, calm and collected as always. We don't kiss after that. We laugh and meet halfway and hug in a vigorous, impulsive way that lands us in a somewhat awkward position, because one of my arms is holding one of his own arms to his side, and his hand is somewhere near the back of my head, and I think my other arm was just lucky enough to land itself somewhere on his bum, though not quite on it.
He smells really, really good.
If Remus were a muffin, he'd be chocolate flavored. With chocolate chips.