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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are
not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner
Brothers, and others, and are used without permission. No profit is
being made from the use of these characters and situations; these
written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the
interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy
them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in
any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as
authorized materials of these owners.
Notes: Summary: Dementors gone from Azkaban? If only.
Kinks/Warnings: Horror. Graphic non-consensual Dementor rape. Bukkake.
A/N: Written for Wave 2 of the pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest,
request made by ponderosa121-- "Dementors/Lucius. Lucius raped
by the dementors, and/or having his own good memories of Snape and/or
Draco twisted back at him. Oral. Bukkake or comeplay. Hair pulling, and
chopped off messily before or after. Humiliation. No broken victim,
please." Thanks to betas fabularasa, shaggirl, and silentauror.
He faced the guards and knew immediately he would have to fight.
It was the last, the very last option he could have hoped for. The news
that Azkaban had resorted to the employ of human guards had been both
welcome and not. One couldn't negotiate with Dementors; one couldn't
placate Dementors. Dementors would take what they would and no amount
of good behavior would change that.
The prospect of human guards, instead, gave Lucius what he knew was a
cruel false hope. One couldn't help but believe there was a way to
appease one's fellow man, to win him. Earn his respect and make things
as smooth as possible.
Some responded well to, "That won't be necessary, my good fellow; I
shan't give you any trouble. I can see you're the civilized type, and I
And some with whom one was better off with, "Yes, sir. No, sir."
Lucius took one look at these two men and knew they were there to make
his life hell. Not their size which confirmed this, no, neither their
bulk nor their unkempt shabbiness nor the broken noses and rough
knuckles and other such scars of a hundred gutterside scraps, no. It
was the smiles, of course the smiles, so out-of-place on the faces of
guards--of these guards--at the entrance to the cell wing. An
Abandon hope sign couldn't have been more unsubtle.
And they smiled, and the one on the right said, "Welcome, Mr. Malfoy."
Not sir, not number
three-oh-six-six-five--if they'd said either of those things,
Lucius would have known to use the my good fellow or
the yes sir responses, respectively. No, they were
using his name, and they were smiling.
Lucius readied himself for the punch. At least it would not take him by
And it came, and it was aimed at his gut and he attempted to block
it--even tried to bring his bound hands up after the block for a
counter hit. Fight back; fight back and win, that was all men like
these would respect. One could even turn men like these, if one got
But it was the winning, of course, that would elude him. The second man
was behind him, pulling him back with a strangling arm across his
throat, and Lucius's hands were all but useless as the first guard made
up for his abortive first punch with a drive into his gut that had
Lucius on his knees retching a moment later.
"Now, that wasn't smart of you at all, was it, Mr. Malfoy?" one of them
was saying. "'Course, wasn't smart of you to get caught, either."
Lucius knew better than to answer. He couldn't have, throat and sinuses
full of acid and lungs empty of anything resembling air.
"Ministry doesn't like Death Eaters. But Ministry positively hates
Death Eaters who get caught." Hands on his shoulders, his arms, hauling
him up. "Death Eaters on the loose are good for nice tasty bribes, at
least. But get caught as bare-arsed guilty as you did, and Ministry has
to stammer daft excuses about why they hadn't the faintest before that,
and of course those charitable contributions of yours meant nothing. No
one believes a word, of course. Right mortifying." They were going to
hit him again, he was sure. "Wizard like you falls, Mr. Malfoy, he
falls hard." Lucius jerked his bound hands up to his face, fingers
clawed into a shield.
They didn't hit him.
Stupid. He should have attacked. Too late.
They had him from behind, pushing him into the cell wing. Too many
needs warring in his head--fight back, keep his feet, get air into his
lungs, look into the cells he passed to see the wretches he was going
to resemble soon. That last--where were the prisoners? Shouldn't some
of them have been at the cell bars, peering at the new inmate? Not one.
Only shadows beyond each barred door. That was all the more frightening.
The corridor forked; one of the men released his arm long enough to
point in the direction opposite the one Lucius was being pushed.
"Your cell's down that passage, but you're not going into it, not yet.
Ministry put out that story that the Dementors left Azkaban, but that
wasn't it, quite. Ministry didn't want the wizarding public to know the
Dementors've come over all unhappy-like, and that Ministry's got less
control of them than the public thinks. Dementors've got a new
assignment now. Keeps them from going off and preying on the public."
