Commuted Sentence

There is only one thing they want: his suffering. Lucius can taste how much they want it in the air, lead by the energy of the Dark Lord’s fury permeating the room. He can taste his own blood, too, spilling down his chin. He can’t meet the red eyes in that pale face; to do so would be an invitation to cast another Cruciatus Curse on him—or worse, finish him off.

“Can you give us a reason to spare you, and your family? Is there anything you are still good for . . . any use you still have to us?”

Lucius leans on his arm. This question is a trap, he can feel it. The jaws are closing around his neck. His eyes flick up to the Dark Lord. There is murder in his eyes . . . but amusement, too.

Lucius so very, very badly does not want to die.

“M-my Lord, s-surely . . . there is s-something . . .” His lips and tongue don’t respond to his demands thanks to the remnants of the Curse. His entire body shakes with its brutal remnants in his body.

There has to be a reason for Lucius to live. Something he has left.

Those red eyes are alight with the pleasure of killing something weak and defenseless. The dark hem of that cloak comes ever closer. Lucius feels his death come with it, dark and inevitable—

It cannot be inevitable. He refuses to let it be. Lucius Malfoy does not want to die. The fear of it is so palpable it burns his entire body.

“You have failed us by every possible measure, Lucius.” The cold voice caresses his name like hands on a neck before they clamp down. Death is inches—seconds—away—

He cannot suffer if he is dead. Perhaps this should be a comfort to him: it is not. Yet it is his one saving grace. Lucius just has to remind them of it.

“My Lord . . . I beg you . . . there is nothing I would not do.” Lucius tries to push himself on his knees. One of his arms gives out with a burst of pain. His own filth slips down his legs. Agony lances through his body, so bright and sudden he feels dizzy. No. If he passes out now, he will never wake up. Nagini will eat him alive.

The terror of the thought wraps its cold fingers around his neck.

Lucius tries to think of anything to say. To beg out of the incident because of his lack of wand would mean to blame Narcissa and Draco. “Bella told me . . . not to summon you. I meant to, but she was . . . insistent.”

Bellatrix gives Lucius a cringing, furious look.

“My Lord, I merely sought to ensure the safety of your property. It was Lucius’s old house-elf who freed Potter and Weasley and the Mudblood.”

The Dark Lord looks down at him. Lucius’s gaze is drawn into those horribly cold eyes. He whimpers as he feels the knife through his thoughts, spreading them thin and tearing them apart. Dobby—the diary—the sock.

“The one Potter tricked him into freeing,” the Dark Lord says. “The one who came back into his house.”

Lucius shuts his eyes, turning away. His thoughts hurt.

“You can’t even take care of your elf, Lucius.” The Death Eaters clustered around them laugh. Familiar. “And you cannot prevent him from stealing Potter from under your nose. You are . . . utterly incompetent. A complete failure.”

“Please, my Lord,” Lucius begs. “Not complete. My son—he brought the Death Eaters into the school. He breached the walls of Hogwarts.”

A high laugh. “Your use is entirely in your loins, then?”

Laughter. It’s numb in Lucius’s ears.

“Perhaps we can find something to do with you, Lucius,” the Dark Lord croons. Lucius looks up.

The tone means that he will suffer. But he will live. And his family will live.

“My Lord?” Lucius asks hesitantly.

“Bella, what happened to the Mudblood you were . . . using?”

Bellatrix’s eyes are wide and dark and merciless, no trace of the stars for which she is named in their sky. “He’s dead, My Lord. Grayback took his turn.”

“You may have Lucius next,” the Dark Lord says carelessly. He flicks his wand. Lucius is clean. Clean to be used.

His lips move. All Lucius hears is the blood in his ears. He chokes on the blood leaking from his bitten tongue. It spills down his chin as he gasps, desperately, for breath.

“—nothing that can’t be healed,” the Dark Lord finishes. He casts merciless red eyes back to Lucius.

“I—my Lord, I—I—I don’t—” More blood leaks down his chin. Lucius doesn’t have words, only the horrified hot-cold feeling washing over his body.

“You find yourself useless?” the Dark Lord asks.

“No, I—”

Lucius looks up at the Dark Lord, eyes wide. He makes a strange, choking sob in his throat. His chest feels tight.

No. No, no, no.

Please.

The tip of that wand lifts itself once again to point at him. Lucius realizes he said the last word out loud. He whimpers. “My Lord—I—you—I—”

“You have been given the mercy you deserve,” the Dark Lord hisses. “I suggest you take it.”

The Death Eaters around them now feel like a gathering storm, waiting to bear down upon him. Lucius’s eyes flick to Narcissa and Draco—

Horror, disgust, terror. Narcissa’s fingers tighten on Draco’s wrist. She doesn’t move. Draco shuts his eyes. His hands shake.

Ever so slightly, Narcissa nods. Barely-there. Maybe imagined.

Lucius Malfoy does not want to die.

All of his saliva is turned to blood. “Thank you . . . my Lord,” Lucius whispers.

Death wouldn’t be better than this. But it would be a great deal more dignified. Lucius hates to think about when he had dignity. It makes him ache more deeply than anything ever has.

The Dark Lord flicks his wand. The filth from the torture disappears. “I expect you to show your gratitude to your . . . betters,” he says.

Lucius flinches at the word.

“And show your family how much you want to live,” he adds, cold and amused.

The room twists in front of him, a broken mirror to what it was when he lived here mere years ago. The drawing room he lived in since he was a child is now cold, empty, and closing in around him. The reality of it bears down upon him with as much dangerous force as a Dementor.

Lucius shuts his eyes. He can’t be here, he can’t do this—

He can’t die.

His eyes burn. Lucius kneels, breathing shallowly, with only the residual pain of the Cruciatus Curse and the throbbing pain in his broken arm to distract him.

“Severus,” that high, cold death knell chimes, “you will go first.”

The contents of his stomach were emptied when the Dark Lord tortured him and now Lucius only tastes vomit. The room is utterly silent. All Lucius hears is the clicking of boots across the marble—

Tinny and tiny. Louder.

Silence.

Lucius slowly opens his eyes to familiar brown buttons climbing up a dark robe. Severus’s face is still and empty. This, Lucius knows, was never his preference, not when it was Muggle women Lucius offered him nor when it was Order members they tortured before killing them.

This doesn’t make Lucius loathe him any less. He’s sure the hatred is obvious in his eyes.

Severus stows his wand in his robes. Pale fingers start to under the buttons on his abdomen, slowly but surely stripping him down.

The mortality of the situation still hangs in the balance. His life is forfeit if he doesn’t do this.

The fear is what drives him forward, a cold tide that drowns the worst humiliation he has felt in his life, the desperate and sickening shame of falling in his son’s eyes, the slow breaking of what he once considered his self—

Severus’s fingers produce his prick from his drawers. It’s not unfamiliar—only strange from this perspective. It’s thick, framed with wiry black hair, with blue-green veins prominent in the pale skin and the slit peeking through the foreskin.

I don’t want to die.

Lucius forces himself up on his knees. His arm sends pain wrenching through his body.

All he can think about is Draco watching him. What he must think. It might be better for him to watch his father die than this.

He won’t.

Lucius doesn’t know how to begin, but the fear forces him forward. He uses his right hand to take Severus’s prick. It’s slightly warm. Lucius shivers—opens his mouth—touches it with his tongue.

Sweat and skin.

Lucius has some idea of how it’s supposed to go. He drags his tongue up the side, moves the foreskin off of the head so he can lick at it. If he thinks about what he’s doing, he’ll fail, so he doesn’t, the entire affair blurring into tasting skin on his tongue.

Severus hardens. He doesn’t make any noise or say anything, but he moves under Lucius’s tongue. Lucius knows how he feels when he’s in pleasure, even now, even with this—

Severus’s fingers twine in Lucius’s hair. Lucius jerks back ever so slightly.

“Are you so ungrateful?” the Dark Lord chides.

Lucius whimpers in terror. He moves forward, takes the head of Severus’s prick in his mouth. He tastes pre-come, gags, and laps it up from the head anyways. Lucius tries to use his hand, in the same way he might bring himself off.

Severus is getting closer. Lucius just wants it to be done, wants this to be over, and does not want to die. The terror could be mistaken for enthusiasm as he hollows his cheeks to suck, Severus’s hand twitching in his hair, everyone he’s ever known watching him—

Severus’s hand clamps down. He pulls Lucius forward, forcing his prick down his throat.

Lucius struggles, remembers he cannot, half-sobs as he feels the head bump the back of his throat. He gags, spasming against the length that is being fed to him. His eyes water, his lips reaching the hilt of it. Dark hair tickles his nose as it presses against the skin.

Severus’s fingers dig into his hair with real force, pulling him back, pushing him down—

Fucking his face—

Lucius gags violently. He can’t catch his breath, desperately thrashing—

Severus comes in jolts of warmth and liquid. Lucius gags and spasms around his prick. His nails dig into his fists. He’s dying, he has to be. He swallows desperately. Semen slides down his throat in waves.

Severus finally, mercifully, lets go. Lucius leans over the marble floor. He gags and hacks. Come and stomach acid drip out of his mouth and glitter in one long line to the floor. Tears leak out of his eyes.

Severus’s face is flushed as his fumbling fingers button up his robes. It’s wiped clean of emotion. Half-blood bastard, Lucius thinks spitefully.

Years. More than a decade.

Lucius wipes his mouth, smearing saliva on his sleeve. Severus steps away.

The faces all stare silently. Yet Lucius can see the bright cruelty in them. He is not a comrade being punished, no, he is a thing to be toyed with and tortured. Bella smirks at him.

“Have you done that before, Lucius?” the Dark Lord asks.

Tears trickle down the cuts on Lucius’s face, the salt stinging him. “N—no, my Lord,” he chokes out. Live, survive, don’t die—

“You will have practice,” the Dark Lord says.

The Death Eaters take their leave to laugh, loud and sharp. It drowns out the weak sob that escapes Lucius’s mouth. His throat still hurts from the screaming. He tastes come and blood.

They move around him, dark boots stomping. Lucius can’t look at Narcissa. He prays she’ll leave—pull away—anything. Anything not to see him like this . . . but then, she will know it is happening. And that’s all there is to it, isn’t it?

More tears escape his eyes. The shattered thing he’s become is finally unable to pull together at the seams.

Someone yanks his hair up. Lucius blinks wet eyes up at a familiar face.

Rabastan Lestrange isn’t a ponce, but he’s certainly bent. The look on his face is one of lust as well as cruelty. “I can’t believe I finally get to do this,” he says, grinning. “I’ll make you a deal, Malfoy. You show some enthusiasm for my prick and my brother won’t be too rough with your arse. I might even fix your arm.”

Lucius tries to wrench his head around to see where Rodolphus is. Rabastan holds him steady. “What do you say?”

Lucius closes his eyes. His entire body shakes. He gives a short, sharp nod.

Don’t think about what’s going to happen.

Rabastan pats his cheek. “Good boy. Get on all fours.”

Lucius is crying now, tears streaking his cheeks as he shudders soundlessly. Rabastan drops his hair and he leans forward, balancing on his arms. His fingers spread on the cold floor.

Rabastan crouches down next to him. He pushes Lucius’s hair behind his ear.

Cool hands push Lucius’s robes up his hips. All Lucius can think of is the thick, intimidating thing between Rodolphus’s legs and the brutal and merciless pace he’s seen him take dozens before. Fingers hook into the knot holding his drawers on and pull it free before pulling it down his thighs.

Rabastan taps fingers against Lucius’s cheekbone insistently. “Time to reciprocate for once in your life.”

