Author's Note: This story delves into heavy, dark themes and explicit content, so please skip if you're uncomfortable. I pour my heart into this narrative, and I humbly ask you not to judge me or my work based solely on this piece. Your support means everything, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on Patreon.
The air in Number 4 Privet Drive was thick with tension, the silence shattered by the splintered remains of the front door, its fragments strewn across the polished floor like the wreckage of a storm. Petunia Dursley huddled against the living room wall, her frail frame trembling, her sunken eyes wide with terror, her thin robe clutched tightly to her chest. The flickering light from a single candle cast harsh shadows, illuminating the devastation—broken furniture, upturned vases, and the faint metallic scent of fear. Vernon Dursley lay sprawled nearby, his massive bulk pinned under the weight of a single, deliberate boot, his face pale, his breath shallow, a weak groan escaping his lips. Above them stood Clark Kent—known to this house as Harry Potter—a man transformed, his emerald eyes glowing faintly with Kryptonian power, his presence a quiet storm ready to unleash years of pent-up vengeance.
Clark's smirk widened, his boots heavy on the creaking floorboards, each step a deliberate echo of the control he now wielded. The Dursleys had treated him like garbage, locking him in the cupboard under the stairs, starving him, breaking his spirit with their cruelty. But Clark was no longer that boy, cowering in the dark, his body bruised, his heart heavy with their scorn. He was a force unchained, the World Will's restraints shattered, his Kryptonian heritage a fire in his veins. Tonight, they'd learn the cost of crossing him, their reign of terror over his childhood reduced to ash.
His gaze locked onto Petunia, her lips quivering like leaves in a monsoon, her blonde hair limp against her pale, tear-streaked face. "You thought you could control me," he said, his voice low, sharp as a blade slicing through the silence. "You thought I'd stay your punching bag forever."
Petunia's breath hitched, her back pressed against the wall, the plaster cold against her spine, nowhere to run. "Harry, please," she whispered, her voice cracking, barely audible. "We… we didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean it?" Clark's laugh was cold, a bitter gust cutting through her feeble defense, echoing in the ruined room. He stepped closer, looming over her, his broad shoulders blocking the candlelight, his presence suffocating. "Every slap, every insult, every night in this cage—you meant it all."
Memories surged like a flood—Petunia's sneers, her shrill voice branding him a freak, Vernon's fists delivering punishment for crimes he never committed. Clark's hands clenched, his Kryptonian strength begging to lash out, the floor creaking under his restrained power. He held it tight, savoring her fear, her wide eyes darting like a trapped animal's. The World Will, that cosmic force that once bound him, was gone, and Petunia's frail form was no match for the reckoning he brought.
Vernon stirred, his fat fingers twitching, a weak groan escaping his lips. "Get… away from her…" he wheezed, his face ashen, his body still reeling from Clark's earlier strike, a single blow that had sent him crashing through the door.
Clark didn't look at him. His boot pressed harder on Vernon's chest, slow and deliberate, drawing a strangled gasp, the sound pathetic in the charged air. "Stay down," he growled, his voice a warning, his eyes never leaving Petunia. "Or I'll make you regret it."
Vernon's whimper was feeble, his bravado shattered like the splintered wood around them. Clark's smirk darkened, a predator's satisfaction at the prey's surrender. He turned back to Petunia, her trembling form a stark contrast to the woman who'd ruled his childhood with an iron grip, her elegance a facade for her cruelty. Her control was gone, her power a memory, her world upended by the boy she'd despised.
"You're nothing now," Clark said, his voice soft but laced with menace, each word a hammer striking her resolve. "Just like I was to you."
Petunia's tears fell, her chest heaving, her eyes darting for an escape that didn't exist. Clark's presence was a wall, unyielding, absolute. He crouched before her, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against her pale skin, the scent of his leather jacket mingling with her fear. "Feel it," he murmured, his voice a venomous caress. "Feel what it's like to be powerless."