Lucius had assumed they'd gone over to Voldemort, and had been bitter
over it: nothing like an ally come too late. He'd been misled, then--as
easily as any other rumor-fed fool.
The implication of the word assignment didn't hit
home until they reached the open crater in the stone floor.
Absurdly, even as he tried to dig in his heels, a cold, sensible part
of his mind understood why the Ministry had chosen brutes like these as
the watchmen for Azkaban.
"Dementors haven't left the prison." One had his shoulder between
Lucius's shoulder blades, not at all hindered by Lucius's attempt to
throw his weight back. "They've just gone under the prison." Shove.
Nothing for him to grab. His feet were in teasing contact with the lip
of the crater, and he was over, an inrush of breath for the scream,
black abyssal nothing dragging it out of him, thin prison robe tangling
him as his every limb sought and flailed and braced for impact.
He was caught.
Not saved, not cushioned. Snatched at, stopped. Flanges of unyielding
bone seized his legs, his arms, pulling them apart, the magical bonds
on his wrists dissolving with a hiss. But it was a different hissing,
all about him, that told him how many of them there were. Many.
The hands brought him upright. Bone fingers lifted his chin--if they
had tried to Kiss him at that moment Lucius could have done nothing to
prevent it--and more fingers carded through his hair. His robes were
twitched at, torn away from his body in a dozen small rendings through
He could see them now. There was light, though little of it, and it
came from them. Lit from within, the skeletal forms could just be seen,
draped in the wispy black wrappings that drifted in a delicate
wind--which seemed to come from them in the same way as the light. He
could feel those black wisps touching, clinging to his own skin
wherever the Dementors held him.
And then the one before him bent its head, and the wisps fell away from
that fathomless maw, and it Kissed him.
The Kiss said You are here forever, and
There is no escape, and there was something else--it
was the look on Narcissa's face as she clutched his arm that night and
said, "Kreacher. My fool of a cousin has thrown him out; he serves
us now,"--and more than that look, his rising
delight that the Dark Lord would be glad of this, would be pleased that
Lucius had brought it to him--
--and then it was gone; it not only wasn't there anymore, there was the
knowledge that something had been there, something
he should have had, something precious and needed as air, and it was
gone and would not come back. Ever.
Sick as he was to know it, Lucius nevertheless realized that the thing
had not Kissed him, it had...kissed him, and the
fate of a soulless husk was not to be his, not yet.
There was, however, scant relief at that thought.
The hands moving through his hair tightened. Gripped. His head tilted
back inexorably, eyes watering as the grip kept increasing even when he
could move no further in response. His mouth opened in a groan--the
first noise he'd made since falling, the only noise other than the
hisses of the Dementors.
And another one of the things was above him, maw exposed and leeching
onto his mouth. Again the sense of no escape, of
hell eternal, and this time it was Severus he saw,
Severus naked beside him in Lucius's own marriage bed, Severus who was
still not bold enough yet to kiss him on the mouth of his own
initiative, though he'd submit to being fucked a dozen times a day with
an almost girlish eagerness--Severus kissing him, instead, on the crook
of the arm shyly and saying, "I want to join him. I want to give
you that, Lucius," and the surge in Lucius's heart--
--and something was gone again, something that
mocked his anguish as it fluttered away, letting him fall that much
deeper into his loss.
Each one came to him and kissed him; ten, a dozen, twenty or more, and
each one took, and took. Moments only; never the loss of anything
longer than a moment, but leaving him with the horrible surety that
they were all the best he had. Images involving Voldemort. Narcissa,
Snape. Draco. Fleeting and fading. What had they been--events when he'd
been honored, been gifted, been in love? How did one use a flawed
memory to search for gaps in the same memory?
The day he'd joined Voldemort's ranks--no, that was still there; he'd
been far more nervous than happy. Draco's birth--God, he knew he'd been
there for that, where was it? No. The midwitch had come to him--had
come to him--
It just stopped there. He was giving the midwitch his best imperious
look, waiting for her to confirm that it was a son and healthy--and
then nothing. Damn them to fucking hell.
But--there, his six-month-old son, sitting on the parlor rug and
patting at its velvety nap, looking up at him and pronouncing "Da,"
almost gravely--he still had that. They hadn't taken that one.
At last the dreadful sequence of kisses stopped, though his hair was
He'd thought they were done with him. They were not.
