The white light of completion faded, but Bully Garfield didn't find himself in the wizarding world of 1991. No Privet Drive. No owls hooting in the distance. Instead, the air hummed with a different kind of magic—thicker, more alive, laced with the scent of blooming jasmine and fresh-baked bread from a nearby cottage.
He blinked, disoriented, his red hoodie still splattered with zombie ichor that now seemed absurdly out of place. The Senzu Beans weighed heavy in his pocket, a reminder of his hard-won prizes. But this... this was earlier. Much earlier.
A soft chime echoed in his mind, like a distant bell tolling midnight.
Temporal Side Quest Issued: Virgin's Reckoning
Objective: Lose your virginity by having sex with Lily Potter.
Timeline: One month post-marriage to James Potter. Godric's Hollow, 1979.
Reward: Perk - Womanizer (Charm women effortlessly through proximity and aura). Safe return to intended timeline (Harry Potter universe, one month pre-canon).
Failure Penalty: Stranded in 1979.
Progress: 0/1
Bully Garfield's lips curled into a slow, predatory smile. The system was escalating. Time travel. A specific woman. And not just any sex—with Lily Potter. The mother of the Boy Who Lived. Fiery red hair, emerald eyes, the witch who'd defied Voldemort.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the residual hum of Protego Diabolica in his veins. Wandless magic. Zombie-slaying swagger.
Now this. Virginity? He'd survived the apocalypse, bullied the undead, danced through flames. But yeah, in the chaos of the end times, there'd been no room for... distractions. No lovers, no flings. Just survival.
Lily Potter. One month into her marriage. James would be off somewhere—Order of the Phoenix business, probably. The perfect window.
The quaint village of Godric's Hollow unfolded around him. Cobblestone streets wound between ivy-clad cottages, lanterns flickering with eternal flame charms.
Muggles and wizards mingled obliviously under Fidelius precursors—basic privacy wards that Bully Garfield's newfound instincts told him he could slip through like smoke.
He adjusted his hoodie, willing it cleaner with a mental nudge from the system's subtle influence. No need to alarm the locals. He looked... passable. Tall, broad-shouldered from months of bashing skulls, dark hair tousled just so. The Bully Garfield persona thrummed in his chest: confident, unapologetic, magnetic.
The Potters' cottage came into view at the edge of the village—a two-story affair with a thatched roof and flower boxes bursting with charmed snapdragons that snapped playfully at passing bees. Smoke curled from the chimney. Inside, he could sense her. Lily. Alone.
He approached the door, heart pounding not with fear, but anticipation. A simple Alohomora whispered under his breath—wandless, effortless—unlatched the lock. He stepped inside.
The kitchen was warm, sunlight slanting through lace curtains onto a wooden table scattered with potion vials and half-read herbology texts.
Lily Potter stood at the counter, her back to him, chopping mandrake roots with precise flicks of a silver knife. Her auburn hair cascaded in loose waves down her back, tied loosely with a green ribbon. She wore a simple cotton dress, pale blue and floral-printed, the kind that hugged her curves without trying—full breasts straining slightly against the bodice, hips swaying as she worked. Barefoot, humming a tune that sounded like an old Muggle lullaby.
She was beautiful. Ethereal. The air around her shimmered with latent magic, like heat off a summer road.
Bully Garfield cleared his throat. "Nice place you've got here."
Lily spun, knife raised, eyes wide with alarm. Those famous emeralds locked onto him—sharp, assessing. "Who the hell are you? How did you get in?"
He raised his hands, palms out, but his grin was anything but apologetic. "Name's Bully Garfield. Door was open. Figured you could use some company."
Her wand appeared in her free hand faster than he could blink—holly and phoenix feather, he noted idly. "Get out. Now. Or I'll hex you into next week."
The threat should have cowed him. It didn't. The system's quest pulsed in his mind, a siren call. And deep down, the bully in him—the one who'd taunted the dead—stirred. He took a step forward.
Lily's eyes narrowed. "Stupefy!"
The red bolt shot toward him. Instinctively, he dodged effortless. Lily's jaw dropped.
"What are you?" she whispered, backing toward the sink.
"Your future," he said, voice low and rough. He lunged.
She fired again—Incarcerous this time, ropes of light snaking from her wand. He sidestepped, the bat from his zombie days materializing in his grip via some systemic whim.
One swing shattered the ropes mid-air. Before she could react, he was on her—arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped, struggling, her free hand clawing at his face.
