A/N: Slashy goodness, smutty implications. Need I say more?

Sirius Black was as close as he had ever been to uttering the phrase, "What the deuce!"—an easy distance to judge, as the ejaculation had never come near his mouth. Normally, a sentence so rife with sexual innuendo would have sent him into a fit of helpless—but manly—sniggering. Chortling, even; that was much manlier. But this was no ordinary occasion, and so he had to set aside that naughty thought (he'd chortle over it later) and do something about the naughty message that was currently floating in his soup.

Whether sent or received by him, naughty messages were a fairly common occurrence in Sirius's life. He was proud of his abilities in the area of naughty messages; in fact, it wasn't bold of him to claim that he could turn a poetic, if naughty, phrase.

But this…this was anything but poetic. This was crude; it was perverted; it was—exactly James's style. The epiphany dawned, and in the same instant, he was roaring, "I am not your bitch, James Potter!"

His messy-haired—so-called!—friend inhaled his drink and began to cough, rivulets of juice leaking from his mouth. Remus clapped him helpfully on the back. "What?"

"Don't save him, Moony," Sirius growled. "He ought to choke."

"What the hell are you talking about?" James swung his head to the side and hurriedly searched the other end of the table. "Oh, Merlin, did she hear that?"

Sirius followed his gaze just long enough to see that Evans had indeed heard him, and was now doubled over and red in the face. "Serves you right, you twit. Honestly, what kind of stupid prank are you pulling?"

"Oh!" Peter's pudgy hands leapt to his mouth. There was shock on his face; then, it looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"You laugh," said Sirius savagely, "and I will—"

"Christ!" James had the bowl in front of him, and he was flat-out guffawing. "Ah, Pete, you've got balls."

Shock graced Peter's features again, and through his fingers he whispered, "I didn't!"

Sirius rounded on him nonetheless. "You! Really, I never would have expected it. But still!"

Peter was shaking his head wildly.

"Come now," said Remus placidly. "I really don't think Peter would say that, let alone have your soup spell it out for you."

"Well—" In a furious haze, Sirius scanned the Great Hall for a culprit. His gaze fell upon a certain greasy git. "Snivellus. Of course."

James shuddered. "The mere idea of Snivelly saying 'Sirius Black is my bitch' is so offensive to my senses that—" He stopped, looking nauseous. "Yeah, I would puke."

Perhaps James had a point there. Dark magic was certainly Snivelly's thing, but this reeked more of jealous ex than dark magic. Sirius scanned the hall again, feeling a touch of curiosity. He passed over Amy Burke quickly; she didn't have the nerve to do something like this. The same went for Imogene Stevens and Orenda Teng. "Mina," he finally decided. "I knew I shouldn't have gone out with her."

James glanced over at the Hufflepuff table. "Nah, she's the giggly type. She wouldn't be able to hold it in. Besides, she's still looking a bit devastated." He turned back to Sirius. "What'd you say to her?"

Sirius waved his hand. "The usual. She'll get over it. I've heard Forner fancies her, anyway," he distractedly added, continuing his search. "Ah! Lisa."

"Lisa?" Peter's eyes bulged; fretfully, he avoided looking at the ill-tempered Ravenclaw.

"Yeah, why not? She should know a lot about bitches, being one herself. And she hates my guts."

"Because she thinks you're a manwhore," said Remus, as though this were a counter of some sort.

"Manwhore, bitch—it's a relatively short leap. Those feminists…" He shook his head. "Well, you know how touchy they are."

"Touchy she may be," James said, "but she can't even stand being in the same room with you. Remember the racket she made when she had to sit near you in Divination?"

Sirius's mind was already wandering toward vague thoughts of retaliation, which at this point included liberal use of high heels and extremely short skirts. "Yes," he answered after a beat, "but what does that prove but that she hates me very intensely?"

"Would she really want to claim you?"

Sirius frowned. "Then who would you suggest?"

"I would suggest," James said, pushing the bowl back toward him, "that you quit speculating and eat your damn soup."

Sirius jerked back. "I can't eat that! It's been bewitched; Merlin knows what it'd do to me." Several minutes passed with him staring resolutely at the message in a silent standoff. The soup won—or rather, Sirius's stomach won. "It's gone cold," he whined.

James pretended to wipe a tear away. Sirius flipped him off and continued to eat around the message. He tried several times to disperse the letters; however, each time he dragged his spoon through them, they bobbed, shifted, and drew together again. It was bad enough that he couldn't get rid of the message, but James had to make it worse by referring to him, in an affectionate tone, as his bitch. He stopped only after Sirius stabbed a roll and announced that a similar fate awaited him if he kept it up.

Sirius spent the rest of the evening in dark contemplation, a stream of names and faces the only constant in his thoughts. More inconsistent were his vengeful projections. They ranged from the mundane (public embarrassment) to the rather kinky (a collar, for it would prove beyond a doubt who the bitch was), but even the most creative projection could not satisfy him. He needed to determine who had done this, and until he did, revenge was secondary.

When sheer brooding failed him, he took to pacing the common room. There probably was a wave of feminine appreciation each time he ran his hand through his hair; he wasn't of a mind to notice. He did sense a pair of eyes on him, but there were often eyes on him, so he ignored the gaze. Or tried to, at least. The intensity being transmitted by that gaze was distracting enough to make him stop and search for the source.