Even Dementors thought it rude to couple without kissing first, it
He'd never thought of the Dementors as creatures even possessing
gender; the idea was ludicrous. Gender implied reproduction. Dementors
mating? Gestating? Absurd.
Yet the Dementor in front of him was disrobing. Black draperies parting
in that invisible wind, torso hardly more than a ribcage, but leathery
flesh stretched over it all the same. The same repulsive flesh molded
over the pelvis and rudimentary fused extensions of legs--nothing so
neat that could be called a tail. And there, at the center of the
pelvis, a withered parody of an organ, a ghastly tumefaction, stiff in
the way aged limbs were stiff, not in any semblance of human virility.
The creatures' hands were questing along his flanks now, moving between
his legs to touch and lift his own flaccid cock, his tight retracted
scrotum. The fingers seemed to have little interest in these once they
encountered them, pushing them out of the way like rejected fruit until
they arrived at the entrance of his anus. Lucius imagined he could feel
the thrill of communication from the thing's very arm to whatever it
used for a brain, impulse jumping from mind to mind among them with its
message: here is what we will use.
Twenty of them. Or more. No. God, no.
Hands were pulling his legs apart; he could feel the pressure of one of
the Dementors against his back. The naked pressure; its loathsome skin
brushed over his without its gauzy covering between them. But the
unclad Dementor before him had not moved, save to rise a little in the
air. It reached out, fingers touching his lips, prising his panting
mouth open that much more.
Oh, fuck. He would rather endure the sodomizing, twenty times over.
He was not given the choice. As the Dementor at his back pulled his
buttocks apart and settled its jutting shaft between them--as
unyielding and spiny as a wooden stake--the one before him pressed its
own vile cock into Lucius's mouth, the taste of it conjuring moldy
books in an attic, an ancient lace undergarment, the ash of an edifice
burned to the ground. All that spoke of decay and of nothing organic.
The sensation was so repellent that Lucius could not even imagine
biting to discourage the Dementor--the idea that he might sever the
thing and have it loose in his mouth for even a moment was so dreadful
it paralyzed him.
And something was adding to the taste, as the Dementor thrust its
pelvis and its cock forward. Where the tip of it rasped against the
back of his palate, the bitterest seepage touched his tongue, so
repugnant it had him crying out. Worse than any healing potion he'd
been forced to swallow as a boy--naturally he still had all of
those memories--the bitterness was nothing like the
mere astringency of male semen. This made him shudder to the very beds
of his fingernails, to the roots of his hair. It
It burned as well upon the head of the cock pushing into his anus,
though at first he was unable to distinguish it from the pain of the
thing stabbing into him, unrelenting and harsh as an injection. But
there was wetness there, a trace, and his very membranes seemed to
react to its touch with that same shudder-inducing revulsion that it
produced on his tongue. He could not escape the slow penetration, his
legs held wide and fast by the creatures, and the hands of the one
raping him curved about his flanks to pull him back onto its stony
fossil of a prick. The continued excretion of its acrid spunk inside
him felt like blood from a wound--or perhaps he was bleeding.
Impossible to tell.
When it began to thrust, the action so very male, so very
human, Lucius's near-voiceless horror snapped. He
screamed. Screamed and threatened and pleaded, words lost
unintelligibly around the rigid shaft in his mouth. It did not matter
that pleas and threats were useless; cruel false hope worked exactly
But he could not sustain that vigorous a level of terror for long. Even
horror acclimatizes, and shortly Lucius was back to gasping and
shuddering in sickened disgust as he was violated both fore and aft,
the cock in his arse crawling ever deeper inside him, the one in his
mouth seeking the friction of his tongue despite his utter lack of
compliance to do that.
The Dementor raping his mouth pulled away--not suddenly, these
creatures did not appear to do anything suddenly. But its prick left
Lucius's mouth, and--suddenly, after all--the sickening ooze of its
semen splashed onto his lips, into his eyes, burning though not
blinding, landing on his cheeks like tears--and indeed, mixing with his
own as his eyes spilled over, trying to drive the stinging mess out.
His arms were held, his head still immobilized by the grip on his hair;
he could not wipe it away, could not do anything but try to blink the
ghastly stuff clear.
