To Sir
(If the world were fair it wouldn't end like this. Buzzword was "bluff" and genre/cliché was erotica. Warning: explicit written content!/mentions of oral sex. I won this week!)
The world has not been created fair. If the world were created fair you wouldn't be here right now. You wouldn't be the one who gets shipped round the country and often round the world to translate, or infiltrate, or break; you would steal away at home and shut yourself off, and he would fly off everywhere on things that some might call adventures but you know only as chores. He is built for adventures. You are built for libraries. But in this backward world he's as trapped a prisoner as ever, you're as lost a wanderer as ever. They say "at least you have each other." But in a war, no one has anyone.
An owl flutters outside the high, lofty window beside you and you let it in, relieve it, pay it, feed it. It loiters as you unfurl the parchment. The room chills with the open window but you grow warmer from the familiar hand it's written in, so you stay about the same, really.
I'm bored, every letter begins. (He makes it sound so awful; you'd give anything for boredom.) And much of the rest of it is the same as usual too.
Oh, but mid-page, you come to a screeching, boiling halt.
Truthfully, though, I'm rock-hard right now, he writes; your breath starts to come in little hot visible puffs – just thinking of what I'd do if you were here. I miss your cock, Moony, the skin of your cock, the roll and slide of it, my hand, my mouth. I'd suck you so hard if you were here. All the way down, open my throat wide for you, your smell, your skin. Always your skin, Moony. You nearly drop the parchment switching to the next sheet. The owl has flown. I know you love this. Last March, you had me by the hair and you bloody fucked my mouth. I can remember exactly how deep down you were. You say it's the moon, you go crazy when it's approaching, lose yourself, but I think you're bluffing. I think you always want this, it's always there. Deep down, inside of you, the way I want you deep down inside of me. Take your thick, enormous cock and fuck my mouth, Remus, the way your heart and soul have fucked the whole of me.
If the world were created fair he'd write gracelessly, whiny like a petulant schoolboy, terrible at turning phrases. His words would never flutter from your hand as you jam it to your mouth, jam the other down your robes, don't even close the window.