Author's Note: I'm tired and this is speed literature - and so the quality of the following fiction is thus excused... or at least explained? Well, whatever, that's my reason and I'm sticking to it *serious nod* Um… received inspiration from an extremely dark (but nevertheless intriguing) piece of artwork. I can't even remember it's name or where I saw it (sorry, sorry, sorry; I feel really horrible that I haven't given proper credit) but it's just one of those things that left an imprint at the back of my eyes. I am very much hoping this works as a quasi-exorcism because the Itchy Brain Syndrome that is doing the couch potato in my head is really starting to bug me. Plus, I'm supposed to be finishing off a Modern History seminar/speech child... and it's nearly 2am. Yay me.
Disclaimer: All character(s) herein belong to J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury Publishing. No profit is being made from this writing.
There's this unnamed thing in the back of his head, unfinished and half-forgotten and he wishes the other half would leave as well.
He's unzipping trousers with his teeth, slow and seductive because that is how it should be – it's pulling them off that depends on the customer; slow or fast, sensual or brazen, teasing or desperate? These are the things he's learned, and it took rigorous training to do it. Most people won't believe this though. No, he was born as this incubus, sexy and intelligent and perfect beyond reason. He is a God and he always has been. It's what he's paid for. The only problem is that perfection isn't mutual, standards aren't always the same, and looks, although important, aren't everything.
It's all in the language, he's learned (exactly what language never matters); in the prim fold of a cloth, in the coy turn of a shoulder, in the slow, calculating blink of the eyes. Do I smile or do I not, am I shy or am I not? Who am I today?
"Hello, sir, how are you this evening?"
or
"Are you coming?"
At first it had been difficult, to the say the least, a never-ending trial of facial movements and hair placement and the characterising of nervous ticks. Not romantic, but then again, that's not always what the clients are looking for. Some want it dirty, over in a few minutes and out the door like they haven't just had the fuck of their lives. Some want it slow, a build-up, a wave like no other so that at the end they don't know whether to scream or cry, laugh or beg for mercy.
Harry's found that coming isn't the point any more.
(Because the customer is always right.)
Because it's all about the grit, the under-your-nails, scrub-until-you're-raw, I-can't-stand-this messed up shit that my life has become. Because Harry is fucking strangers for a living. Oh, he knows he's one of the best, at the top of the ladder, but even that doesn't matter anymore – because he can't stop remembering that this isn't normal.
Harry is beautiful and sought after and a fantasy to so many people he hasn't even met. It's like he's moved from one version of the story to another, from The Boy Who Lived to The Boy Who Fucked.
'But at least,' he thinks, 'I'm sexy because I want to be.' And the thought is such extreme, ironic bullshit that he almost chokes on his mouthful.
Edited 24/10/2012