Chapter Text
Harry Slutter and the Stone of Banging - "Heat"
The shrill sound of Petunia's voice cut through the quiet like a rusty nail on a chalkboard. Harry shot up from his tiny cupboard, still blinking away the remnants of his weird dream. Something about a flying motorbike. He rubbed his eyes. Was this déjà vu? Why did he always dream about weird bikes?
"Potter!" Petunia's voice rang out again, even more shrill. "GET UP! Dudley's birthday isn't going to celebrate itself!"
Harry groaned, dragging himself up from the floor, his body protesting as he stuffed himself into Dudley's old clothes. The waistband of the pants was practically cutting him in half. He shuffled into the kitchen, looking like a walking, complaining pile of hand-me-downs.
Petunia was already standing at the stove, flipping through a magazine like she had the world’s most boring life.
"Make the bacon. And don’t burn it!" Petunia ordered, her voice carrying the kind of authority that only came with having one very spoiled son.
Harry grabbed the pan, eyes still half-lidded, and tossed in the bacon. Sizzling. It was like a chorus of annoying background noise to his morning.
Just then, Dudley marched in like he owned the whole house. "Where’s my presents?!" he demanded, his face stuck in that permanent expression of someone who thought the world owed them everything.
Petunia barely glanced up, as if responding to a fly. "In the living room, like every year. Don't be an idiot."
Dudley flopped dramatically into a chair, crossing his arms. "I want them now."
"Well, you’ll have to wait, sweetie," Petunia cooed, still not looking up from her magazine. "Mommy’s busy making your bacon. The world doesn’t stop for you, dear."
Harry bit his lip, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. As he set the bacon down, Petunia turned and locked eyes with him. "And don’t even think about touching anything. It’s Dudley’s special day."
Harry just stared at her. "Yeah, because I’m so interested in Dudley’s thirty-thousand presents. But I’ll let you two enjoy it. Not my circus, not my monkeys."
Dudley stared at him, mouth open. "Did you just call me a monkey?"
Harry shrugged, his face deadpan. "Yeah, and I meant it."
Petunia gasped dramatically, hands flapping. "How dare you!"
But Harry was already done. Another day in paradise.
The bacon sizzled. The smell filled the kitchen, mixing with the overwhelming presence of Dudley’s birthday nonsense. Harry, still half-asleep, flipped a strip absentmindedly, when—
Something was wrong.
A slow, creeping heat spread through his body, like he was standing too close to a bonfire. His skin prickled, his pulse quickened, and his head felt light, like he had just spun in circles for too long.
He gripped the counter, blinking rapidly. What the hell—
Then, his legs gave out.
The world tilted, the sizzling pan slipped from his grasp, and Harry collapsed like a sack of potatoes, knocking over half the kitchen in the process.
CRASH.
Dudley shrieked like a dying walrus. "MUM! HARRY'S BROKEN!"
Petunia turned just in time to see Harry hit the floor.
"What in God’s name—?!"
Vernon, in a rare moment of reflexes, lunged forward to catch the boy. His thick fingers barely brushed Harry’s arm when—
A shock ran through him. But not like static. Oh, no. This was—this was nice. A heat curled in his stomach, ran through his chest—oh, NO.
Vernon recoiled like he had touched fire. "WHAT—WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
Petunia, now frantic, shoved past him and knelt beside Harry. She hesitated only a second before grabbing the boy’s arms. Nothing happened.
"VERNON, STOP YELLING!" she snapped.
"NO, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND—" He clutched his chest, looking at his hand like it had betrayed him. "I FELT—THAT WAS NOT NORMAL!"
"DAD, WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM?!" Dudley wailed, now safely hiding behind a chair.
"I DON’T KNOW, DUDLEY, MAYBE HE’S DYING!" Vernon barked, still disturbed beyond words.
Petunia, however, had no time for whatever weird nonsense Vernon was going through. With surprising ease, she hoisted Harry up and carried him back to the cupboard.
"Petunia, you cannot just carry him like a sack of potatoes—" Vernon spluttered.
"Watch me."
She opened the cupboard with her foot, dumped Harry inside, and dusted off her hands like she had just finished a chore.