He was, however, free to curse aloud as the one fucking him clutched at
his hipbones, sinking its prick deep and flooding his insides with more
of its loathsome spend. When it pulled away with a
squelch that had been the loudest sound not made by
his own voice, Lucius retched again, dry-heaving against an already-raw
Another of the creatures was before him, bony fingers on his jaw, not
even waiting for him to finish gagging as it opened his mouth and
pushed its decrepit cock inside. This one had the same taste of decay
and inhumanly bitter seed, but the images conjured were different:
dust-hung spider's webs, stone crumbled to chalk, the splintered edge
of a long-buried coffin. It did not seem to matter if these were his
own remembered smells and tastes or not.
Yet another Dementor pressed its near-fleshless body against his back.
The prick of this one penetrated him with greater ease yet no greater
comfort; the caustic slime inside him ate away at Lucius's nerve
endings as the cock drove its way in, harsh as a rasp. It sank in to
the hilt on the first thrust, and began an unhurried pace that seemed
to scour him with each pass.
The Dementor using his mouth this time also declined to come into it,
again pulling out and spilling its foul ejaculate over his face, some
of it spattering into his hairline and trickling down to gather in his
eyebrows, where its slow drip into his eyes was maddening as well as
stinging. How could there be so bloody much of it?
That observation was confirmed when the third of his irrumators did
indeed ejaculate down his throat. Lucius found himself forced to
swallow or choke, as the creature's prick thrust to the very back of
his tongue, pouring an impossible quantity of its tainted spunk into
his gorge. Lucius gagged and swallowed, gagged and swallowed until the
prick had withdrawn and all he had to do was gag, but again his
retchings were useless dry heaves that were cut short when the fourth
came forward to have its turn.
He could not keep from counting. He could not keep from losing count.
It was more than twenty, he knew; perhaps not as much as twice that
number, so he did not know if each of the creatures had had him both in
the mouth and arse. But when they stopped using his orifices, they were
still not done. They laid him back on the icy stone floor of the
pit--the first realization he had that the abyss did have a floor--and
bound his hair around something, a sunken ring, it seemed--and swarmed
over him, not even bothering to restrain his limbs as they stroked
their abhorrent forms against his body, his writhings and attempts to
escape them only fueling their interest, it seemed, while each ground
against him, frotting against his belly and breast and face and neck
and fingers and thighs and one of them pressing its prick into his
groin, rubbing mercilessly until Lucius's own cock twitched its way to
dismayed erection in sheer involuntary response. And when they did
come, each of them spurted a quantity of semen enough to drench him
where he lay, saturating him from head to foot in their secretions,
marking his body and memory with the phantasms of an excavated
sepulchre, of moth-eaten yellowed bandages, of a plague-destroyed
civilization. Lucius lay drowning in it in every sense.
And then they left him.
How long he lay there Lucius could not know, but when voices--voices
not his own--became distinct, he tried to focus on them.
"Much obliged, Mr. Malfoy; that should keep them happy for a day or so."
"Thorough, weren't they?"
"Quite. Must have liked him especially."
A light. One of the two guards had a lantern.
"Hell, this knot's never going to come loose." Something caught the
light for a moment, and Lucius heard--felt--a rasping close at his
scalp, a series of jerks on his hair that were abruptly ended. "Up you
get, Mr. Malfoy."
Indifferent to the corrupt ooze that covered him, the two men hoisted
him up and draped him heedlessly about their shoulders. A few steps,
and they were ascending: a staircase that had been concealed behind a
door in the pit. Lucius realized, carried as he was in his lolling-head
position, that the one had cut his hair off all the way to the crown.
Though he thought it should matter little after what the Dementors had
done, they had not taken away his ability to feel anguish. For that
small thing, more than for the unbearable horror he'd suffered in the
pit, he wanted to weep.
The light of the cell corridor was too much for him; he shut his eyes
against it. Noises of metal, of keys. A shrug of the men's shoulders
and he was dumped to the floor without ceremony. He cracked one eye
open: his cell.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy, a session with the Dementors seems to do wonders with
prisoners. No trouble from them for a good week, after. 'Course, not
much in the way of speech or movement either." Again, those horrible
harbingers of smiles. "You can have all the time you like to recover.
Expect you'll be able to crawl to the food bucket in a day or so. Also
expect that's about all you'll be up for, most of the week. And after a
week?" They leaned in; the smiles grew wider. "Expect it'll be your
turn to keep the Dementors happy again. Pleasant dreams, Mr. Malfoy."
Lucius closed his eyes and did not bother to watch them exit the cell.
In his mind, six-month old Draco looked up at him and said, "Da."
He wondered for how long.
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