Lucius’s face is hot with humiliation. He can see the shadows around them, looking at him, watching—

He doesn’t want to listen to the words. (“Can’t wait to have a go at him”—"Always thought he was better than the rest of us”—"I bet nobody’s buggered him before”—"Oh, look, he’s crying”—)

The fear of pain makes him give in. Rabastan’s prick is long. The slit at the tip already leaks pre-come. Lucius sobs, leans forward, and traces the head with his tongue. The taste of come, less bitter than Severus’s, fills his mouth.

“Oh, yes,” Rabastan groans.

Lucius moves his head down it and brings a cringing hand up to touch the base. He wants to prove that he can hold up his end of the bargain, so that it doesn’t hurt quite so much—

Rodolphus runs a slick thumb down his crack. Lucius’s entire body shudders in horror. A finger, at his hole.

He pushes himself so far down on Rabastan’s prick that he gags.

Rodolphus shoves a wet, cold finger inside him. Lucius chokes around Rabastan’s prick.

This is happening, this is really happening, this is really going to happen.

He can’t tell if the tears are from the gagging or the sobbing. Lucius lavishes Rabastan’s prick with attention. He laps up the underside, tries to find the things he likes, sucks on his head.

Rodolphus slowly, surely buggers him with his fingers. Lucius can’t help but squirm. He counts himself reluctantly lucky that his bowels are empty and he is clean.

Lucius can’t risk him going in dry. He’s too afraid of the pain, the insides of him being ruined. He fucks himself dutifully on Rabastan’s prick until he can’t take it and pulls back to gag. He uses one hand to rub the shaft, already slick with pre-come and saliva.

Rodolphus’s fingers enter him to the knuckle. Lucius thinks of what he must look like to those watching and the idea makes him sob again.

“—soggy blowjob—” someone mutters.

“He’s crying because he had to stop talking,” someone else jokes.

Rabastan grinds his hips upwards appreciatively. Lucius tries to take it as deep as he can.

Rodolphus removes his fingers. He spreads Lucius with both hands. Lucius feels his muscles start to flutter.

“Relax,” Rabastan says, almost gently. “Just let him in.”

Lucius tries, he does try, but his entire body is wound so tightly from the Cruciatus Curse. The head of Rodolphus’s prick burns, splits him open—

He cries. He cries for his position, and for his wife watching him, and for the entire year of failure and ruin, and because he’s been reduced to nothing more than a toy for the pleasure of people who used to respect him. Who used to fear him, look up to him, obey him.

He cries all over Rabastan’s prick, but Rabastan doesn’t seem to mind. He just pushes Lucius’s head down.

Lucius chokes and gags as Rodolphus forces himself inside. Even with lubricant, Lucius’s body doesn’t want it, not something that’s too big and not something like that, there.

Rodolphus is silent the entire time, eerie and strange as he always has been. He pushes his head past the second stubborn ring of muscle and Lucius’s body splits to accommodate him.

“Keep going,” Rabastan says pointedly. Lucius forces himself to move up and down on the man’s prick, taking it further in his throat. He can barely catch his breath. His neck aches at this angle, all the pressure on his wrist making it ache.

The pain is better than knowing he’s being buggered in front of everyone. Than listening to the laughter and murmuring. He’s being inevitably invaded, slowly. He tries to distract himself by pleasuring Rabastan. He abuses his own throat on the man’s prick. Desperately, he takes him as far as it will go, nearly to the hilt.

“Oh, yes, that’s brilliant—do it again,” Rabastan says.

Lucius whimpers around his prick as Rodolphus pushes further and further into him. The man’s hands dig into his hips as he pulls Lucius back—onto him.

He takes Rabastan deeper. Anything to make this better, to make it hurt less. Lucius gags and throws up—all that’s in his stomach is Severus’s seed. It spills over Rabastan’s prick and groin.

Rabastan yanks Lucius off his prick. Lucius gags over and over.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” he forces out. “Please—please don’t tell him to make it worse.”

Rabastan rolls his eyes. “Points for enthusiasm, I suppose. Finish me off quick, Malfoy.” His light brown eyes, almost golden in the light, gleam. Rabastan has always wanted him, ever since school, in the way the girls and some of the boys always had wanted Lucius.

Lucius fucks his aching throat on Rabastan’s length. Pain resonates through him with every centimeter Rodolphus forces into him. There’s so much of it. So deep inside him, too. A horrible sensation of someone using a part of him for something it was very much not intended for.

Rodolphus finally bottoms out. Lucius can feel his balls as his body spasms around the intrusion. The agony is real, but nothing compared to the Cruciatus Curse or broken bones.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Rabastan says. He digs fingers into Lucius’s hair and uses it to fuck him. Lucius has to suck in air in the space between the rough rhythm.

Rodolphus slowly slides his prick out of him. Lucius feels relief as it leaves, some strange part of him thinking it’s over.

He cries out as it slams back into him with bruising force. Lucius’s entire body falls forward.

Rabastan laughs as he fucks Lucius’s face. “Rough, isn’t he?”

“You’d know,” one of the dark shapes says, sounding far away, as if Lucius is under water. He chokes again, trying to get a breath of air.

Rodolphus pulls back and fucks him again. The pace is rough and punishing. Lucius’s body is only held in place by the bruising hands on his hips. His body slams forward, deep onto Rabastan’s prick.

“Fuck, yes,” Rabastan says, and he comes. Lucius is prepared this time, swallowing desperately over and over with every spurt. It slides down his throat. Rabastan grinds Lucius down on his prick until Lucius starts to gag in earnest and he’s mercifully released.

Rodolphus continues to fuck him. He punches out sharp whimpers from Lucius’s throat. Come dribbles down Lucius’s chin.

“We’ll make a whore out of you yet,” Rabastan says.

Lucius sobs. He chokes on his tears and the salty taste of semen. There’s nothing to distract him from Rodolphus fucking his arse, seemingly harder and deeper with every thrust.

“Look at him, he’s bloody sobbing,” someone says. Travers?

“Good. He’s been asking for this for a long time,” someone else says. Avery.

Lucius’s face flushes. He tries to stop crying, but the tears at the words don’t stop. It’s being a very small child again, his father staring down at him, Lucius unable to hold back the tears of pain and humiliation.

He cries out from another brutal thrust. As horrible as it is, his body no longer breaks quite so much. Rodolphus can slide in and out, though Lucius feels every contour of the man’s prick through his insides as he clenches down.

“Give another man a chance,” someone says. “I want to come all over that pretty face.”

Another thrust. Lucius shivers on his one hand; Rabastan takes a handful of his hair to steady him.

“You’ll all get a chance,” Rabastan says. “We’re going to have him for a long time. Didn’t you hear the Dark Lord? A replacement for the other slut. Just no permanent injuries.”

Discontented murmuring washes over the crowd. How many of them are there? Paralyzing terror washes over him. He doesn’t look up. He can’t face them.

“Ah—”

Lucius gasps at a particularly brutal thrust. He falls onto Rabastan, gasping out another sob. Rabastan cradles his face, looking down at him with a nearly-handsome smile.

“How’s he feel, Rod?”

“Tight,” comes the grunted reply. Another thrust. Lucius’s insides take him in, out—

And with two shallower, quicker thrust, he comes inside. The sensation of something wet and thick fills his bowels. Lucius shuts his eyes and hot tears squeeze out underneath them. The sobs come quick and fast, his breath barely caught in-between.

He feels Rodolphus finish, fells his prick go soft inside him. He pulls out. It makes a small, wet noise. Lucius feels come leak down his perineum. Inside him.

It should be a relief. It should be over.

Someone else drags up his hair. Amycus. “I’m going to fuck you next,” he says. “I want you to know it’s me up your tight little arse, Malfoy. You always needed to be taken down a few notches.”

The Death Eaters laugh. Lucius pants with sobs. He can’t even stop hyperventilating to answer. Any shred of respect, the power he’d wielded, cut down by the Dark Lord in his fury. Now he’s treated worse than even Grayback.

Is Grayback going to . . . ?

“Move over, Rabastan,” Travers demands again. “You can’t keep him.”

“One minute,” Rabastan says. He aims his wand and points it at Lucius.

Lucius only has a half-second to brace himself before the bone in his arm starts to move. He screams as it snaps back into place and the skin grows back around it. The pain leaves him panting.

He looks up to see Selwyn kneeling in front of him and fumbling with his fly.

“You better not have loosened up his arse too much,” Amycus says from behind him.

“He’s still tight,” Rodolphus answers.

Selwyn doesn’t bother with pretense. He’s half hard already. He pumps himself as he looks down at Lucius. “You’re an arrogant, self-serving prick, you know that, Malfoy? And a right ponce.” He laughs. “Lucky for us, the jokes about a rod up your skinny arse are real now.”

The prodding of a cockhead is all the warning Lucius gets. Amycus isn’t as thick as Rodolphus (he knows this, he’s seen them) but not as gentle. Lucius’s body spasms around him. He’s grateful that Rodolphus came inside him; his semen makes the penetration easier.

Selwyn drags Lucius forward by his chin, ignoring his sobbing and panting. “Suck me, Malfoy.”

Lucius tries. Selwyn smells of sweat and skin kept unwashed in too-tight quarters. He forces himself to take the head in his mouth. He wrenches his hand up from the floor to pull back the foreskin.

We’ll make a whore out of you yet.

Amycus starts to fuck him. Lucius cries out, as much with the horrible sensation as with the pain.

Selwyn snaps his fingers next to Lucius’s ear. “Stop crying and suck me off, bitch.”

He takes it in his mouth and sucks, bobbing his head shallowly before going back to the head to tease it with his tongue. He feels Rodolphus’s seed inside him as Amycus fucks him, moving and leaking and wet. He tries not to think about it.

Disgusting—

He wants to die. He wants to be anywhere but here. He can’t fathom how he’s supposed to keep doing this.

All he can do is focus on bringing Selwyn off.

This isn’t mercy. It never was. But Lucius is not dead.

“Deeper,” Selwyn says. “I want to see myself down your throat.”

“Careful,” Rabastan says, “he has a horrid gag reflex.”

Lucius tries to swallow Selwyn down. His throat spasms.

Amycus leans over and digs his hands into Malfoy’s hair. “How’s it feel to be my bitch, Malfoy? Hell—the bitch of everyone else in the room, too. Does it feel good?” He thrusts, rough and quick. “You’re gonna get real used to a prick in your arse. Glad I got to you before you’re too loose to hold your own shit.”

Lucius starts to cry in earnest again. Selwyn grabs the back of his head and forces him down. Lucius gags violently. Selwyn thrusts shallowly, leaving no room for Lucius to breathe. He sits there, locked between them, sobbing soundlessly on another man’s cock.

“You feel like a woman, from the inside,” Amycus rasps.

Selwyn pulls him off in a smooth movement. Lucius sucks in a desperate rush of air. Something warm and thick lands on his cheek, his forehead, his lashes—

Lucius jerks his head to the side. Amycus holds him still. “Not—get away—that easily,” Amycus rasps in his ear. “Cover his face, Selwyn.”

Lucius closes his eyes. Come lands on his lashes and his chin and his lips. It mixes with his tears.

“I think his looks have improved,” someone says. The laughter rings in Lucius’s ears as Amycus fucks him. The wet noise, the wet feeling, chases him until Amycus comes inside him.

“Who’s next?” Selwyn asks. He puts his prick away and stands up.

Lucius can’t look up at them. The idea of someone else makes him sob. “Please,” he rasps. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. To refuse or fight would mean death.

