Title: Dainty Is As Dainty Does
Author: eeyore9990
Characters: Harry/Goyle
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: The pairing? Also, while canon compliant, it's fairly AU. Weird, huh?
Themes/kinks chosen: Masturbation, blindfolding, exhibitionism
Word Count: 4641
Summary: Harry goes to yet another unveiling of yet another ultrafeminized sculpture of himself. He confronts the mysterious sculptor and... smut ensues.
Author's notes: Okay, I seriously have had this idea for about two years. I've decided I will write the fics that won't leave me alone this year, no matter what I have to do to get them written! So here it is. Have fun!
A/N the second: I have to give a world of thanks to r_grayjoy, alisanne, and kathrynthegreat. r_grayjoy shared her Goyle!voice with me and helped me get the dialogue just right, alisanne came up with the concept for this fics smut when I was flailing about my fic wanting to be a 20k monstrosity, and kathrynthegreat held by nose to the grindstone so that I could get the fic written by deadline. Better cheerleaders cannot be found and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart!

---

The statue stood in the clearing, the marble reflecting the hundreds of flashes of the wizarding and Muggle cameras as reporters and the general public alike attempted to capture the pure artistic beauty of its unveiling to keep as a treasured memento of this day or to sell to the highest bidder.

Harry looked at it, his eyes narrowed against his own mounting annoyance and the brisk wind that flirted with the hem of his robes. An irritated sigh burst from him when Ron, with him for the ceremony, let a low chuckle escape.

"Aww c'mon, mate. You know I—" Ron gasped into silence, his effort to hold back further incriminating laughter valiant but doomed to failure. Harry could tell by the particular shade his skin was turning that complete surrender to hilarity was in his immediate future.

"You are aware that I have a pocket-Floo preset to your home grate, right? If I tell Hermione that you laughed, you won't get so much as a hand job for a month."

What should have shored up Ron's defences against humour broke through them completely. By the time his loud laughter turned into more sedate chuckles, Harry had disappeared into the crowd of Ooh-ing Idiots—Hermione had named them that at the third unveiling—and Ron was left to apologise to empty space.

"Bloody hell, it's just a statue," Ron muttered before quickly tracking Harry through the throng. By the time he caught up with his friend, Harry was leaning against a fence shooting occasional glares over his shoulder at the seventeen foot tall testament to… err. To something. They hadn’t quite figured out what statement these statues were meant to be making.

Ron looked down at the programme for today's events and read the italicised script at the bottom. Triumph, by the renowned artist known to the public only as The Gargoyle, captures in exquisite detail the moment in which the Dark Wizard Voldemort was defeated by Harry Potter.

"Bloody fucking The Gargoyle. Who the hell calls themselves something like that, anyway?"

"Harry, mate, come on. It could be worse. I mean, it's—"

"Ron, if you say 'beautiful,' I swear to Merlin, I know a place to hide your body that no one will ever find it. And I'm sure I can convince Hermione that you just got lost on the way home from work."

Ron shot Harry a baleful look at that and said, "I'm just saying that there's worse things than having statues as… err… artistic as these erected in your honour."

Harry, still in tune with his inner thirteen year old self, snorted out a laugh when Ron said erected and then turned back to stare at the statue again. "I just don't understand why he always makes me look like… like… well, like that."

Ron drew a deep breath and turned around, steeling himself for the sight he knew was there. The statue was, well, beautiful. There was really no other word for it. And that was the problem; every statue made by The Gargoyle—who was the most popular artist in wizarding circles at the moment—made Harry look less like the seventeen year old, slightly awkward and gangly boy Ron remembered and more like… like what Harry would have looked like as a short haired, petite, pixie-like girl. Dainty and beautiful with large, soulful eyes and hair that appeared to almost caress the high brow and sharp cheekbones of the ultra-feminine rendering of Harry. And the lips on the statues… Ron would never admit it, but he'd had the occasional wet dream about those lips. He was deeply and irrevocably in love with Hermione, but those lips were sin made over and he was just a weak man. A weak man with a wife two weeks past due with their second child.

Ron turned back to the fence and hunched his shoulders, avoiding eye contact with Harry for a moment until he could get the image of those lips out of his head. It was a bit odd to find himself fantasising about lips that had been sculpted with the intention of portraying his very male friend.

"Well, Harry, it's not all bad. At least The Gargoyle isn't making you look warty or something."

"I'd rather be warty than girly, thanks."

"Well, so… write him."

"What?"

"Write him. The Gargoyle. Write to him and tell him to stop it, already."

"I don't have his address!"