"This is ridiculous!" Vernon waved a hand at the whole situation. "Today is about Dudley! We are not staying home because of some freak episode!"
"And you think I want to stay home?" Petunia shot back, hands on her hips. "The old bat next door is already peeking through her curtains! I’m not dealing with social services knocking on my door because some nosy hag saw me drag an unconscious child across the kitchen!"
Vernon turned to the window. Sure enough, Mrs. Figg’s wrinkled face was pressed against the glass like some kind of demented gargoyle.
He swore under his breath.
Dudley groaned dramatically. "Are we leaving or not?"
"YES, DUDDERS, WE’RE LEAVING!" Petunia snapped.
"BUT HARRY'S DYING!" Dudley whined.
"Oh, he’s not dying," Petunia muttered, already rummaging through a drawer. She grabbed a handful of basic pills—some aspirin, maybe some allergy meds, who cared?—and dumped them onto the small table near Harry’s cupboard.
"When he wakes up, he can take something," she said. "Problem solved."
Vernon folded his arms. "You're not concerned? About—about that?" He gestured wildly at the cupboard.
Petunia gave him a look. "Vernon. I have a house to keep. A life to maintain. I do not have the energy to care about whatever—that—was."
Vernon hesitated. "It felt weird."
"You are weird," Petunia deadpanned.
Vernon scoffed, but Petunia ignored him. She smoothed down her blouse, plastered a fake smile on her face, and turned to Dudley. "Alright, sweetheart. Let's go enjoy your birthday."
Dudley perked up immediately. "Finally."
And with that, they left. Harry, still unconscious, was left with nothing but a handful of questionable medication and a lingering mystery neither Dursley wanted to acknowledge.
Harry's eyes fluttered open. His whole body was boiling.
He groaned, shifting slightly in his cupboard, and immediately regretted it. His skin felt wrong—too warm, too slick. Sweat clung to him like a second layer. Fantastic. Now, on top of everything, he was sick.
"Brilliant." He wiped his forehead, already drenched.
Then, memory hit him like a frying pan to the face.
He had collapsed. In the kitchen. In front of the Dursleys.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, I am so dead."
When they got home, it was going to be hell. Vernon would yell. Petunia would complain. Dudley would find some way to make it all about him.
But right now? Right now, Harry was way too hot to deal with any of that.
He sat up, peeling off his shirt like it was made of glue, and gagged. "Alright, that’s disgusting."
He needed a cold shower. Immediately.
Harry pushed open the cupboard door and dragged himself upstairs, not even bothering to sneak. The Dursleys were gone—off celebrating Dudley’s national holiday—so he had time.
The bathroom was blessedly empty. He flicked on the light, shut the door, and started stripping. His oversized pants hit the floor. Then the boxers.
And that’s when he noticed it.
A weird, translucent stain on the back of his underwear.
Harry squinted. Tilted his head. "The hell is that?"
It was… oily. Not sweat. Not—God forbid—that. But something else.
He touched it. Rubbed his fingers together.
It was slippery.
His stomach twisted. "Nope. Nope, not dealing with this. Repressing. This did not happen."
Shaking his head violently, he turned to the mirror—
And almost fell over.
His eyes. His eyes.
They weren’t green. Well, not exactly. The color was shifting, darkening—deep blue bleeding into an unnatural shade of violet.
Harry stumbled forward, gripping the sink. "What the—"
His reflection was… different. His skin looked—fuckable.
He froze. "Did I really just think that?"
But he wasn’t wrong. His skin was smooth, like he had been dipped in some expensive skincare ad. It was tight in all the right places, sharp where it should be, soft where it shouldn’t.
He ran a hand down his arm. Silk.
He poked his cheek. Firm.
His lips—plump.
He gulped. "Alright, what the hell is going on?"
And then, the worst thought hit him.
Is this masturbation or selfcest?
He clutched the sink. "NOPE. Nope, I refuse to analyze that.*"
But his reflection just stared back. Unbothered. Beautiful.
And slightly terrifying.
Harry stood under the shower, letting the freezing water pummel his skin.
Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen whole minutes of standing there, waiting for the heat to leave his body, and—nothing. Not even a degree cooler.
