Harry Potter (Slut's Version)

Harry Potter (Slut's Version) is an explicit rewriting, imagining-parody of the original saga, where Harry is cursed with uncontrollable sexual allure after voldemort tried to kill him and put half of his perverted magic inside the boy's body.

1° - Harry Slutter and the Stone of Banging: Ch1-16
2° - Harry Slutter and the Secret Fuck Chamber: Ch18-28
3° - Harry Slutter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’s Big Cock: Ch30-43
4° - Harry Slutter and the Goblet of Hot Cumshots: Ch45-60
5° - Harry Slutter and the Order of the Phoenix's Orgy: Ch62-79
6° - Harry Slutter and the Half-Blood Dick-Sucking Prince: Ch80-92
7° - Harry Slutter and the Deadly Hardcore Pounding: Ch92-115

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Harry Slutter and the Stone of Banging - "Heat"

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...

Chapter 2: "My First Creampie"

Summary:

Harry first BBC creampie

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Billy Rashad hated this fucking job.

Fourteen-hour shifts, a boss who probably had a foot fetish with how much he kissed the ground corporate walked on, and a wife who could find something to yell about even if he was dead. Hell, maybe especially if he was dead. And yet, there was one thing that didn’t make him want to throw himself into incoming traffic.

Harry Potter.

He wouldn’t call himself sentimental. Hell, he didn’t even like kids. But Harry was different. He had this dumb little smile, too damn bright for a kid living with those stuck-up, pig-faced assholes. First time Billy ever saw him, he was four, barely tall enough to reach the door handle but determined as hell to do it anyway. Opened the door all proud, like he’d just discovered America or some shit. And when Billy handed him the mail? Kid lit up like it was Christmas morning.

That was the first time in years Billy had smiled—actually smiled.

Didn’t last long. Smiling wasn’t his thing. But since then, he kept an eye out for the kid. Not in a weird way, obviously. Just… making sure he was still breathing, still had that stupid spark in his eye. So when he rang the doorbell and got no answer, something felt off.

He clicked again. And again. Nothing.

A bad feeling slithered down his spine. He knocked, hard, enough to wake the dead. “Oi! Mail’s here! Wake the fuck up!”

Silence.

Billy scowled. The Dursleys weren’t the type to miss a chance to scream at someone for existing, so where the hell were they? He glanced at the driveway. Car was gone. Maybe they finally fucked off for good. One could only hope.

He was about to turn away when the door creaked open.

Slowly.

Cautiously.

Like it had been waiting for him.

The house was dark. Too dark for midday. Too dark for comfort.

Billy hesitated. “Oi, anyone home?”

No answer.

His gut twisted. He wasn’t the paranoid type, but something about this felt wrong. “Harry?”

Silence.

Then—a shadow in the hallway. Movement. A figure stepping out of the darkness.

Harry.

But not Harry.

The kid had always been scrawny, a walking pile of Dudley’s hand-me-downs with more fabric than body. But now—fuck. His skin had this unnatural glow, like he was running a fever from the inside out. His damp hair clung to his forehead, cheeks flushed with heat, lips curled into something—

Something wrong.

And his eyes.

Green. No—violet. A color Billy had never seen on a human being before. Deep, hypnotic, like a goddamn siren luring sailors to their doom.

He was smiling.

Slow. Lazy. Like a cat stretching under the sun. “Billy,” he greeted, voice smooth as silk, dragging out the name like he was savoring it. What the fuck?

Billy tensed. “Kid, you okay?”

Harry tilted his head, stepping forward, bare feet silent on the floor. That’s when Billy noticed what the kid was wearing.

Or, more accurately, not wearing.

A towel.

Just a towel.

Thin. Barely hanging onto his hips.

Billy’s jaw clenched. “Where the fuck are your guardians?”

“Out.” Harry took another step, slow, deliberate. “We’re alone.”

Billy exhaled sharply, every instinct in his body screaming at him that this was not fucking normal. “You sick? You look—”

“Hot?” Harry interrupted, eyes glittering with something unnatural. His voice was soft, teasing. Dangerous.

Billy’s stomach twisted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Harry just smiled, stepping closer, body radiating unnatural heat. He placed a hand on the doorframe, effectively trapping Billy in the entrance. “You should come inside.”

Billy swallowed. Fuck.

Something was very, very wrong here.

And yet… he couldn’t look away.

"Fuck, it's hotter than a witch's cunt out here," Billy Rashad grunted as he eyed the kid haggardly. This scrawny little runt was spooking him out, standing there in nothin' but a towel barely hanging onto his puny ass. Kid looked like he'd been dragged through a damn cactus, all flushed and glistening.

"What's your damage, squirt?" Billy growled, squinting against the glare. "Why the hell you in that shit-stain of a towel?"

Harry just smirked, that fuckin' annoying grin stretching his chops. "Told ya, it's too hot. Wanna come inside, cool off 'n stuff?"

Billy narrowed his eyes. Nothing about this setup felt right. Nothing. The kid looked like he’d been ridden hard and thrown out wet. And Billy knew he should just get the hell out of here. Walk right past this scrawny little bastard and never look back.

And yet…

He hesitated, jaw clenched, suspicion rolling through him hotter than the summer sun beating down on his neck. The kid was watching him very closely now, very intent indeed. And Billy could have sworn he saw something flash in those oddly colored eyes of his. Something hungry.

Of course, that could have just been the heat fucking with his mind. That damn heat was always messing with you. Made you see things.

"Shit," Billy spat. He kicked off his boots and stomped inside, not waitin' for no invite. "Ain't got no choice nohow. It's fuckin' fryin' out here."

The house was dim, blessedly cooler, and it felt good on his overheated skin. Billy loomed in the doorway, arms crossed, not about to get too fuckin' comfortable. Not 'round here.

"I ain't stayin' long," he warned. "So don't go gettin' no stupid ideas."

Harry just laughed, that fake laugh of his ass as he walked past Billy. Billy's gaze slid to the boy's ass, barely covered by that old towel. The boy was skinny, sure, but... fuck. That ass, all round and firm and barely covered... it was distracting.

He shook his head hard, trying to push the thought away. Of course, dividing his attention with all the other thoughts too. Like how the hell did he end up in this fucked up place. At this fucked up boy's beck and call.

"Oi, you wanna just get to the damn point?" Billy snapped. "Or we gonna keep playin' these games all damn day?"

Harry rolled his eyes, that smirk still presumin' on his ugly face. Kid was gettin' right on Billy's nerves. "'Kay, so. Wanna massage?"

Billy blinked. "Massage? The fuck kinda shit is that?"

"You're all tight 'n stuff," Harry said, waving a hand at Billy's chest like he was a godsdamn lollipop. "An' I know this shit that'll help ya relax."

Billy scowled. "Listen up, you lil' prick. Ain't no one touches me. No one fuckin' touches me. Got me?"

Harry just shrugged, flockin' that stupid grin on his dumb ass face even wider. "Whatever. Wanna try... or not?"

Billy knew what he oughta do. Knew he oughta back the fuck outta here faster than a piggy bank bein' smashed by a hammer. This whole damn set up stunk worse than Dudley's stinky lil' feet.

But kid was sellin' it real hard. 'Sides... his shoulders DID feel tighter than a motherfucker. So damn tight, he swore they were about to snap off.

Fuck it.

"Fine," Billy said, voice like gravel. "'Sides, I ain't got no choice 'round here, do I? Ain't like you'd let me leave anyhow."

Harry just winked. Motherfucker. Kid seriously needed someone to wipe that stupid damn smirk off his dial.

"Lie down and take your shirt off," Harry said, kind of bossy for a skinny little shit.

Billy glared at him. "Excuse me? I'm not some kind of dog, you asshole."

Harry just shrugged. "You want to take your shirt off so I can give you a good spanking, do you?"

Well... damn.

Billy didn't do that kind of shit. He wouldn't let anyone touch him, especially not any weirdos. The kid made his skin crawl, with his creepy eyes and his know-it-all attitude.

But fuck if the bastard wasn't right. Billy's muscles WERE tighter than a slut's asshole in a blizzard. A massage felt... really good right now.

"Shut up," Billy growled. "'Sides..." He hauled the sweat-tacky shirt up over his head and tossed it on the floor.

There.

He glared at Harry, dare him to say anythin'. Kid couldn't keep his eyes off Billy's chest, so damn fixated on the way his pecs bounced free of that shirt. Built like a damn tank, all thick slabs of muscle an' ropey sinew.

Billy knew he was fuckin' gorgeous. Knew he could have any bitch he wanted, with this body. Not that he wanted none of them. They were all a buncha dumb cunts can't see past his skin.

An' now... now he had this scrawny lil' bastard eyein' him up like he wanted to eat him alive.

"I ain't that kinda guy," Billy said, voice all rough 'n low. "'Sides, you aint' my type neither. Lil' runt."

Harry just smirked wider, that fuckin' grin still flashin' in his eyes. "Whatever. Wanna strip off ya pants too?"

Billy snorted. "'Scuse me? I ain't fuckin' strippin' for ya, boy."

"Makes it easier," the kid said, voice all silky-like. Sounded real damn sly, like he was holdin' somethin' back.

Billy's eyes narrowed. He didn't know what kinda games this weird little fucker was playin', but he didn't fuckin' like it. Didn't like any of it. Specially not with him.

"I keep my pants on," Billy said, voice as hard as he could make it. "You got a problem with that, boy?"

Harry shrugged, that real damn casual-like. "'Sides, I gotta start somewhere..."

Harry started rubbin' Billy's big ol' chest, his lil' hands sinkin' into them muscles. Billy near 'bout jumped outta his skin, them lil' fingers knowin' just what to do. Boy was talented, he'd give him that.

"fuck..." Billy grunted, feelin' Harry's hands slidin' all over his pecs. "Is decent..."

Harry giggled, eyes sparklin' in a way that made Billy's skin prickle. "'Course it is. I'm real good with my hands, Mr. Rashad."

Too damn good. Billy shifted on the couch, tryin' to ignore his cock twitchin' in his pants. This lil' white boy was gettin' under his skin somethin' fierce.

"Mm, I could just eat this chest up," Harry said, voice all breathy-like. Sounded real hungry, too. Fuckin' weird kid.

Billy rolled his eyes. "Ain't my style, boy." But his voice cracked halfway through. Shit.

Harry just smirked, fingers dancin' down Billy's ribs 'n back up, playin' his collarbone like a damn instrument. Huh. Boy had skills.

Then fuck...

The lil' brat's hands slid real low. Low enough Billy swore he could feel 'em brush his belt buckle. Low enough he swore he could feel that boy's breath on his damn cock.

Billy sucked in a sharp breath, tryin' not to grab that lil' smartass 'n shove 'im down on his lap. Show him what a real man felt like.

'Cause fuck, he was thinkin' about it. Thinkin' about shovin' that brat's head down on his dick 'til he choked on it. Poundin' that hot lil' throat 'til 'im screamed.

But... fuck. He had a wife. A kid. He was an honest man. He ain't never fucked around on his missus before, 'n he sure as shit wasn't 'bout to start now.

"H-hey, watch it..." Billy growled, voice all tight. "'Sides, hands gotta know their place."

Harry just leaned real close, lips brushin' Billy's ear. "'Course they do. An' mine knows exactly where they belong..."

Billy's cock throbbed, pants tighter than a motha-fuckin' vice. Shit. This lil' boy was straight up tryin' to kill him.

He opened his mouth to tell 'im to back the fuck off, but...

The brat climbed right into Billy’s lap. He straddled him, all those soft boy parts pressing into Billy’s body like they were made for each other.

Billy froze. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to grab that little, bubble butt. To squeeze, grope, and pull the boy’s hips down onto his cock until they both screamed.

“Boy…” Billy growled, his voice blacker than a moonless night. “‘Take. Me. Out.’”

But his body wouldn’t listen. His dick, fuck, throbbed. Pulsed. It was harder than a steel pipe in his damn pants.

And Harry… holy shit… he laughed. He threw his head back and laughed like this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Of course not,” Harry laughed, his ass bouncing in Billy’s lap like it had a life of its own. "Of course you want to keep me here..."

Billy's breathing came faster, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon. His hands clenched tighter, fighting the urge to grab that little boy and fuck him like a bitch in heat.

Fuck. He couldn't...

He. Couldn't...

But fuck if Harry didn't feel so good, all soft and pliable and warm. And fuck if Billy's cock wasn't screaming for him. Begging for that little boy to sit on him. To ride him until they both screamed.

Shit... Billy wanted to...

No. Fuck. He couldn't. He was a fucking married man. He had a kid. He couldn't fucking.

Could he?

Harry felt something big and hard pressing against his tight little ass. He shifted a little, trying to get comfortable, and fuck if it wasn't throbbing. Like it liked him moving around in it.

Curious, Harry reached behind him and felt through Billy's pants. The damn thing was huge. And hard. And... was it twitching?

"Gosh, Mr. Rashad, your leg must be sooo tense!" Harry said, rubbin' that big bulge. "Here, lemme help ya. I'm real good at makin' tense things feel better."

Billy's face darkened. "Lil' man, I ain't got no leg tension, 'n I don't need you fuckin' touchin' my..." He trailed off, cheeks burnin' red.

But Harry kept rubbing, massaging that fat package through the fabric. "Of course, Mr. Rashad. And I'll take care of it. I always try to help, you know. It's what good boys do."

Billy growled, teef clenched tight. "I'm tellin' ya, boy... fuck..." He grabbed Harry's wrist, tryin' to pull his hand away. "'S not right, you messing with my... damn..."

But Harry just laughed, tugging his wrist outta Billy's grip. "Don't be silly, Mr. Rashad. I'm just trying to be helpful!" He turned back to that bulge, rubbin' it gentle-like. "This thing is sooo tight. An' big. Wow..."

"Boy, I swear to God..." But Billy's protest died in his throat as Harry's lil' hand kept workin' on him. Kept touchin' him through his pants. Shit...

"H-hey now..." Billy tried again, but Harry just smiled up at him, all wide-eyed an' innocent.

"Don't fight it, Mr. Rashad," Harry said, voice all sweet. "I wanna help ya feel better. Sides, I always heard grown-ups say 'whatever an adult can do, a child can do better'. I'm just followin' rules!"

Before Billy could argue more, that lil' brat dropped to his knees right in front of him. Heart poundin' in his ears, Billy tried one last time to stop him.

"Kid, don't..." He warned, voice all ragged. "You do this, you gonna fuckin' regret it. I ain't... I ain't playin' no games."

But Harry just giggled, reachin' up to his pants. "Don't be silly, Mr. Rashad. I wanna help ya feel reals good..."

With that, he started to real slow-like, tuggin' down that zipper. The sound of the metal teeth separatin' filled the room, loud as a damn freight train in the silence.

Suddenly...

Whoosh!

Out came the biggest, thickest, sweatiest cock Harry had ever seen. There it was, fuck. A big old Black monster cock. Thick as Harry's wrist and long as his forearm. The damn thing slapped Harry right across the face, leaving a wet smear of precum on Harry's fucking cheek.

The musk of it. Fuckin' gaggin', it was so strong. So potent. It filled the lil' boy's nose, his mouth, his whole fuckin' head 'til all he could smell was Billy's ripe, sweaty dick.

"Oh," Harry squeaked, blinkin' up at the monstrous thing bouncin' in front of his nose. "real big... an' sticky..."

Billy's breath came hard 'n fast, chest heavin'. His cock throbbed, leakin' like a fuckin' faucet. This lil' boy... fuck... he was gonna be the death of him.

Harry stared up at that massive, throbbing cock, eyes wide as fuckin' saucers. The thing was huge, even bigger than his little hand could grab. An' fuck, it was leaking so much already, the head all shiny 'n wet with sweat an' precum.

"Wow, Mr. Rashad..." Harry breathed, reachin' out to wrap his small fingers around the hot, pulsing shaft. "It's sooo big 'n sticky. An' stinky too," he giggled, wrinklin' his nose at the ripe scent.

"Shit, boy..." Billy cursed, teef clenched tight. "Don't ya fuckin' touch it..."

But Harry just smirked up at him, all mischief an' trouble in those green eyes. "Don't be silly, Mr. Rashad. I'm just admiring how big it is."

Before Billy could protest more, Harry opened wide an' swallowed up that fat cockhead like a fuckin' pro. Popped it right into his lil' mouth, tongue swirlin' around the musky tip.

"Fuck!" Billy roared, grip tightin' the couch cushions. "Goddamnit, boy... wha... fuck..." But the rest of his words turned to mush as Harry started suckin' for real.

That soft lil' mouth, it felt like velvet. Like silky heaven wrapped around Billy's achin' cock. Harry's tongue lapped an' lapped, lickin' up all that salty sweat an' bitter precum. Tastin' every fuckin' inch of that swollen head.

Billy's eyes rolled back in his head, hips jerking forward, tryin' to shove more of that big dick down Harry's lil' throat. "Fuckin' hell, kid..." he growled. "Ya can't... ain't right..."

But Harry just sucked harder, cheeks hollowing as he slurped an' slobbered all over Billy's cock. His lil' fist pumping what he couldn't fit in his mouth, squeezin' an' strokin' the thick shaft.

Billy's mind raced, thoughts of his wife, of jail, 'n all the fucked up shit that could happen if anyone found out 'bout this. Bout him lettin' this lil' white boy suck his big black cock.

But fuck if it didn't feel good. If Harry's lil' mouth wasn't the best fuckin' thing Billy ever felt. Better than his wife's, that's for damn sure.

"Goddamnit, kid..." Billy panted, sweat drippin' down his face. "Ya suck cock like a fuckin' pro. Built for it, ain't ya?" He reached down, tanglin' his fingers in Harry's messy hair, tryin' to yank him off.

But Harry just stayed put, suckin' harder, droolin' all over Billy's dick. "Mmph, mmm..." he hummed, the vibrations shootin' straight to Billy's fuckin' balls.

"No way, kid..." Billy argued. "'S too fuckin' wrong..."

But his hips lied, thrustin' up, fuckin' Harry's hot lil' mouth. "Shit," he gasped. "Knew you was a lil' slut. Built to take cock, ain't ya?"

Harry just smirked around Billy's dick, eyes twinklin' up at him. Like he fuckin' revelled in bein' a dirty lil' cockslut.

Billy was fucked. Fucked real good. By a lil' boy who knew exactly what he wanted. An' goddamn if Billy don't wanna give it to him. Give him every fuckin' inch...

Billy's mind spun, rage an' disgust churnin' in his gut. This lil' fuckin' brat... he was swallowing him. Sucking on Billy's cock like he was fuckin' starvin' for it. An' goddamnit, Billy was lettin' him. Lettin' this kid use his fuckin' mouth like a cock socket.

"Goddamnit, boy..." Billy snarled, grip tight on Harry's hair. "Ya can't just... fuck..." He yanked hard, tryin' to wrench that lil' head off his dick, but Harry clung on like a fuckin' lamprey. "Ya think ya can act like a grown-ass man? Fine. Then fuckin' act like one. Take this fuckin' cock like ya mean it."

Billy shoved forward, crammin' more of his thick meat down that tight lil' throat. "Fuckin' whore," he spat. "Built to be a cocksleeve, ain't ya? Built to choke on nigga dick, ya lil' slut?"

Harry gagged, eyes waterin' as Billy's cock slammed into the back of his throat. Tears spilled down his cheeks, leakin' from the corners of his eyes. But he didn't let go. Didn't pull off.

"Urk!" Harry choked, spittle flyin' everywhere as Billy fucked his lil' face. "'uk... 'uk..."

Billy just laughed, mean an' biting. "That's it, ya lil' bitch. Take it. Fuckin' take that cock. Built for this shit, ain't ya?"