Ron stared at Harry for a moment before smacking him in the side of his head. "You have an owl, Harry. You've been in the wizarding world long enough to get a pocket-Floo, for fuck's sake! You no longer have the excuse of not thinking like a wizard. Shut the fuck up and write him, git."

After a brief tussle in which Harry's glasses were broken and Ron's eye blackened, Harry subsided with a satisfied smile. "'S a good idea, mate."

~*~

Harry looked up at the stark exterior of the grey stone building and chewed on his lip for a moment before looking down at the card in his hand. His first seven scathing letters had gone unanswered by The Gargoyle; the eighth had seen the return of this card, blank but for this address.

Harry slipped his wand from his pocket and slowly approached the nondescript door set in the very corner of the building. Raising his left hand to knock, he jumped back with a startled yelp when the door was pulled quickly open. The form of a large man stood there, the light behind him casting his face into shadow.

"In or out, Potter?"

Harry scowled at the man's indifferent tone but stepped inside. "Who the bloody hell are—" Harry's eyes went round with shock when his host turned enough for the light to hit his face. "I should have fucking known! The Gargoyle, ha! Goyle, what the fuck are you doing, trying to pass yourself off as a statue maker person?"

"Sculptor. It puts food on the table."

Harry bit back the first three retorts that leapt to his tongue and just said, "What are you doing here?"

"I own this building."

Harry rolled his eyes and said, "No, I mean… why this? Why aren't you out, I dunno, torturing Muggles or something?"

"Because." Goyle shrugged but didn't elaborate, causing Harry to grit his teeth in frustration.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked, thrusting his hand into his pocket and coming out with one of the programme's from the previous week, the unveiled statue emblazoned on the front.

Goyle glanced at the paper without taking it and looked back up at Harry, his eyes showing nothing but boredom. "Doing what?"

"Don't pull that innocent act with me, Goyle! You're making these statues look like…" He flailed a bit before muttering petulantly, "You're doing it on purpose!"

Goyle blinked once, a slow smile curving his mouth before he crossed his muscular arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. "You don't like my art? But it's all the rage."

"Rage is not the word you want me thinking right now, Goyle, trust me." Harry thrust his hands into the back pockets of his denims, crushing the programme into a tiny wad of paper there, and stepped around Goyle to walk further into the building, stopping short when he entered a large, well lit room. Every surface was covered with a fine layer of white dust and sheets and tools were scattered haphazardly around a large white block that sat in the very centre of the room. "What the hell is that?"

"My next project. The group paid in advance and need it completed on rather short-notice, so I have a lot of work to do."

Harry turned to Goyle with narrowed eyes. "What project?"

Goyle grinned maliciously and said, "The Official Harry Potter Fan Club would like some art for the front entrance to their offices. They're doing a booming business, you know."

Harry dropped his head and smacked himself over and over in the forehead with the palm of his hand. "Why are you helping them?!"

"They have money; I have a sense of humour."

"Oh, right! A sense of humour!" Harry snorted in disbelief. "Since when?"

"Since Weasley pulled my arse out of the fire and I watched Vince burn to death."

Harry dropped his gaze to his feet, feeling a wave of remorse wash over him before he forced that back. Goyle had, after all, chosen to be in that room the night Crabbe died, working with Malfoy and Crabbe to help Voldemort. He wouldn't be sorry. He wouldn't be.

"What happened to you that night?" he asked, looking back up, staring coldly at Goyle.

"I left." Goyle shrugged and turned away from Harry, walking into the room. Dust motes swirled in the air where he passed, and the shafts of light coming in leant a soft, otherworldly look to Goyle for a heartbeat. Harry blinked and it passed, but the image wouldn't leave.

"Where did you go?"

Goyle sighed heavily and ran one hand down the block of stone that stood in the middle of the room. "I went away, Potter. Look, you sent me a tonne of owls. I'm tired of cleaning up their shite and the Muggles are asking questions. I'll be buggered if I want the Ministry coming 'round, so spit it out."

Harry thrust his hands into the back pockets of his denims and considered what Goyle had said. He hadn't thought that The Gargoyle could be a Muggle when he'd sent off his owls; he'd been too angry. While some part of him wanted to know the whys and wherefores of Goyle's new life, he knew he wouldn't find out anything today. "I want you to stop making statues of me. Or at least, making them where I look…" Harry couldn't put it in words, so he simply flailed a bit with his hands, hoping Goyle would understand his meaning.

"You're the only person in the world who's ever had a problem with my work, Potter, and I've been doing this for eight years." He turned and cocked a thick dark eyebrow at Harry, his gaze distantly inquisitive.