Lucius doesn’t get warning before someone else breaches him. He only cries harder. His entire body shakes. Sheer despair overtakes him.

All he can do is relax his body to let it inside him.

Someone else kneels down in front of him. Lucius lifts his head only enough to see the prick in front of him, small and wide and cut. He takes it in his mouth without prompting.

“I think you’re good at this,” Yaxley says with amusement. Lucius sucks him, swallows around him.

The prick in his arse makes wet noises as he’s fucked. Nails drag down his back. For a terrified moment, Lucius thinks it might be Grayback, until it speaks.

“Does it hurt, Lucius?” Walden Macnair rasps in his ear.

So familiar. So sadistic. How long have they known each other? Decades. Decades.

“Walden—please—"

“I always wondered what it would be like to hurt you,” Walden murmurs. His pace is slow, almost leisurely. “You think you’re brilliant, don’t you? Strutting around . . . telling us all what to do . . . ” He drags his nails down Lucius’s back again, hard enough to draw blood.

Lucius shudders. He takes his tongue off of Yaxley’s prick to whimper.

Walden wants pain. If Lucius doesn’t give him pain, he will cause it until Lucius does. “Please,” Lucius begs, “please, it hurts.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Walden growls. “The Dark Lord taught you your place, didn’t he? We’re all just helping him.” He punctuates his statement with short, harsh thrusts.

Yaxley grabs him by the hair. “Suck my bollocks.” He drags Lucius’s head to his crotch. Lucius shudders as he licks at one. He feels the hair on his tongue as he takes it in his mouth and dutifully sucks.

Walden reaches around and grabs Lucius’s wrist. He drags his arm back, wrenching it with force enough to drag Lucius off of Yaxley’s bollocks.

“How’s that feel?” he breathes.

Walden clamps his fingers around Lucius’s wrist with bruising force. His other hand presses against Lucius’s shoulder. With one sharp movement, he yanks Lucius’s arm.

Lucius cries out with an already raspy and ruined throat. He arches in agony. Macnair’s thrusts punch him forward as sparks dance in front of his eyes. Pain washes over him in inexorable, agonizing waves.

“Hey, I was using him—” Yaxley complains.

“Fuck,” Walden groans. “Fuck, he’s clenching up.” Walden fucks him ruthlessly, hard and fast. Lucius falls onto the marble with his arse up and his on his one arm.

Walden yanks again on his arm. Lucius screams brokenly.

Walden drops it. Lucius slowly lets the lesser pain wash over him. He realizes there’s another load filling his arse. Walden’s come inside him.

“Oh fuck,” Walden says. “That was brilliant.”

“Get up, Malfoy,” Yaxley growls. “You’re not done.”

Lucius groans.

Walden grabs him again. A quick movement; Lucius’s arm snaps back into place.

Yaxley yanks Lucius’s come and tear-streaked face up and shoves it once again at the base of his prick. Lucius smells his sweat. He opens his mouth and lets his tongue hang out hazily.

He forces himself to take Yaxley in his mouth. His head still spins with pain.

Lucius sucks on Yaxley’s bollocks, one after the other, before licking a stripe back up his prick to lap at the pre-come beading on the head. Yaxley groans appreciatively.

“Good bitch,” he growls.

The tears from the pain grow hotter. Lucius’s sobs are soft little whimpering things. He takes Yaxley in his throat and sucks.

“Damn, he’s filthy already,” someone says behind him.

Scattered lusty laughter. Fingers hook the edges of Lucius’s rim and pull him further open. Come leaks down his perineum and onto his bollocks. He shudders.

“Fuck his arse before I do,” someone else demands.

“Oh, very well.” Avery. Another prick lines itself up at his hole, another Death Eater starting to fuck him.

“I’m coming—swallow me—”

Yaxley comes in Lucius’s mouth. He wants to spit. He forces himself, slowly and achingly, to swallow. He shudders.

Yaxley pats him condescendingly on the cheek. “Good boy.”

A whimper creeps out between Lucius’s lips despite himself. Something about the words makes him ache.

He forgets it as soon as Avery starts to truly thrust inside him, pushing little gasps out of his lungs with the force of his hips. Every thrust sends pain twitching through Lucius’s arse.

“He looks like a woman,” Avery says.

“Sounds like one, too,” Travers adds. The Death Eaters snicker.

Lucius tries to bite back his cries. Avery slams into him as hard as he can and Lucius lets out a choked groan.

Laughter.

Someone pulls at his hair. Lucius tilts his head up, but the pulling isn’t so insistent. Merely . . .

Rhythmic. A half-step out of rhythm with Avery buggering him.

Someone steps in front of him, kneeling down. Lucius is face-to-face with Theodore Nott—the first. Thin fingers drag through the come coating Lucius’s face.

“Theod—”

Theodore pushes his fingers between Lucius’s lips and onto his tongue.

Lucius shuts his eyes. He can’t look at that familiar face or into those dark, intent eyes. Theodore welcomes him into the Death Eaters. He believed in him.

Friends, if anyone could be called it.

“Go on,” Theodore orders him. “Suck.”

Lucius slowly obeys. He tastes salty semen and the coppery tang of the metallic rings on Theodore’s fingers. He hates swallowing it, he hates the feeling of it sliding down his throat, he hates the viscosity and the filthiness of it.

“Avery’s right,” Theodore says. “You do look like a woman, like this. Save for the stubble . . . but you can’t see that from above.”

Lucius wants to bite him. The thought doesn’t even turn into an idea. A thrust from Avery sends him rocking forward.

Theodore pulls his fingers out all at once. He wipes spit and come on Lucius’s shoulder with a look of mild disgust.

Lucius winces as the pull on his hair becomes more insistent.

Theodore sits up on his knees. Lucius watches hazily as thin, ringed fingers undo their robes. Theodore is already hard, deftly freeing his prick.

Lucius’s cheek bumps against it as Avery thrusts roughly into him.

“He wants it,” Jugson says from somewhere near and above. “Give it to him.”

Theodore doesn’t laugh, but the other Death Eaters do. He pulls Lucius forward by the back of his head.

Lucius’s lips bump his prick. The movement from Avery makes it hard to stay still. He doesn’t need an order to lap down the length, drawing an appreciative sound from Theodore. At least he’s clean, he tastes like skin—

Avery fucks him harder. Lucius feels every thrust deep in his insides. “If I knew how good it felt to bugger you, Malfoy, I would’ve done it years ago.”

The laughter blends together with the wet noise of Avery’s bollocks slapping against his arse, with the wet noises of sex, with the sound of someone very near him bringing themselves off.

Theodore taps demanding fingers against his cheek. Lucius’s lashes flutter as he slides his tongue over the head of the prick in front of him. He feels the slit and tastes the pre-come on the tip. He takes it in his mouth. Theodore thrusts shallowly as Lucius takes him deeper.

Pain recedes to a dull throb. Lucius isn’t sure if this torture is better than the Cruciatus Curse—they seem to target the same thing, the very soul of someone, but with different means. Pain, and humiliation. Such humiliation . . .

Endless ruin. Narcissa, in the room. Draco, able to hear the cries of his father being buggered ruthlessly by men he knows.

“What’s his face look like, Nott?” Avery asks.

Theodore is preoccupied with Lucius sucking on him, slowly sliding deeper and deeper. “He’s crying,” he says.

“Gonna call for your mum, too, Malfoy?” Avery mocks.

Lucius is glad his mother is too dead to see him reduced to this.

He sucks on Theodore’s prick, swallows around him, sucks again.

With a groan, someone yanks his hair. Lucius is pulled half-off of Theodore’s prick. Something warm and wet hits his face and the side of his neck and head. The pulls becomes more insistent.

“Oh, yes,” Jugson groans. “You can’t see, Malfoy, but you’re covered in my seed. Covered.”

Lucius tries to jerk his head away.

“Give him back,” Theodore demands petulantly.

Avery pauses, panting with exertion. “Lemme pull his hair.”

“After I’m finished,” Theodore says imperiously. He takes Lucius by the less-filthy side of his head and guides him forward almost gently.

Lucius lets himself be guided. Avery no longer fucking him is a relief. He takes his time with Theodore, trying to keep the relief going as long as he can. He swirls his tongue around the head carefully, pulling back the foreskin with one hand.

Theodore thrusts deeper and deeper. Lucius is caught between the two of them. Avery isn’t softening inside him. Theodore’s hand pulls him forward by the back of his head. Lucius swallows around him. He gags and Theodore groans.

Avery starts to thrust shallowly again. Lucius is pushed afurther onto Theodore’s prick. The hand in his hair forces himself to take him deeper (unless he wants to fight it, and he can’t fight it, because the Dark Lord is there and this is his mercy). Lucius is face to face with Theodore’s dark pubic hair now. He gags with every thrust.

Theodore’s thrusting becomes more brutal.

Thankfully, he comes quickly, straight down Lucius’s throat. Lucius swallows around him desperately. Theodore releases him with a groan.

Avery grabs Lucius’s hair and yanks his head back. Lucius groans as his body twists. He tries to catch his breath as his neck bends and Avery mercilessly fucks him.

“Fuck—Malfoy, take it—you bitch—”

From here, Lucius can see them for the first time—a familiar group of scattered, robed men and women. The part of the circle surrounding him is full of faces he knows, heavily lidded eyes full of lust. Goyle palms himself, watching with beady eyes.

Bellatrix, fingers spread lewdly over her cunt, waves to him.

Lucius closes his eyes as tight as he can, trying to shut out even the afterimages of their silhouettes. Oh, Merlin, they’re all going to have their way with me. Every one of them.

“Clench,” Avery growls in his ear. “I want you to be tight.”

Lucius, hot tears trickling down his cheeks, does as he’s told. Avery comes after several short, harsh thrusts.

“Good bitch,” he groans. He pats Lucius’s thigh as if he’s a flighty mare. Lucius feels every spurt of another man coming inside him.

Avery mercifully lets go of his hair and Lucius’s head is allowed to hang between his arms. Tears drip from his face to the floor. His throat burns from sobbing or screaming or having his face fucked, he can’t tell. His hole is still torn open, burning as Avery slips out of him, but at least he’s—full enough—that the pain pales.

“Me next,” someone grunts. Not someone. Crabbe. Lucius raises his head at the noise, opening his eyes. He recognizes Goyle in front of him.

“Don’t,” Lucius says, his voice harsher than he means.

“You don’t give orders anymore,” Crabbe grunts. “Just head.” He snickers to himself.

Goyle, in front of Lucius, joins in.

“We were—we were friends—”

“Shut up and suck me,” Goyle says. He produces his prick, a long and intimidating thing, with a vein running up the underside and a freckle on the head. It smells like sweat.

Lucius is sure this is the worst of it. Trapped between his lackeys, any traces of his old position taken away from him.

His earlier outburst is dangerous. Lucius opens his mouth—

Crabbe starts to stuff him with his prick.

Lucius whimpers. He tries relax his body and lets him in.

Crabbe’s cockhead slides past the second ring of muscle. Lucius groans as the rest of it fills him, knowing that only the semen drenching his insides makes him able to take it.

“He’s taking it,” Bellatrix announces. “Like he was made for it.”

“Suck, or I’m telling the Dark Lord on you,” Goyle says.

Lucius lurches forward, taking the head of Goyle’s prick in his mouth. He tries not to think about where he is: on his hands and knees between men who used to obey him without a word or thought.

He tastes pre-come already. Goyle was working himself watching Lucius get raped by Avery. Lucius swirls his tongue around the prick and hears Goyle groan. He can finish him quickly. Anyone else in his mouth would be better than Goyle.