He rolled his hips, pushin' in deeper. The head of his cock kissed the entrance to Harry's throat. Too fuckin' deep for a kid his age, but the lil' slut was beggin' for it. Needed it. Craved it like his next fuckin' breath.

"C-can't..." Harry gurgled, voice muffled 'round Billy's plunge. "T-too... too deep..."

Billy just growled, yanking his hair harder. "Bullshit. Ya want it deep. Want me to ruin this lil' throat. Built for it, ya fuckin' cock-hungry cumslut."

He started pumpin' faster, fuckin' that lil' mouth for all it was worth. Each thrust pushed his cock deeper, stretchin' out that tight lil' channel. Practically usin' it like a fuckin' tunnel.

Harry gagged an' choked, tears streamin' down his face as Billy railed his lil' fuckhole. Drool leaked out the sides, splatters of spit flyin' everywhere with each surge of Billy's hips.

"Take it, ya lil' bitch..." Billy grunted. "Fuckin' take this cock like the whore ya are. Nothin' but a lil' set of holes built to be filled. Ain't that right, cumslut? Huh? Built to fuckin' choke on my dick?"

Harry could only gurgle in response, eyes rolled back, tongue pulsing 'round the thick shaft plunging in 'n outta his mouth. Billy was ruinin' him. Breakin' him in as his fuck toy. An' goddamn if that lil' pervert didn't fuckin' revel in it. Didn't fuckin' crave it like air.

Billy's mind raced with filthy thoughts. With all the fucked up things he wanted to do to this lil' bitch. Wanted to shove him down on his lap an' use him 'til he fuckin' broke. 'Til his lil' cunt was nothin' but a sloppy, sloppy mess of drool an' cum.

He was fucked. Properly fucked. By a lil' boy who knew exactly what he wanted. Who was hungry for it. Starvin' for it. An' Billy was gonna give it to him. Give him every fuckin' inch... until that lil' cocksocket was ruined for anythin' else.

"Fuckin' take it, slut," Billy snarled, hips jerking erratically. "Fuckin' choke on it. Drown in my fuckin' cum."

He surged forward, slammin' his cock balls-deep. Harry's lil' nose flattened against his thick and volumous pubes, breath cut off completely as Billy hilted himself fully in that hot, tight throat.

Harry convulsed, eyes bulgin' as Billy's heavy balls slapped his chin. Drool flooded his mouth, gushin' out 'round the thick rod stuffed in deep. He was chokin', fuckin' drownin' on Billy's cock. An' Billy fuckin' loved it.

"Yeah, fuckin' choke, ya lil' cumrag," Billy spat. "Built to fuckin' gag on black cock. Ain't ya, ya lil' pervert?"

Harry could only gurgle, eyes rolled back, tongue workin' overtime to taste every fuckin' inch of Billy's shaft. The dick head pulsing in his throat, growin' even bigger as his orgasm approached.

Billy was lost. Consumed by lust. Drunk on the tight heat of that lil' throat. He couldn't fuckin' see straight. Couldn't think of nothin' but poundin' this slut 'til he couldn't fuckin' walk.

"Gonna... fuck... fuckin' breed this lil' throat..." Billy growled. "'Til ya fuckin' drown in my jizz. Fuck!"

With a strangled roar, he slammed deep one last time. His cock erupted, howlin' like a banshee as thick ropes of spunk painted Harry's lil' insides. Flooded his belly with hot, virile cum.

Harry spasmed, eyes fuckin' rollin' back, mouth slack an' droolin' as Billy pumped load after heavy load of seed straight down his gullet. He was fuckin' drowning in it. Drowning in Billy's ball batter as the nigga dumped an ungodly amount of jizz in his lil' boycunt.

"Fuck!" Billy bellowed, hips jerking as he emptied his balls. "Ain't nothin' but a lil' set of fuckin' cum dumpsters. Built for this shit. Eat it, ya fuckin' whore."

Harry could only fuckin' take it. Could only swallow it down like the hungry slut he was. Built to get bred like a proper lil' bitch. Built to fuckin' drown in nigga cum.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Billy collapsed back on the couch, a sheen of sweat an' exhaustion on his face. Harry slipped off his softening cock with a wet squelch, gasping an' gagging, thick globs of spunk splattering outta his mouth.

Harry's eyes glinted with a fucked-stupid, manic light as he slipped off Billy's softening cock with a wet plop. Thick gobs of jizz splattered his chin, dripping off his lil' jaw as he gulped down the last of Billy's massive load. But instead of bein' scared or grossed out, Harry started fuckin' giggling. A high-pitched, unhinged sound that filled the room.

"Hahaha! Wow, that was sooo much jizz, Mr. Rashad!" Harry squealed, voice hoarse from the thorough throat fuckin' he just took. "I've never swallowed so much before. Ya really coated my lil' tonsils real good!"

Billy blinked, still tryin' to catch his breath as he stared down at the lil' spunk-drunk boy crawlin' towards him. The kid had a fuckin' manic grin plastered on his face, eyes glazed over an' twitchin' with sick glee.

"H-hey now..." Billy stammered, a little taken aback by Harry's unhinged reaction. "Ain't every fuckin' day a lil' bitch like you swallows a massive load like that..."

But Harry just giggled more, inching closer on his hands 'n knees 'til he was right between Billy's legs. The kid was fuckin' fearless. Didn't have a lick of sense, climbin' all over the grown-ass man who just wrecked his lil' throat.

"Did I like it though?" Harry asked, voice all lil' an' sweet even as it wavered from the abuse his esophagus just took. "Did you like fuckin' my lil' boy throat, Mr. Rashad?"

Billy scowled down at him, but couldn't quite hide the smirk tuggin' at his lips. "Like it? Bitch, you fuckin' loved it. Practically begged me to ruin this lil' mouthcunt," he spat, jabbing a finger at Harry's baby-smooth cheek. "Built to be a cock dump, ain't ya? Built to choke an' gag 'til your lil' lungs fill up with nigga cum."

Harry just fuckin' beamed at the cruel words, eyes sparkling with perverse pride. "Yep! I really really liked it. It was sooo good!" he squealed. "But... is that really all ya got, Mr. Rashad? I thought grownups were supposed to have, like, way more cum than kids..."

The kid had a point. Billy was still kinda winded, balls nearly sucked fuckin' dry by that lil' throat pussy. But the lil' shit was right - he could go again. An' again. Fuck, he'd fuckin' flood this slut's guts 'til he fuckin' drowned in it.

Billy let out a dark chuckle, eyes narrowin' as he stared down at Harry like a predator eyein' his next meal. "Oh, ya fuckin' lil' whore. Ya just fuckin' asked for it..."

With that, Billy hauled his big ass off the couch, loomin' over Harry's smaller form. The kid didn't even flinch, just tilted his head back to keep starin' up at him with those fuckin' mad eyes.

Harry licked his lips, tasting the lingering musk of Billy's cock 'n cum. "Yep, I totally did! I wanna see what else ya can do, Mr. Rashad..."

He grinned up at Billy, then slowly stood, lettin' the towel 'round his waist fall to the floor with a soft whoosh. And fuck me, but the kid was... perfect. Lean 'n lithe, with the body of an angel. Smooth skin, not a hair on his nubile flesh. A lil' dicklet that was just beginnin' to show some real size, pointin' up at Billy with a mind of its own. Legs that went on for fuckin' miles, thighs slim 'n taut, calves fuckin' ripped. Harry stood up slow, turnin' around to give Billy the full view of his backside. He reached back, spreadin' his cheeks with his lil' hands. Those pretty pink holes winked at Billy. Practically begged him to fuck 'em. Ruin 'em. Claim 'em.

"See somethin' you like, Mr. Rashad?" Harry taunted, voice dripping with false innocence. "I bet a big, strong man like you has all sorts of... ideas." He rolled his hips, making that ass jiggle hypnotically.

Harry was a fuckin' masterpiece. A work of goddamn art. An' the way he stood there, lettin' Billy drink in every inch of his flawless body... fuck. The kid was a goddamn tease. A lil' cock-hungry temptress.

Billy threw his head back an' laughed, a booming sound that shook the room. The lil' slut wanted to play, did he? Wanted to fuckin' bait a grown-ass man into losin' control? Into fuckin' ruinin' his perfect lil' holes 'til they were sloppy, sloppy fuckin' messes?

"Oh, you fuckin' asked for this shit, ya lil' bastard," Billy growled, eyes wild an' cheeks flushed. "Gonna fuckin' destroy this lil' body. Fuckin' ruin it for anythin' else. Ain't ya fuckin' asked for it, ya cock-hungry whore?"

Harry just giggled, eyes dancin' with sadistic glee. "Yep! I wanna see what ya can do, Mr. Rashad. I wanna see if a big strong man like you can really wreck a lil' kid like me..."

He turned around nice an' slow, bentin' over to show off that fuckin' ass. The globes of his cheeks clenched an' flexed, the muscles dancin' beneath porcelain skin. He reached back to spread 'em, fingering his lil' boycunt, drippin' with Billy's leftover spunk.

"C'mon, Mr. Rashad. Fuckin' wreck me," Harry purred, lookin' back at Billy with a fucked-stupid grin. "Show me what a real man can do..."

The lil' cunt was askin' for it. Beggin' for it, even. An' Billy was gonna fuckin' give it to him. Gonna fuckin' destroy this body 'til it was nothin' but a broken, cum-stuffed mess. The kid wanted to dance with the devil? Billy was gonna fuckin' lead...

Billy crept closer to Harry, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He loomed over the small boy, his massive frame casting a shadow across Harry's delicate features. Harry had to crane his neck back to look up at Billy, his heart thundering in his chest.

Harry gulped nervously as Billy's large hand shot out, grabbing his chin in a vice grip. He gasped as Billy's rough fingers dug into his soft skin, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Harry's breath hitched in his throat as he stared up at Billy's cruel, leering face.

"Listen up, ya lil' fuckin' cock sleeve," Billy growled, eyes glinting with predatory hunger. "I'm gonna fuckin' annihilate this tight boypussy. Gonna wreck it so hard, you'll be feelin' my fat fuckin' nigga dick reshapin' your fuckin' guts for days."

Harry shuddered, a whimper escaping his lips at the brutal promise in Billy's words. His lil' dicklet throbbed, leaking a bead of crystal-clear precum that stained his white undies.

"Y-you're... mmm... gonna break me..." Harry stammered out, voice pitching up an octave. "G-gonna ruin this boycunt... gonna fuckin' break me..."

Billy's grin widened, eyes flashing with sadistic glee at the fear and reluctant arousal in Harry's voice. He tightened his grip on Harry's chin, forcing the boy to meet his intense gaze.

"You fuckin' wanna be broken, dontcha?" Billy sneered, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Ain't that right, ya fuckin' pussy slut? Wanna be fuckin' destroyed by a real man's cock?"

"Y-yessir..." Harry whimpered out, eyes glazing over with fucked-stupid lust. "Wanna be... oh fuck... wanna be fuckin' wrecked..."

Billy threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, biting sound that echoed through the room. "Ha! You fuckin' asked for this, ya lil' whore..."

Then, without warning, Billy backhanded Harry across the face. The boy's head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, a red handprint blooming across his cheek. Harry stumbled back, falling hard onto the floor and landing with a soft oof.

"Agh!" Harry yelped, rubbing his sore cheek as tears welled up in his eyes. He opened his mouth to protest the rough treatment, but any words died on his tongue.

Billy loomed over him, grinning down like a predator who had just caught his prey. "Watch it, ya dumb bastard..." Harry tried to snap, but his voice came out small and uncertain.

"Aww, fuck off," Billy mocked cruelly, eyes gleaming with wicked mirth. "Don't pretend like you got a choice in this, ya lil' bitch. Don't pretend like you can fuckin' stop me."

He reached down, grabbing Harry's ankle and yanking him across the floor towards him. Harry yelped, scrambling to get his feet under him. But before he could regain his footing, Billy had him flushed against the wall, one hand wrapped around his throat and squeezing.

"Choice? Fuckin' joke," Billy sneered, leaning in close to Harry's reddened face. His hot breath washed over Harry's skin, stinking of whiskey and stale cigarettes. "Ain't got no fuckin' choice, you lil' shit. I'm gonna fuckin' destroy this tight cunt, and there ain't jack shit you can do about it."

Harry shuddered, feeling Billy's massive cock throb against his belly through the thin fabric of his undies. He could feel the heat of it, could sense the brutal, unyielding hardness barely contained. Fear and arousal warred within him, his heart pounding wildly in his ears.

"Y-yessir..." Harry whimpered out, all bravado and bluster stripped away. "G-gonna ruin me... reshape my guts... fuckin' break me..."

Billy grinned, a feral, vicious thing. "Damn fuckin' right I am," he growled. "By the time I'm done, this lil' boycunt's gonna be molded to the shape of my cock. You'll be nothin' but a slick lil' cock socket, hungry for more."

Harry shuddered, a broken moan escaping his lips as he realized the brutal, inescapable truth of Billy's words. He was trapped, helpless, at the mercy of the brutal fucking he was about to receive.

And deep down, he knew he fuckin' loved it. Craved it. Needed it like he needed air to breathe.

Harry was just a fucktoy, a set of holes for men like Billy to ruin. And god help him, but he couldn't fuckin' wait..

Billy's massive, black cock loomed over Harry's tiny, pink pucker like a monster about to devour a fragile flower. The contrast was obscene, the head of Billy's dick easily twice as wide as the slender ring of Harry's entrance.

"Take a fuckin' look at this," Billy taunted, rubbing the fat, spongy crown of his cock against Harry's miniscule hole. "My fuckin' cockhead's bigger than your lil' boycunt. Ain't that some fucked up shit?"

Harry shuddered, feeling the searing heat of Billy's member branding his flesh. His eyes watered as he beheld the sheer size of it, a shiver of fear and reluctant anticipation coiling in his guts.

"Fuck... it's so big..." Harry whimpered out, voice quavering. "I-I don't know if I can... it won't fit..."

Billy just smirked, cruel and smug. "Oh, it'll fuckin' fit. Gonna make this tight lil' shithole stretch around my cock like a fuckin' glove. Gonna fuckin' rearrange you from the inside out, you lil' cumslut."

To punctuate his point, Billy shoved two thick fingers past Harry's tight ring, plunging them knuckle-deep into the boy's clutching heat. Harry keened, back arching as his greedy boypussy clenched down on the invading digits, trying to dislodge them.

"Shit, you're fuckin' tight," Billy grunted, pumping his fingers in and out of that grasping hole. "Can't fuckin' wait to feel this pussy strangling my cock. Gonna fuckin' ruin this lil' fuckhole for anythin' else."

Harry could only whimper and shake, his small body wracked with sensation as Billy's fingers probed and stretched his tender insides. He felt every ridge and crease, every callous and scar on those thick digits scraping against his sensitive walls. His guts clenched down hard, trying to expel the unwelcome intrusion, but Billy's fingers were relentless in their violation.

"Please..." Harry gasped out, head thrown back and face flushed red. "Please, it's too much... I-I can't... it's too fuckin' big..." But his hips twitched, grinding back against Billy's hand, betraying his true desire.

Billy just chuckled darkly, amused by Harry's feeble protests. "Too fuckin' much? Bitch, ain't you just gagging for it, ya lil' cock whore?"

With that, he lined up his massive fucking pole, the flared head kissing Harry's pucker. Harry shuddered, feeling the lewd heat of it, the pulsing power barely contained.

And then, without a word of warning, Billy thrust forward. The head of his huge cock popped past Harry's entrance with a wet squelch, the tight ring of muscle stretching obscenely around the invading intruder. Harry howled, a sound of agonized ecstasy torn from his throat as Billy's cockhead forced its way past his battered rim and plowed into his guts.

"FUCK!" Harry screamed, voice cracking as he felt himself stretched wider than he ever thought possible. It was like being ripped open, his insides reshaped by the sheer girth of Billy's member violating his most intimate depths.

Billy grunted, eyes rolling back in sheer bliss as Harry's impossible tightness clamped down around him like a vice. His hips stilled for just a moment, letting Harry feel the scorching heat of his cock throbbing against his walls, pulsing with barely contained need.

"Fuckin' hell..." Billy groaned out, voice rough and ragged with lust. "This lil' boyclit is gonna fuckin' ruin me..."

Harry could only sob, tears of pained pleasure streaking down his face. The scar on his forehead burned like a brand, a cruel reminder of the savage fucking he was receiving. Every inch of Billy's massive cock was like a searing line of fire, painting his insides a lurid red, marking him irrevocably.

"Fuck, I can't wait to ruin this sexy lil' body," Billy groaned, his voice like thunder. "I'm gonna take my sweet time tearin' this tight boypussy up, stretching that dainty lil' hole around every fuckin' inch of this big black cock. Kid, you ain't never gonna be able to sit right again after I'm done fuckin' you."

As Billy began to move, hips rolling in a brutal pace, Harry felt a deep, agonizing sensation building in his core. It was too much, too intense, too fucking BIG. His guts churned and clenched, trying to accommodate the massive intrusion violating his tender boycunt.

Harry's belly bulged obscenely from the force of Billy's thrusts, a grotesque outline of the cock plundering his depths. The swollen shape pulsed with each pump of Billy's hips, a lewd testament to the brutal fucking he was receiving.

"Hnnnghh... fuck..." Harry whimpered, drool dripping down his chin as his eyes crossed and rolled back. "S-so fuckin' big... so fuckin' deep... gonna break me..."

Billy just grunted, fingers digging into Harry's soft ass as he rutted into him like a beast in rut. "Fuck yeah, take this fuckin' cock. Fuckin' take it like the lil' cumslut you are," Billy growled, hips slapping against Harry's ass with meaty thwaps.

Harry could only keen and shake, impaled on Billy's massive rod, skewered on the thick pole of black cock plunging into his guts over and over. He felt like he was being split in half, his tender boyclit stretched to the breaking point around the girthy shaft violating him.

And yet, even as he ached and burned and felt the first flutters of agonizing pleasure building in his core, Harry knew he never wanted it to end. Knew he was made for this - to be a fucktoy, a set of holes for men like Billy to ruin as they saw fit.

He was gagging for it, just like Billy said. A starving lil' cock slut, desperate for the nourishment of a real man's dick. And god help him, but he fucking loved every second of it...

Billy pistoned his hips with wild abandon, each brutal thrust driving his massive cock balls-deep into Harry's ravaged hole. The boy's eyes rolled back, fluttering shut as tears streamed down his face, his small body jerking like a rag doll with each merciless slam of Billy's pelvis against his ass.

"Fuck, take it! Take this fuckin' dick, you lil' cock slut!" Billy roared, fingers sinking into the plush flesh of Harry's hips as he yanked the boy closer, impaling him over and over on his throbbing shaft.

Harry could only gurgle and drool, his mind fracturing from the relentless assault on his senses. His stomach bulged obscenely with each thrust, the outline of Billy's cock a sickening sight as it distorted the boy's slender frame. He was nothing more than a fucksleeve, a set of holes for Billy to ruin as he saw fit.

"Hnngh... hnngh... can't... can't breathe..." Harry choked out between each spastic thrust, his lungs burning for air. But Billy just fucked him harder, hips smacking against his ass with meaty slaps that filled the room.

"Don't fuckin' care," Billy snarled, sweat dripping down his face as he rutted into Harry with a manic intensity. "Gonna fuckin' drown this lil' boyclit in cock. Pump you so full of jizz, you'll be tastin' it for days."

Harry's legs gave out, muscles turning to jelly as Billy's onslaught fucked the strength out of him. He collapsed forward, but Billy just caught him, spinning him sideways in a show of crude strength. Harry found himself splayed out on the floor, one arm twisted behind his back as Billy loomed over him, a beast of a man fucking into him with all the finesse of a wild animal.