"James!" she screamed, but the cottage wards muffled it. No one would hear.
He wrenched the wand from her fingers, snapping it with a casual twist. Wood splintered. Magic flared and died. Lily's eyes filled with tears of rage and fear.
"You bastard," she hissed, knee driving up toward his groin. He twisted, taking the blow on his thigh, and shoved her back against the counter. Ingredients scattered—mandrake shriveled on the floor.
Bully Garfield pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other gripping her chin hard enough to bruise. Her breath came in hot pants against his face, green eyes blazing.
"Please," she whispered, voice breaking. "Don't."
But the quest demanded. And the bully craved.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was invasion, pure and unrelenting. His lips sealed over hers, firm and demanding, tasting the salt of her fear-sweat and the faint sweetness of tea on her tongue.
Lily fought—head thrashing, teeth grazing his lip in a bid to bite—but he held her steady, angling his head to deepen the assault.
His tongue probed, insistent, slick and hot as it forced past her clenched teeth.
She whimpered into him, a sound that vibrated through his chest like a tuning fork. He drank it in, exploring her mouth with slow, deliberate strokes.
The texture of her tongue—soft, yielding under pressure—sent fire racing down his spine. He mapped her: the roof of her mouth, ridged and warm; the undersides of her teeth, smooth enamel; the wet heat of her inner cheeks.
Minutes stretched. One. Two. His free hand released her chin to tangle in her hair, pulling her head back further, opening her up. His tongue delved deeper, coiling around hers in a lewd dance she couldn't escape.
He sucked gently on the tip, then harder, drawing her into his rhythm. Saliva mingled, slick trails escaping the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin.
Lily's struggles weakened—not from desire, but exhaustion. Her body sagged against the counter, breaths ragged through her nose. He felt her pulse hammering under his thumb where it pressed her jaw.
Three minutes. Four. He tilted his head the other way, lips sliding wetly, tongue thrusting in mimicry of what was to come. A low growl rumbled in his throat, possessive.
Five minutes in, her lips parted further—not surrender, but necessity for air. He took advantage, plunging deeper, fucking her mouth with his tongue in long, slow glides.
The flavor of her intensified: herbal from the mandrakes, floral from her shampoo. His hips ground forward instinctively, pressing the growing bulge in his jeans against her belly. She stiffened, a muffled sob escaping.
Six. Seven. He released her wrists to cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks in mocking tenderness. His tongue swirled lazy circles around hers, teasing now, before diving back in with renewed vigor.
Drool slicked their joined mouths, a messy testament to his dominance. He nipped her lower lip—hard enough to draw a bead of blood—then soothed it with a broad lick.
Eight minutes. Her hands, free now, pushed weakly at his chest, fingers curling in his hoodie. He caught one, guiding it to his shoulder, forcing her to cling as he devoured her.
The kiss turned sloppy, breaths shared in gasps between invasions. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, then breached again, relentless.
Nine. Ten. The timer in his mind ticked over. He pulled back slowly, a string of saliva connecting them, snapping as he licked his lips. Lily's face was flushed, lips swollen and glistening, eyes glassy with unshed tears.
"You taste like forbidden fruit," he murmured, voice husky.
She spat at him. He laughed.
Without pause, his hands went to the laces of her bodice. She slapped at him, but he was stronger—months of apocalypse had honed him into something feral.
The fabric parted with a rip, exposing the soft white chemise beneath, lace-trimmed and sheer. Her breasts heaved with each sob, full and pale, nipples darkening the fabric.
"No," she begged, crossing her arms. "Please, James will be home soon."
"Liar," he said, prying her arms away. "He's off playing hero. And I'm here to play something better."
He yanked the chemise down, baring her to the cool kitchen air. Her breasts spilled free—magnificent, heavy globes with rosy areolas the size of galleons, nipples pebbling instantly from the chill and fear.
They quivered with her shudders, veins faint blue traceries under porcelain skin.
Bully Garfield's mouth watered. He bent, capturing the left one first.
His lips closed around the peak, suckling like a man starved. The nipple hardened instantly against his tongue, a berry-ripe bud he rolled and flicked with expert precision.
Lily arched involuntarily, a gasp tearing from her throat—pain or pleasure, he didn't care. He suckled harder, drawing the areola deep into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive underside.