“Heh.” Crabbe pushes in, slowly stretching Lucius’s hole until Lucius feels his bollocks.

Lucius hates how thick he is. He hates how Crabbe’s hands dig into his hips and pull him flush. He hates how his muscles flutter around the length and how he can feel where the head is inside him.

Lucius tries to finish Goyle. What does he like—? A tongue up the underside of his prick and over his slit, back down again and mouthing at his balls.

Goyle groans. Lucius tries not to think about who it is in his mouth, only what will get him out.

Crabbe doesn’t let him forget it. “Does it feel good, Malfoy?” he demands. “Who’s on top now?”

Lucius swallows and tastes the sweat of Goyle’s groin. His nose buries itself in the thick, dark hair as he laps at the man’s bollocks. Goyle starts to touch himself, his palm moving up and down his prick.

Lucius holds his breath as he continues to use his tongue. He can make him finish, make him leave. Every twitch he can feel—

Lucius nearly falls forward onto Goyle as Crabbe jams himself inside—it feels deeper than before. He chokes back a gag and sucks on Goyle. If he pays attention to what he likes, does that over and over . . .

Crabbe thrusts again, and again. Faster. Lucius can barely focus through the fucking, but he forces his mind to work. Crabbe hits every bit of his insides.

Goyle yanks Lucius’s hair back. Lucius barely has time to close his eyes before come lands on his forehead, cheeks, and eyes.

“Malfoy’s good at sucking pricks,” Goyle declares.

Lucius nearly loses his balance as Crabbe thrusts again.

Even as Goyle cleans his prick on his hair, he feels a twisted sense of accomplishment. He’d set out to do something and he’d done it. He’d done it well.

“You look like a girl,” Crabbe says. He punctuates the words with another brutal thrust.

Lucius cries out with nothing in his mouth to muffle it. His hair falls over his shoulder and veils his face. Parts of it stick together with blood and parts of it stick together with semen, giving it a filthy, uneven appearance. Lucius stares at the familiar marble floor, moving blurrily underneath his eyes as Crabbe moves him forward and back.

At least it doesn’t hurt. Instead, staring at that cold marble, Lucius is aware of a different ache inside of him buried in the insides Crabbe is now ruthlessly fucking. Something he’d never bothered to feel before. He hisses slightly at the next thrust.

It’s going, of all the horrible places, to his gut. Some twisted pleasure jolts through him every few thrusts, when Crabbe manages to find that ache inside him. His body, now traitorously used to the sensation of being buggered, is . . . giving in to it.

Lucius tries to pull away as soon as the thought crosses his mind. Crabbe digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise and yanks Lucius back onto his prick. This one sends that horrid sensation through Lucius again. He gasps slightly at the feeling. What is it?

His hazy, ruined brain and aching body can’t tell him. All he feels is Crabbe’s thickness moving in and out of him, emptying his body and filling him again, in brutal but predictable rhythm. Little breaths leave him every time Crabbe pushes in again, brushes every bit of his loose insides.

It’s not pleasure, not precisely, but it’s enough of it. The next gasp is more of a groan. Lucius bites it back with a cold fear. Crabbe thrusts again, this time closer to that feeling. It aches between his legs.

Oh, god, no . . .

Lucius tries to throw himself forwards, but Crabbe doesn’t even notice. The thing moving inside him is inescapable and the grip on his hips keeps him still.

Someone shoves fingers into his mouth. They smear come on his lips on his lips and tongue.

“Clean it up,” someone orders him.

Lucius obediently sucks them clean. He’s noticing the different tastes to them, the different textures. They’re all disgusting as they slip down his throat and linger on his tongue.

Crabbe thrusts inside him again. Lucius groans around the fingers in his mouth. His prick twitches traitorously between his thighs. There’s nowhere to hide from the horrible thing touching every bit of his insides. The thick fingers in his mouth are less of a concern than the idea that—

He’s not enjoying it. This is the very worst thing that’s ever happened to him, the most ruinous and hateful and humiliating. Lucius isn’t a Mudblood slut or a Muggle whore or a whining member of the Order they’ve decided to have a go at before putting down. His body isn’t responding to the vicious abuse, certainly not to having something in him.

Crabbe thrusts in, jamming his head against Lucius’s insides. Lucius lets out a broken cry as the horrible pleasure shudders through his body.

Wet fingers clean themselves off on his hair.

Crabbe fucks him rougher, harder, shallower. Right where the sensation burns its way up his spine. His prick is halfway to hard from it. His face heats, his body shivering as he tries to get away.

Lucius tries to bite back the noises, but some slip out anyways. The very worst of it is his prick, still rising between his legs. He presses his thighs together to hide it.

“Look up, Malfoy.”

Lucius recognizes Dolohov through the fear shuddering through him.

“You think you can take me?” Dolohov asks.

Lucius doesn’t respond. Crabbe thrusts again; Lucius moans. In pain, he wants to think, from the stretching of his insides and the blood leaking down his thighs.

Dolohov starts to unbutton his robes, humming absently. A nasty smirk plays on his lips. “If there’s anyone I ever wanted a go at it was you. This is for putting me back in Azkaban.”

Crabbe slams in brutally one final time. Lucius cries out in something he can only pray isn’t pleasure. Crabbe finishes inside him.

Lucius closes his eyes in some stupid, childish urge to block the world out.

“Are you really that scared of my prick? You should be,” Dolohov says. He starts to undo his drawers.

Bellatrix cackles. “He’s not talking about you,” Bellatrix says. “He’s talking about him.” Her heels click across the marble. “You like this, don’t you, Lucius? Don’t lie, now.”

“No,” Lucius rasps. “No, no.”

Crabbe snickers. “Malfoy really is a girl.”

The hot tears return. Lucius chokes and tries to swallow. Instead he sobs, unable to hold back the horror from his mind.

Bellatrix laughs. The Death Eaters echo her. She hooks a boot around one of his thighs and pulls them wide. Several people whistle. Lucius’s prick bobs in the air: traitorously, disgustingly hard. “I think we have ourselves a real slut,” she says triumphantly.

More laughter.

“How long have you wanted my prick up your arse, Malfoy?” Amycus calls. The laughter is so very far away and the loudest thing Lucius has ever heard.

Lucius’s breath comes in short, stuttering bursts.

Crabbe pulls out of him, come following his prick and leaking from Lucius’s loose hole down his crack.

“Think you’ll come from sucking my prick?” Dolohov asks from close by.

Lucius squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying not to imagine what’s going to happen to him in seconds. A prick bumps against his cheek, slick and smelling of skin.

“Clean it up,” Crabbe demands.

Lucius recoils reflexively.

Dolohov shoves him forwards.  “Yeah, Malfoy,” Dolohov sneers. “Have a taste of your arse.”

They bring him lower, they make it worse, every second they can imagine. Lucius feels sick, but—

This or death. This or death. This or death, Malfoy.

It doesn’t feel better than dying when he closes his eyes and leans forward. He sloppily and quickly cleans Crabbe, trying not to taste it. If there’s any filth left on it, he swallows it without looking—because if he sees, he won’t be able to, and the Dark Lord will end him.

“Good boy, Lucius,” Bellatrix taunts. That mockery hurts worse than all the rest, something twisting inside him he can’t put a finger on. Something that aches.

Lucius gags as he finishes cleaning Crabbe.

A hand fists in his hair and pulls him forward. Lucius is forced onto his knees. He balances against the thigh in front of him.

“This is your apology, Lucius,” Dolohov sneers. “Better put your back into it.”

He shoves his prick onto Lucius’s tongue.

Almost desperate for a distraction from whatever was on Crabbe, Lucius closes his mouth and sucks on the head. His tongue flicks at the head between the foreskin.

“Oh, yes, like that,” Dolohov groans.

The words spur Lucius on. He removes the head from his mouth and brings his other hand up to draw back the foreskin. Dolohov shivers under Lucius’s tongue as he licks down the veiny underside of his prick and mouths at his bollocks.

“Bloody hell, he’s not so bad,” Dolohov groans. He rolls his hips appreciatively.

“Malfoy’s a slut,” Avery says. “Of course he’s snogging your prick and bollocks.”

Lucius sobs. He decides he prefers the head; he takes it in his mouth again, deeper, sucking on as much of the length as will fit. His other hand moves on the man’s spit-slick prick. Down to his bollocks. Up his prick again—

Dolohov comes on Lucius’s face and hair. Lucius blinks it out of his eyes, feeling it stick to his lashes. Semen drips sluggishly down his temple.

He prays for his prick to go down from the pain and humiliation of it, but it still sits heavy between his thighs.

“Go on.”

“I don’t want to shag a man,” someone complains.

Merlin, please, yes, leave me alone . . .

“Aw, Malfoy’s always been a ponce,” another voice says. “Just pull his hair and close your eyes.”

“He’s got stubble,” Rowle complains.

“It’s the Dark Lord’s decree,” Bellatrix says imperiously, “that Lucius be punished. Just put some lipstick on him.”

Rowle crouches down. Lucius tries to shy back, but Rowle grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks him forward. He flicks his wand. Lucius flinches, but all he feels is the familiar sensation of hair disappearing from his face and neck.

“Hold still, Malfoy,” Rowle says. He reaches up, handed something by a comrade. Lucius’s hazy eyes cross on something bright red comes close. Lipstick smears across his lips.

Rowle pulls back, smirking.

The Death Eaters laugh. Lucius’s face flushes.

“He makes a pretty girl,” Crabbe says.

“You look like your wife,” someone tells him, and they laugh again.

“You’re shite at applying lipstick,” someone tells Rowle.

“Oh, bugger off,” Rowle says. He sits up on his knees, freeing his prick with one hand. His groin is dusted with red curls. “Choke on me like a woman,” he demands, addressing Lucius. “I better think you’re at least as good as a cheap Knockturn whore.”

“He can’t be worth more than a few knuts,” someone teases.

Someone settles themselves behind Lucius. He slides smoothly in. A hand tightens around Lucius’s waist. Lucius feels the outline of the cock inside him, head pressed up against his guts. It’s so much worse like this.

Lucius opens his mouth. He tries to suck him off properly, but Rowle shoves his prick further and further back in Lucius’s mouth.

Lucius gags, body spasming.

“Oh, that’s it, Malfoy,” Rowle groans. “Choke on my prick, you fucking whore. You bitch.”

The man buried so far in his arse Lucius can feel the shape of his bollocks smacks him on the flank. “Tighten up, Malfoy.”

The tears in Lucius’s eyes are from his despair and from the abuse of his throat. He can’t breathe, even though Rowle isn’t so deep inside him. He feels horribly full on both ends, his insides carved out by two different men as they use him.

Yet his prick aches. Lucius sobs, giving in to the despair of his body betraying him so obscenely. He tastes bile and come as he’s thrown forward by forceful thrusts onto Rowle’s prick—and then back onto the thing inside him. Lipstick smears on Rowle’s pubes and groin.

“Lucius Malfoy, our very own cocksucker,” someone sneers.

“That’s a good bitch,” the man says appreciatively. Lucius shudders at the words, but he keeps clenching down on the thickness inside him. His own prick flickers with obscene jolts of pleasure from the treatment.

Lucius sobs and sobs. His body is relentlessly abused. Stars dance in front of his eyes as he’s rocked back and forth. Rowle’s prick bruises the back of his throat. He holds Lucius there as he spasms.

Lucius swallows desperately. He gags, spasms, and vomits. Come comes up from his stomach in waves. It spills around Rowle’s prick and down Lucius’s chin.