"Gonna fuckin' ruin this tight cunt," Billy growled, slamming into Harry from the side, the new angle allowing him to plunge even deeper into the boy's guts. "Fuckin' wreck this lil' boyfuck. Break your fuckin' back tryin' to take this cock."

Harry could only gurgle and drool, tongue lolling out in a lewd puddle as Billy used him like a set of holes. Each thrust shook his small frame, rattling his bones, reshaping his insides to the brutal shape of Billy's cock.

"H-hurts... fuck... so fuckin' big..." Harry slurred, eyes glazed and unfocused. "B-breakin' me... fuck... fuck!"

"Hurts so fuckin' good, dontcha mean?" Billy taunted, slipping a hand down to wrap around Harry's throat, squeezing just hard enough to make the boy's face flush a deeper shade of red. "Fuckin' love bein' split open on a real nigga's cock. Fuckin' love bein' used like the lil' cumdump you are."

Billy's cock jackhammered into Harry's abused hole, the wet squelches of his ass taking the brutal fucking filling the room. The stench of sex hung heavy in the air, the musky scent of sweat and precum and the coppery tang of blood from Harry's battered rim.

"Gonna... gonna fuckin'... hnngh... knot this boycunt..." Billy grunted, his movements growing more erratic as his climax approached. His heavy balls slapped against Harry's taint with each thrust, churning with the massive load he planned to flood the boy's guts with.

Harry could only keen and thrash beneath him, impaled and used, nothing more than a set of holes for Billy to ruin. His stomach bulged grotesquely, a perfect imprint of Billy's cock stuffed into his too-small body. Tears and drool mixed on his face as he sobbed and keened, drowning in the brutal pleasure of being so utterly used.

"Fuckin' take it, you lil' raced bitch!" Billy roared, slamming forward one last time and grinding his cock in as deep as it would go. "Fuckin' take my load, you cock-hungry slut! Fuckin' take it all!"

With a guttural moan, Billy came, his cock erupting like a volcano deep in Harry's guts. Thick, hot ropes of jizz flooded the boy's insides, painting his walls white as Billy pumped load after heavy load into his boycunt. Harry convulsed, body shaking apart from the sheer volume of cum pumped into him, a broken wail tearing from his abused throat.

"HNNNGH! FUCK!" Harry screamed, eyes rolling back as Billy's seed sloshed and churned in his belly, distending it obscenely. He could feel it, so hot and thick and endless, filling him up, owning him utterly.

Billy collapsed on top of him, crushing Harry into the floor with his weight as he pumped the last spurts of his release into the boy's wrecked hole. Harry could only tremble and whimper beneath him, impaled on Billy's softening cock, stuffed to bursting with his cum.

"Fuckin'... fuckin' hell..." Billy panted, still grinding into Harry's cum-sloppy ass, sloshing his massive load around in the boy's guts. "That's a fuckin' good lil' cock warmer you got there. Might just keep you around as my personal fucktoy."

Billy glanced down, noticing Harry's limp form splayed out beneath him. The boy's eyes had fluttered shut, his breathing shallow and uneven. A satisfied smirk tugged at Billy's full lips as he realized he'd fucked Harry so hard, the lil' cock sleeve had passed out.

"Pussy," Billy muttered, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Can't even handle a real man's fuckin'."

With a grunt of effort, he hauled his softening cock out of Harry's gaping, sloppy hole. The obscene sound of sucking flesh filled the room as his massive rod slipped free, inch by throbbing inch until just the tip remained nestled in the boy's abused pucker.

As the broad head popped out, a veritable flood of jizz erupted from Harry's used cunt, splattering the floor in a huge arc of pearly white. The sheer volume of it, the speed at which it gushed out, spoke to the truly monumental load Billy had pumped into the kid's guts.

"Shiiiit," Billy hissed, eyes wide as he watched his cum pour out of Harry's fucked-stupid hole. "Look at that slutty lil' cunt, so hungry for my spunk it's suckin' it back in."

He grabbed a towel, roughly wiping the sticky mess from his softening cock and balls before turning his attention to cleaning up the room. The floor was a fucking disaster, a Jackson Pollock painting of sweat, spit, and spunk.

Billy grunted as he scrubbed the worst of it into the carpet fibers, leaving the floor only slightly damp and smelling vaguely of sex.

Turning back to Harry, he hauled the boy up by his armpits, grunting softly as he manhandled the limp, fucked-out slut. Harry flopped bonelessly in his grip, head lolling and eyes still closed.

"Heh, fuckin' out cold," Billy chuckled darkly. "Guess I'll put this lil' cumdump somewhere to sleep it off."

He glanced around the room, searching for any sign of where Harry might sleep in this shithole. But the room was as unfamiliar to him as the back of his own hand.

"Fuck it," Billy muttered, shouldering the boy more securely and kicking open the only other door in the damn place. He stumbled into the dark room, the only light spilling in from behind him.

The room was a mess, a pigsty filled with dirty clothes and empty chip bags. A massive bed dominated the space, nearly as big as the one in the other room.

"Guess this'll fuckin' do," Billy grunted, dumping Harry onto the bed. The boy sprawled bonelessly, limbs splayed like a fucked-out starfish.

Billy tucked him in, pulling the blanket up to Harry's chin. He stared down at the boy's slack, pretty face, a wicked grin spreading across his own.

"Sweet fuckin' dreams, you lil' cumslut," he whispered, voice low and full of cruel promise. "Hope you're dreamin' of wakin' up to a nigga's cock in your mouth. Wouldn't be surprised if that's all this lil' cock socket is good for."

With that, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Harry lay there, oblivious and uncaring, fucked into a coma in a stranger's bed, already dreaming of the next time he could choke down a real man's dick.

Notes:

Sizes of the day:
- Billy Rashad Marcus: 12,7" length; 6,5" girth.

Chapter 3: "Gringot's Slut"

Summary:

Gringots and Prostitutes

Chapter Text

Growing up in the Dursley household had its fair share of surprises, most of which involved discovering new and creative ways Uncle Vernon could be a complete lunatic. But waking up naked in Dudley’s bed was a new one. A mystery, really. One moment, he was in his cupboard, the next, sprawled out in the land of sweaty sheets and broken dreams. The only thing he vaguely remembered was the doorbell ringing before everything went black. And now, he was here. A bit sore, very confused, and wishing for death.

But, hey, at least he was alive. Small victories.

Uncle Vernon, in his infinite generosity, had decided that Harry should spend a record-breaking amount of time locked in the cupboard. No meals. No bathroom breaks unless he begged. But the silver lining? No awkward alone time with Uncle Vernon’s thick—THICK—shaft. Because, somehow, the whale of a man was more gifted than his nearly negative length suggested.

Now, let’s be clear. Uncle Vernon was a man built like a walrus stuffed into a suit two sizes too small. Everything about him screamed excess—chins, belly, ego. But apparently, nature decided that if he was going to be cursed with the physique of a bloated toad, he might as well be blessed elsewhere. It was absurd, the kind of cruel joke only the universe could come up with. Thick. Heavy. A grotesque pillar of flesh, pulsing with each disgusting beat of his heart. The girth alone had felt impossible, stretching my lips to the brink, making my jaw throb as veins pressed against my tongue. It was an obscene thing, a weapon disguised as flesh, forcing itself past the limits of my throat until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

I gag just thinking about it, which, funnily enough, is exactly what happened at the time. My mouth had been forced open, my head pushed down, and—

I shove it all into the deepest, darkest pit of my mind and lock it up. Because if I let myself think about it, really think about it, I’ll break. And breaking isn't an option. Not yet.

When summer vacation finally rolled around, Harry was finally let out. But just because school was out didn’t mean he was free from Dudley’s merry band of future criminals. They hung around the house constantly, and Harry quickly figured out that the best way to avoid getting beaten half to death was to become a wandering ghost of Privet Drive. The upside? Dudley and his little demon friend, Piers, were going to Smeltings Academy. The downside? Harry was going to Stonewall High, which, according to Aunt Petunia, was a school for ‘delinquents and other people like you.’

One fateful morning, Uncle Vernon sent Harry to collect the mail. Normally, this meant sifting through a stack of bills, weird catalogues for drills, and an occasional postcard from Vernon’s equally insufferable sister. But today? Today was different.

There, among the boring adult nonsense, was a letter. Addressed to him. To Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs.

It was at this moment that Harry realized two things: One, someone out there knew exactly where he slept, which was mildly horrifying. Two, he had never received mail before. Ever. The envelope was thick, made of yellowish parchment, with a wax seal featuring a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle surrounding an ominous letter ‘H’.

Magic? Secret underground government surveillance? Some really committed stalker? The possibilities were endless.

As he examined the envelope, Dudley’s beady little eyes locked onto it.

“Dad! Look, Harry’s got a letter!” he shrieked, as if witnessing the apocalypse.

Uncle Vernon’s meaty hands snatched it away before Harry could protest.

“What? Who’d be writing to you?” he barked, eyeing the seal as if it might explode.

Harry could answer that: No one. Ever.

Before he could even try to grab it back, Uncle Vernon’s mustache twitched, and he did something uncharacteristically quick for a man of his bulk—he shoved Harry and Dudley out of the kitchen, locking the door behind them.

“Let me see!” Dudley whined, attempting to shove Harry away from the keyhole.

“Get lost, Dudley,” Harry grumbled, but the walrus-child had the physical advantage. So Harry did the next best thing—he crouched and peered through the tiny gap under the door.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were whispering furiously.

“It’s them, Petunia. They’ve found him.”

“I thought we stopped it—oh, Vernon, what do we do?”

The only logical response to this, of course, was Uncle Vernon setting the letter on fire.

That night, Vernon came into the cupboard, looking deranged.

“I burned it. That’s the end of it.”

Which, considering his track record with ‘solving problems,’ meant that it was very much not the end of it.

The next morning, another letter arrived.

This time, it was addressed to The Smallest Bedroom.

So they knew he had been moved.

Cue the screaming. Cue the dramatic chase through the hallway. Cue Uncle Vernon ripping the letter from Harry’s hands like a rabid baboon.

And then, the floodgates opened.

Every day, the letters multiplied. First, through the letterbox. Then, under doors. Then, through the chimney. Aunt Petunia cracked open eggs only to find rolled-up letters inside.

And then, in what would go down in history as the greatest postal invasion ever witnessed, dozens of letters erupted from the fireplace, showering the house in parchment confetti. Harry tried to grab one. He almost had it—

“WE’RE LEAVING.”

And just like that, Uncle Vernon lost what remained of his sanity.

The Dursleys fled. They drove for hours. Stopped at a shady hotel. Received more letters. Drove again. Finally, Vernon hijacked a boat and dragged them all to a miserable shack on a rock in the middle of nowhere.

Harry sat on the floor, counting down to his birthday. Ten seconds… five… three… two… one—

BOOM.

The door nearly exploded off its hinges.

Dudley screamed.

Uncle Vernon stormed in, armed with a rifle. Which, honestly, was funny considering the sheer size of the man who now stood in the doorway.

A giant.

“Well, this is cozy,” the giant grunted, stepping inside and replacing the door like he had just accidentally knocked over a chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Dudley ran to Aunt Petunia, shaking like a pudding.

The giant turned his eyes to Harry and smiled. “Last time I saw ya, yeh were a baby. Look just like yer dad. But yeh got yer mum’s eyes.”

Harry, still processing, cleared his throat. “Who—?”

“Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

Uncle Vernon found his voice. “I demand you leave at once! You are breaking and entering!”

Hagrid ignored him, instead pulling a box from his coat.

“Got summat fer yeh, Harry. Happy birthday.”

Inside was a slightly squashed cake, the words HAPPEE BIRTHDAE HARRY written in what appeared to be questionable icing choices.

Harry, still deeply confused, managed a “Uh. Thanks?” before remembering the most important thing. “Wait. You said Hogwarts. That’s—that’s what the letter was about, wasn’t it?”

Hagrid’s face darkened. “They didn’t tell yeh?”

Uncle Vernon turned purple. “Now, see here, he is not going!”

Hagrid turned to Harry. “Harry, yer a wizard.”

Harry blinked. “I’m a what?”

“A wizard. An’ a thumpin’ good one, once yeh get trained up.”

Harry looked at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. They both looked like they had swallowed an entire hive of bees.

“Aunt Petunia?” he asked, hoping for… anything.

“Oh, fine!” she snapped. “Yes, you’re a wizard! Yes, your parents were freaks! Yes, some other freak murdered them! And yes, we have been trying to stamp it out of you!”

Harry felt something cold crawl into his stomach. But there was also something else there.

Something new.

Hope.

Hagrid handed him an envelope.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry.”

I woke up early, blinking against the absurdity of the situation. Was it real? Was it a dream? I wasn’t sure. My head was still spinning from everything Hagrid had said, from the bizarre trip to London, and—oh, the letter. Hogwarts. Wizards. The idea of my parents actually being wizards was somehow harder to swallow than the prospect of spending another miserable day with the Dursleys. And that’s saying something.

I kept my eyes shut, hoping for some miracle that the world would return to its proper, dull, non-magical form. Maybe I’d wake up in my cupboard again, in my miserable little prison, with the usual silence of the house hanging in the air. But no. Instead, I heard a knock. Light, quick, insistent. Maybe Aunt Petunia, always keen to make my life even more uncomfortable.

I groaned and rolled out of bed, still trying to make sense of my surroundings. And that’s when I froze.

Hagrid was sleeping on the sofa. Yes, Hagrid. The giant of a man who had come into my life like a bull in a china shop, talking about magic and dragons and goblins. I blinked again. Okay, so, not a dream.

But there was something else.

A tapping sound. I turned towards the window, my stomach dropping. An owl. Tapping. On the window.

I gaped at it like it had just sprouted a second head. This was normal now? Fine. Whatever.

I shuffled over, awkwardly opening the window. The owl—an enormous, brown creature—hopped in, dropped a rolled-up newspaper into my hands, and, as casually as you like, stuck out its leg.

"Uh, thanks?" I muttered, fumbling for the knuts Hagrid had mentioned. I tossed a couple of bronze coins at the owl, which seemed unimpressed, before it flew off.

“What the blazes?” I muttered under my breath.

The owl was gone, and so was my hope that I might wake up in a normal world. Instead, I was stuck in some strange nightmare where magic was real and things didn’t make sense.

Hagrid grumbled from the couch, stirring.

“Oi, Harry,” he called sleepily, his voice like thunder in the quiet room. “We’d best get a move on if we’re gonna make it to London.”

I sighed, feeling the pressure of the situation finally hit me. “Right, London. That’s where I’m going... for magic school...”

“Right,” Hagrid replied, clearly not bothering to notice my reluctance. “Gringotts, the wizard bank. Got a lot of things to sort out for ya there. You’ll be able to get into your folks' vault and all.”

My heart skipped a beat. "Gringotts?"

"Aye," Hagrid said, yawning as he got to his feet, cracking his knuckles with a loud pop. “You’ll get what yer parents left for you.”

“Left for me?” I blinked at him. "I don’t... I don’t have any money. I mean, I don’t—"

“Don’t worry about it,” Hagrid cut in, waving a massive hand dismissively. “It’s all sorted. You’ll be right as rain.”

I narrowed my eyes. “But I don’t... I don’t have anything. How could I—”

“Trust me, Harry,” Hagrid said, his voice suddenly taking on a strange tone. “You’ve got more than enough in that vault. An' yer lookin’ fine, yeh know? Strong and all.” He raised an eyebrow like he was inspecting me. “You’ve got a good build, Harry. Real fine. You could be a good—well, yeh could go far in this world. Y’know, if yeh wanted. Good looks and that fame of yers… Yeh could make a lotta money. I’m just sayin'... If yeh ever thought about it, yeh’d do well.”

I blinked a few times, trying to wrap my head around the very strange compliment. Did Hagrid just call me hot? Was I hearing this right?

“Er, thanks?” I managed, feeling awkward. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? “Not sure what you mean, though…”

We grabbed our things, and I followed Hagrid out of the house, trying to shake off the weird, disjointed thoughts that had just entered my brain. I really needed a moment to digest all of this. But no, of course not. Magic was calling me. Or rather, it was knocking me upside the head with a giant broomstick and dragging me along whether I was ready or not.

The trip to London was... eventful. First, Hagrid led me to a little boat that looked like it was going to sink the moment it touched the water. I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I was going to be swallowed whole by the river, but Hagrid didn’t seem concerned. The boat was surprisingly stable, even though it looked like a sad little raft someone had made in a fit of desperation.

“So,” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around the absurdity of the day. “What’s Gringotts? What’s it like? A bank, you said?”

“Yeah,” Hagrid said, steering the boat with ease, “but not just any bank. It’s got goblins in it, y’know. Run by goblins. Real sly, they are. Can’t trust ‘em as far as you can throw ‘em, but they’ve got the best security in the world. Keep their vaults well guarded, with dragons and all.”

“Dragons?” I repeated, genuinely stunned.

“Yep,” Hagrid confirmed, his eyes gleaming. “Big ones. Spitting fire. You’ll see soon enough.”

“Right,” I said, feeling my stomach tighten. "Dragons... sure."

Once we reached the dock, we made our way to the train station. Hagrid didn’t say much during the ride, but he kept muttering under his breath about Muggle inventions, especially the parking meters. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. To Hagrid, anything without magic was just some strange, useless thing.

“So,” I said, trying to break the silence. “What’s the Ministry of Magic? You mentioned it before.”

“Ah, well, that’s where the wizards make the rules, innit?” Hagrid replied, looking thoughtful. “Got a Minister—Cornelius Fudge—he’s in charge of it all, but Dumbledore, y’know, he’s the one everyone really respects. The Ministry works hard to keep Muggles in the dark about magic, see?”

“Right, so you can’t just... use magic out in the open?”

“Exactly. Magic’s a secret. You’ve got to be careful, especially with Muggles around. You use it recklessly, and they’ll start asking questions.”

I nodded, still trying to process everything he was saying. This was real. I was really part of this world now. And as much as I didn’t understand it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was about to change completely.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Hagrid shoved a thick parchment into my hands. "There it is, Harry. Your school supply list."

I looked at it. A pointed hat. Work robes. Dragon-hide gloves. A winter cloak. And books. So many books. History of Magic, Theory of Magic... The list seemed endless.

“Don’t worry about the money,” Hagrid added casually. “I’ve already sorted that out for ya. You’re gonna need these, trust me.”

I looked at the list again, feeling a surge of uncertainty. “I’m going to Hogwarts. I’m really going to Hogwarts...”

“Course you are,” Hagrid said with a smile, the way someone might say, “Of course the sun’s going to rise tomorrow.”

It hit me then, like a ton of bricks. This wasn’t a dream. No, this was my life now. And I was going to be part of it, for better or worse. My parents weren’t around to help me make sense of this, and honestly, it felt like I was diving headfirst into a world that was far too big for me to understand.

“Well, Harry,” Hagrid said, clapping me on the back with a force that nearly knocked me over, “welcome to the magical world.”

And somehow, I didn’t feel like running away from it anymore.

Chapter 4: "Bye Bye, Hello Hello"

Summary:

Express to Hogwarts

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The last month at the Dursleys’ was a quiet disaster. No yelling, no threats—just a house holding its breath. Vernon avoided looking Harry in the eye unless they were alone. Then, well, things were different.

Not that Harry minded. If anything, he enjoyed the paradox. During the day, Vernon pretended Harry was a ghost, barely grunting orders. At night, he treated him like something sacred, like a secret locked behind a bedroom door. Petunia, blissfully ignorant, kept up her usual disdain. Dudley, on the other hand, had learned that Harry’s things were not to be touched. The dildo incident had ensured that.