It was odd; Harry didn't recall Goyle ever having an expression before. At Hogwarts, he'd always held the look of a slack-wit or simply no expression at all. And yet, here they'd been holding a rather reasonably intelligent conversation for several minutes. Added to that the fact that Goyle seemed to not only be artistically inclined but also able to thrive on that ability, Harry was left with a large, brawny puzzle.

"Why do you always depict me as…" Harry stopped, trying to find the best description.

"What?"

With a scowl, Harry said, "Frail. Gentle. Feminine. All of them, take your pick. Why in the fuck would you make me out to have been such a… such a girl?!"

Goyle lifted one muscular shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Because. Potter, you are a bit—" He broke off, waggling his hand as he slid his gaze over Harry's lean form.

Harry clenched his jaw and crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his hands balled into fists. "A bit what?"

"If you hadn't dated Granger and then Weasley's sister for so long, I'd have thought you were bent."

Loathe as he was to admit it, Harry forced himself to say, "I never dated Hermione and Ginny and I didn't last long past the battle. She and Neville decided they had a bit more in common, what with having spent all that time in the Room—" Harry broke off, unaware of how much Goyle knew of what had gone on at Hogwarts that last year when Harry, Hermione, and Ron had been in hiding.

"Great," Goyle said when it became clear Harry wasn't going to say anything else. "I couldn't care less about Longbottom's glory days."

Harry rolled his eyes and said, "Look, if you're just going to stand there and insult me and my friends, then I'm done here."

"Suits me, mate. I wasn't the one who had a problem, was I?"

With that, Goyle stripped his shirt over his head, walked over to a small black box in the corner, pushed a button, and picked up a large hammer. Just as Harry was opening his mouth to shoot back a retort, a loud blast of music deafened him. The sheer volume of the noise made him duck; Goyle's laugh was more felt than heard.

Harry watched, hands over his ears to mute the music, as Goyle picked up a strip of cloth and tied it over his eyes before approaching the block of rock again, though slower this time. Again he ran his hands over the block, though rather lovingly this time, and when the music reached a crescendo, his hammer came down.

Rock flew to the beat of the music as Harry stared, transfixed. With each change in chord, in tune, the edges of the rock began to fall away until a vaguely human shape stood on the pedestal, arms akimbo. Harry moved around the room as the transformation took place, standing and sitting in intervals until Goyle finally stopped, stripping the blindfold from his eyes.

Seeing Harry standing there, Goyle said, "I thought you were leaving."

Harry shrugged. "I decided to stay. I want to make sure you don't make this statue look like the others."

Goyle raised an eyebrow and said, "Whatever."

"Look, can you just… not make it all…"

"Dainty?"

Harry expelled a gust of breath, throwing up his hands. "Yes!"

"Can you come back? I'll need you here to work from."

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, when do you need me?"

"Like I said, I'm working on a deadline. I'll need you here tomorrow for proportions and the next few days after that for the detail work."

Harry relaxed then, relieved that Goyle was willing to work with him on this. "I can do that. However long you need me, just let me know."

"All right. At least all week. I start working at ten every day. If you're here, you're here. If not…. Well, we'll see how the piece turns out."

Harry scowled at the veiled threat but said, "Don't worry, I'll be here."

Goyle nodded slowly and arched an eyebrow at Harry before glancing toward the door. "Fine," Harry said, turning to walk himself out. "I'll see you tomorrow at nine thirty."

"Have fun. I'll see you at ten."

~*~

Harry spent the next three days undergoing a complete change of outlook. He enjoyed men, always had. He'd realised after about his sixth year that he was just as attracted to Bill as he'd been to Ginny, if not more so. But there was something about Goyle that was different from every man he'd ever been drawn to.

For one, he was very physical. Everything he did highlighted his extreme masculinity. The very elemental nature of his work, the way he beat the rock into the shape he wanted it to assume, was enthralling.

It wasn't until the last day, though, that Harry realised he'd gone beyond intrigued and fallen headlong into full-on lust. Goyle had changed his normal chisels and hammers for a pair of gloves that were capped with steel files on the fingertips. With his eyes covered with his blindfold—"I know when it's right when I can feel it. My eyes get in the way."—he drew his fingers over the statue, smoothing the stone and spreading detail work into every facet of it.

It was stunning, really. Every sweep of his fingers brought a new quirk, a new expression. He smoothed his fingers down the arms and Harry could nearly feel them pass over his own arms. As the finer details came through, as it turned more and more into the image Harry saw every day in the mirror, Harry realised that he might have made a mistake in judgement. He should never have sought out Goyle. He should have stayed quietly indignant.