One minute. He lavished attention, tongue laving in broad, wet strokes, then pinpoint flicks that made her twitch. Saliva coated the mound, shining trails dripping toward her ribcage. His hand cupped the underside, thumbing the neglected right nipple in tandem.
Two minutes. He switched breasts, giving the right the same treatment—sucking with hollowed cheeks, creating a vacuum that pulled a reluctant moan from her depths.
Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling—not away, but in confused agony. He hummed against her flesh, vibrations rumbling through her core.
Three. Four. Back and forth he went, worshipping and ravaging. Left: deep throating the nipple until his nose brushed her sternum. Right: nibbling the edges, tracing the areola's crinkled texture with his tongue's tip.
Milk-sweet skin, faintly salty from sweat. He kneaded the free breast, fingers sinking into plush flesh, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it throbbed.
Five minutes. Lily's breaths came in hitches, body betraying her with traitorous heat pooling low. He sensed it—the faint musk of arousal mingling with her fear. His free hand roamed lower, hiking her skirts, but he restrained himself. Not yet.
Six. Seven. He bit down—gently at first, then harder—leaving crescent marks that bloomed red. Soothed with laps of his tongue, broad and flat, painting her breasts in saliva sheens.
The left nipple was engorged now, elongated from his attentions, a glistening jewel. He suckled it like a babe, then a lover, alternating rhythms: slow and adoring, then frantic and devouring.
Eight. Nine. Her head fell back against the cupboard, red hair spilling like fire. Tears tracked her cheeks, but her hips shifted subtly, seeking friction she hated herself for. He chuckled against her skin, the sound muffled, and pinched the other nipple sharply—reward and punishment.
Ten minutes. Eleven. Time blurred in his haze of lust. He buried his face between her breasts, motorboating the valley, inhaling her scent: lavender soap, feminine musk, the sharp tang of dread.
Tongue darted to catch errant droplets of his own spit, then back to sucking—left, right, left—until both were raw, hypersensitive peaks.
Twelve. Thirteen. He straightened briefly, admiring his work: breasts flushed pink, marked with faint bruises from his grip, nipples angry red and slick. Lily's eyes were half-lidded, lips parted in silent pleas.
"Please... stop," she whispered.
He didn't. Fourteen. Fifteen. Renewed assault, hands lifting each breast to his mouth in turn, suckling with obscene slurps that echoed in the quiet kitchen.
Her body trembled, nipples aching from overstimulation, every pull sending jolts straight to her core.
Sixteen. Seventeen. He traced veins with his tongue, light as a feather, then latched on again—deep, possessive sucks that made her cry out. The right breast received a hickey, purple blooming under his lips as he nursed.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Almost there. He lavished final, lingering sucks, tongue swirling endless figure-eights around each peak, drawing them to peaks of impossible sensitivity.
Twenty minutes ticked over as he released her with a pop, both breasts heaving, glistening orbs marked as his conquest.
Lily slumped, chest rising and falling, tears streaming freely now. "Monster," she choked.
Bully Garfield's eyes darkened with hunger. "Not yet."
His hands went to her skirts, bunching the fabric up to her waist. Petticoats tangled, but he tore them free, exposing the flat plane of her stomach—smooth, unmarred, quivering with each sob.
A faint line of paler skin ran from navel to her mound, a whisper of her future pregnancy that hadn't yet come.
Her navel was a perfect innie, a shallow dimple ringed by the soft give of her abdomen. He knelt, pressing his lips to it.
The kiss started soft—lips brushing the depression, tasting the faint salt of skin. Then deeper. His tongue emerged, tracing the rim, dipping in to explore the warm hollow. Lily jerked, hands flying to push him away, but he caught her wrists again, pinning them to her sides.
One minute. He delved, tongue swirling in tight circles, probing the sensitive walls of her navel. Wet sounds filled the air—slurps and gasps—as he French-kissed the tiny crater, sucking gently on the edges. Her stomach muscles clenched, fluttering under his mouth.
Two. Three. He pressed his face flush, nose buried in her skin, inhaling the intimate scent: clean linen, a hint of arousal's betrayal. Tongue thrust deeper, mimicking oral sex on the spot, in and out in rhythmic pumps. Lily's hips bucked, not in pleasure, but revulsion—yet her body heated, navel tingling with unwanted sparks.
Four minutes. He kissed broadly now, lips enveloping the entire area, sucking the navel inward with pursed mouth. His teeth grazed the rim—light nips that made her whimper. Tongue followed, laving the bitten skin, then plunging back in, exploring every millimeter.