“What the hell do you need that for?” he’d shrieked, after pulling it out of Harry’s trunk like he’d just discovered a severed hand.

Harry had smirked. “Hogwarts supply list. You wanna ask McGonagall?”

Dudley had run like the devil himself was after him. Priceless.

Mostly, though, Harry stayed in his room. Hedwig was his only real company, his nights spent reading under dim light, marking days off on a makeshift calendar. The final one: August 31st. The day he’d finally be free. Well, sort of.

Breakfast was the usual ordeal of silent hostility. Toast, eggs, the rustling of newspapers.

“So,” Harry said, slicing through the tension, “how am I getting to the station tomorrow?”

Vernon barely looked up. “Not our problem.”

Harry hummed, taking a sip of his tea. “Right. So, when wizards start showing up looking for me, I should just tell them my loving family left me stranded?”

Petunia’s lips pursed. Vernon muttered something under his breath, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll drive you.”

Harry grinned. “Wow. Thoughtful. And here I was thinking you’d leave me on the curb.”

“Don’t push it, boy.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, casually. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re such a wonderful husband, after all.” His eyes flickered to Petunia, who shot him a suspicious glance.

Vernon’s face twitched. He shoved a sausage in his mouth aggressively, like chewing could erase implication. Petunia, unknowing, simply scoffed. “You should be grateful we’re taking you at all.”

“Oh, I am,” Harry said, beaming. “I’ll be sure to thank Vernon properly later.”

Vernon choked on his food. Harry stood, grabbed an apple, and left the room, grinning ear to ear.

Tomorrow, he’d be gone. But for now, he’d enjoy the show.

Harry knelt between his uncle's thick thighs, the car seat creaking under the weight of Vernon's bulk. The air was heavy with the musky scent of his uncle's arousal, a pungent aroma that filled Harry's nostrils as he leaned in, his face mere inches from the straining bulge in Vernon's trousers.

"Bloody hell, boy..." Vernon grunted, his voice strained. "You're not going to miss this, are you? Sucking your uncle's cock like a proper little slut."

Harry smirked around the thick flesh stretching his lips, his tongue swirling along the underside of Vernon's shaft. It was a small price to pay for the meager scraps of affection and the respite from beatings.

"Mmph, I suppose I'll miss the way you call me a slut," Harry mumbled, his words vibrating around Vernon's thick meat. His jaw ached, stretched taut by the sheer girth of his uncle's manhood. It was short, but girthy, a proper thick sausage that filled Harry's mouth obscenely.

Vernon's hands fisted in Harry's messy black hair, gripping tight as he guided Harry's head, forcing him to take more of that thick cock down his throat. "You're bloody lucky to have a man like me, boy. Giving you what you need before you go off to that freak school."

Harry snorted, a glob of spit dripping down his chin as he pulled back slightly. "Oh, I'm lucky alright. Lucky to have a uncle who gets his rocks off by abusing his nephew."

Vernon's grip tightened, a sharp tug on Harry's hair. "Watch your mouth, you cheeky bastard. I'm doing you a favor here."

Harry rolled his eyes, the movement lost on Vernon as he focused on the task at hand. He could feel Vernon's cock throbbing against his tongue, the thick veins pulsing with each heartbeat. He traced them with the tip of his tongue, savoring the texture, the heat of his uncle's flesh.

"Mmph, I suppose I should be grateful," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Getting to suck my uncle's fat, thick cock before I'm gone. What a send-off."

Vernon grunted, a guttural sound that reverberated through his chest. "Damn right you should be grateful. Not many lads your age get to practice on a cock like this."

Harry couldn't argue with that. Vernon's cock was impressive, in a grotesque sort of way. Thick as a soda can, it strained against the confines of his trousers, the outline obscene in its lewdness. Harry had lost count of the times he'd choked on it, tears streaming down his face as Vernon fucked his throat raw.

He could feel the head of Vernon's cock hitting the back of his throat, the bulbous tip nudging his tonsils. He gagged, a spurt of drool dripping down his chin, but he didn't pull away. He knew better than to displease his uncle.

"Fuck, your mouth feels good," Vernon grunted, his hips jerking forward, driving his cock deeper into Harry's throat. "I'm going to miss these hot little blowjobs of yours."

Harry snorted around the thick flesh stretching his lips, his eyes watering from the intrusion. He knew his uncle was close, could feel the telltale twitch that always preceded his explosive release. Harry braced himself, his throat already sore from the relentless fucking.

"Fuck, I'm going to cum," Vernon grunted, his hips jerking forward, driving his cock as deep as it would go. "Swallow it all, you little slut. Don't you dare spill a drop."

Harry had no choice but to obey. He felt the first hot spurt of cum hitting the back of his throat, the thick, salty essence flooding his mouth. He swallowed convulsively, his throat working to gulp down the massive load his uncle was unleashing.

It seemed to go on forever, a seemingly endless stream of cum pumping directly into his stomach. Harry's belly being filled obscenely as it was filled with his uncle's seed. He could feel it sloshing around inside him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Vernon's orgasm subsided. He pulled his softening cock out of Harry's mouth with a wet pop, a strand of cum connecting the tip to Harry's swollen lips.

"Bloody hell, that was a good one," Vernon said, tucking his spent cock back into his trousers. "You're a lucky boy, getting a load like that before you go."

Harry licked his lips, tasting the remnants of his uncle's cum. "Lucky me," he said, his voice hoarse and strained. "Getting pumped full of uncle jizz as a going away present."

Vernon smirked, a cruel twist to his lips. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy it, boy. I know how much you love having your belly full of my seed."

He hauled himself to his feet, his legs shaky and unsteady. His belly gurgled and sloshed, the massive load of cum churning inside him. He knew he'd be feeling this for hours.

"Well, I suppose I should go," Harry said, straightening his clothes. "Wouldn't want to be late for the train."

Vernon snorted. "Bloody right you shouldn't. And don't forget, boy - not a word about this to anyone at that freak school. Understand?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, Uncle Vernon. I won't tell anyone about the years you've spent abusing me. God forbid anyone find out what a sick, depraved bastard you really are."

Vernon's face darkened, a vein throbbing in his temple. "Watch your mouth, you cheeky little shit. I'm still your uncle, and you'll show me respect."

Harry smirked, a wicked glint in his eye. "Of course, Uncle Vernon. I respect you so much, I can't wait to leave."

Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the acrid aftertaste of his uncle’s "liquid" still lingering on his tongue. It wasn’t that he hated it—just that he was, above all things, hungry. The attempt to ask for help had gone exactly as expected: disgust, disinterest, and a total refusal to acknowledge that a scrawny, green-eyed boy covered in remnants of someone else’s indulgence existed at all.

He stood near the barrier, scanning the crowd. Families bustled around, owls hooted, and somewhere in the distance, a child was crying like their life depended on it. Then he spotted them—an entire cluster of redheads, all seemingly birthed from the same genetic experiment.

His first thought was, Jesus Christ, they all look the same.

The second, Is this incest or eugenics?

A plump woman—clearly the mother of the batch—was in the middle of lecturing two identical boys, her face red with irritation. "Fred, George, I swear, if you don’t—"

"Mum, I’m George."

"No, you’re not."

"How do you know?"

Harry liked them already.

He stepped forward, adjusting his trunk. "Uh, excuse me, ma’am?"

The woman turned to him, immediately softening. "Oh! First time at Hogwarts, dear?"

"Yeah. First time doing a lot of things, actually."

She didn’t pry—just smiled and gestured to the brick wall. "Just walk straight at the barrier, love. Best do it at a bit of a run."

Harry considered this. The last time he’d tried to run at something headfirst, it had ended in a broken pair of glasses and a lesson on why Dudley’s fist was better avoided. But this was different. Probably.

So he took a breath, ran—

—And didn’t die.

Instead, he emerged into the chaos of Platform 9¾, where steam curled through the air and the Hogwarts Express loomed like something straight out of an over-budget period drama. People moved around him, hugging, crying, saying goodbyes that reeked of privilege.

Harry took a moment. Inhaled. Exhaled.

Then, like the master of adaptation he was, he strode forward like he belonged.

Finding an empty compartment was easier than expected—perhaps because most kids had families and friends, which meant they weren’t scurrying onto the train like lone rats. He dropped into a seat, stretching his legs, and let himself bask in the novelty of being somewhere else.

That’s when the door slid open.

Two figures stood there, identical grins plastered on identical faces. Fred and George Weasley.

"Bloody hell," Fred—maybe George—muttered, eyes locked on Harry’s chin.

Harry blinked. "What?"

George—maybe Fred—nudged his twin. "Mate, you seein’ what I’m seein’?"

"Sure am, Georgie."

"It’s Fred."

"Shame. Thought I finally had it."

"Oi, not the point!" Fred hissed before leveling Harry with a knowing look. "So, uh. You might wanna clean up there, mate."

Harry frowned, swiping at his chin.

Something white. Something viscous.

His stomach flipped.

His uncle’s cum.

The twins exchanged glances.

"Wow," George said. "And we thought we had a rough morning."

Harry, officially flustered, swiped at his face furiously. "It’s not—I wasn’t—"

"Oi, no judgment here," Fred assured him. "We respect a man with needs."

"Absolutely. Takes guts to—"

"—on the train and everything."

"This was not on the train—"

"We believe you."

They did not believe him. At all.

Harry groaned, slumping back into his seat. "Are you two done?"

Fred patted his shoulder. "For now. We’ll be back."

And with that, they left, leaving Harry to wonder if maybe choking on his own shame was a viable way to go.

Outside the window, the platform was already shifting into something unfamiliar. The train rumbled beneath him, a mechanical heartbeat promising escape. He let himself sink into it, eyes tracking the blur of color beyond the glass.

He was going to Hogwarts.

Everything—Dudley, Vernon, the past decade of absolute bullshit—was about to become nothing more than a memory he had no obligation to acknowledge.

Then the door slid open again.

Harry sighed. "Please, no more comments about my face."

"Er—what?"

A gangly redhead stood in the doorway, clutching a rat like it was the only thing tethering him to existence.

"Never mind," Harry muttered. "Come in."

The boy hesitated, then shuffled inside. "I’m Ron. Ron Weasley."

Harry’s eyes flicked over him, then to the rat. "You named that?"

Ron looked down at Scabbers. "He’s just called Scabbers. He’s kinda useless."

"Kinda?"

As if to emphasize the point, Scabbers twitched, farted, and promptly resumed looking half-dead.

Ron sighed. "Yeah."

Harry snorted. "I’m Harry."

Ron blinked. "Harry Potter?"

Harry braced himself. The look of awe. The questions. The inevitable barrage of Oh my god, tell me about your tragic past!—

But Ron just nodded. "Huh. Cool."

Harry tilted his head. "That’s it?"

"Dunno what else to say. S’not like you asked to be famous, right?"

For the first time in his entire goddamn life, Harry felt something close to relief.

He grinned. "Right."

"Wicked scar, though."

"Thanks. Almost makes up for the childhood trauma."

A voice interrupted.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

Ron patted his pockets and sighed. "I brought sandwiches."

Harry, who had never had money to waste before, but who was now suddenly rich, stood up and bought one of everything. Ron stared like Harry had just casually revealed he was the King of England.

"You don’t have to—"

"I want to."

It felt good, honestly. Being able to buy things. Being able to share. He handed Ron a Chocolate Frog, and the redhead hesitated before accepting it. "Cheers."

They spent a good ten minutes eating and talking, and somewhere between dodging Bertie Bott’s Beans that tasted like rotten socks and laughing at the sheer absurdity of wizard candy, Harry caught himself looking at Ron’s face and thinking about innocence. About how easy it was, for some people, to grow up with love, with family, with jokes and teasing and warmth. He didn’t resent Ron for it. He just… missed something he never had. Or maybe something he lost.

The compartment door slid open.

"Excuse me," a round-faced boy said, peering in with the desperate look of someone who had been searching for far too long. "Have you seen a toad? I lost mine."

Ron immediately seized the moment to attempt magic. "Let me try something."

He pulled out a battered wand, cleared his throat, and waved it dramatically. "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow."

Nothing happened. Not even a spark.

Harry had never seen someone look so defeated.

"Are you sure that’s real magic?" A new voice cut in, and both boys turned to see a girl standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp with curiosity and challenge.

She had bushy brown hair and the kind of expression that suggested she had read every book ever written and was prepared to quote them all at once.

"Hermione Granger," she said, as if announcing herself at a royal court. "And you are?"

Ron groaned. "Oh, great."

Hermione ignored him. Her gaze landed on Harry and lit up like a Christmas tree. "You’re Harry Potter. I read about you in—"

"A book?"

"Several, actually." She sat down without invitation. "Did you know there’s a theory that your survival against You-Know-Who was due to an ancient protective charm linked to sacrificial magic?"

Harry blinked. "Uh. No."

Ron looked ready to die.

"Anyway," Hermione continued, "I hope I get into Gryffindor. Though Ravenclaw would be fine too. My parents are Muggles, so all of this is completely new to me, but I’ve read as much as I could before term started. Hogwarts: A History is fascinating."

Ron looked like he’d rather eat another one of his mother’s stews. "Anything but Slytherin."

"Oh?" Hermione looked intrigued. "I hear they produce some of the most talented witches and wizards."

Ron scoffed. "Yeah, and the worst Dark Wizards."

Harry, on the other hand, was intrigued. "What else did you read?"

Hermione beamed, and what followed was a whirlwind of information that Harry could only half-process. Something about goblin rebellions, the Sorting Hat, the most powerful wizards in history. But what caught his attention was news of a break-in at Gringotts.

"Someone tried to steal something from the high-security vaults," Hermione said, looking almost gleeful at the mystery. "Nothing was taken, though."

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. The wizard bank had seemed impenetrable, at least from what Harry had seen when he went there with Hagrid.

"Weird," Ron said. "Who’d be mad enough to try that?"

Harry didn’t have an answer, but something about it left a strange feeling in his stomach.

The conversation carried on, drifting from Hogwarts houses to Quidditch to the best way to deal with poltergeists (Hermione had theories, Ron looked like he was barely holding on to his will to live). And then, just as they were finally settling into something resembling a comfortable rhythm, the door slid open again.

This time, the presence was different.

Harry didn’t know how he knew. Maybe it was the way the air shifted. Or maybe it was the way Ron immediately tensed.

Either way, when he looked up, he was met with sharp, pale features, platinum-blond hair, and an expression that screamed entitlement.

"So," the boy drawled, stepping inside like he owned the place. "It’s true. Harry Potter’s on the train."

Behind him, two rather large boys stood like bodyguards. Crabbe and Goyle, Harry would later learn.

The blond smirked. "I’m Draco Malfoy. Pleasure."

The way he said it made it sound like an insult.

Harry leaned back, stretching his legs out as he gave Draco a once-over. The boy was pretty, in that insufferable, rich-boy way. Something about him screamed ‘gonna be a slut,’ though Harry wasn’t about to point fingers.

Ron made a noise that could only be described as a strangled laugh. Draco’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing.

“You think my name’s funny, Weasley?” Draco sneered, like Ron was some peasant who had tracked mud onto his imported Persian rug.

“No, I think your face is funny,” Ron shot back.

Draco’s lip curled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Weasleys have always been—”

“Poor?” Ron said flatly. “Yeah, got any new material or just the same old pure-blood drivel?”

Harry smirked. Maybe Ron wasn’t so bad.

Draco turned back to Harry, holding out his hand. “You’ll soon find some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to make the wrong friends.”

Harry looked at Draco’s hand. Then back up at his face. Then back down at his hand.

“Smells like cum,” he said, deadpan.

Draco froze. A flicker of something crossed his expression—guilt? Shame? Nah, interest.

“Excuse me?” Draco sputtered.

“Your hand,” Harry said, completely straight-faced. “Smells like cum.”

Ron choked on air. Crabbe and Goyle looked like their two remaining brain cells were malfunctioning.

Draco’s face went red, then pale, then red again. “I—! That’s absurd!”

Harry shrugged. “Is it?”

Malfoy snapped his hand back, wiping it furiously on his robes. “You’re mad,” he spat, looking equal parts furious and intrigued. “We’ll see how long you last, Potter.” He turned on his heel and stormed out, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.

Harry exhaled. "Well. That was something."

Ron snorted. "Think he fancies you?"

"Wouldn’t be the first blond prick to."

Before Ron could question that deeply troubling statement, Hermione burst in, looking harried. "What are you two doing? We’re nearly there! Get your robes on!"

The train rattled to a stop, and students spilled onto the platform in a frenzy of movement. The air smelled like wet stone and anticipation. Harry barely had time to process before a booming voice cut through the noise.

"Firs’-years! Over here!" Hagrid, looking as massive as ever, waved a lantern above the crowd. Harry and Ron hurried over, joining the cluster of nervous eleven-year-olds.

They were led down a winding path to the lake, where small boats bobbed in the water. The castle loomed in the distance, impossibly tall, its many windows glowing in the night. It was, objectively, the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. He was going to lose his mind in this place.

He and Ron clambered into a boat with Hermione and Neville, who was still lamenting his missing toad. The boats moved forward, gliding effortlessly over the glassy water.

"Blimey," Ron muttered, staring up at the castle. "Looks even bigger than Charlie said."

"It’s enchanted," Hermione supplied, because of course she did. "The founders built it with layers of magical—”

"Yeah, yeah, big magic building, very impressive," Harry cut in, watching the way the castle lights reflected in the lake. It made him feel something strange, something warm. He had never belonged anywhere before. But now? Maybe. Just maybe.

The boats slid onto the shore. Hagrid stepped out first, turning to face them. The castle doors loomed behind him, tall and foreboding.

He grinned. "Everyone ready? The Sorting awaits."

Notes:

Sizes of the day:
- Vernom Dursley: 5,2" length; 8,6" girth.

Chapter 5: "First-Meeting"

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The door swung open with the sharp precision of a guillotine, revealing Professor Minerva McGonagall. Tall, rigid, and with a glare that could curdle fresh milk, she surveyed the cluster of nervous first-years. Hagrid, their shaggy, towering shepherd, took the opportunity to introduce them before she led them into the cavernous, golden-lit hall.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. Soon, you will be sorted into your houses. These houses will be your family for the duration of your stay here—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin." McGonagall’s voice carried the weight of centuries of tradition, though Harry was mostly concerned with the word "sorting."

Harry snorted internally. Family. Right. He’d take his chances with an actual viper before trusting any of these wide-eyed prepubescent cultists. He shifted uncomfortably. The last time someone called something his ‘family,’ they were shoving their cock down his—

Harry side-eyed Ron. “So, what? They gonna make us fight a troll to prove our worth?”

Ron looked like he was about to throw up. “Dunno, mate. Fred and George said something about wrestling a werewolf.”

“Brilliant.” Harry sighed. “Should’ve stayed under the staircase.”

Draco looked unbothered. Of course, he did. Probably had his house selected for him at birth, like a prince in some incestuous monarchy. Harry, on the other hand, had been through enough weirdness lately that he was mentally bracing for anything—honestly, if the test involved taking a massive cock to the gut, he wouldn’t even blink. Life had already thrown him stranger things.

Hermione, vibrating with tension, suddenly grabbed his hand. His fingers twitched. Physical contact was foreign, unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure whether to comfort her back or just let it happen. But he didn’t pull away. Maybe that was enough.

Then came the ghosts. Because of course there were ghosts. Floating in like a committee of the damned, gossiping amongst themselves. A particularly plump one introduced himself as the Fat Friar, babbling about Hufflepuff like it was some all-inclusive summer camp. Harry was too busy cataloging the absurdity of it all to engage.