Laughter. (“Malfoy can’t keep it down”—"Have to feed it to him again”—"Guess he’s a spitter, not a swallower”—)

Rowle fucks Lucius’s throat harder. Sliding down into Lucius’s insides, in and out, in and out—

Merlin, his prick aches. The little bits of pleasure fucked into him are too much for him to bear.

The man in Lucius’s arse comes with a groan. Someone else takes their place almost immediately. Someone thick, stretching him thoroughly, but not so long.

Lucius tries to think of who it might be. Stars dance in front of his eyes. He throws up again, all over the floor and Rowle’s prick.

The prick inside starts to lazily move. The wet sound of buggery fills the room.

“Just—like—that,” Rowle growls.

Lucius’s throat spasms violently. The lack of oxygen begins to truly hurt. He pushes weakly against Rowle’s thighs, hands shaking. Drool and come and vomit dribble down his chin as he chokes.

His prick doesn’t flag. It stays there, betraying him with every second it hangs hard.

Rowle comes with loud, exultant exclamation. As soon as his cock slips free, Lucius vomits again.

The thrusting doesn’t stop. The strange, hideous pleasure doesn’t stop either. His body responds every few thrusts.

Lucius sobs. His hair is smeared with the filth from his stomach—it’s just semen, just the seed of the Death Eaters, but there’s so much of it. Is that how much there is fucked deep into his bowels, too?

“Make him lick it up,” Travers says.

“That’ll take forever,” Jugson argues.

Lucius gasps as another thrust rocks him. It’s not as violent, not as painful, but this is worse. It’s worse to have feelings inside him he doesn’t want, it’s worse for his body to respond to being full, it’s worse to know they can all see it. The horrible evidence of his . . . arousal.

I don’t want this.

His body must want it. As badly as all of the Muggles who claimed they hated having a wizard in them.

It still hurts. It doesn’t, Lucius doesn’t want this, Lucius would do anything—almost anything—for it to end.

Someone shoves come-covered fingers into his mouth. Lucius sucks on them without being ordered to. Lipstick smears up to the second joint, leaving crimson stains along the pale skin.

“Good slut,” someone murmurs as their fingers move in and out of his mouth.

Lucius whimpers, half at the words and half at the next thrust. It drags against his insides. His prick aches.

“Look, he’s leaking,” someone sneers.

The words echo around Lucius. A sob chokes out of him, and another, blurring together in childish crying.

“Bloody hell, he’s a whore,” they say, and “I can’t believe Malfoy was begging to be buggered this whole time,” and “He expects us to believe he didn’t want this all along,” and “Tell us how it feels, Lucius, tell us how much you love having something up your arse,” and “Oh, ha, that’s pathetic.” And through it all, the laughter, the mocking ruination, blending into a cacophony of horror that his mind can barely comprehend.

He can feel their eyes on him. The man buggering him shifts—

Lucius cries out at the sensation in the next thrust. If the others were brushing him, this is intentional.

Laughter echoes him.

A voice murmurs in his ear. “You’ve got a cunt as tight—as any woman—”

The prick fucks him, deeply, thoroughly. Lucius whimpers at the sensation.

Anything but this, anything but the laughter, anything but this filth in front of everyone he’s ever known. He can’t take it, he can’t be here, he can’t stand it.

The the noises he makes become, slowly more and more like moans. Lucius has never been one to hide his pleasure, but this isn’t pleasure, it can’t be.

Lucius tries to writhe away. His prick aches.

Bellatrix’s heels click along the floor. “You should be glad,” she sneers. “You might have to spend the rest of your life miserable, but I think a slut like you could learn to like it.”. She has nothing but loathing and disgust for those who fail the Dark Lord—and those who would deny his name.

“No,” Lucius rasps.

The hips snap against his arse again. He whines at the sensation in his prick.

“Oh, don’t be poor sport, Lucius,” Bellatrix says. “We can all see you making a puddle on the floor.”

Lucius sobs again. His entire body is hot and cold, shot through with horror and fear and pain and pleasure. The idea that he might actually come from this crosses his mind and won’t leave.

Anything to get it over faster. He clenches down, as tight as he can, praying that they’ll finish quickly and move on. The man inside him moans in appreciation.

The ache doesn’t matter. Anything to make it stop.

The man comes. Lucius feels nothing but relief.

Bellatrix walks around him. She crouches down.

Lucius flinches away from her cold nails on his thigh. “You filled him up,” she comments, to laughter. Sharp nails prod at his loose entrance and slip inside him, scraping against his walls.

Lucius’s tears slip down his face and onto the floor. He tries to ignore the words, enjoy not having something inside him, but the humiliation is the true horror of it. It always was.

Bellatrix’s fingers find that place inside of him. Lucius gasps before he realizes that he shouldn’t have reacted.

Bellatrix laughs. She presses against his insides, jabbing roughly.

Lucius feels his prick respond, easily and quickly. He moans, loud and shameful.

“You like that?” she asks.

“No—” He’s cut off by another desperate noise of his own making as she touches him again.

“Cissy never did this for you, did she?” Bellatrix croons mockingly. “She didn’t know how much of a whore you were for something up your arse.”

“Don’t,” Lucius whispers. The mention of her makes his breath hitch, because—she can’t be watching, please.

The cries as Bellatrix touches him come faster. He gives up and stops trying to fight the sounds.

It’s getting easier and easier to give up. To just let it happen, let them have him. Fighting just reminds him what he’s losing: everything.

A string of panting moans fall from his lips. He writhes, trying to escape her. Someone crouches down next to him and yanks his hair back, keeping him in place.

Lucius sobs again. The pressure in his prick is too much to bear.

“We can all tell you like it when something is inside you,” Bellatrix mocks. “You can’t see your prick, Lucius, but it’s begging to be fucked harder.”

“No,” Lucius begs to laughter. “No, no . . .” The next noise out of his mouth is half a sob and half a shaky moan.

The pleasure has him already, shuddering inexorably through his body. It wants release, wants to finish, wants to fuck back on the thing touching him . . .

Rabastan, crouching next to him, leans in. “Just take, Lucius,” he murmurs. “The sooner you start to enjoy it, the sooner you can come.”

Lucius whimpers. Bellatrix drags him to the edge. He can barely think but for the desperation. He’s being loud, he knows, but he can’t stop it.

“Soon you’ll be as good at taking our pricks as you are at sucking on them,” Rabastan says. The grin on his face is sharp and cruel.

“Can’t believe I ever listened to him,” someone mutters in the background to spotty laughter.

Lucius’s lashes flutter.

Bellatrix has him on the tips of her fingers. Lucius’s hips buck forward, his body shaking with it. He can barely keep his arms steady.

It peaks, or it starts, and if it takes him he will fall. He will fall from this horrible room, this horrible place, this unimaginable humiliation.

Bellatrix pulls back. Lucius is left leaking, panting, staring at the floor. The confusion makes him dizzy.

“Don’t worry,” Bellatrix coos. “You’ll have something in you soon.”

Rabastan pulls Lucius’s hair. Lucius hears him shift. The marble swirls under his fingers as he stares down at it. A tear slips from his eye and lands between pale digits. It glints under the light.

Rabastan pulls his cheek apart.

Lucius knows that when Rabastan enters him he will come, in front of everyone, in front of his wife and son, and that he will not be able to help it. But he will leave, he will be lost to it. Or maybe he will lose to it.

The head bumps against his hole. Lucius inhales, exhales. Sobs. Something in him breaks as the head pushes past his muscles and it slowly slides inside him. It sits there, his muscles fluttering weakly around it.

Rodolphus moves.

Lucius loses himself. He screams with it. For long, glorious seconds, he’s gone, spinning into pleasure, with only the bursts coming out of him and spilling onto the ground and the thrusting inside to keep him there.

“Good slut,” Rabastan is saying in his ear, half-laughing. Everyone else is laughing, too. The bright light cuts through the darkness. “Now tighten up.”

Lucius moans. He obeys without a thought. Rabastan’s prick pushes against his insidesd. A hand pulls him back.

The humiliation finds him. He’s disgusting. Filthy. Lower than dirt. Full of the semen of a dozen people who used to obey him and coming with them inside him.

Narcissa saw you. She saw you come. Draco heard you screaming.

This is the end of him.

He can’t breathe for the sobbing.

“Good girl,” Rabastan sneers in his ear. Good. Good, good, good . . .

Lucius whimpers, sniffs, shivers.

Someone shoves something in front of him. Thick, long.

“Make me come, Malfoy,” someone orders.

Lucius feels tears trickle down his face as he opens his mouth. The pleasure is gone, leaving him with only salt on his tongue.

He mouths the thing in front of him, lapping at the underside. Lipstick smears along the length. A noise of appreciation. He keeps doing it. It bumps against his cheek as it hardens.

“God, you’re filthy, Lucius,” someone else says.

Lucius tries not to hear it. To be anywhere else.

Pre-come smears on Lucius’s cheek. His nose bumps against the crook, tongue against the prick and the crotch. All he smells is sweat and semen.

Rabastan grunts in satisfaction as he fucks him. “Your arse is even better than your mouth. I was right.”

Lucius hates him. He hates him, he hates them all, he hates himself for being filled with their seed and for lavishing attention on the prick against his face and for being a weak, pathetic failure.

But at least he’s better. Something in his mind twitches. The world is a little less vivid. Lucius doesn’t have it in himself to fight it.

It’s easier to drag his tongue languidly against the vein on the underside of the prick he’s sucking, to suck on the tip and lathe his tongue against every inch of skin.

It tastes foul. Like skin. It’s disgusting.

“Right—like that—keep on going—”

Lucius wraps his muscles around Rabastan’s prick. He aches as Rabastan drags himself in and out. The world narrows to his aching body.

If he thinks of anything else he will end.

Lucius is dizzy. He sucks and teases and moves into the thrusts. The world narrows to skin and sweat and a hand on the back of his head.

Rabastan comes inside him. He pats Lucius’s flank. “To many more loads,” he says to scattered laughter.

Someone else replaces him. Long, thin. Maybe Rookwood. Maybe Dolohov. It reaches his depths and rubs against his insides. Fingers scratch down the sides of his stomach, against his ribs and thighs. It digs inside. So deep.

“Gonna—open your mouth—”

Lucius does. His mouth falls open without his conscious though. Heavy, hot bursts of semen fall onto it. A hand pushes up his chin.

“Swallow.”

Lucius hates it. But some part of him doesn’t quite care. He swallows, staring out from pale eyes under pale lashes.

The hand in his hair strokes him. “Good bitch.”

Lucius moans. He doesn’t mean for it to be so loud, so desperate. It catches him and the man he’s servicing off-guard—enough for a strange, sharp laugh.

“You’re a pretty, slutty thing, Malfoy. Better than any of the Mudbloods. They were never that enthusiastic.”

The laughter lingers in his ears, over and over. Such a familiar refrain.

“Put some effort in,” the man behind him demands. Lucius tries to ride with the thrusting.

Another prick is shoved in his face. The man laughs and says something to his friend. He shoves Lucius’s face near his bollocks.

Lucius feels the hair against his tongue as he opens his mouth. He tastes lipstick and sweat.

His prick is starting to ache again.

He opens his mouth wide, presses it against the man’s bollocks. His own spit smears his chin as he services the prick in front of him. He groans as another harsh thrust rocks him forward, rocking with the rough treatment.

Take it, just take it. Just relax.

His former comrades use him enthusiastically. Another load spills on his face, another one is spent inside of him.

Mulciber makes Lucius gag on his prick, pushing it so deep Lucius is half-afraid that he’s going to die as he’s lazily throat-fucked.

Lucius taught him the Imperius Curse.