Five. Six. Saliva pooled, dripping down her sides toward her hips. He lapped it up, tracing the subtle curve of her lower belly, then returning to the navel—kissing it open-mouthed, tongue-fucking with abandon. The muscle there spasmed, her breaths shallow and rapid.
Seven. Eight. He hummed, vibrations buzzing through her core, loosening her resistance inch by inch. Fingers splayed across her stomach, holding her steady as his tongue delved impossibly deep, curling against the inner walls. Wet, messy, obsessive.
Nine minutes. Her legs trembled, knees buckling. He supported her with one arm around her hips, mouth never leaving its target. A final, deep kiss—lips sealing over the navel, tongue swirling in a vortex that left her gasping.
Ten minutes. He pulled back, her stomach a slick, reddened canvas—navel gaping slightly, glistening with his devotion. Lily's eyes were wild, body arched in confused torment.
"Enough," she begged, voice hoarse.
Bully Garfield stood, unbuckling his belt. "Now the main event."
He spun her, bending her over the table—skirt hiked, knickers ripped away in one yank. Her arse was perfect: round, firm, pale cheeks parting to reveal the pink slit beneath, already shamefully damp.
He freed himself—twelve inches of thick, veined cock springing free, head weeping pre-cum.
No preamble. He aligned and thrust.
The penetration was brutal—her walls clenching in protest as he buried to the hilt in one savage stroke. Lily screamed, nails scraping wood, body impaled on his length.
He groaned, the heat of her vice-like grip milking him already. Deep in her womb, he felt the cervix yield under pressure, his cockhead kissing the entrance to her core.
One hand on her hip, the other splayed across her exposed stomach—fingers digging in, squeezing the soft flesh as if to feel his own invasion from outside. He could— the bulge of his shaft distorting her belly with each hilt-deep plunge.
He began to fuck. Slowly at first—long, grinding strokes that stretched her impossibly, twelve inches dragging against every ridge and fold. Squeeze. Thrust. Her stomach compressed under his palm, muscles rippling in futile resistance.
Five minutes in, pace quickened. He hammered now, balls slapping her clit with wet smacks. Squeeze harder—fingers kneading the navel he'd worshipped, pressing down to amplify the fullness.
Lily's cries morphed—pain laced with unwilling sparks, her body adapting against her will.
Ten minutes. Sweat slicked their skin, the table creaking under assaults. He leaned over her, breath hot on her neck, squeezing her stomach in time with his thrusts: in as he withdrew, out as he slammed home.
The pressure built friction inside, his cock bullying her depths, womb battered relentlessly.
Fifteen. Twenty. He varied—shallow teases that made her clench desperately, then brutal depths that bruised her cervix. Hand relentless on her belly, thumb dipping into the saliva-slick navel, twisting as he reamed her. Her walls fluttered, traitorous orgasms building she fought to deny.
Thirty minutes. Fatigue set in for her; for him, Senzu-enhanced stamina kept him iron-hard. He flipped her onto her back—legs over his shoulders, folding her in half.
Now he watched: stomach bulging obscenely with each plunge, his hand squeezing the distended flesh, feeling his cock's outline pulse beneath.
Forty. Fifty. Endless. He rutted like an animal, squeezing her stomach to heighten every sensation—compressing her lungs for gasping breaths, pressing nerves to spark unwanted ecstasy.
Lily shattered twice against her will, sobs wracking her as she came, walls spasming around his invading length.
One hour. Sweat poured, bodies sliding slickly. He chased his peak, thrusts erratic—deep, womb-pummeling drives that made her belly ripple under his grip. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. The pressure on her abdomen amplified his pleasure, her tightness a velvet fist.
Ninety minutes. Her voice was gone—only whimpers now, body limp and overstimulated. He growled, pace frenzied, hand vise-like on her stomach, fingers leaving white imprints that bloomed red.
Two hours ticked over as he roared his release—flooding her womb with thick ropes of cum, so deep it painted her insides white. He collapsed atop her, still squeezing, cock twitching in aftershocks.
Quest Complete: Virgin's Reckoning
Rewards Granted.
Light engulfed them. Lily's broken form faded from beneath him.
Bully Garfield rematerialized in Privet Drive, the Womanizer perk thrumming in his aura like cologne. Women would fall at his feet now. But the taste of conquest—of Lily—lingered.