McGonagall’s return cut the chatter. "Form a line. The Sorting is about to begin."

The Great Hall was breathtaking, sure, if you weren’t too distracted by the idea of a sentient hat making life choices for you. Floating candles, long tables, and an audience of older students watching like vultures at a fresh carcass. At the front, the teachers’ table loomed, and there he was—Dumbledore, the enigmatic ringleader of this magical circus. The man winked at him. What the hell did that mean?

A stool was placed at the center of the hall, and atop it sat the Hat. Old, tattered, and sentient. And then—because apparently, it wasn’t enough that it was alive—it started singing.

Harry didn’t hear most of the song. He was too busy worrying about mind-reading. What if this thing dug deep? What if it found memories of deepthroating Vernon? Jesus, Buddha, any deity available—please, just this once, grant me some divine censorship.

Students were called up one by one. The Hat deliberated, announced a house, applause followed, rinse and repeat. Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, a couple of Slytherins. Harry’s nerves tightened with every name. He remembered the humiliation of always being the last picked for sports. Just as the tension peaked—

"Harry Slutter!"

Silence.

The hall collectively froze. Harry’s soul momentarily left his body, ascending into the astral plane to escape the sheer, unfiltered embarrassment. He whipped his head toward the hat as if it had personally committed an act of treason. Even the ghosts looked scandalized. McGonagall, ever composed, cleared her throat.

"Potter," the hat corrected, unbothered. "Harry Potter."

Muttering erupted across the hall. What the hell was this? Some kind of sentient Freudian slip? Harry climbed up to the stool, desperately trying to pretend that he was not, in fact, dying inside. The hat dropped onto his head, the world vanishing in darkness. Harry's ears burned hotter than a dragon’s arse. He shuffled forward, grimacing as he sat, and the Hat was placed on his head.

"Ah, Potter. Interesting mind you have here. So much potential. And—oh. Oh my. My, my, my, what is—"

"Shut up."

"Pardon?"

"You’re not seeing anything."

"Oh, but I do. Quite vividly, actually. Goodness, that’s quite—"

"Say one more word and I’ll fling myself off this stool and traumatize an entire generation."

"Spirited. I like that." The Hat chuckled. "You’d do well in Slytherin, you know. So much potential—"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Pity," it sighed dramatically. "But if not Slytherin, then… better be—GRYFFINDOR!"

Relief flooded Harry as the table erupted in cheers. He yanked the Hat off, shooting it a warning glare before rushing to join the Gryffindors.

"Oi, it's Potter!"

Fred’s voice boomed before Harry even found his seat. He barely had time to yank the Hat off his head before George seized one side of his face, Fred the other, and they both planted exaggeratedly loud kisses on his cheeks.

"Welcome to Gryffindor, mate!" George grinned.

"Slutter, actually," Fred corrected, straight-faced. "Hat’s orders."

Laughter erupted around them. Harry, still catching up, blinked. "It did not say that."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too," George insisted. "Right before it moaned."

Fred clutched his chest, mimicking a breathy, sultry voice. "Ohh, Gryffindor, yes—!"

Harry shoved them both, heat creeping up his neck. "Shut up."

Hermione high-fived Fred.

"Honestly, Harry, you should be proud," she said. "I’ve read about the Hat giving extra… titles before."

"Oh yeah?" George leaned in. "And what title did it give you?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" Hermione smirked, flipping her hair.

Percy, ever the proper prefect, approached with his hands neatly clasped. "Congratulations, Harry."

Before he could respond, Percy took Harry's hand in his, fingers brushing over the back of it before bringing it gently to his lips. The kiss was quick, not too bold, but too soft for someone as rigid as Percy. For a heartbeat, everything seemed to stop. The touch felt too deliberate, too... personal.

"Welcome to Gryffindor," Percy said, his eyes lingering a little too long on Harry’s face, as if he hadn’t yet figured out how to pull himself back into the world.

Harry’s pulse jumped. His hand tingled where Percy had touched him, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

Fred’s voice cut through the moment. "Percy, what was that? Trying to marry him off already?"

Percy’s face flushed. He pulled his hand back quickly, his expression turning rigid again. "It’s a tradition!" he said, almost defensively. "A sign of respect."

But it was clear that wasn’t what it was. Not really.

"Sure, mate," George said, grinning. "Whatever you say."

Fred and George exchanged an almost imperceptible glance, sensing something had shifted in the air. Percy’s little “welcome” had been too much of a show, and they weren’t about to let him have the last word.

Fred moved first, a grin spreading across his face. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned into Harry, and before he could even blink, his lips pressed a quick, playful kiss just below Harry's collarbone, right on the soft skin of his neck. It was sudden, teasing, and just enough to send a ripple of heat through Harry’s entire body.

"You’re welcome, Potter," Fred murmured, voice hushed with a mischievous undertone, like he’d just broken some unspoken rule.

Harry barely had time to register what had happened when George, ever the partner in crime, leaned in from the other side. His teeth sank lightly into the soft curve of Harry’s right ear, not hard enough to hurt, but with just enough pressure to make Harry’s whole body tense.

"Trying to keep up with Percy, are we?" George teased, his breath warm against Harry's ear.

Harry couldn’t stop the sharp breath he drew in. His pulse raced, his heart thundering in his chest. The two of them—Fred with that daring kiss, George with the bite—had caught him off guard. There was something so carefree, so wild about their teasing, and yet... there was an undeniable spark of something more behind it.

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to step back, or lean into it.

The twins pulled away, both looking far too pleased with themselves.

"Now that’s how you make someone feel welcome," Fred said, his voice low but still laced with playful mischief.

Ron, grinning ear to ear, finally elbowed through and threw his arms around him in a tight, warm hug. It was brief, but—Merlin—it lingered in a way that made Harry’s chest feel full and weirdly tight.

When Ron pulled back, still beaming, Harry barely managed to keep his face neutral.

"Glad you made it," Ron said.

Harry swallowed. Nodded.

It was nice. Really nice. Too nice.

Dangerous to get used to things like this.

As the Sorting continued, Harry stole a glance at the Slytherin table. From across the hall, Malfoy locked eyes with him. There was something sharp in that gaze, something knowing. A smirk tugged at the blond’s lips before he looked away. Slut. His aura screamed it. Harry didn’t need a mind-reading hat to know.

With everyone sorted, Dumbledore stood. "A few words before our feast: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Enjoy."

Harry stared, fork halfway to his mouth. "That’s it?"

"That’s it," Percy confirmed. "Brilliant, isn’t he?"

Food appeared in an overwhelming burst of abundance. Dishes stacked high, meats glistening, the air thick with the scent of seasoned indulgence. Harry hesitated, briefly suspicious of anything too good, but Ron had already started shoveling food like a man starved, so he caved. He chewed, half-listening as Nearly Headless Nick introduced himself.

"You’re dead," Harry noted.

"Well, yes."

"And yet you still hang around here?"

Nick huffed. "I happen to enjoy my post-mortem existence, thank you."

Weird school. Weird people. Weird food. Weird ghosts. Weird magic.

Harry swallowed a mouthful of roast beef.

Yeah. He could get used to this.

The feast was a wet dream of excess—meat glistening with fat, bread steaming as it was torn apart, gravies and sauces thick enough to coat a tongue like something Harry wasn’t going to mention in polite company (not that he was in polite company, but still). He ate like he was never going to eat again, which wasn’t too far from the truth, considering his past experience with the Dursleys.

Ron was shoveling food in like a wild dog, grease slicking his lips. “Bloody hell, this is good,” he mumbled around a mouthful of roasted chicken, juices dripping down his chin.

Harry hummed, licking sugar from his fingers after biting into a treacle tart. Warm, thick, smooth—God, his brain really needed to stop making comparisons. He barely flinched when Fred leaned into his side, palm riding low on his back.

"You alright there, Harry?" Fred murmured, close enough that his breath tickled.

"Yeah, mate, look a bit flushed," George added, but his grin was more knowing than concerned.

Harry focused on the food, on the heat pooling somewhere deep in his gut that had nothing to do with the warm meal in front of him. His body was reacting before his mind had even caught up—this was different from Vernon's sloppy, desperate, too-much-too-fast filth. This was a touch designed to tease.

Fred’s fingers skimmed just under Harry’s ribs, thumb brushing under the hem of his shirt. A test. A game.

Across the hall, the Slytherin table was having their own brand of weirdness. A translucent ghost with an unsettling grin floated beside Malfoy, who was—oh, God, was he actually fluttering his lashes at the thing? Harry shivered. Malfoy radiated slut energy, and for a second, their eyes met across the room. The corner of Malfoy’s mouth lifted, something dark flickering behind his gaze.

That was not a normal twelve-year-old.

Harry turned back to his table, but the weirdness didn’t stop. Seamus was telling a story about his dad being tricked into marriage.

“She didn’t tell ‘im she was a witch until after they got hitched,” Seamus declared, waving a drumstick like it was a wand. “Can ya imagine? Muggles freakin’ out about magic, and there he was, already balls-deep in it—"

"He should’ve read the fine print," Harry muttered, dragging his tongue over his thumb to catch a stray bit of cream.

Seamus snorted. “Yeah, right. Probably would’ve signed up for worse if she asked nicely.”

Harry just smiled. Some people didn’t get the luxury of being asked.

Meanwhile, Neville was telling the most pathetic near-death story ever—something about falling out a window and accidentally floating. Seamus smacked him upside the head.

"Mate, you really got the survival instincts of a rock, huh?"

Neville just rubbed his head, looking like a kicked puppy.

Harry, distracted, let his eyes wander to the staff table. His gaze caught on a greasy, hook-nosed bastard glaring right at him.

Something twisted in his gut. The sensation was sharp, wrong—like a knife scraping inside his skull.

“The fuck,” Harry muttered, forehead throbbing.

"That’s Professor Snape," Percy announced, all prim and proud. “He teaches Potions, but he’s always wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

Harry barely heard him. The pain faded, leaving a slow, crawling sensation over his skin. Snape was still looking at him, and it wasn’t the kind of look adults were supposed to give kids.

It was assessing. Searching.

Judging.

Harry’s stomach churned. He’d been looked at like that before.

And Merlin, that nose.

If big hands meant big dick, then Snape was probably packing something monstrous.

Ugh. Harry wanted to bleach his own brain.

Snape’s lip curled, gaze narrowing like he could hear Harry’s thoughts. Harry glared back, daring the man to try something. He’d survived worse than some bitter, ugly old professor.

Dumbledore, sitting like a cryptic motherfucker at the head of the table, clapped his hands for attention. He rattled off the usual school rules—no magic in the corridors, no wandering into the Forbidden Forest, no breathing too loudly in his general direction (probably).

Then, in a voice that practically dripped with entertainment, he added, “The third-floor corridor is off-limits, unless you wish to die a most painful death.”

Okay, well. That was sexy.

Harry felt the pull immediately.

“Harry, no,” Hermione said before he even opened his mouth.

Harry grinned.

"Harry, yes."

The night was a mess—Dumbledore had them all singing some ridiculous school anthem, and everyone did it their own way, turning the Great Hall into a cacophony of wailing voices. The Weasley twins stretched the last note like two whores moaning in a cheap brothel, while the first-years just stood there, confused and regretting life choices.

When it was finally over, Dumbledore dismissed them, and Harry followed the Gryffindors through the castle, feeling the weight of the feast in his stomach. Percy was in his usual state of self-importance, leading them through the dim corridors like some righteous virgin knight.

Then Peeves appeared—like a floating STD nobody asked for—snickering and flipping midair.

“Ooooh, fresh meat!” Peeves cackled, licking his lips like a pervert in a back alley. “Hope you’re ready to have your cherries popped, firsties!”

Harry gave him a blank stare. “Too late.”

Peeves went silent for a second, then burst out laughing so violently he nearly phased through the ceiling.

Percy looked like he wanted to hurl himself out the nearest window.

After a dramatic sigh, he led them to the portrait of a fat lady, who was wide awake and in the mood for attention.

“Password?” she asked in a voice that suggested she’d been drinking.

“Caput Draconis,” Percy said, clearly over this entire night.

The portrait swung open, revealing the Gryffindor common room. Red and gold, cozy lighting, everything screaming ‘hero complex.’ It looked inviting, warm, full of the kind of comfort Harry had never had before. He could’ve sprawled out on the floor and passed out, but there were beds waiting upstairs, so whatever.

The boys’ dorm was neat and organized—something that wouldn’t last. Trunks were already at the foot of their beds. Ron collapsed onto his mattress like he’d been hit by a curse, mumbling something about how the dinner was “so good it should be illegal.”

Harry barely had the energy to kick off his shoes before passing out.

And then came the dream.

The night wrapped itself around the castle, heavy and still, pressing down on Harry’s body as he slipped into unconsciousness.

And then—

Skin against stone. Moans, low and desperate, bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall.

Harry stood in the middle of it all, naked, exposed, his feet cold against the enchanted floor. He couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, forced to watch as Quirrell fucked Malfoy into the long dining table, knocking over golden plates and goblets.

Malfoy’s pale fingers clawed at the wood, his head thrown back, mouth forming a perfect, ruined ‘O’ as Quirrell pounded into him like a man possessed.

The turban was gone. The back of Quirrell’s skull was split open, revealing a black, gaping mouth where a face should be, whispering filth, its voice slithering between Malfoy’s moans.

“Good boy,” it cooed. “Taking it so well.”

Harry wanted to look away. Wanted to back up, to run, but his legs refused to move.

And then Malfoy turned his head—his unfocused, glassy eyes locking onto Harry’s.

“Potter…” His lips curled, wet and slick, voice wrecked and pleading. “You want next?”

The shadows shifted. Quirrell's body began to tremble, his form distorting, shifting—

Not Quirrell.

Snape.

Pale, greasy, looming.

Harry choked, the sight of him pinning Malfoy down, panting like an animal, burning itself into his brain.

The black robes tangled around his bony hips, swinging with each brutal thrust. His sallow skin was sticky, damp, glistening with sweat that dripped from his hooked nose onto Malfoy’s shivering body.

Malfoy moaned louder.

Harry couldn’t breathe.

Snape lifted his head, locking eyes with him, his usual glare melting into something else. Something hungry.

His lips parted. “Your turn, Potter.”

Harry woke up with a strangled gasp, heart slamming against his ribs.

His forehead was damp. His sheets clung to his legs.

His cock was aching.

He swallowed hard, throat dry as sandpaper. The details of the dream were already slipping through his fingers like smoke, but the weight of it clung to his skin.

He didn’t remember what happened.

Didn’t want to remember what happened.

But his body did. And that was the worst part.

Notes:

THANKS FOR THE 150 KUDOS GUYS💖🏈

Chapter 6: "Professors"

Summary:

Harry is a teasy boy, and both professors can't evitate to get hard.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hogwarts was a nightmare wrapped in nostalgia.

The kind of place where you could fall into a moving staircase and break your neck while ghosts floated through walls discussing last century’s political scandals. The kind of place where doors played hard to get, some refusing to open unless you asked nicely—and others just straight-up punching you in the face if you looked at them wrong.

Harry learned fast.

Lesson one: The castle hated him.

Lesson two: Everyone knew his name.

Or, well—knew a version of it.

“Oi, Harry Slutter!” Peeves bellowed, swinging upside-down from a chandelier like some deranged bat, grinning ear to ear. “Whore of Gryffindor, patron saint of cock! Have fun with your virginity while it lasts!”

Harry sighed through his nose, clutching his book bag tighter.

This school was on something. Some next level brand of insanity. And no one seemed to care. Not when Peeves snickered lewdly behind statues. Not when he whispered things in the corridors, all teeth and innuendo, making suggestions that made Harry’s ears burn.

If only they knew what his mouth had been doing before that train ride.

Then again, maybe that was the problem. Maybe Peeves did know.

Harry shook the thought away.

The staircases groaned as they shifted, twisting into new, horrible configurations.

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered beside him. “This castle wants us dead.”

No argument there.

They trudged along, nearly colliding with Mrs. Norris, Filch’s beady-eyed demon in a cat costume.

Filch himself wasn’t far behind. A walking, grumbling hate-crime with bad breath and a vendetta against children. He leered at them, yellowed fingers flexing, as if itching to catch them breaking rules.

Harry grabbed Ron by the sleeve and pulled him down another hall, barely avoiding detention on their first week.

By the time they found their class, Harry was already mentally composing his obituary.

Hogwarts: Day Three. Cause of death? Sheer fucking exhaustion.

Classes were... fine.

Fine in the way that a lukewarm bath was fine. That a dry sandwich was fine. That sex without enthusiasm was fine.

Just... passable.

Astronomy? Boring. Big sky. Big stars. Blah blah, who cares?

Herbology? Dirt. Plants. Professor Sprout looking way too excited about fungi.

History of Magic? Oh, fuck that class.

Harry spent the entire period contemplating how fast he’d need to bang his head against the desk before it knocked him out cold. Binns’ voice was like sedation, except without the benefit of actual unconsciousness.

It didn’t help that Hermione kept giving him side-eyes, as if challenging him to care.

Charms, at least, was a trip.

Professor Flitwick, tiny and animated, practically vibrated with excitement as he demonstrated levitation spells.

Ron failed spectacularly.

Hermione did not.

And Harry?

Yeah, he was good at this. Maybe too good.

He didn’t mean to make the feather shoot across the room like a missile, but hey—magic was a fickle thing. The Gryffindors laughed. Even Hermione cracked a smile, albeit a reluctant one.

She cornered him after class anyway.

“You’re studying with me,” she said, arms crossed.

Harry blinked. “I am?”

“Yes. You are.”

A beat.

“…Okay?”

“Good.”

She spun on her heel and marched away, leaving Harry staring after her, mildly concerned for his own well-being.

Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doomed, mate.”

Yeah. He got that feeling, too.

Transfiguration was the only class that demanded actual effort.

McGonagall took zero bullshit. No second chances. No “oops, my wand slipped.” Just cold, hard expectations.

Harry thrived under pressure.

It was a lot like home.

He flicked his wand, focused—felt the weight of magic shift, bend—

And turned his matchstick into a perfect, shining needle.

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, clearly impressed.

Hermione looked murderous.

After class, she grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the library with a speed that suggested imminent danger.

“We’re studying,” she announced.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“But I—”

“No.”

“…Okay.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. Bring your notes.”

“I don’t take notes.”

She gasped like he’d personally stabbed her.

Ron laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

Harry sighed. Hogwarts was a THE trip.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was supposed to be the class. The one that made all the bullshit worth it. The one where Harry would finally learn how to hex someone so hard they’d regret ever looking at him funny.

Except—nah. That was not what happened.

Instead, they got Quirrell.

Professor Quirrell, who stuttered so badly that half the class was spent trying to decode what the hell he was saying.

Professor Quirrell, who smelled like anxiety and cheap cologne, looking like he was one sudden noise away from dropping dead on the spot.

Professor Quirrell, whose turban had more personality than he did.

Harry sat through the lecture, forehead resting on one hand, watching this absolute trainwreck of a man attempt to explain vampires with a nervous giggle and a shake in his hands. Hermione, beside him, was seething.

“This is a disaster,” she whispered furiously. “How are we supposed to learn anything? He’s so—so incompetent!”

Harry smirked. “Feeling like a failure yet?”

Hermione glared at him. “I never fail.”

“Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Ron snorted. Hermione, predictably, smacked him.

Quirrell cleared his throat from the front of the class.

“A-a-as I w-was saying, v-vampires, ah, d-don’t l-like g-garlic, a-and—um—”

Harry wasn’t even listening.

Because he’d noticed something very interesting.