In fact, if anything, he felt worse.
His skin was still too hot, his breath came out in slow, heavy pants, and to make things even better—he was sticky.
"What the hell?" He ran his hands down his arms. The water slid right off, barely making a difference. He was still covered in whatever weird, slick oil his body had decided to secrete today.
Was this… puberty?
No. No, no, no. This was—this was NOT puberty.
Puberty was supposed to be awkward, annoying, maybe a little gross—but not like this.
Not boiling alive in his own skin. Not bleeding weird mystery fluid out of his pores.
And definitely not eyes-changing-color-like-a-demented-mood-ring.
Harry turned off the water, stepping onto the mat with a defeated sigh. He grabbed a towel, rubbed his arms, then immediately recoiled.
He was worse.
The towel just made it spread.
"Oh, fantastic."
If there were bacteria on his body, they were long dead by now. Hell, he should be dead by now.
This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t human.
And he knew exactly what the Dursleys would say about that.
He caught his reflection in the mirror again—his eyes now a deeper shade of violet, almost glowing under the bathroom light.
Yeah. The medieval torture techniques would sound like a lullaby compared to what Vernon would do if he saw this.
Harry stumbled out of the bathroom, still dripping wet and shivering. He grabbed his clothes off the floor and started to put them on, his hands trembling as he tried to button his shirt.
Suddenly, a flood of images bombarded his mind. Positions and acts that made his young mind reel in shock. He saw himself in ways he never imagined possible.
Images flashed before his eyes like a perverse slideshow. Harry being taken from behind, his back arching as someone held his hips tightly. Him bent over a table, a strong hand gripping his hair as he was pounded mercilessly.
He saw himself spread wide, legs up to his ears as a thick shape disappeared inside him again and again. Thick, slick thrusts plunging in and out, stretching him in ways that made him gasp, even in his mind.
Harry stumbled back against the wall, knocking over a small potted plant. He barely noticed. The images were too intense, too real.
He pictured himself folded in half, nearly bent into a pretzel shape, as a wide cock shoved in from below. Arching his back, it plunged deeper, hitting that special spot that made him see stars.
On the floor, on a bed, on the kitchen counter, Harry's mind conjured scene after scene of himself being used, possessed, claimed in ways that made his young heart race.
Worst of all, he pictured himself on his knees. Serving a cock in his mouth, gagging around the girth and length, looking up at the face of his - no, ANYONE. Anyone big, anyone strong, anyone who wanted him. He saw himself being fed, fed, fed, slit dripping down his chin as he choked and gagged, eyes watering but not pulling away.
Harry clutched his stomach, retching. "No, no, no..." He groaned under his breath, shaking his head wildly as if to shut out the terrible, wonderful images.
He didn't know what half of it meant. Only that it made a heat pool between his legs, a hardness ache behind the zipper of his pants.
Would HE have to be that way? The one on the receiving end? The one being taken, used, fucked in every position imaginable?
"Can't be..." Harry gasped out, curling into a tight fetal position on the bathroom floor. "This is so... wrong." Tears started to prick at the corners of his eyes, spilling down his flushed cheeks.
The boy's mind raced with images too lewd for someone so young. Waves of desperation crashed over him, a primal hunger that made no sense in his prepubescent anatomy. His stomach clenched, juices churning. He was starving... but not for food.
"I need... I need..." Harry whimpered, punching at the hard shape blossoming unbidden in his pants. "It hurts..."
But there was pleasure too. Oh, such sinful pleasure. His over-stimulated mind painted pictures of plump, bulbous cocks sliding in and out, stretching boyish holes. Greedy boycunts sucking hung shafts, milking, savoring the taste of salty, musky seed.
Little Harry sobbed, cheeks wet and face screwed up in anguish. "I shouldn't... want..."
But god help him, he did. He craved the sensation of thick cock splitting him open, grunting as he struggled to accept the girthy intrusion violating his most intimate passage. Drooling onto hefty bollocks slapping against his ass.
"I... I want to be FULL," Harry screamed inside his head, thighs shaking, dicklet throbbing in the confines of hisstaidly shorts. "Fffull of cock and cum and... and..."