The older Avery provides a running commentary as he buggers him. His sneering voice digs into Lucius’s skull as the continued laughter seems to shake the room.

“I always wondered what you had up your arse, Malfoy—turns out it’s my prick—I like you better with Mulciber down your throat—bloody hell—whore—”

Lucius cries because there is something down his throat, because he can’t breathe, and because he is slowly feeling himself break.

“Oh—fuck, Malfoy—” Avery’s voice crests with pleasure. His seed feels the same as all the rest, pooling inside Lucius’s guts uncomfortably. Yet the name—the twist of pleasure—Lucius clenches down around him.

“Still such a tight cunt,” Avery says, and that’s enough. Lucius did something right. The pleasure in the thought takes him by surprise.

“Isn’t he?” Mulciber says. He shoves his prick back down Lucius’s throat. He’s cast some sort of spell, the kind of spell that means that Lucius doesn’t throw up but gives him no relief from the spasming.

Lucius tilts his head back. All he can focus on is the feeling of his body being violate, of the next man to Avery’s place. His body opens up for him, his legs spreading automatically.

Mulciber pushes the back of Lucius’s head and comes down his throat with a groan. “Choke—that’s it—that’s right—”

Perhaps it’s his words, perhaps it’s the thick length of the next man prodding against his insides—seconds later Lucius feels pleasure start once again to curse him. All he feels is numbness, but the tears come, so he must still be feeling shame somewhere.

Hands grab Lucius’s robes and yank him up. Come leaks out of him. He shudders.

“You’re an insufferable bastard, Malfoy. I like seeing you like this. In fact, I think you were made for this.” A snicker. “Sucking my prick specifically. So give it extra attention.”

The crying doesn’t stop him from obedience. Lucius doesn’t think before he wraps his lips and hand around the man’s length and takes him.

Lucius doesn’t want to be hard. He wants to be anywhere but here.

“That’s a good slut,” someone sneers. “His prick is begging for it. You like sucking dick, Malfoy?”

The disgust in the tone hurts, everything hurts, but at least . . .

At least he’s good.

The thought is dizzying and illogical. Lucius still moans against the prick inside his mouth. The man he’s servicing seems to like that, so he lets it happen.

“I think he likes this,” the man snickers. “Fuck—he’s good at it, too.”

Lucius moans again without knowing why. He lets the sound slip through hin. He can’t fight any of it, none at all.

There’s nothing of him left, only the overwhelming fullness of the man inside of him.

He swallows obediently around the prick in his mouth, feeling the head kiss the back of his throat and spasming around it. Yet he doesn’t let it out, still riding on the insistence that he’s good at it. He laps at the foreskin, licks the man’s bollocks, takes a breath and takes him deep again.

“I want at his arse,” another man says.

“One—minute—"

Lucius works his hand up and down the prick halfway into his mouth. It’s only halfway because Lucius is giving him the pleasure that he wants. Lucius only chokes a little as he swallows and tongues the underside of his prick.

“That’s it—take it—bitch—”

Lucius swallows desperately as come fills his mouth. Some of it drips down his chin with the saliva from the blowjob. He stares hazily ahead as the man in front of him is replaced.

The next man shoves him roughly to the floor. Lucius’s head rings as it hits the marble. His robes are shoved up his thighs. Lucius whimpers as another prick bumps against his thighs and finds home. His body is filled, over and over, deep and slow. Lucius writhes with it, shuddering every time the head pushes itself deeper into his guts.

He is, he can be—

I don’t want to be.

His prick starts to ache. Even someone’s seed spilling again onto his face doesn’t stop the pleasure.

The man in his arse is relentless.

A shadow falls over Lucius. Someone crouches down over him.

Crabbe. Please, no.

“I’ve been inside your arse,” he sneers.

Lucius winces. There’s nowhere to go when Crabbe pulls up his head by the hair.

Lucius hatefully opens his mouth as wide as he can. He hates Crabbe for being so damn big.

Lucius swallows thickly around him, barely able to breathe. At least Crabbe seems content to merely snicker at him every few seconds and let himself be pleasured. Lucius wishes he could reach it with his hand. Get it over quicker.

The man inside him moves faster and harder. Lucius’s prick is hard; he feels it between his legs and feels the pleasure shudder through him. His leg is pushed up.

“Get out of my way,” the man behind Crabbe complains.

“’M using him,” Crabbe grunts.

The man behind him settles for grabbing Lucius by the belt and yanking him down. Lucius tries to say something, but he only groans into the side of Crabbe’s prick.

“You’re not doing it right, Malfoy.”

Crabbe grabs Lucius with both hands and shoves himself all the way down his throat. Lucius gags violently. He can’t breathe; can barely move.

All he can do is sway limply between the two men as they use him. His own prick still responds. He can’t stop it. Lucius doesn’t have any fight left in him, so he lets it ache—lets the pleasure shudder through his body.

Crabbe fucks his face roughly, all spit and ferocity. The man in his arse comes quickly—to his companions’ teasing. Someone thicker and rougher replaces him.

Lucius rocks with them. Crabbe is going to come soon, he has to come soon—

The only relief is the pleasure arching through his body. It’s in every thrust now. He shifts slightly, trying to angle himself so he gets more before he realizes what he’s doing.

Oh, he wants it. He wants it so very, very badly. Anything to make it stop. It slithers its way into his brain and demands to be fulfilled.

Is he going to come again, in front of everyone?

He craves the feeling. He hates himself.

Another thrust, and another—

Lucius moans around Crabbe. His lashes flutter, from the pleasure and from the lack of air. He leans back into him ever so slightly and rocks with the bugger. So long as he—

If he could just—

He moans again.

“He’s leaking,” someone says.

Someone else slaps his thigh. “Starting to like it, Malfoy?”

Lucius shudders.

The laughter is endless. (“Born faggot”—"I think he really does like it”—"Look at him move, he wants it”—“Disgusting”—"He couldn’t be more of a slut if he tried”—"D’you see your dad, Draco? He’s going to come on Jugson’s prick”—)

Lucius cries. Nobody can tell. Crabbe fucks his face, heavy bollocks slapping against.

“That’s good, Malfoy, fuck, just fucking take it—”

Lucius’s body is used, brutally, as a toy. But the cockhead hits his insides, and Lucius just wants to come, and if he’s being fucked so hard it must mean that he’s good.

Crabbe comes shoving his prick all the way down Lucius’s throat and leaving it there as he sends his loads inside him.

Jugson fucks him harder—and it feels good, right there, it feels perfect. All Lucius can think of is escaping again.

Crabbe keeps his prick there for long seconds, soft and nestled in his throat. Lucius’s lungs burn and his head hurts.

“Let someone else at him,” someone complains.

Crabbe pulls out. Lucius throws up saliva and come, shaking as air rushes back into his lungs. It dribbles out of the side of his mouth, pooling in his hair and on his robes. Another prick is shoved in front of his face.

He moans, loud and desperate, as pleasure finds him again. Lucius rocks back on Jugson’s prick, writhing desperately. The lust and desperation makes him half-mad.

“Oh, what a good whore,” someone says, warm and amused.

Lucius comes. He comes, panting and moaning and slobbering all over someone else’s prick. He spills in shuddering spurts onto his robes. He shakes with the intensity of it. There’s no mercy, but there doesn’t need to be. The feeling is worth itfor those few precious seconds.

Then he hates himself.

It hurts to be still buggered so brutally right after. He whimpers in pain.

A finger flicks his cheekbone. “Back to work, Malfoy.” A prick is lowered onto his face.

Lucius hates himself. He takes one of the man’s bollocks in his mouth and sucks. If he does a good enough job, perhaps he will be praised.

A good . . .

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

He’ll be good. It’s easier, fuzzier, less painful. Just focus on the skin, the shivers of pleasure, the hands touching him.

The man who made him come pulls out. The next thrust is a different feeling inside him, for the prick is differently shaped.

“You’re loose and wet already,” Yaxley sneers.

Lucius wants to apologize, but his mouth is full of cock. Instead, he clenches down, rocks back onto him.

Yaxley laughs. “You learn quickly.”

Lucius shivers. Yaxley grabs his hips and starts to fuck him. There’s only so much his insides can constrict, but he knows it’s enough because Yaxley grunts in his ear and thrusts rougher, harder.

It hurts.

Lucius wants to feel good again, but his prick is soft and his body aches from coming.

The prick on top of him is Parkinson’s, dusted with dark hair. He lavishes it with attention, tongue sliding against skin now familiar to him. Lucius doesn’t know why he cares about being good at it, but the choice was made for him. He clenches down, he leans into Yaxley, he sucks on Parkinson’s prick and takes it as far as he can down his throat and laps at the bottom—

Parkinson pulls out his prick. His voice is harsh, his hand rubbing his reddened prick furiously. “Open your mouth,” Parkinson orders. “Stick out your tongue.”

Lucius does it without thinking. Parkison’s prick shoots strings of come onto it. Most of it lands on Lucius’s tongue, but some smears on his cheek.

“Don’t move,” Parkinson says.

Lucius’s eyes flick up to the familiar face. Humiliation makes him sick. Come drips down his tongue and into his throat.

“He’s a pretty picture, isn’t he?” Ward says. The other Death Eaters laugh.

Lucius shakes, rocking with the thrusts into his arse. A drop smears down the side of chin.

He feels their gazes on him for long seconds. For once, Lucius wants to swallow. Anything but drooling here.

“Swallow,” Parkinson orders. Lucius swallows automatically. The slimy fluid slides down his throat. He swallows again, tasting it. Salty.

Parkinson snickers. “What a whore.”

Lucius doesn’t have enough strength left in him to wince. Does that mean I did it right?

The prick inside him moves in and out, in and out, in and out. His body rocks.

After Parkinson, Burke; after Burke, Woods; after Woods, Amycus Carrow. His body is open to all of them—forced open, again and again, whether or jaw or the muscles in his arse.

Soft fingers dig into his hair, pushing him in and out; nails bite into his hips, up his stomach; his jaw aches; his tongue tastes only the salty issue of whoever came down his throat last. Now and then the short bursts of praise—good bitch, tight, just like that Malfoy, good boy make him whimper. They make his prick twitch.

“You scream so pretty,” Ward groans. “I wanted to take you when the Dark Lord punished you, but this’ll have to do.”

They’re endless. This is forever. You’re a replacement.

Lucius cries softly in between them. His tears trace odd tracks down his face, already covered in the drying spend of his former colleagues. Comrades. Friends, some of them . . .

Now all he knows of them is how they taste on his tongue and how they feel inside him. Good, some of them, pumping their pricks in and out of him. Lucius doesn’t stop himself from fucking back onto them.

“What a fucking slut,” Rabastan says. It’s not the words that sting the most, nor the mockery, but the utter disgust in every syllable.

Lucius shudders, but he doesn’t stop giving attention to the prick on his face. At least he doesn’t have to respond. He sucks, hearing the answering moan. Fingers dig into his hair, hips thrusting.

“Keep going, whore, just like that—”

Lucius feels a movement against him—someone pushes his robes further up, past his hips. Cool, smooth fingers expose his stomach. He expects to feel warm semen on him but instead the cold tip of a wand presses above his prick.

Lucius wonders if he’s going to be tortured. Another thrust slams into him; he moans.

“Yes,” the man with his prick in Lucius’s mouth says. Lucius takes him deeper.

“What do we want it to say?” Rabastan is saying, far away. His hand is cool against Lucius’s hip.

A litany of degrading suggestions follows in his wake. Every one is a familiar word: the designations given to the Death Eaters’ latest toy. Lucius barely processes them.