His eyes immediately met Remus's, and on meeting them, they were compelled to throw up a barrier. Sirius blinked, feeling a sudden and intense urge to blush. He fought it and simultaneously called on the muscles in his neck to work, on his eyelids to close; however, his muscles had locked, his eyelids were not listening, and the rising heat refused to be suppressed.

Remus looked away, a lazy smile on his face. "Sit, Sirius," he said. "Your pacing is driving me mad."

Sirius numbly obeyed. Once he was seated, he realized that his traitorous body was behaving as though nothing had happened. A self-directed tirade, though pointless, seemed appropriate. He indulged, studiously avoiding Remus's eye.

The thoughts that followed his little rant were nearly incoherent. The stream of faces was punctured by confused ponderings about that moment with Remus, and was therefore more of a series of puddles than a stream. It was odd: his earlier digression into the various uses of collars had not disrupted his overall focus—why did this? It was only Remus, after all.

Much to his agitation, Sirius spent more time puzzling over Remus than thinking about who had sent that message, and was no closer to pinpointing the sender when he was settling into bed than he had been at dinner. As penance, he sat up while Peter's snores and James's mutterings filled the room. He kept himself out of sleep's grip, thinking, reasoning, and conjecturing, until the room began to slip out of focus.

"You're still up?"

Sirius's head, which had been sinking forward, snapped up and made violent contact with the headboard. Cursing, he clutched the now tender area. "Yes," he said, once he had spent his store of swears.

Remus chuckled and Sirius, bracing himself, turned to him. "You still thinking about that message?" Remus asked, raising his lit wand to peer at Sirius.

To his relief, Sirius didn't experience any paralysis. He did experience a flare of annoyance. "You three may think it's funny," he said shortly, "but I consider it a serious threat."

Remus cocked his eyebrow. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"I don't think that was the intention." And he leaned back, a sweeping smirk providing his features with uncharacteristic arrogance.

Dumbfounded: an adjective as closely associated with Sirius as the phrase "what the deuce", and yet it was the only word that described his current state. "You?" He waited for Remus to deny it. When he did not, Sirius rolled out of bed and punched him in the arm. "You let me make a dick out of myself for your own amusement?"

"Oh no," said Remus, "that was just a bonus."

Sirius sat on the edge of the bed. "You know, that smirk makes you look kind of evil, Moony." He stopped, for his taxed mind had just processed what Remus had said. "But if that was just a bonus, what was the real prize? The look on my face?" The gleam in his friend's eyes was disconcerting. "You, er, all right, Moony?" he asked, sliding away from Remus.

Remus's laugh was guttural—more a growl, actually. "It really bugs you, doesn't it?"

"Ah—what does?" He stood, and Remus followed suit. It took Sirius a moment to realize that Remus had extinguished his wand and that he could no longer see him. Sirius felt his presence so strongly that sight was irrelevant.

"The fact"—Remus's hand was over Sirius's pounding heart—"that you are my bitch, Sirius Black." His fingers curled, and then Remus was so close Sirius could feel his breath on his neck. The fine hairs on said part prickled.

It was peculiar, this feeling within him, and it was strong; but it was not insurmountable. "What makes you think I will submit to you, Remus Lupin?" he drawled.

"Well…"

Sirius almost staggered—almost, but that would have been wholly undignified. Remus's mouth was on his jaw—no, his bobbing Adam's apple—no, the hollow of his throat. "Is that all?" he said, failing to come off as nonchalant.

Remus made no response, but his mouth did pause for a moment. Foolishly, Sirius interpreted this pause as a victory. And then the hand that had been on his chest was moving up his thigh to clutch at something else entirely. The obscenity-laced groan he emitted might have woken their dorm-mates and prematurely ended their fun, had Remus not stifled the sound with his own mouth.

Now Sirius staggered. He had kissed a boy once before, and that had been quite different from kissing a girl. But this was quite different from any kissing he had ever done, primarily because he was being kissed. Sirius had never been kissed; even with the most aggressive girls, he was always the one doing the kissing. Yet he didn't think to struggle against Remus, because it felt so goddamn right to have Remus's tongue in his mouth, to have Remus's hands roaming over his body, to have Remus steering him toward the bed…

Sirius collapsed onto the bed, managing to suck in one deep breath that quickly escaped his lungs when Remus rid him of his shirt and began to do some very interesting things to his nipples. He moaned freely; then, Remus's hand covered his mouth.

"If you're going to be like that—" Remus inhaled sharply as Sirius began to nibble at his fingers. "Manwhore, indeed." Despite the dark, Sirius knew that Remus was smirking; it made him want to grab his neck and kiss him. Remus moved off him before he could act on that desire.

He was about to protest when the curtains around the bed snapped shut and he heard a murmured silencing spell. The maddening pressure of Remus's body against his was restored, and he sighed, waiting for Remus to pick up where he had left off. But he did not, and he pinned Sirius's arms to the bed when he attempted to renew their groping session.

"What do you say?" he prompted.

"I say move the fuck along, Moony." Remus's grip tightened, making Sirius gasp. "I say… I say please move the fuck along."

"That's my bitch." And pulling off Sirius's pajama bottoms, Remus proceeded to reward him.