He shuddered violently, a mini-orgasm ripping through his under-developed body, leaving him gasping and shaking. Tears flowed freely now, soaking into the carpet.
"I... I NEED..I... I want..." Harry whimpered, voice cracking as fresh tears poured down his reddened cheeks. "I want... big. SO big."
He shoved a hand down his shorts, gripping the tiny nub of his dicklet, already leaking and throbbing. It was soft and small, almost insignificant in his imagination as he pictured the monstrous cocks invading his dreams.
His other hand drifted to his behind, slender fingers drifting over the pert mound. He could picture it - a bulging, girthy shape stretching him obscenely, making his boyhole look like a tiny, twitching pinky next to its pulsing immensity.
"It'd... it'd break me," Harry sobbed, voice hitching. But there was a twisted undercurrent of Want in his voice. Need. Hunger. "I'm too small. It'd... it'd ruin me."
And yet, that dark part of him, the part that had no business existing at his age, thrilled at the idea. His greedy, greedy boycunt clenched, like it was trying to suck in an imaginary invader. The thought of being split open, rearranged from the inside out... it made him shudder.
"I want it... in me. Deep. Deeper than anything's ever been. I want to feel it... pulsing in my belly. Filling me up. Making me... round. Ffffull."
Harry writhed on the bathroom carpet, hips bucking helplessly. He pictured the massive columns of muscle, the heavy, cum-tight bollocks swinging and slapping, the thick cock of his fevered fantasies plunging into his tight, virgin heat.
he cried, even as he shoved two fingers into his boy-pussy, feeling the incredible tightness and tingle as he tried to imagine dumping the unbearable weight of such an enormous possession into his scrawny little body.
Harry hauled himself up off the floor, his small body trembling uncontrollably as a fresh wave of anguished sobs wracked through him. Tears poured down his cheeks like a waterfall, utterly blurring his vision as he staggered to his feet.
"Oh god," Harry wailed, voice cracking and breaking as he clutched his stomach, feeling it twist in on itself with a pain that bordered on madness. "It hurts, it hurts so much!"
He could feel the desperate, aching emptiness in his boyish rear, as if his insides were screaming for something - no, ANYTHING - to fill the void. His ceremoniously small anus clenched and fluttered wildly, as if trying to suck in the air around it, yearning for the girthy, invading pressure that would stretch it into a raw, drooling, cock-hungry ring.
Harry stumbled towards the toilet, his knees shaking and threatening to buckle at any given moment. He could feel something dripping down his thighs, slowly at first, before the trickle turned into a steady stream. He looked down at his legs, watching in a haze of desperate confusion as thick globs of white, slick liquid plopped onto the bathroom tiles.
"Wh-what's happening to me?" Harry cried, voice raw and hoarse from screaming and sobbing. The liquid was everywhere, leaking from his straining, twitching boyhole like a sieve. It was like his body was weeping, shedding tears from his most intimate place in a futile attempt to soothe the unbearable ache.
He braced himself against the toilet, panting harshly as more tears streamed down his face. The pain was excruciating, like his insides were turning inside out, but there was a dark, twisted pleasure in it too. A perverse, shameful thrill that made his little cocklet pulse and drool in his shorts.
"I need... I need..." Harry gasped out, fingers scrabbling at the wall, nails digging into the grout as he tried to hold himself up. "I need... something... please..."
But he didn't know what he needed. Couldn't comprehend the depraved desires consuming his young mind, threatening to ripe him of the last vestiges of his childhood innocence.
He just knew that he hurt. That he was empty, gaping, aching to be filled in a way that made his small body feel too tight, too small, too fragile for the sheer, overwhelming hunger that consumed him.
Harry slumped over the toilet, heaving with sobs and hot, desperate tears as the slick, viscous fluid gushed out of him in seemingly endless streams, pooling on the cold, unforgiving porcelain and dripping to the floor below with obscene wet plops.
"Please," Harry begged, sobbing brokenly as he pawed weakly at his drooling, twitching, greedy little boyhole, feeling it suckle and clench around his probing fingers like a newborn nursing at a teat.
- Continue...