Every time Quirrell got close, his hands shook worse. His face turned red. His eyes darted away, avoiding Harry’s gaze like it physically hurt him to make eye contact.

Harry tilted his head.

Interesting.

He leaned forward, staring hard, watching Quirrell stumble mid-sentence. The quill in his hand nearly slipped.

Harry pressed his chin into his palm. Yeah, he thought. He’s easy.

A guy like Quirrell? Please. He was a fucking open book.

So Harry tested something.

He kept staring.

Quirrell, the poor bastard, choked on his own spit.

Now that was funny.

“—a-and th-they— th-they, ah—”

Harry lifted an eyebrow.

Quirrell turned away so fast he nearly tripped.

He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, watching Quirrell’s gaze flick down. The professor stumbled, knocking over an inkwell. Black liquid bled across his notes, and his face burned.

Yeah. This guy was weak.

Harry stretched, arching his back just enough to let his shirt ride up. Not much. Just a tease.

Quirrell visibly clenched his jaw.

Harry let his legs spread under the desk, shifting in his seat. He wasn’t even hard—yet—but the idea of it, of making this pathetic little man trip over his own dick, was sending a slow, teasing heat straight to his stomach.

Quirrell stuttered so badly he had to restart his sentence twice.

Harry bit his lip.

He wondered how long it’d take before Quirrell slipped up in more interesting ways.

By the end of the period, Hermione was fuming.

“This is unacceptable,” she declared as they packed their things. “I refuse to be set back because our professor can’t form a coherent sentence.”

Harry slung his bag over his shoulder. “So, what? You’re gonna teach yourself?”

“Yes.”

“…You realize that’s insane, right?”

She turned to Ron. “Help me study.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

“I need study partners.”

He recoiled like she’d hit him. “No way. No bloody way. You— you study too much. It’s, like, unnatural.”

She turned to Harry, eyes deadly serious.

“You,” she said.

Harry sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“What?” Ron looked betrayed. “You agreed? Just like that?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not gonna argue with her, mate. You think you can win? Go ahead, be my guest.”

Ron looked at Hermione.

Looked at the fire in her eyes. The sheer, unshakable determination.

“…Never mind.”

Harry patted his back sympathetically.

“Smart choice.”

For the first time since their arrival, Harry and Ron actually make it to the Great Hall without ending up in some random, cursed hallway or nearly falling down a vanishing staircase. It’s a small miracle. A proper triumph.

Ron’s practically glowing as he shovels bacon into his mouth, mumbling about Quidditch through a mouthful of food.

“It’s going to be brilliant—”

But whatever brilliant thing Ron was about to say is cut off by the sound of someone slamming their books on the table.

Hermione.

She looks wrecked. Hair wilder than usual, bags under her eyes so dark she might as well be practicing necromancy.

“Merlin, Granger,” Harry smirks. “You look like you crawled out of a tomb.”

“I studied all night,” she hisses. “Someone has to make sure they actually understand the content, since Quirrell certainly isn’t doing his job!”

Harry snickers, stabbing at his eggs. “Yeah, he’s too busy being a pedophile.”

Ron nearly chokes on his toast. “Oi, what?”

Harry leans in conspiratorially. “Come on. You saw him in class. The way he acts around me? It’s odd.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione scoffs. “He’s nervous. That doesn’t make him a—”

“A pervert,” Harry interrupts, as if the conclusion is obvious.

Ron squints, chewing slowly. “I mean… he does get really flustered around you.”

“Exactly!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Hermione says, exasperated.

Harry clicks his tongue. “Oh, but if Snape was looking at me like that, you’d believe it.”

Hermione pauses.

“See?!” Harry grins. “Double standards, Granger.”

Ron looks genuinely deep in thought now, brows furrowed like he’s doing serious calculations on this theory. “Well, I guess it’s possible—”

“Ron!” Hermione glares at him.

“I’m just saying, the guy does act like his nerves are shot every time Harry looks at him.”

Harry smirks triumphantly. Fifty percent success rate on Ron? That’s a win.

Hermione crosses her arms. “This is absurd.” But there’s a slight furrow in her brow, a hesitation. Doubt.

Harry grins. That’s enough for now.

And just as Hermione’s about to launch into a full-on rant about logic or ethics or whatever, a storm of wings and feathers floods the Great Hall.

The morning owl post.

Harry, still not used to the sheer chaos of this school, watches as hundreds of birds swoop down, dropping letters and packages like messy little bombers.

A heavy envelope lands in front of him.

He blinks. “Huh.”

Ron leans over, still suspiciously chewing on his toast. “What’s that?”

Harry flips it over. Hagrid’s scrawl.

“Tea invitation,” he mutters, grinning. “From Hagrid.”

Ron nods approvingly. “Reckon he’ll feed us?”

“Probably.”

“Brilliant.”

But the warm moment of oh cool, an invitation to tea is immediately overshadowed by the realization that—

“Ugh,” Harry mutters, staring at his schedule.

“What?” Ron asks through another mouthful of food.

Harry groans. “First Potions class.”

Ron freezes.

Hermione, perking up at the mention of class, sniffs. “Professor Snape is an excellent potioneer.”

Ron looks at her like she’s just told him she enjoys kicking kittens for fun. “Are you serious?”

Harry snorts. “Nah, she’s just got a thing for evil, greasy blokes.”

Hermione gasps. “I do not!”

“Oh?” Harry smirks. “You fancy Malfoy, then?”

Hermione turns red. "Isn't him blood racis—"

Ron grimaces. “Let’s just get Potions over with before you two start debating nonsense again.”

And with that unsettling thought lingering in the air, the trio finishes their breakfast and heads down to the dungeons—where their real suffering is about to begin.

Potions class is hell.

Not just any hell—oh no. A special kind, crafted painstakingly in the dungeons of Hogwarts, designed for maximum psychological damage.

Harry realizes this approximately five seconds after stepping into the classroom.

It’s cold. Dark. The air is thick with something vaguely medicinal but mostly just rotten. The walls seem to drink light instead of reflecting it. The entire room feels like it’s waiting—like an animal in the long, slow inhale before a pounce.

Then—

“Ah,” Snape purrs, his voice like oil over stone. “Our new celebrity.”

Harry barely has time to process the venom before Snape’s gaze lands on him like a dropped anvil.

He’s being studied.

For a second, a very brief one, Harry considers playing dumb. Maybe slinking into the shadows, letting the moment pass. But then—

“Tell me, Potter,” Snape drawls, “what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry blinks.

Snape’s lips curl.

“Where, Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

More blinking.

The man is loving this.

“What,” Snape sneers, “is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry sighs. “Same thing.”

Snape’s nostrils flare.

Hermione’s hand is in the air.

Snape doesn’t even glance at her.

Harry, meanwhile, is torn between feeling mildly annoyed and irrationally homicidal. The absolute gall of this man. You’re ugly is all he can think. Your hair is greasy, your nose is weird, and you have the audacity to look at me like that?

“Pity,” Snape murmurs, “fame clearly isn’t everything.”

Then, under his breath, so quiet only Harry catches it—

“Nor beauty.”

Harry chokes.

Did—

Did Snape just say that?

Did Snape just imply—

No. No. He refuses to acknowledge that. Not today. Not in this dungeon.

Instead, he settles for imagining Snape’s head twisting off like a corkscrew. Pop!

A very satisfying thought.

It doesn’t help.

Snape relishes every second of this torment, deducting five points from Gryffindor for Harry’s impertinence (otherwise known as breathing in his presence).

By the time they start brewing their potions, Harry’s already plotting murder.

He’s paired with Ron. Which should be fine. It should be manageable. Except that Neville exists.

And Neville is an agent of chaos.

It happens fast. One second, everyone’s simmering their concoctions. The next—

BOOM.

Smoke. Green, acrid, everywhere.

When it clears, Neville is covered in boils. His potion looks like a bubbling swamp of misery. Snape doesn’t even hesitate before rounding on—

“Potter.”

Harry’s eye twitches.

“You should have stopped him.”

Another point gone.

Harry swears he feels heat behind Snape’s back, as if the sheer force of his rage is burning through the man’s robes. He glares so hard he’s half-convinced Snape’s going to spontaneously combust.

He doesn’t.

Which is tragic.

The rest of the lesson is an exercise in not stabbing someone with a stirring rod.

Snape lurks. He hovers. And every single time he bends over to inspect a cauldron, he glances at Harry through his ridiculously long eyelashes.

Harry wants to die. Or kill. Or both.

By the time class finally ends, Harry’s soul has withered.

He throws himself out of the dungeons like a man escaping prison, sucking in air like he’s been suffocating.

Ron, noticing the near-deranged look in his eyes, wordlessly takes his hand and drags him toward the Tower.

It’s warm in the corridors. Bright. The opposite of that miserable pit.

But even with Ron’s comforting grip, Harry can’t shake the feeling that Snape’s eyes are still on him.

Severus Snape sat alone in the dim candlelight of his quarters, fingers pressed to his temples, the ghost of a migraine thrumming just beneath his skull. It had started again—those intrusive, unwanted thoughts about him. About Potter. About the way that brat occupied every dark corner of his mind, an itch he could never quite scratch, a sickness crawling under his skin.

This was no ordinary hatred. No simple distaste for James Potter’s son. If it were, Snape could bear it, could drown himself in his own loathing, let it consume him as it had for years. But this… this was something else. Something grotesque, something filthy.

He inhaled sharply, willing the thoughts away, but his cock betrayed him. Thick and heavy against his thigh, pulsing with a need he refused to acknowledge.

“Fool,” he spat under his breath, disgust curling in his gut. But he knew what was happening. He had been in denial for far too long. This was nothing but years—*decades—*of repression clawing its way to the surface. His body, his instincts, they didn’t understand the morality of it. They only understood that he had gone too long without relief, that his own twisted desires had nowhere else to go.

Of course, it wasn’t as if he had many options. It was no surprise that no one dared to look at him twice, not with his sour disposition, his perpetual scowl, his face. There had been few—very few—who even entertained the thought. James Potter, the insufferable imbecil and his merry band of degenerates, had ensured that Snape was marked as undesirable from the moment they set foot in Hogwarts. The ridicule, the humiliation—it all lingered, festering inside him even now.

But it wasn’t just his personality, was it? No, it was the way he looked. The way his presence sucked the warmth from a room. Who, in their right mind, would want him?

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. It was almost laughable.

Almost.

His hand ghosted over the bulge straining against his robes, and he swallowed hard. It had been years since he had touched himself, since he had allowed himself even this pathetic form of pleasure.

What would be the harm? Just once. Just to take the edge off.

His fingers curled over his length, pressing down, feeling the dull throb of heat through the fabric. His body shuddered at the contact, muscles tensing as a sharp breath left him.

Damn it. He should stop. He needed to stop.

But he didn’t.

He let his head fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as his hand worked against himself. Slow, teasing drags of his palm, applying just enough pressure to make his toes curl.

His mind wandered. It always did.

The Marauders.

Black.

Of all the things that haunted Snape, Sirius Black’s absurdly blessed anatomy ranked somewhere high on the list of indignities. The bastard had been obscenely well-endowed, and worse, everyone knew it. The whispers, the giggles, the not-so-subtle discussions in the Gryffindor common room.

Snape had heard them. Every damn one.

It had grated on him, gnawed at something primal in the back of his mind. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. It was principle. The sheer arrogance of it all, the way Black flaunted himself without a second thought, the way people fawned over him.

It had been enough to push Snape over the edge.

He had researched. Spent months crafting a spell that could reduce a man’s pride to nothing. A spell that could have turned Black’s legendary asset into something laughable.

And yet, like so many things in his life, it had gone unused. Forgotten. Wasted.

His grip tightened. His hips jerked up into his own hand.

He should have used it.

Perhaps then, he wouldn’t have felt so insignificant.

And then came Voldemort.

Snape had never cared for the other aspects of the Dark Lord’s rule—the debauchery, the indulgences of his more depraved followers. He had never partaken, never wanted to partake. But he had seen. He had heard.

The things that went on in those darkened chambers, the ceremonies, the way Lucius Malfoy in particular had thrown himself into the madness with abandon.

And, of course, the… gift.

Voldemort had been a generous master, rewarding his most loyal with enhancements. Snape had received his own—a testament to his usefulness, his loyalty.

And it had been fucking ridiculous.

He had never asked for it. Never wanted it. But there it was, obscene and absurd, an appendage that made him more freakish than ever.

Lucius had laughed when he found out. “Consider it a promotion, Severus,” he had purred, amused by the entire ordeal.

Snape had never forgiven him for that.

His strokes became rougher, more desperate, his breath coming in harsh, uneven pants. His mind kept flashing back to the Malfoys, to the secrets he had learned over the years. The rumors about Lucius and his inclinations. About the things he had done behind closed doors.

And the people he had done them with.

It was no secret that the Malfoys were depraved, but Lucius… Lucius had been something else.

Snape had heard about it. How, in his youth, the blonde had been passed around like a well-trained pet, particularly among a certain group of students.

Not that it had surprised anyone.

Lucius had always been a whore.

Snape’s breath caught in his throat as the image of how it would feel to take Potter, to feel him tight, warm, gripping around him, overwhelmed him. The boy would cry out in disbelief as Snape’s hands forced him open, taking him—rough, unforgiving, showing him how helpless he truly was.

Snape groaned again, the thought of it making his cock twitch, the ache inside him intensifying. He wanted to watch Potter squirm beneath him, his body flushed, mouth open in a gasp as he struggled, tried to fight but couldn’t. Snape’s grip tightened on himself, stroking his cock roughly, imagining how it would feel to sink deep inside Potter, to feel the boy clenching, fighting against him but unable to stop it.

The intensity of the thoughts, the images, were almost too much. Snape’s chest was heaving now, his movements growing frantic as his hand moved faster, feeling the slickness of his own need building. No—he couldn’t let himself go this far. But the idea of taking Potter, making him his, was just too irresistible.

He could already feel it, the heat, the way his body responded to the fantasy of tearing down Potter’s walls, of bending him, using him for his own pleasure, making the boy lose himself to whatever Snape wanted. He’d make him scream, make him beg, make him crave it.

He jerked himself slow, teasing, precum leaking from the tip, slicking his fingers as he dragged his thumb over the slit. Fuck. Fuck. His balls felt so damn full, so tight, every slow pump sending a shiver up his spine. He wanted to wreck the brat. Grab him by that wild hair, force him down, make him suck till his throat was raw. Till he cried. Till his little voice was hoarse from moaning, from begging—

he snapped. His body jerked, a deep groan ripping from his throat as he came hard, cum spurting over his fingers, hot and thick. His chest heaved, hips still twitching, little aftershocks shuddering through him as he milked out every last drop, panting through the haze.

For a moment, all he could do was sit there, panting, chest heaving as the aftershocks rippled through him.

And then, as always, came the disgust.

The emptiness.

The realization that no matter how many times he did this, no matter how much he tried to chase the sensation, the ache never truly went away.

Because he knew what he wanted.

And he knew he could never have it.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, forcing himself to sit up, to move, to push the thoughts away before they could settle in too deep.

Rationality, he reminded himself. That was all that mattered.

Desire was fleeting. Irrelevant.

And he would endure it. As he always had.

Quirrell paced the corridors of Hogwarts, his mind a battlefield of frustration and forbidden desire. Harry Potter was a menace. A tease of the highest order. The boy was too beautiful for his own good—so fucking pretty that even Quirrell, master of deception, found his fabricated stutter slipping into something real in the boy’s presence. It was infuriating. Maddening. His cock had been half-hard since their first lesson, aching in frustration every time those bright green eyes flicked his way.

He had a mission. A cause. If anyone even suspected what he was after—not just the resurrection of the Dark Lord, but the Philosopher’s Stone itself—he’d be carted off to Azkaban before he could blink. He had to keep his head down, play the part of the bumbling, harmless professor. No one could know what lurked beneath.

Especially not him.

It wasn’t fair.

That face—those soft, pink lips, those bright green eyes that held a mischievous glint far beyond his years. That body—so small, but already forming dangerous hints of lean muscle beneath his school robes, his uniform a little too snug in all the worst ways. And then there was the way he moved—lazy, confident, with the careless sensuality of someone completely unaware of what he was doing to people.

He wanted to own him, to ruin that sweet little body, to shove his cock so deep inside that the boy would feel him for days. He wanted to hear those pretty moans, that breathy gasp when he bottomed out, stretching Harry wide, claiming him in ways no one else ever could.

But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Not just because Harry was too young—too dangerous—but because he was his. The Dark Lord’s mortal enemy. If Voldemort ever caught wind of the filthy, perverse things Quirrell wanted to do to the boy who destroyed him, it would be worse than death.

Not that Voldemort was any kind of moral authority. No, the Dark Lord had been infamous for his perversions, for the twisted laws he tried to implement during the first war. Among his followers, he was revered as the Prince of Perversion, an untouchable god of indulgence.

But this?

This would be blasphemy.

Quirrell groaned, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the fabric of his robes, leaking, desperate for relief. He slammed his head against the wall, trying to force the thoughts away. He needed to stop thinking about Harry’s smooth, untouched body, those long, toned legs wrapping around his waist, the tight heat that would squeeze his cock so—

A voice, soft as silk, slithered into his ears.

“You look troubled, Professor.”

Quirrell stiffened. His breath hitched. No.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Harry.

Leaning against the stone archway, head tilted slightly, lips curved into a knowing smirk. His tie was loosened, shirt slightly rumpled, giving him a careless, fuckable look that made Quirrell’s gut tighten. His eyes—too bright, too sharp—locked onto him like a predator cornering prey.

That same sly smile. The same one he’d flashed during their first lesson. The same one that had unraveled Quirrell, left him scrambling for words, for composure, for any semblance of sanity.

His cock strained against his robes, throbbing, begging to be buried to the hilt inside that tight, tempting body. His balls were swollen, heavy, aching to empty themselves into the very boy he should never have looked.

This was bad.

He was so fucked.

Notes:

THAAAANNKK YOU FOR THE 200 KUDOOOS❤❤❤❤❤❤💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

I'M SO HAPPY YAY :D

Chapter 7: "Punishment"

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the sound of Ron's heartbeat.

Steady. Rhythmic. Comforting in a way that made Harry's chest ache with something he didn't have a name for. He was sprawled across Ron's torso like a cat, his cheek pressed against the warm column of his best friend's neck, their legs tangled together beneath the covers. Ron's arm was draped over Harry's back, loose and protective even in sleep.

For a moment—just one perfect, stolen moment—Harry let himself enjoy it. The warmth. The safety. The strange, overwhelming relief of not being alone.

Then his body reminded him why he was here in the first place.

His stomach cramped viciously, and Harry bit back a groan. The afternoon came rushing back in fragments: Snape's cold, violating stare during Potions. The way the man had looked at him like he was something to be dissected. The sudden, inexplicable panic that had clawed up Harry's throat the moment class ended, leaving him gasping and shaking in the corridor.

Ron had found him there, crumpled against the wall, and hadn't asked questions. Just scooped Harry up—well, more like dragged him, since Ron was only eleven and Harry wasn't exactly light—and hauled him back to the dorms. Harry had cried. Sobbed, actually, ugly and messy and mortifying, while Ron just held him and muttered reassurances that didn't quite make sense but somehow helped anyway.

They'd fallen asleep like that. Together.

Now Harry needed to move before Ron woke up and asked questions Harry couldn't answer.

He carefully extracted himself from Ron's embrace, wincing as another cramp rolled through his abdomen. His skin felt too hot, feverish, like he was burning from the inside out. He stumbled toward the bathroom, desperate for cold water, for anything to clear his head.

The mirror stopped him cold.

Violet.

His eyes were violet again.