Petunia's sob broke the silence, her hands clawing at the wall, her nails scraping the paint. Clark straightened, his smirk returning, and crossed the room to the cupboard under the stairs, its door ajar, revealing the cramped space that had been his prison. Inside lay his mattress, an ugly, torn thing, stained with years of neglect, more rag than bed. This was my world, he thought, bitterness twisting in his chest, the memories of cold nights and empty stomachs as vivid as ever. It was all he'd had, and now it would serve a new purpose.
He dragged the mattress across the floor, the scraping sound harsh in the quiet, Petunia's eyes widening as she realized his intent. She tried to crawl backward, her robe catching on the splintered wood, but there was no escape. Clark set the mattress before her, watching her panicked gaze, her body shaking, her lips trembling as she whispered, "No… please…"
He crouched again, reaching for the straps of her robe and ripping them off with a single, brutal tug. Petunia shrieked, her body exposed, her pale skin almost luminescent in the candlelight, her small breasts bare, her nipples hardening despite the cold. Clark smirked, pinching one between his thumb and finger, her gasp sharp as she tried to squirm away, her hands flailing uselessly.
His other hand slid down, gripping the waist of her panties and dragging them off, leaving her naked, vulnerable, her terror palpable. Petunia sobbed, her voice breaking. "Harry, I'm sorry," she whispered, her tears soaking the mattress. "Please… don't."
Clark's eyes narrowed, his smirk fading to a hard line. "Sorry?" he said, his voice dripping with scorn, the word a mockery. "You're sorry now, when you're the one on your knees?"
He stood, towering over her, his toned frame casting a shadow across the room, the candlelight highlighting the scars of his past—Kryptonian and human, etched into his skin. "You don't get to apologize," he said, his voice steady, unyielding. "Not after what you did."
Petunia's hands clutched the mattress, her body shaking, her pleas swallowed by fear. Clark's power hummed within him, a reminder of the Kryptonian he was, the boy he'd left behind. He could crush them both, end this now—but that was too easy, too quick. They needed to feel the weight of their sins, to live with the consequences of their cruelty.
"You can't do this," she sobbed, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes pleading.
"Oh?" Clark said, his tone mocking. "Watch me."
He pulled her across the mattress, laying her on her back, her tear-filled eyes staring up at him, her chest heaving. Stepping over her, he loomed, her whimper sharp as she tried to cover herself, but it was futile. Clark kicked her legs apart, her thighs falling open, revealing her pussy, her gasp loud as she tried to squeeze them shut. His strength was overwhelming, holding her legs effortlessly, leaning in closer, his breath hot against her skin.
"Oh my God," Petunia whispered, her voice trembling. "Oh my God, what are you going to do?"
Clark didn't answer. His smirk was his reply, lowering his head, his tongue licking her pussy for the first time, the contact shocking, her scream piercing as her hips bucked. He held her in place, sucking her clit, his tongue circling relentlessly, her body trembling, a tear falling from her lashes onto the mattress.
"Oh no," she moaned, her voice desperate. "Oh no, oh no, oh no."
Clark didn't relent, his tongue working her sensitive spot, her attempts to pull away futile against his grip. "Fuck," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Fuck, Harry."
She didn't mean it, her words a plea for him to stop, to leave her alone, but Clark's eyes locked onto hers, his smirk unwavering as he sucked and slobbered over her clit, her body betraying her, tightening with unwanted pleasure. "Oh, you taste amazing," he growled, his hot breath ghosting over her wet pussy. "Fucking amazing."
Petunia cried out, her eyes falling shut, her body trembling, her orgasm building despite her resistance. "Harry!" she screamed. "Harry, stop!"
He ignored her, licking relentlessly, sucking until her body shook, her orgasm washing through her, her scream raw, her shame complete. When she opened her eyes, Clark stood before her, wiping his mouth, his smirk triumphant.
"My God," she whispered, her chest heaving, her body flushed with unwanted pleasure.
Clark gave her no reprieve, pulling off his shirt, revealing his toned chest, muscles hard in the dim light, Petunia's eyes widening at his massive cock as he shed his pants, its size monstrous, thick and long, a vein pulsing, precum glistening at the tip. He gripped it, stroking slowly, her whimper loud as she tried to squirm away.