The man in his mouth comes down his throat. Lucius swallows him down.

Saliva dribbles down the side of Lucius’s chin.

“Come-dumpster,” Rabastan says thoughtfully. “I like that.”

A sharp burst of fear cuts through Lucius’s fading mind. “Please,” he rasps. He coughs. “Please, don’t.”

Laughter.

“This isn’t temporary,” Alecto sneers.

“You don’t have particular grounds to object,” Rabastan says amusedly.

“Stop arguing and put your mouth on my prick,” Booth demands. A hand yanks Lucius’s hair up.

Rabastan’s wand digs into him. Every eye in the room eats him alive.

The Dark Lord. Narcissa. Draco.

He sobs.

Hands pulls him forward and mash his lips against another prick. Lucius apathetically opens his mouth.

It’s not coming off.

It’s all permanent. It’s all, every bit of it, permanent.

It’s this or death.

Rabastan’s wand drags across his skin to laughter and whooping.

Lucius opens his mouth. A prick is shoved down his throat. Lucius gags violently as his face is fucked.

His body burns.

Lucius can’t move, can’t do anything as he feels the words burned onto him. All he can do is let his body be used and feel himself slowly begin to slip away. The men in his holes finish, and he takes their seed into himself.

His hip doesn’t even burn. If he tries, he can pretend it isn’t there . . .

Yaxley leans over him. “Are you a come-dumpster, Lucius?”

“No,” Lucius rasps, through lips sticky with come, with a tongue that he fears will never be able to taste anything else.

“Funny how everyone seems to be dumping their seed in you, then. Must be a mistake somewhere.” Yaxley snickers nastily.

Lucius shuts his eyes, as if he can shut it out. Every load spilled inside him, an amount Lucius lost count of long ago but can still feel filling his bowels with every thrust.

Lucius is just . . . something to use. Something to fill up. That’s what the Muggle before him was. A dead animal, stuffed with their seed and their pricks. Merely a receptacle for baser pleasures.

They used to respect you.

The next man finishes inside him. The combined mess of their seed drools out of his loose arse.

Come-dumpster.

He exists to serve them, doesn’t he?

The names start to fade from his mind. They don’t feel so important as they pass in front of him, spilling their seed down his throat and on his face and on his front and rubbing it into his hair—

“This one was in your arse, too,” someone else snickers. “You came. Do you remember?”

Lucius doesn’t. Everything has been inside me, he thinks. His body is stuffed and has been for . . . he doesn’t even know how long it’s been. Time is fuzzy. All he knows to focus on is the movement of his hips and the pleasure of the man in front of him. They flip him back on his front and pull him onto his hands. They don’t stop.

A thumb rubs semen into his cheek. “You’re better like this, doll. I hope we keep you around.”

Lucius whimpers unconsciously. His body chases pleasure without his mind telling it to. The only thing he wants more desperately than that is to be told he’s doing it right. That even now, broken and ruined, he’s succeeding. He’s barely aware enough to hate himself for it. He doesn’t recognize this thing awakening inside him.

The world fades. He comes, again, drooling around someone’s prick and panting against their groin. Every eye in the room watches him.

“How many times is that?” Rabastan asks.

“Three,” someone says.

Something cool drags over Lucius’s his thigh. Rabastan’s wand. Again. He whimpers around the prick in his mouth in protest.

“Don’t move, Lucius,” Rabastan says authoritatively. “Be good.”

Lucius’s dizzy mind stills. He cries as he swallows around the length in his mouth. Two. Three. Cold tally marks on his body.

He wants to come again. To forget it all.

“Good boy,” Rabastan says. “You know how to behave, don’t you? You’re good.”

Lucius whines. He stares up at Rabastan with eyes filled with tears.

The man thrusts deeper into his arse. “You’re an insufferable leader, Malfoy, but you’re a brilliant whore.”

Lucius’s prick twitches between his legs. He thrusts back, clenching down.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he says. This one pulls out, shooting his seed all along Lucius’s lower back.

A brilliant whore. He’s doing it right. Of course he’s doing it right. He’s always had to do it right.

“Let me at him,” the next man says eagerly. He shoves his prick in. Lucius’s muscles clench down on it, but it’s not enough. “He’s loose.”

Strong footsteps. A muttered spell. Lucius’s insides contract.

“Perfect,” the man inside him says. Lucius takes him, the same way he takes all of them. He’s desperate. He wants to be . . .

Good.

They come on his face so many times that he forgets the number. It doesn’t seem so important who it is or how he knows them, not when someone is biting at his shoulder and whispering about how tight and hot he is. About how he’s perfect, and they’re going to fill him up and come back for seconds.

There’s something to fight for. Some fleeting promise that he’s not such a horrible, worthless failure. Lucius’s mind grasps for it. He’s succeeding.

The way he’s supposed to.

Obedience is thoughtless. Lucius doesn’t even realize he’s following their orders until he feels his body move. The pain fades as he sinks deeper and deeper into the pit of dazed subservience somehow lurking inside his mind.

Someone wraps a hand around his prick and Lucius cries out desperately. He ruts desperately into it.

“You want to come, Malfoy?” someone sneers.

“Please,” Lucius whispers.

“Well, since you’ve been so good . . .”

“Yes,” Lucius pleads, “yes, I’ve been good, I’ve been good . . .” He sobs as his prick leaks onto the floor.

“He really was born for this,” someone else comments to snickering.

“Hard to believe he’s not Imperiused—”

“—I think he’s wanted my prick in him this whole time—”

“—the neediest slut I’ve seen—”

“He’s perfect for it,” someone says.

Lucius moans, fucking into the hand around his prick. They can see him. They can see him being good.

“Oh, alright, he can come on my prick,” comes the voice. The thrusting increases. The hand rubs his prick. It takes seconds for Lucius to come, a desperate sob following him.

Fingers smear come on his thigh. Lucius shakes with the aftereffects. The man inside him doesn’t stop, leaving Lucius writhing on his prick.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” the man murmurs in his ear.

Lucius stills. His body is alight and every inch of his skin burns. Fingers dig into his hips and fuck him just as fast and hard.

At least . . . he’s being good. If there’s not pleasure, there’s the satisfaction of doing something right.

It’s all he has to hold onto as the night drags on.

Someone comes on his face from the side. Half a bottle of wine is poured over him, mostly his hair. They keep using him, but the rough enthusiasm fades into lazy camaraderie and pleasure-seeking. His body is one aching bruise, but he keeps moving, unable to stop.

Booth drags Lucius back by his hair, forcing Lucius onto his knees on his prick.

“Ride me,” he orders.

Lucius doesn’t even think about disobedience. He works his body up and down. The discomfort in his body fades into the background as he services every man in front of him who demands it. His thighs burn, and his insides are raw and ruined, but he doesn’t stop. They order him to pleasure them. It’s all he can do. All he knows how to do.

Lucius slips so far under the surface he doesn’t know which way is up. They use him until they’re satisfied and come back for seconds, thirds, fourths. Time turns into one endless moment of being ruthlessly buggered.

He comes, over and over, until he’s lost track of a number he wasn’t counting anyways. Someone keeps a tally of it on his thigh, but he tries to forget about that, too. The pleasure lures him in, promising escape, until all he wants is the white-hot forgetfulness of a few seconds’ relief. When it fades, he wants it again.

The only thing he wants more is someone bending over and murmuring in his ear how he’s doing well, how it feels perfect, how good he’s being for them. How he’s accomplished at least at something, even if it’s just being a toy. How he’s a good bitch, or a talented little slut or a pretty thing or a good girl.

It feeds that strange, desperate need inside of him. With every string of words, he falls deeper into the pit of craving it, of instant and thoughtless obedience, until he’s sure there’s no way out of it and doesn’t care.

Rodolphus slips out of him, leaving come to leak onto the floor from Lucius’s arse.

Lucius finds himself, for a few confusing seconds, without someone inside him. He’s unsure of what to do without someone to tell him.

A long shadow precedes boots stomping across the floor. Lucius doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

Grayback crouches down. He snaps his fingers in front of Lucius’s face to get his attention.

“You want to be a good boy, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Lucius says dazedly, but he means it, he really does. Good. He wants to be good. He wants to be doing it right. No mistakes, no room for error. . .

He has to be good. The way he’s always had to be good. The best.

“You’re a fucking bitch,” a rough, harsh voice sneers.

“He’s a puppy,” someone chimes in, and they laugh.

Someone pulls Lucius’s head up by his hair. “You hear that, mutt? We’re going to make you our bitch.”

“Let’s not be hasty, he’s obviously a purebred . . .”

Lucius’s head lolls in the hold. His hair hurts.

“Beg for it,” the man demands. Grayback. Grayback. That’s Fenrir Grayback, he’s a werewolf, he could make you into a monster—he could make you into an animal. Forever. An animal, forever, forever . . .

“Please,” Lucius begs, “please, make me your bitch.” The words fall from his lips in one long whimpering stream.

A large, hairy hand pats Lucius’s cheek. “Good boy.”

Lucius’s eyes close. He moans at the words. His prick aches.

“You like that?” Grayback sneers. He jerks Lucius’s head back violently. “You want to be told you’re a good dog?” He shakes Lucius’s aching head. “Answer me.”

Lucius shuts his eyes. “Yes,” he admits, tiny and small. Please. Please, let me be good, let me do it right . . .

They laugh.

“Don’t be too mean to him, he’s just a pup,” one of them says. They laugh harder, but Grayback’s hand loosens in his hair.

“Put your mouth on my prick, Malfoy,” Grayback says. “And really think about what you’re doing.” Lucius hears his grin in his voice. “I want you to remember you’re sucking off a monster like me.” He digs claws terrifyingly deep into Lucius’s hair. “And you better do a good job.”

“He wants to be a good,” someone says. “Don’t you, Malfoy?”

Lucius whines his assent to their endless laughter. He shuffles forward slightly to take one of the man’s bollocks in his mouth. From his knees, he can use both of his hands.

Grayback is big, but Lucius took Crabbe and Rodolphus. He tries to be good, to slather his prick with his own tongue and lavish him in attention. Grayback smells like a dog.

“Did you put cheese on your prick, Fenrir, because he’s having a brilliant time . . .”

Lucius takes Grayback in his mouth. The wet noise of shallow facefucking and its rhythm fills his mind. He moves his hand to Grayback’s bollocks and guesses by the pleased noise that he’s doing something right.

“Can I have his arse?” someone else demands.

“Let him—finish—” Grayback demands, voice catching. He shoves his prick further into Lucius’s mouth. Lucius gags, but thankfully it goes no further. He works his fingers up and down at the same pace as his mouth.

Someone crouches down next to him. “Never thought you’d be sucking off a werewolf, did you, Malfoy?”

Monster, animal, dog . . .

“He likes it,” someone else says.

The man next to him grabs Lucius’s prick in his hand. Lucius’s hips twitch at the friction. “He’s a proper bitch, begging to be bred. Let me at him, Fenrir.”

“Shut up and wait your turn,” Grayback snarls roughly.

Lucius takes him until his eyes water. Instead he fucks his aching throat on Grayback’s prick until his nose is buried in the dark pubes and all his muscles can do are spasm around the thing utterly filling him.

Lucius makes a mess of them both. The man next to him is palming his prick through his already ruined robes. Lucius whimpers.

Grayback comes down his throat and pulls himself out. The last few spurts land on Lucius’s cheek and nose.

Slowly, Lucius licks his lips.

“Born to pleasure his betters,” someone snickers.

Grayback kicks him. Lucius cries out as he falls back. He stares up at them. They loom large, dangerous—some of them already have their pricks out. A man pumps a hand over his.