Not the green he'd been born with, not even the shifting in-between color he'd noticed sometimes in certain light. Full, vivid, glowing violet, like someone had replaced his irises with amethysts.

"No," Harry whispered. "No, no, no—"

This had happened before. Once. The morning of his birthday at the Dursleys', when his body had betrayed him in ways he still couldn't fully process. When the heat had consumed him and the visions had come and—

And the mailman.

Harry's stomach twisted, but not entirely with revulsion. That was the worst part. The memory should've made him sick. Should've filled him with shame and horror.

Instead, his mouth watered.

"Stop it," he hissed at his reflection. "Stop."

But his body wasn't listening. The heat was spreading, pooling low in his belly, and worse—much worse—he could feel the familiar slickness beginning between his legs. That strange, unnatural wetness that had no business being there, dampening his pants, making him squirm.

Harry gripped the sink, breathing hard. His cock was half-hard already, and the ache in his gut was morphing into something else. Something hungry.

He wanted—

God, he wanted—

Thick cock. Heavy on his tongue. The taste of salt and musk and—

"No," Harry gasped, but his mind was already supplying images. Uncle Vernon's short, obscenely thick cock, forcing his jaw wide. The way it had filled his mouth so completely he could barely breathe. The taste of cum flooding his throat, thick and bitter and—

Delicious.

Harry's eyes snapped open. What the fuck was wrong with him?

But the thought wouldn't leave. Had it really been that bad? He hadn't fought it, had he? Hadn't complained when Vernon forced him to swallow. Had even—

Had even gotten hard from it.

"I'm sick," Harry whispered. "I'm actually sick."

Another cramp, this one so intense it doubled him over. Slick was dripping down his thighs now, hot and slippery, and his hole clenched around nothing, empty and aching and demanding to be filled.

This wasn't him. It couldn't be him. This was whatever was wrong with his body, whatever curse or illness was making his eyes glow and his mind fracture.

Wasn't it?

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He didn't know anymore. Didn't know what was real and what was the fever and what was just—him. His own fucked up desires that he'd never wanted to acknowledge.

Then, like lightning, a thought struck him.

Quirrell.

That pathetic, stuttering bastard who'd spent the entire Defense lesson practically drooling over him. Who'd knocked over his inkwell because Harry had shifted in his seat. Who smelled like anxiety and desperation and would probably pass out if Harry so much as touched him.

Quirrell deserved this.

Deserved to be punished for that absolute waste of a lesson. For being so incompetent and so obviously perverted and so—

So easy.

Harry's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

Yes. That was it. This wasn't about him losing control. This was about teaching that bastard a lesson. About showing him exactly what happened when you stared at Harry Potter like he was something to devour.

Harry would let him try. Would let Quirrell think he'd won.

And then Harry would drain him dry.

The decision settled something in Harry's chest, made the panic recede just enough for him to function. He wasn't spiraling. He was in control. This was a choice.

(Wasn't it?)

He turned on the shower, letting the water run cold while he stripped. His reflection caught his eye again—violet eyes still glowing, skin flushed, lips parted. He looked feral. Hungry.

He looked like a slut.

The thought should've stung. Instead, it sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

By the time Harry stepped out of the shower, his mind was made up. He'd go find Quirrell. Corner him somewhere private. Make the man choke on his own desire until he broke.

And maybe—just maybe—Harry would finally get some relief from this burning, gnawing ache that threatened to consume him whole.

He dressed carefully, smoothing down his shirt, adjusting his tie just loose enough to be suggestive. His eyes were still violet, but there was nothing he could do about that. If anything, it would make Quirrell even more desperate.

Ron was still asleep when Harry returned to the dorm, sprawled on his back now, mouth open, snoring softly. Something twisted in Harry's chest—affection, fear, guilt all tangled together.

He hoped this would never touch Ron. Hoped his best friend would never have to know what Harry was becoming.

What he already was.

Harry leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Ron's cheek. "Thanks," he whispered. "For everything."

Then he turned and left, that mischievous smile creeping back onto his face.

Time to go ruin a professor.

Quirrell's balls didn't stand a chance.

Quirrell's brain had officially stopped functioning.

One moment he'd been having a perfectly normal mental breakdown in the corridor—well, as normal as pacing the halls with a raging erection while fantasizing about a student could be—and the next, said student was right there, leaning against the archway like some kind of wet dream made flesh.

Harry Potter.

In the actual, physical flesh.

Looking like sin incarnate with his loosened tie and rumpled shirt and that knowing little smirk that made Quirrell want to either run screaming or drop to his knees. Possibly both.

But it was the eyes that really did him in.

Violet.

Not green. Not the famous Lily Potter green that every witch and wizard in Britain could wax poetic about.

Violet.

Glowing, luminous, unnatural violet that seemed to pierce straight through Quirrell's robes and into his soul. Or his cock. Hard to tell which at this point.

"P-Potter," Quirrell stammered, pressing himself harder against the wall like that would somehow hide the obscene tent in his robes. "What are you—this is—you shouldn't be—"

"Shouldn't be what, Professor?" Harry asked innocently, pushing off the archway and taking a step closer. The movement made his shirt ride up just slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband.

Quirrell's cock literally throbbed.

Don't look don't look don't look—

He looked.

"I-I-I—" Quirrell swallowed hard, trying desperately to remember how words worked. "Your eyes—they're—"

"My eyes?" Harry blinked up at him, all wide-eyed confusion that would've been convincing if not for the absolutely predatory edge lurking beneath. "What about them?"

"They're—purple. Violet. They're not—that's not—"

"Oh." Harry waved a hand dismissively. "That happens sometimes. When I'm tired. Or stressed. Or..." He trailed off, biting his lower lip in a way that should be illegal. "...needy."

Quirrell made a sound that was probably supposed to be words but came out more like a dying wheeze.

Harry took another step closer. Then another. Close enough now that Quirrell could smell him—something sweet and clean and utterly devastating to his self-control.

"Actually, Professor," Harry said, and oh Merlin his voice had dropped into this soft, pleading register that went straight to Quirrell's balls. "I was hoping to find you."

"You—you were?"

Bad. This is bad. Abort mission. Flee. Apparate. Fake your own death—

"Yes." Harry looked down, scuffing his shoe against the stone floor like a shy child. The effect would've been more convincing if Quirrell couldn't see the calculating gleam in those violet eyes. "I wanted to ask... well, it's embarrassing, really..."

"What is it?" Quirrell heard himself ask, even though every instinct was screaming at him to shut up and leave.

Harry looked up through his lashes—actual, genuine lashes that were too long and too dark and absolutely designed by some cruel deity specifically to destroy Quirrell's sanity. "Your lesson today. I couldn't... I didn't really understand most of it."

Oh.

Oh no.

"I-I stuttered quite a bit," Quirrell admitted, shame mixing with arousal in a nauseating cocktail. "I'm aware my teaching methods are not—"

"It's not your fault!" Harry interrupted quickly, taking yet another step closer. They were barely two feet apart now. Quirrell could see the flush on Harry's cheeks, the way his lips were slightly parted. "I just—I need extra help. Private tutoring, maybe?"

Say no. Say no. For the love of everything holy, say NO—

"I don't think that's appropriate—"

"Please?"

And there it was. The coup de grâce.

Harry's eyes went impossibly wide, bottom lip jutting out in the most devastating pout Quirrell had ever witnessed. His hands clasped together in front of his chest like he was praying, and his whole posture screamed desperate, helpless student in need.

"I can't be famous and dumb, Professor. People expect so much from me already. If I fail Defense Against the Dark Arts, everyone will think—they'll say—" Harry's voice actually cracked, and were those tears gathering in his eyes? "I just want to be good at something. To prove I deserve to be here."

Quirrell felt his resolve crumbling like a sandcastle in a tsunami.

"Potter, I—it's after hours, and I'm not sure—"

"Just this once?" Harry pressed, moving even closer. "Please? I promise I'll be a good student. I'll listen to everything you say. I'll do whatever you tell me to."

Whatever you tell me.

Quirrell's brain supplied approximately forty-seven wildly inappropriate interpretations of that phrase in the span of two seconds.

"I really must insist—"

"Professor Quirrell." Harry reached out, and before Quirrell could process what was happening, small hands wrapped around his own. Soft. Warm. Impossibly soft. "Please?"

Then—Merlin help him—Harry pressed Quirrell's hands to his own cheeks.

Quirrell's vision actually blacked out for a second.

Soft. So soft. Warm skin under his palms, and Harry was looking up at him with those enormous violet eyes, holding Quirrell's hands to his face like they were something precious.

"You're so gentle," Harry whispered, and the double meaning was so obvious it might as well have been written in neon lights. "I know you'll be gentle with me."

Gentle with me.

Gentle.

With me.

Quirrell's cock was going to actually rip through his robes. He was going to die here. Death by sexy student. They'd find his body in this corridor and everyone would know exactly what killed him.

"I—" Quirrell's voice came out strangled. "Fine. Yes. One lesson. Just—let go, please—"

Harry released his hands with a brilliant smile that was equal parts innocent and absolutely, devastatingly smug. "Thank you so much, Professor! You're the best!"

I'm the weakest man alive, Quirrell thought despairingly as he led Harry down the corridor toward his private classroom.

This was a mistake. A monumental, catastrophic, life-ruining mistake.

But Harry was walking beside him, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed, and every touch sent electricity straight to Quirrell's groin. The boy kept looking up at him with those glowing violet eyes, lips curved in a secret smile, and Quirrell knew—knew—that he was walking straight into a trap.

He just didn't care anymore.

When they reached his classroom door, Quirrell's hands shook so badly he could barely get the key in the lock. Harry stood behind him, close—too close—radiating heat like a tiny, dangerous sun.

"After you, Professor," Harry said sweetly when the door finally opened.

Quirrell stepped inside.

Harry followed.

The door clicked shut behind them with a sound like a death knell.

And Harry's smile turned absolutely wicked.

"So," Harry said, leaning back against the door and letting his head fall back in a way that exposed the long, pale line of his throat. "Where should we start?"

Quirrell was so, so fucked.

Harry closed the door with a soft click, the sound echoing in the quiet classroom with an air of finality. He turned, leaning back against the wood, and watched Quirrell fidget nervously near his desk.

The professor was a mess. Sweating. Trembling. Looking anywhere except at Harry.

Perfect.

"So," Harry said brightly, moving to one of the student chairs and settling into it with deliberate grace. He crossed his legs, letting his robes fall open just enough to show the pale skin of his calves. "Where should we start, Professor?"

Quirrell made a sound like a strangled cat. "Right. Yes. V-vampires. We were—I was discussing—"

"Vampires," Harry prompted helpfully, resting his chin on his hand. "You were saying something about garlic?"

"Y-yes! Garlic! Vampires don't—they can't—the smell repels them, you see, and—" Quirrell's eyes flickered to Harry's face, then immediately away. His hands were shaking so badly the parchment he was holding rattled. "A-and they—um—they require b-blood to—to sustain themselves—"

Harry shifted in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. The movement made his shirt ride up slightly.

Quirrell dropped the parchment.

"S-sorry, I—" He bent to retrieve it, nearly knocking over his ink bottle in the process. "As I was s-saying—vampires are—they're c-considered Dark creatures because—because—"

"Professor?" Harry interrupted, tilting his head. "Are you alright?"

"Fine! I'm f-fine! Just—vampires, yes—they have enhanced strength and—and speed—"

Harry slowly unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then the second. Just enough to show his collarbones, the hollow of his throat.

Quirrell's voice died mid-sentence.

"It's a bit warm in here, don't you think?" Harry asked innocently. "I hope you don't mind."

"I—no—that's—perfectly—" Quirrell swallowed hard enough that his Adam's apple bobbed visibly. His robes were tented obscenely at the front, and he was making absolutely no effort to hide it. Probably because he couldn't. The bulge was massive, straining against the fabric like it was trying to escape.

Harry could see it from across the room.

Medium-sized at best, he thought with clinical detachment, even as heat pooled in his gut. But god, he's so hard it probably hurts.

"Continue, Professor," Harry said sweetly. "I'm listening."

"R-right. Yes. So—vampires—they—um—" Quirrell was fully stuttering now, worse than he'd been in class. "They c-can't enter a home without—without invitation, and—and—"

Harry stood up.

Quirrell froze like a deer in wandlight.

"Professor Quirrell," Harry said, walking slowly toward him. Each step deliberate. Predatory. "I'm having trouble focusing."

"You—you are?" Quirrell backed up a step. Then another. His back hit the desk.

Trapped.

"Yes." Harry stopped just in front of him, close enough that Quirrell would have to look down to meet his eyes. Close enough that the height difference—a solid forty centimeters—was almost comical. "You seem so tense. How am I supposed to learn when you're this stressed?"

"I'm not—I'm perfectly—"

"You're shaking." Harry reached out, placing one small hand on Quirrell's forearm. The professor actually gasped. "See? You're wound so tight. You must be exhausted, Professor. Working so hard to teach us..."

"I—it's my job—"

"Such a good teacher," Harry murmured, letting his fingers trail up Quirrell's arm. "So dedicated. But you need to take care of yourself too, you know. You can't help us if you're falling apart."

Quirrell was breathing hard now, his chest heaving. "Potter, this isn't—you shouldn't—"

"Let me help you relax." Harry's voice dropped to something soft and soothing, like honey. "You've been so kind to me, agreeing to this private lesson. The least I can do is help you feel better."

"That's not—this isn't appropriate—"

"Your robes look so heavy," Harry continued, as if Quirrell hadn't spoken. His hands moved to the fastening at Quirrell's collar. "Don't you want to take them off? Get comfortable?"

"No—Harry—Mr. Potter—we can't—"

"Why not?" Harry looked up through his lashes, lips forming a perfect pout. "I'm just trying to help. Don't you want my help, Professor?"

"This is—you're a student—"

"And you're my teacher." Harry's fingers worked the clasp free. "Teaching me. Just like I asked. Nothing inappropriate about that, is there?"

"There is! There absolutely is—" But Quirrell's protests were getting weaker, his resolve crumbling as Harry slowly, carefully, began sliding the heavy robes off his shoulders.

"You're so tense," Harry whispered, pressing closer. "Feel how tight your muscles are? You need to relax, Professor. Breathe."

"I can't—you're—oh god—"

The robes fell to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, Quirrell was wearing a thin white shirt that clung to his frame. Not impressive, but not terrible either. Just... human. Normal. Except for the absolutely enormous erection straining against his trousers, pre-cum already darkening the fabric.

Harry's mouth watered.

"Better?" he asked, all innocent concern. His hands settled on Quirrell's chest, feeling the rapid thundering of his heartbeat. "You're still so tense though. Here—sit down. Let me help."

"I don't need—this is a bad idea—we shouldn't—"

"Please?" Harry's voice cracked perfectly, just enough vulnerability to sound genuine. "I just want to help. You've been so kind to me. Let me do this one thing for you."

Quirrell looked down at him—really looked—and whatever he saw in Harry's glowing violet eyes made him break.

"One thing," he whispered hoarsely. "Just—just a shoulder rub. That's all."

"Of course," Harry agreed, even as triumph sang through his veins. "Just a shoulder rub. Nothing else."

Liar, his mind supplied gleefully.

He guided Quirrell to one of the chairs—teacher-sized, thankfully, with a proper back—and gently pushed him down. Quirrell went without resistance, looking dazed.

Harry moved behind him, placing his hands on Quirrell's shoulders. The man was radiating heat, practically vibrating with tension.

"Relax," Harry murmured, digging his thumbs into the muscle. "Just breathe. Let me take care of you."

Quirrell let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whimper. "That's—oh—that feels—"

"Good?" Harry leaned forward, letting his breath ghost over Quirrell's ear. His chest pressed against the back of the chair, against Quirrell's shoulders. "You work so hard, Professor. You deserve to feel good."

"I—" Quirrell's voice came out strangled, softer. "No one ever—I don't deserve—"

"Of course you do." Harry's hands worked magic on the tense muscles, and he felt Quirrell begin to melt beneath his touch. "You're so good to me. So patient."

"Am I?" Quirrell's head tilted back slightly, and one of his hands came up—hesitant, trembling—to rest on Harry's forearm. Just holding. Feeling the warmth of Harry's skin. "I try to be. You're—you're such a sweet boy, Harry. So beautiful. I shouldn't—but you're so—"

"Does it feel wrong?" Harry's hands moved lower, massaging down Quirrell's spine. He had to reach around the chair to do it, which meant pressing his entire body against Quirrell's back. His hips against Quirrell's shoulders. His thighs bracketing the chair.

Close enough that Quirrell could smell him—whatever pheromones or magic or curse was making Harry's scent so intoxicating.

Quirrell inhaled sharply, and his fingers tightened on Harry's arm. "What—what are you—god, you smell—" His other hand came up, ghosting along Harry's wrist, then up to his elbow. Gentle. Reverent. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling of Harry's skin. "So soft. You're so soft. How are you so—"

"Hmm?" Harry's hands moved back up, then forward, sliding over Quirrell's collarbones. Teasing the edge of his shirt. "What do I smell like, Professor?"

"Like—like—" Quirrell's voice was wrecked, dreamy. His hands were now fully caressing Harry's arms, thumbs rubbing small circles on his skin. "Like everything I've ever wanted and nothing I can have. Like—oh god—like heaven and damnation all at once."

One of Quirrell's hands drifted up to where Harry's shirt had fallen open at the collar, fingers hovering just above the exposed skin of his neck. Not quite touching. Trembling with restraint.

"You're killing me," Quirrell whispered, sounding almost awed. "You know that, don't you? Sweet, beautiful boy. You're going to be the death of me."

His fingers ghosted along Harry's collarbone, never quite making contact with his throat, even as his eyes fixated on the pale column of exposed neck right in front of him. Harry could feel the man's breath coming faster, could feel him fighting every instinct to lean forward and press his lips there.

"I want—" Quirrell's voice was barely audible. "I shouldn't want—but you're so—"

Harry smiled against Quirrell's hair. "So what, Professor?"

"Perfect," Quirrell breathed, his hands now fully exploring Harry's arms, his wrists, the backs of his hands. Touch-starved and desperate but still holding back from the truly dangerous places. "You're perfect. And I'm a fool. Such a fool for you."

Then he moved.

Smooth. Practiced. He slid around the chair and dropped to his knees in front of Quirrell in one fluid motion.

Quirrell's eyes snapped open. "What are you—no—Harry—"

"Shh." Harry's hands settled on Quirrell's thighs. "I told you. I'm going to help you relax."

"Not like this—you can't—I won't—"

But Harry was already reaching for Quirrell's belt.

"Wait—please—" Quirrell's hands came down, grabbing Harry's wrists. Not hard. Not really trying to stop him. "This is—I could lose my job—go to Azkaban—you're eleven—"

"Almost twelve," Harry corrected, looking up with wide, innocent eyes even as his fingers worked the buckle free. "And I'm the one doing this, aren't I? You're not forcing me. You're not even touching me. You're just... sitting there. Letting me help."

"This isn't helping—this is—oh god—"

The belt came undone. Harry moved to the button. The zipper.

"Last chance, Professor," Harry whispered, even though they both knew it was already far too late. "Tell me to stop."

Quirrell stared down at him, pupils blown, face flushed, cock visibly throbbing in his trousers.

He said nothing.

Harry smiled.

And pulled.

Quirrell's cock sprang free—average length, decent girth, flushed dark and leaking profusely. It slapped against Harry's cheek, leaving a streak of pre-cum on his skin.

Harry's grin turned absolutely feral.

"Well," he purred, wrapping one hand around the base. "Hello there."

Quirrell made a sound like his soul was leaving his body

Harry stared at Quirrell's cock for a long moment, letting his eyes go wide with what he hoped looked like genuine shock.