"Do you remember all the times you slapped me, Aunt Petunia?" he asked, his voice low, accusing. "Do you remember how much that hurt?"
She shook her head, denying it, tears streaming down her face.
"And do you remember how many times you called me a freak, Petunia?" he continued, his tone unrelenting. "Do you remember that?"
"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, don't hurt me."
He ignored her, kneeling before her, his cock heavy between his thighs, her whimper sharp as she realized his intent. "No," she whispered, but it was too late. Clark pressed her head onto the mattress, pushing his cock against her mouth, precum coating her lips.
"Open your mouth," he growled. "Or I'll make you regret it."
Petunia sniffled, struggling, but his grip was iron, his cold eyes piercing. She had no choice, opening her lips, his cock pressing inside, her sob muffled as he pushed into her throat, gagging her. Her nails scraped his thigh, but he didn't flinch, thrusting deeper, her saliva coating him, tears streaming as he used her mouth.
"Good girl," he growled. "Take it like a good slut."
She sobbed, struggling to breathe, but he thrust relentlessly, holding her until her eyes watered, pulling back only to let her gasp before plunging in again. "Not enough," he murmured, using her like a toy, her choke and drool a testament to his control. He pulled out, precum coating her chin, smacking her cheek, her whimper sharp.
"Good slut," he said, lowering himself onto the mattress, his hard body pressing against her soft, pale skin. "Don't worry," he said, his voice mocking. "It'll be over soon."
With one hard thrust, he plunged into her pussy, her scream loud, his cock filling her impossibly, her body shaking as he pumped, ignoring her cries of "Harry, don't!" He pinned her down, thrusting hard, her breasts jiggling, her nipples hard, her mouth open in a silent scream. He angled for her g-spot, hitting it perfectly, her body tensing, her orgasm building despite her fear.
Clark smirked, fucking her through her climax, her pussy clenching, her scream silent as pleasure overwhelmed her. "You've been a good slut, Petunia," he murmured, pulling out, leaving her empty, her protest cut off as he flipped her onto her stomach, her ass in the air.
"Wh-what?" she stuttered, but he spanked her ass, holding her still, plunging back inside, her scream sharp as he fucked her relentlessly, her body bouncing, her sobs loud. "Oh my God," she wailed. "Harry, you're so thick!"
"Be quiet, slut," he growled, spanking her again, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing until she screamed, her body tensing, another orgasm crashing through her. "Come for me," he commanded, and she did, her pussy clenching, her scream raw.
He tensed, his cum exploding inside her, filling her as she trembled, his thrusts slowing as he emptied. Pulling out, he grabbed her hair, pressing his cock to her mouth. "Clean me," he growled, and she obeyed, sucking her juices off, collapsing when he released her.
"You're a good little slut, Petunia," he murmured, rubbing her hair. "A very good little slut."
Petunia's tear-filled eyes met his. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice broken.
Vernon's weak plea cut through, "Stop… leave her alone…" his voice faint from the floor.
Clark's boot pressed harder, silencing him. "You don't get to talk," he said, ice-cold. "You lost that right years ago."
He turned to Petunia, her crumpled form a symbol of their defeat. "You thought you were better than me," he said, his words deliberate. "You thought you could break me. But look at you now."
Petunia's whimper was her only response, her eyes wide, defeated. Clark stepped back, his chest heaving, his power a quiet roar. The cupboard was silent, save for her sobs and Vernon's labored breaths, the Dursleys broken, their cruelty turned against them.
"This isn't over," he said, his voice a promise etched in steel. "You'll never forget who I am."
Clark stepped into the hallway, his smirk lingering, vengeance satisfied for now. The wizarding world awaited—Hogwarts, Voldemort's remnants, a destiny he'd reshape. The Dursleys would stew in their fear, a taste of the hell they'd given him, while Clark Kent, Harry Potter, forged his path, unstoppable.