Someone else steps in front of Grayback. “Sorry, pup,” he says. “Time to get buggered.”

He knees between Lucius’s legs, frees them, pushes them up. Lucius feels come leak out of him as he’s moved. His robes fall down his thighs, revealing him utterly to anyone who cares to look.

“He’s ready for it,” the werewolf jokes. Lucius takes a shallow breath before he’s breached.

He’s big. He finds that place inside him that brings him pleasure, and Lucius is lost to it. He hears their laughter as he cries out with every thrust and squirms into a position where he can feel it. Someone comes on his face, half in his mouth and half on his neck.

Laughing, always laughing.

The next one kneels down and feeds his prick into Lucius’s mouth. Lucius tries to suck on it, but from this position, there’s nothing he can do. He gags as it’s shoved to the back of his throat. The man on top of him groans and thrusts.

He’s big, too. They all feel big inside him. They take a deep amusement in touching him, but Lucius is far past caring. All he wants is the pleasure.

“Good bitch,” one of them coos as he jerks him through an orgasm. “Just like that.”

Lucius moans around the prick shallowly fucking his throat. He comes on his chest, smearing his once-rich robes with his own seed. The pleasure wipes away the shame.

Lucius tries to fuck himself on the next man, or give the one after that a decent blowjob, but they exhaust him. His body is eroded in the same horrible way his mind was, cracking under the pressure of being thoroughly gang-raped in a room full of nearly everyone he knows.

He still tries. He’s still desperate for their approval. They know it and they use it. When he makes them come he’s praised. He needs to be good. He needs to be perfect. And he needs to serve them, obediently.

Lucius is desperate enough to touch himself. He wraps his hand around his prick and comes while they fuck him. He smears his hand and his robes with his seed.

From this position, he doesn’t even have to hold himself. The marble is cold against his back as he’s practically bent in half. Pain shivers down his thighs as his hole is made accessible. The wizards who want him simply yank his head up and shove their pricks down his throat.

Lucius’s face is smeared in his own spit and caked with their seed. It drips down the side of his temple like tears and dries on his forehead and upper lip. He keeps his eyes closed to avoid pain when someone pulls out to come on his face or simply brings themselves to completion against his forehead.

There’s barely a difference in the line of pricks shoved inside him. All that matters is the ones that brush his insides in the ways that make his prick twitch and his insides ache—and the voices that murmur around him.

“You were always such a prat, Lucius, this really suits you—”

“Ha! What a good girl—”

“Oh, fuck, I’m going to come in him again—”

“Try talking back to me now, bitch.”

It stretches on into forever. Lucius is far past exhausted by the time they tire of him. Every part of him aches. Come leaks out of his arse and onto the floor and his robes. He knows he should be humiliated, he knows he should hate himself, but the thoughts are so far away they exist in a different plane of reality to the buggering he’s taking.

They leave him leaking on the floor.

Grayback’s ugly, twisted face sneers down at him. He crouches down, holds Lucius’s face still with a hand on either side of his head, and spits.

Saliva lands squarely between Lucius’s eyes, dripping down his forehead and temples. Some of it trickles into Lucius’s eyes and he winces. Grayback smirks at him.

“Last call!” Grayback says, standing up. “Last call for any of this whore’s used holes. Well—for now.” He sneers.

A few people step forward. They finish themselves off on him or shove themselves down his throat. Lucius writhes on their pricks, trying to get enough pleasure, but he only gets himself halfway there.

Amycus jerks himself off on Lucius’s face. Crabbe fucks him one last time, stretching his rim in a way that’s familiar to him. They bugger him and leave Lucius there, in the middle of that cold room on the filthy marble floor. His prick is hard, he realizes, shining with pre-come and leaking down its length.

He feels strange without someone inside him. Empty.

Lucius wonders if he did something wrong. If he wasn’t good enough for them. He feels . . .

Distant.

A final shape steps forward: the tallest of the lot by far, long and thin and chased by a dark robe. It sweeps across the floor almost silently. Lucius knows it. Fear peaks inside him. Fear and knowing and a desperate, endless desire to please. Its shadow falls over him.

“You are a mess,” the Dark Lord says coldly.

“Yes, master,” Lucius whispers.

“Have you serviced your comrades well?” he asks.

Lucius still doesn’t dare look at him. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, master. Yes.”

“Do you intend to be obedient in the future?” A malicious strand of amusement weaves itself into those cold syllables.

“Yes,” Lucius begs. He sobs from a bruised and aching throat. “Master, please. I’ll be good.” He’s barely conscious enough to form words. “I’m good,” he insists pathetically.

The Dark Lord steps closer to him. Lucius shivers bodily. He feels come leak out of his arse and onto the floor.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” the Dark Lord says. Slowly, purposefully, the tip of his boot presses down on Lucius’s prick.

Lucius gasps with pain. “Yes, master,” he whimpers. His mind barely knows how to do anything else. The pressure brings tears to his eyes, but he doesn’t protest. His mind knows how to do nothing but utterly submit to the man before him.

Laughter.

“I intended to punish you, Lucius, but my methods may be misplaced . . . you are certainly well-suited to your new role.”

Raucous, enthusiastic laughter.

Lucius is focused on his prick. It aches, but he’s used to pain. It leaks, the promise of pleasure just a few movements away. His hips buck against the pressure and friction semi-consciously.

It doesn’t escape the Dark Lord’s notice. Lucius feels the sole of the boot drag over his prick. He tilts his head back and moans.

Even the Dark Lord smiles in amusement. “Are you so desperate for your pleasure?”

Lucius looks up at him, unsure of what he wants to hear.

But as the boot lifts, Lucius chases the friction. He ruts against the toe of the boot, panting slightly, desperate.  The head of his prick rubs against the filthy sole, smearing pre-come on it until it shines.

“Hold yourself back,” the Dark Lord says coldly.

Lucius is desperate for the escape of pleasure, but he’s even more desperate to be obedient. He stops himself with some effort. His flushed prick rests against the Dark Lord’s boot in the middle of a shiny spot of pre-come.

“Good,” the Dark Lord says smoothly. “I suggest everyone here remember the benevolence and mercy of Lord Voldemort.”

The room is utterly silent, except for Lucius’s soft moaning. Lucius tries to listen to him, but the words slip through his mind.

“Do you still want to mate with my boot like a dog?” the Dark Lord asks.

“Please,” Lucius begs. The tears come out of him in a flood, his entire body shaking. Everything seems to slip from him as he begs. If he doesn’t get it, he will simply fade away forever. “Please, master, please—please.” He chokes back a sob. His hips shiver.

The crowd is silent. Lucius could forget they were there, except knowing that they’re watching him makes his prick harder.

Those cold, red eyes stare down at him mercilessly. It’s long, agonizing seconds filled only with Lucius’s crying before the Dark Lord speaks.

“You may finish.”

Lucius’s hips snap up, desperately. The noises that leave his mouth are half-sobs, half-moans. He comes nearly instantly, all over his robes and the Dark Lord’s boot. He lets out a choked scream as he does. White-hot pleasure takes him over, a feeling that leaves him sobbing even harder. He’s stretched thinner than he can bear. His entire body aches, his mind faded and dizzy.

He still feels—he still feels like he needs something. The pleasure shudders through him, but it’s not enough. They’re not done. There’s something else, something lost.

The Dark Lord tilts his head ever so slightly. Lucius wonders, with aching terror, if he’s going to die. But the only knowledge left to him is the fact that the man above him is his master, and that Lucius is at his mercy, and that if there’s anything he asks of him Lucius will do it.

“Clean your mess with your tongue.”

The tip of his boot taps Lucius’s chin before moving up.

A noise in the back of his mind. Laughter.

Lucius tilts his head and tries to push his one working arm under him. Semen is smeared all along the sole of the boot, dripping slightly onto Lucius’s lips.

He laps it up, slowly and surely. Lucius tries to ignore the pain. He tastes dirt, and blood, and leather, but mostly his own seed. It tastes very much like everyone else’s. He cleans the sole of the boot until it shines. He dips his tongue between the treading and presses his mouth to them to clean it with his spit. He tilts his head to drag his tongue up and down the spurts.

Lucius licks his lips slowly.

The room has gone silent.

He looks up at the Dark Lord. The boot moves, slick with spit, but clean in the light.

The Dark Lord smiles, no kindness in his gaze, only a cruel pleasure in the turn of his lips. “Very good, Lucius.”

Lucius moans desperately.

The Dark Lord’s eyes flicker maliciously. “I suppose we’ve found your obedience, haven’t we, Lucius? Perhaps your competence?”

Laughter breaks out again, but Lucius ignores it. Lucius’s voice rasps. “Yes, master.” It is a plea, but for what, he doesn’t know.

“I will allow you to stay a living whore.”

The Dark Lord leaves without preamble. His robes flicker in front of Lucius, all black fabric—leaving nothing behind.

Whore.

Lucius doesn’t even cover himself up again. He still tastes leather on his tongue. He’s too dizzy and dazed to do anything but lay theree, shaking uncontrollably, trying to hold onto the words before they slip away.

Very good, Lucius.

Figures walk around him, in and out, speaking in muffled voices. Lucius stays there, somehow feeling that it would be wrong to get up from the floor. Certainly not something that would bring him approval.

Someone crouches in front of him. Lucius’s eyes focus on a pale face and long, shining black hair. Bellatrix.

A clawed hand digs into his hair. Lucius cries out in pain as he’s pulled forcefully to his knees. Come falls out of him and smears his thighs, puddling under him on the floor.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man,” Bellatrix says. Her eyes are bright. She draws her hand back; Lucius watches her arm move, but he doesn’t flinch. Pain sparks on the side of his face. His head snaps to the side. Slowly, he touches his cheek.

“Merlin, you’re disgusting,” Bellatrix sneers. She wipes her hand off on her robes.

“Get away from my husband,” a cold voice hisses.

Bellatrix looks to the side. “Didn’t you hear the Dark Lord, Cissy? I can have him however I like.”

Narcissa’s voice is unsteady but clear and demanding. “So have him, or step away.”

Bellatrix huffs, but she steps up. Narcissa replaces her. Her face is flushed, color high on her cheeks. Her hands shake as she reaches for him, cupping his cheek.

“Lucius,” she whispers.

Lucius leans into her touch. Her hand is wet with sweat. Familiar. He closes his eyes.

“Lucius, are you . . .” She hesitates.

Lucius doesn’t say anything. He just leans into her. He doesn’t want her to go.

“Bella, you don’t think—you don’t think—” Narcissa starts to sound a little hysterical.

“What?” Bella demands.

“You don’t think they drove him . . . mad?” Narcissa’s voice shivers.

Bellatrix snorts. “No, he’s only fucked-out. I always knew he’d break easily. He’s just waiting for you to stick a prick in his face.”

Narcissa whimpers, only audible because of Lucius’s close proximity. She doesn’t say anything else. Lucius feels something warm and wet against his forehead. He opens his eyes to see Narcissa shifting a wet cloth in her hand. She slowly cleans off his face. Come flakes off and smears onto the cloth. Carefully, she drags it over his closed lids, cleaning the semen drying on his lashes.

People move around them. She dabs at his split lip, at the blood on his neck, and even tries to comb out his filth-caked hair with her nails.

“Oh, my love,” she whispers. “My love, what did they do to you?”

Lucius stares at her. His head aches. He feels . . . so very empty. And he feels as if he’s doing something wrong, being insufficient in some way. And he wants her to touch him again.

He leans in.

Narcissa catches him, wrapping her arms around his soiled form. “Oh, love,” she chokes.