Because the more it turned into him, the more it was like watching two lovers.

Harry let out a long breath as he watched Goyle's hands caress lines and grooves into his face; as Goyle's thumb traced lightly under the statue's bottom lip, Harry felt it on his own and a jolt of near-panic tore through him. Part of it was due to having forgotten to breathe, but the rest was pure desire and that was… There was just something inherently wrong with being reduced to a state of throbbing lust over Goyle of all people. Though, with the way his denims rode low on his hips and the way the light gleamed off his sweaty, muscular back, Harry wondered just how he hadn't noticed him before this.

Harry felt behind him for the stool he knew was there and sank onto it, wincing slightly when his denims pulled tight across his half-hard cock. It was when he reached down to adjust himself that the idea came to him.

He could do it.

Goyle would never know.

The thought of tossing one off while watching a sweaty Gregory Goyle run his big hands all over the stone version of himself sent Harry from half-hard to fully, achingly aroused within milliseconds. Shaking with a combination of nervousness and excitement, Harry slowly reached down and unfastened his trousers, sliding one hand into the opening to rub lightly along his cock through his y-fronts.

After a few moments of painfully unsatisfying rubbing in which Goyle didn't so much as twitch in his direction, Harry stretched his pants out and over his cock, hooking the waistband under his swollen balls.

The very preposterousness of what he was doing hit him at just about the same time as he quietly spit into his palm. Hermione had been wrong all those years ago when she'd said he had a "saving people" thing. It was really more of a "danger" thing; perhaps even a "throwing himself into insane situations" thing in which case this certainly qualified. Just the thought of Goyle turning around, of taking off his blindfold… oh, God.

Sweat beaded on Harry's upper lip and his eyes slid closed then, allowing the scene to play out in his mind's eye even as the beat of the ear-shatteringly loud music thrummed through him. He'd be sitting here, just like this, his legs spread, hand stuffed into the opening of his trousers. His cheeks would be stained red with the blood that rushed frantically through him and his lower lip would be white where it was caught between his teeth as he stifled the sounds of his passion. He'd be so lost in his own wank that he wouldn't notice when Goyle stopped working.

Goyle would slowly slide the steel-fingered gloves off his hands, carefully so as not to scrape himself. He'd drop the gloves onto the floor, or maybe stuff them in a pocket after folding them over, and, reaching up, slip the blindfold off his eyes. He'd turn to look for something—a different tool perhaps, or a glass of water—and he'd see Harry. His eyes would flare wide with surprise, then darken with something else. He'd look at Harry like this and want him, want to touch him, to sculpt him as he sculpted bare stone, make Harry into whatever image he desired.

He'd walk toward him—Harry curled over his lap, his hand speeding up until a dull, fast paced slap, slap, slap dimly reached his ears—and then Goyle would grab him and pick him up and drag him over to the statue, whispering the order to wrap his arms around himself into his ear. He'd strip Harry's clothes off him and it would be rough enough to leave marks.

He'd make Harry Summon some lube from a hidden place because he'd be too needy with lust to go get it himself. He'd slide his fingers into Harry's arse and—

And Harry lost it. His balls drew up as his stomach clenched tight and his mouth dropped open in a silent gasp as he rode out the pulses of his orgasm. His hand was wet with come by the time he was done and when he was finally able to pry his eyes open to look down, he saw several huge damp spots decorating the front of his trousers.

With a muffled curse, Harry fumbled in the pocket of his trousers for his wand and cast a quick, slightly too strong cleaning charm on his body and clothes. As soon as he finished, he hurriedly pulled his clothes back together, buttoning and zipping and arranging until he was certain his appeared normal once again.

Looking up, Harry watched as Goyle put the finishing touches on the statue before removing his blindfold and standing back to cast a discerning eye over his creation. With a shrug, he turned away from the completed statue and crossed to the radio, turning it off with a poke of his thick finger.

Harry stood, silently thanking whoever was watching over him that Goyle hadn't finished sooner, and crossed over to where Goyle stood leaning against his worktable, peeling his gloves slowly off his hands. It was enough like what Harry had imagined that a small cramp of lust caught him unawares. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders as he stepped forward and examined the statue, somewhat shocked to see that it actually looked like himself this time.

"Nice," he said, feeling slightly awkward.

"Better than nice. It's perfect."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it actually looks like me this time."

Goyle shrugged and turned to lift a bottle of water to his lips, swallowing it down in a few large gulps before lowering the empty bottle and dragging the back of one hand across his sweaty forehead.