"Professor," he breathed, wrapping his hand around the base. "You're so... big."

It was a lie. Well, half a lie. Quirrell was average—maybe slightly above. Nothing compared to Uncle Vernon's grotesque, fat sausage of a cock that had choked him more times than he could count. But Quirrell didn't need to know that.

"I—what?" Quirrell's voice came out strangled, his hips twitching forward involuntarily. "You think—?"

"I mean, I haven't seen many," Harry said, letting a blush creep into his cheeks. "But yours is... wow. How do you even walk around with this?"

A flicker of something—pride, maybe confidence—flashed across Quirrell's face. His hand came down, fingers threading through Harry's hair with a gentleness that belied the desperate hunger in his eyes.

"You're—you're too kind," Quirrell managed, voice breathy. "Such a sweet boy. You don't have to—"

"It's perfect," Harry interrupted, stroking slowly from base to tip. "Really. The perfect size. Not too big, not too small. Just... right."

Quirrell's cock twitched in his hand, leaking steadily now. The professor's breathing was ragged, his free hand gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles were white.

"Look at you," Harry murmured, leaning closer. His breath ghosted over the flushed head. "So hard for me. Does it hurt, Professor? Being this hard?"

"Yes," Quirrell gasped. "God, yes—it hurts so much—"

"Poor thing." Harry pressed a feather-light kiss to the tip, and Quirrell's entire body jerked. "You've been suffering all day, haven't you? Watching me in class. Thinking about me."

"I shouldn't—I tried not to—but you're so—" Quirrell's words dissolved into incoherent sounds as Harry's tongue darted out, licking a stripe up the underside.

"So what?" Harry asked innocently, pulling back just enough to meet Quirrell's eyes. "So pretty? So fuckable?"

"Yes! God, yes—exactly that—you're too—it's too much—"

Harry hummed, satisfied, then opened his mouth and took Quirrell in.

Just the head at first. Just enough to make Quirrell's hips buck up, desperate for more.

"Wait—" Quirrell's voice was panicked now, urgent. "Wait, Harry—you don't have to—this is enough—please—"

But Harry wasn't listening. He sank down another inch. Then another. The cock wasn't impressively large, but the taste—god, the smell—pure man, musky and heady and exactly what Harry's body was craving.

"Stop—please stop—" Quirrell was begging now, even as his hands tightened in Harry's hair, even as his hips pushed up. "You've made your point—I'm relaxed—you can—oh fuck—"

Harry's tongue swirled around the shaft, and Quirrell's protests died in a strangled moan.

"Harry—Mr. Potter—please—I can't—you have to—"

Harry pulled off with an obscene pop, grinning up at him. "Have to what, Professor? I promised I'd help you relax. I'm just keeping my promise."

"This isn't—you've seen it now—that's enough—please just—"

But Harry was already sinking back down, taking him deeper this time. Halfway. Enough to make Quirrell's eyes roll back, enough to make his whole body spasm.

"No—no no no—too much—can't—please—"

Quirrell's voice cracked on the last word, and Harry felt hands clutching desperately at his head, fingers tangling in his hair but not pulling. Not pushing him away. Just holding on like Harry was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Harry looked up through his lashes, meeting Quirrell's gaze. The professor was crying—actual tears streaming down his face, mouth open in a silent scream, chest heaving.

"So good," Harry murmured around the cock in his mouth, the vibration making Quirrell sob. "You taste so good, Professor. Such a perfect cock."

"Can't—I can't—Harry please—it's too—sensitive—I'm going to—"

Harry pulled back until just the tip remained between his lips, tongue flicking over the slit. Quirrell's entire body locked up, every muscle tensed to the breaking point.

Then Harry stopped. Completely still. Just holding Quirrell in his mouth, not moving, waiting.

Quirrell was panting like he'd run a marathon, tears still flowing, whole body trembling. His hands were still in Harry's hair but loose now, weak.

"Please," he whispered brokenly. "Please, I can't—too much—need—"

Harry met his eyes. Quirrell's were glassy, unfocused, pupils blown so wide there was barely any color left. His tongue lolled out slightly, face flushed a deep red.

Harry pulled his tongue out, letting it rest against his lower lip, still wrapped around Quirrell's cock.

"Beautiful," Quirrell breathed, something like awe breaking through the desperation. "So—you're so—"

Harry smirked.

Then he swallowed Quirrell down to the root in one brutal motion.

The effect was instantaneous.

Quirrell screamed—a raw, broken sound—as his cock exploded down Harry's throat. The orgasm was violent, almost painful in its intensity. Harry felt rope after rope of cum shooting directly into his stomach, hot and thick and endless.

Quirrell's hands clamped down on Harry's head, holding him in place, nearly choking him as his hips bucked wildly. His eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, tongue fully out, drool running down his chin as his entire body convulsed.

"FUCK—oh god—oh fuck—Harry—Harry—"

Harry pressed his nose into Quirrell's pubes, breathing in deep despite the lack of air, savoring the intense musk, the raw masculine smell that made his own cock throb.

The cum just kept coming. More than should be physically possible. Harry swallowed and swallowed, throat working, and still it kept pumping into him, flooding his mouth, his throat, his stomach—

Finally—finally—it stopped.

Quirrell went completely limp, hands falling away from Harry's head. His eyes were unfocused, glazed, mouth hanging open as he made small, wounded sounds.

Harry pulled off slowly, deliberately, making sure Quirrell felt every inch leaving his oversensitive cock.

When he finally released him with a wet sound, Quirrell whimpered—actually whimpered—like a wounded animal.

Harry sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked down.

Quirrell's cock was still hard. Still flushed. Still leaking.

Despite the absolutely massive load he'd just dumped down Harry's throat, the man was still rock solid.

"Well," Harry said, his voice rough and dangerous. His grin was absolutely wicked. "That was fun."

Quirrell tried to speak. His mouth moved, but only broken sounds came out. "I—wha—you—can't—"

"Can't what?" Harry asked sweetly, standing up. His fingers went to his shirt buttons. "Can't continue? But Professor..." He popped the first button. Then the second. "I haven't been properly rewarded yet."

"No—Harry—please—I can't—too sensitive—please—"

The shirt fell away, revealing pale skin, delicate collarbones, the slight curve of his chest.

"You said you'd teach me," Harry continued, working on his belt now. "And I'm a very eager student."

"This wasn't—not what—oh god—" Quirrell was openly sobbing now, cock still painfully hard, twitching with each breath.

Harry's trousers hit the floor.

Then his pants.

He stood there completely naked, violet eyes glowing in the dim classroom light, body perfect and unmarred and absolutely devastating.

Quirrell made a sound like his soul was being ripped out.

"Now then, Professor," Harry said, taking a step forward. His smile was pure evil. "I believe it's time for my punishment. After all..." He turned slightly, showing off the curve of his ass. "We haven't even gotten to the main lesson yet."

"Can't—I can't—you'll kill me—"

"Maybe," Harry agreed cheerfully. "But what a way to go, right?"

Quirrell was barely conscious.

His mind felt like it had been put through a blender, thoughts fragmenting and reforming in nonsensical patterns. He was slumped in the chair, chest heaving, cock still impossibly hard despite having just experienced what might have been the most intense orgasm of his entire life.

And Harry—beautiful, devastating Harry—was standing before him completely naked, smirking like the devil himself.

"Professor," Harry purred, taking a step closer. "Are you still with me?"

Quirrell tried to speak. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but only a weak groan emerged.

"I'll take that as a yes." Harry moved closer still, until he was standing directly between Quirrell's spread legs. "Now. Where were we?"

"Please—" Quirrell finally managed, the word barely a whisper. "Can't—no more—"

"No more?" Harry tilted his head, running his hands slowly down his own body—over his chest, his stomach, his hips. "But we're just getting started."

Quirrell's eyes tracked the movement helplessly, drinking in every inch of pale, perfect skin. His cock twitched, leaking steadily onto his thighs.

Then Harry turned around.

The sight of Harry's ass—round, smooth, absolutely flawless—hit Quirrell like a physical blow. His vision actually blacked out for a moment, and when it returned, he was gasping for air, head spinning.

"Oh god," he whispered. "Oh god oh god oh god—"

Harry looked over his shoulder, violet eyes glowing. "Like what you see, Professor?"

Before Quirrell could answer—before he could even process the question—Harry reached back and took Quirrell's trembling hands in his own.

"Touch me," Harry commanded softly.

And he guided those shaking hands to his skin.

The first contact made Quirrell moan so loud it echoed off the classroom walls. Soft. So impossibly soft. Warm and smooth and perfect under his palms. Harry guided his hands over the curve of his ass, up his sides, across his back—a slow, torturous exploration that had Quirrell shaking like a leaf.

"Feel that?" Harry murmured. "That's all for you, Professor. Every inch."

Quirrell could only groan, fingers flexing helplessly against Harry's skin, unable to do anything but feel and want and need—

Then Harry moved.

He positioned himself over Quirrell's lap, reaching down to grip the professor's cock and angle it just right. The head pressed against Harry's entrance—slick, hot, impossibly inviting—and Quirrell's brain short-circuited.

"Wait—" he gasped. "Wait wait wait—we can't—this is—"

Harry rolled his hips, grinding down, letting Quirrell's cock slide between his cheeks without penetration. The friction was exquisite, maddening, and Quirrell writhed in the chair, hands flying to Harry's hips.

"Please," Quirrell sobbed. "Please don't—I can't take it—"

"Can't take what?" Harry teased, still grinding. "This?"

He shifted his angle.

And sank down.

The sensation of entering Harry—of being engulfed in that tight, scorching heat—was so overwhelming that Quirrell's vision whited out completely. Every nerve ending in his body ignited at once, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain flooding through him.

Harry gasped too, eyes fluttering closed. It had been so long—too long—since he'd felt this. The stretch, the fullness, the satisfaction of finally being filled after days of aching emptiness.

"Fuck," Harry breathed, bottoming out completely. "There it is."

Quirrell was making incoherent sounds, hands clutching bruisingly tight at Harry's hips. His whole body was shaking, cock buried to the hilt inside the tightest, hottest thing he'd ever felt.

And then he came.

Again.

The orgasm ripped through him with brutal intensity, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep inside Harry. His arms wrapped around the boy's waist, pulling him down hard, holding him in place as waves of pleasure crashed over him.

"Already?" Harry's voice was sharp with irritation. "Seriously?"

But Quirrell couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. Could only hold on as the aftershocks rolled through him, cock still hard, still buried inside Harry, still leaking.

Harry waited. Counting to ten in his head while Quirrell trembled and gasped beneath him.

Then he moved.

A slow roll of his hips. Just testing.

Quirrell's hands spasmed on his waist. "No—sensitive—too sensitive—"

"Good," Harry said, and did it again. Harder this time.

The moan that tore from Quirrell's throat was almost inhuman.

Harry established a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rising and falling on Quirrell's cock with practiced ease. Every movement sent sparks of pleasure shooting through both of them. Harry was still adjusting to the sensation, the stretch that was almost too much but not quite, while Quirrell was drowning in overstimulation, every nerve ending screaming.

"So good," Harry groaned, head falling back. "You fill me up so well, Professor. Such a perfect cock."

Quirrell's response was unintelligible—something between a moan and a sob.

His hands moved on instinct now, all conscious thought abandoned. They roamed over Harry's body, mapping every curve, every dip. His lips found the smooth expanse of Harry's back, pressing desperate kisses there, then higher, to the side of his neck.

"That's it," Harry encouraged, moving faster. "Touch me. Use me. I'm all yours."

Something snapped in Quirrell.

His hips bucked up hard, meeting Harry's downward thrust, and suddenly they were both moving—frantic, desperate, chasing pleasure with single-minded intensity. Quirrell's mouth found Harry's neck again, sucking hard enough to leave marks, hands gripping anywhere they could reach.

"More," Harry demanded. "Give me more—"

Quirrell obliged without thought, lifting Harry and turning them, pushing the boy onto the desk. He followed immediately, never pulling out, fucking into him with short, sharp thrusts that made them both cry out.

Harry's legs wrapped around Quirrell's waist, pulling him deeper. "Yes—fuck—right there—"

They came together that time—Quirrell flooding Harry's insides while Harry spilled across his own stomach, both of them shaking with the force of it.

But Quirrell's cock was still hard.

Still ready.

"Again," Harry commanded, and Quirrell pulled out only to flip him over, bending him over the desk properly this time.

The new angle let him go deeper, and Harry keened, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth wood.

Quirrell fucked him hard—harder than before—driven by some primal need he couldn't name or control. His hands bruised Harry's hips. His cock punched deep with every thrust, hitting something inside that made Harry see stars.

"More—" Harry gasped out between thrusts. "More more more—"

They changed positions again. And again. Against the wall, with Harry's legs over Quirrell's shoulders. On the floor, with Harry riding him. Standing, with Quirrell holding Harry up by the thighs, using gravity to drive deeper.

Each position ended the same way—with Quirrell coming inside Harry, flooding him with more cum, and still staying hard, still needing more.

Harry lost count of how many times Quirrell came. Four? Five? Six? It didn't matter. Each orgasm was more intense than the last, wringing broken sounds from the professor that barely sounded human.

Finally—finally—Quirrell positioned Harry on his hands and knees on the floor.

Doggy style.

He entered from behind with a groan, hands gripping Harry's hips as he set a brutal pace. This was it. The last one. He could feel it building, different from the others—bigger, more devastating.

"Come on," Harry panted, pushing back to meet each thrust. "One more. Give me one more—"

Quirrell's rhythm stuttered. His fingers dug into Harry's skin hard enough to draw blood. And then—

The orgasm hit him like a freight train.

He came so hard he actually screamed, body convulsing as he emptied what felt like the last of his soul into Harry's body. His vision blacked out completely, and when it returned, he was collapsed on the floor beside Harry, chest heaving, completely and utterly spent.

His cock finally—finally—began to soften.

Harry turned his head, looking at the wreckage of his professor. Quirrell's eyes were half-closed, face slack, mouth hanging open as he gasped for air.

Perfect.

Harry crawled closer, reaching out to grip Quirrell's jaw. The man didn't resist as Harry pried his mouth open wider.

Then Harry spat directly into it.

The action was degrading, possessive, marking Quirrell as thoroughly used.

And Quirrell—exhausted, destroyed, barely conscious—smiled.

Just slightly. Just enough to show he understood what had happened here.

Then his eyes slipped closed, and he was out.

Harry sat back, wiping his mouth. His body felt strange—satisfied but also wrong somehow. Like the hunger had been fed but the cost was higher than expected.

He stood on shaky legs and began pulling his clothes back on. As he fastened his shirt, his reflection caught in the glass of a nearby cabinet.

His eyes—

They were fading.

The vivid violet was receding, green bleeding back in at the edges. Within moments, they were almost entirely green again, with just a faint purple tint remaining.

The hunger was gone. The heat had subsided. Whatever had taken over him, whatever curse or condition had driven him here—it was satisfied.

For now.

Harry looked back at Quirrell's unconscious form, sprawled naked on the floor, covered in sweat and cum and looking thoroughly debauched.

He should feel guilty. Should feel something.

But all he felt was a vague sense of nausea and the overwhelming need to leave.

So he did.

He walked out of the classroom, leaving Quirrell behind, and tried not to think about what he'd just done.

Tried not to think about the fact that he'd do it again if the hunger came back.

Notes:

Hey guys, I love reading comments, so please leave one to me when you finish reading :D thank yoou

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SurviveToday on Chapter 1 Tue 11 Mar 2025 03:42AM UTC

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Tue 11 Mar 2025 05:24AM UTC
  
  💖
  
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Rofwrone (Guest) on Chapter 1 Wed 12 Mar 2025 09:21PM UTC

Oooooo loving this!

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Mar 2025 01:10AM UTC
  
  thank you💖
  
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Starboyl (Guest) on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Mar 2025 12:13AM UTC

Kudos🩷

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Mar 2025 01:10AM UTC
  
  thank you💖
  
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fanfic_obsessed23 on Chapter 1 Thu 27 Mar 2025 09:13PM UTC

I like this no nonsense petunia

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Fri 28 Mar 2025 02:52AM UTC
  
  Thank you for reading😍
  
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Christiandump on Chapter 1 Fri 18 Apr 2025 03:57PM UTC

This seems interesting 😺

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Wed 30 Apr 2025 11:16PM UTC
  
  thank youu
  
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amnekdnauhsa on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Apr 2025 06:46PM UTC

this is actually so interesting ngl

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Wed 30 Apr 2025 11:17PM UTC
  
  hehehe thank youu for reading
  
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DarkPhoenix78910 on Chapter 1 Sun 27 Jul 2025 11:34PM UTC

Omfg, I'm DYING at the book names omg- 🤣🤣🤣

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colbyjack72 on Chapter 1 Sun 30 Nov 2025 11:23PM UTC

come back pls

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 1 Sat 13 Dec 2025 03:10PM UTC
  
  I came back :D
  
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hzy_hdl on Chapter 1 Mon 15 Dec 2025 06:35PM UTC

This is so erotic, I want to fuck Harry hard, too! !(Screaming)My only regret is that Harry's eyes are not green because I think they are beautiful! !❤️❤️❤️

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Rofwrone (Guest) on Chapter 2 Thu 20 Mar 2025 12:50AM UTC

So hot, yummy yummy (¬‿¬)

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Mar 2025 09:46PM UTC
  
  yes, I know hehe I put blood sweet and tears on this scene💖
  
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adreamingladyknight on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Mar 2025 09:30PM UTC

Wow 😳 🥵🥵🔥🔥

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Mar 2025 09:46PM UTC
  
  hehehehehehe💖
  
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kDrarryk (Guest) on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Mar 2025 10:02PM UTC

Interracial x Shota😩😏 came hard

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 2 Fri 28 Mar 2025 02:56AM UTC
  
  hehehe Thank you for reading💖
  
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AyeshaEromha (Guest) on Chapter 2 Sun 30 Mar 2025 04:21PM UTC

10/10 😏😏🥵

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 2 Sun 30 Mar 2025 07:02PM UTC
  
  thankssss💖
  
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Christiandump on Chapter 2 Fri 18 Apr 2025 11:42PM UTC

Fuuuck so hot!

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 2 Wed 30 Apr 2025 11:16PM UTC
  
  hehehe
  
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amnekdnauhsa on Chapter 2 Tue 22 Apr 2025 07:06PM UTC

that was so hot ><

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 2 Wed 30 Apr 2025 11:17PM UTC
  
  hehe💖
  
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AAWak3ned on Chapter 2 Thu 17 Jul 2025 07:15PM UTC

Babe can't wait for the next chapter

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Alexandra_12344 on Chapter 2 Sun 03 Aug 2025 06:01PM UTC

Billy Rashad Marcus: 12.7" = 32.258 cm long; 6.5" = 16.51 cm circumference.
How did that fit in his mouth and ass? 😱

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Samfuckme (Guest) on Chapter 3 Sun 16 Mar 2025 03:36AM UTC

Omg I came some many times while reading this I love it so fucking much.

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 3 Sun 16 Mar 2025 04:08PM UTC
  
  hehehehehe, thank you for reading it :D
  
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Rofwrone (Guest) on Chapter 3 Thu 20 Mar 2025 12:49AM UTC

I thought I had commented on this chapter before. Was it deleted? Anyway, the scene of Vernom being hung was an unexpected but interesting twist.
(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ

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1. LacreLacre on Chapter 3 Wed 26 Mar 2025 09:46PM UTC
  
  Yes hahahahaha thank you for reading💖
  
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snowpuppies on Chapter 3 Sat 24 May 2025 07:40AM UTC

The shifts between third and first person make it hard to read tbh.

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