"No owls, then?"

Harry blinked at him in confusion before he laughed sharply and shook his head. "No, no owls this time. Err, thank you. You didn't have to change your style. I appreciate that you did." With a deep breath to steady himself, Harry stuck out his hand and waited for Goyle to take it.

Goyle looked at it for a long moment, his eyebrows raised, and slowly stretched his hand out to take Harry's. A small shudder ripped through Harry as Goyle's hand wrapped around his, but he managed to contain himself long enough to shake Goyle's hand and make some small talk before leaving.

Harry drew a deep breath of the late afternoon air as soon as the heavy door closed behind him, feeling as if he'd somehow received a reprieve. He'd done it. Not only had he wanked mere feet away from where Goyle worked, not only had he done it out in the open for anyone, especially Goyle, to see him, but he'd managed to get away with it.

A nervous chuckle escaped him before he trotted down the street to a darkening alley and Apparated away.

He really needed to seek help for this thing of his.

~*~

The knock at the door startled Harry, but he put down the Which Broomstick? he'd been thumbing through and went to answer it. A delivery boy stood on the other side of the door, a large package in his hands.

"Sign here, sir," he said, handing Harry a clipboard.

Harry nodded distractedly and quickly signed for the package. "What is it?" he asked, looking at the delivery boy for answers. The boy shrugged, grabbed his clipboard, and tipped his hat to Harry before jogging off down the stairs.

Harry frowned and jiggled the box, but stopped as soon as the sounds of something thumping around reached his ears. Whatever it was sounded fragile, so he shut the door and walked over to his small table and sat down, running a few standard spells over the box before deciding it was safe to open.

Using a slightly jammy knife left over from breakfast, he slit the tape holding the lid closed and opened the box to reveal a lot of the white foamy stuff Muggles used to protect breakables. On top of the foamy stuff was a folded piece of white paper, which Harry ignored in favour of seeing what the thing was he'd received.

He grabbed the foam and pulled it up and out of the box, uncaring of the paper that fluttered to the floor. There in the box was a small figurine, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Lifting it out carefully, he turned it over in his hand and then…

Then he nearly dropped it to the floor. It was a figure of him, sitting on a stool, his legs spread, trousers gaping open, one hand wrapped around his cock as his head lolled back on his shoulders, his lips parted and eyes squeezed shut. There was so much pure detail in the carving that he couldn't tear his eyes from it.

His face flooded with mortified heat as he realised that while he'd been fantasising about Goyle turning around and watching him, Goyle had turned around and watched him. With that knowledge, though, came a deep pang of lust. Goyle hadn't just watched him. He'd obviously taken the time to study him, if this figurine was anything to judge by.

Harry slowly, shakily, set the small statuette down and fumbled around with the box and foam looking for the paper that had accompanied the package. Finally locating the note, he flipped it open and read the slanting scrawl.

Potter,

I don't usually make anything this small, but it seemed appropriate.

Feel free to come back if you want to try to prove me wrong. After all, I'd hate to get the proportions wrong on my next piece.

G

Harry stared, unsure if he should feel angry and humiliated or aroused and hopeful. He ended up with some mixture of aroused anger. Eyes narrowing, he grabbed his wand and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind himself. Apparating with a pop to the same alley he'd used while overseeing the Fan Club sculpture, he hurried down the side of the large building and pounded on the door. He leapt back when it opened under his fist.

Stepping cautiously into the building, he looked around until his eyes fell on the stool that sat perfectly in the middle of the room. The same stool, he was sure, that he'd used the last time. He looked around as he walked toward the stool, wondering where Goyle was. A slamming of the door behind him made him whirl toward it, only to see Goyle standing there with a small smirk on his face.

Harry crossed his arms defensively, keeping his wand in hand, and tilted his chin. "Small? In your dreams."

Goyle shrugged and his smirk widened into a grin. "Maybe 'dainty' is a better word?" When Harry drew a sharp breath for an angry retort, Goyle sighed heavily and shook his head. "Calm down, Potter. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I really like dainty."

Harry let out a long breath as he decided what to do. Slowly unfolding his arms, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and said, "Yeah? Well… I'm really not dainty, but… " He looked down at his feet as he tried to think how to go forward from here.

A short, deep laugh made him look back up. "You certainly weren't shy last time, Potter. Why now?"

"I didn't know you were looking," Harry said, forcing the words past a throat dry with embarrassment.

"You knew I could be."

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm looking now."

"Yeah."

"Do it again?"

Harry let a small grin loose. "Yeah."

~

Click to read more in this universe: Dainty Bites Back