The flowers of evil

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Credits: the chant is an excerpt of Charles Baudelaire's 'Satan's Litanies' (Les Litanies de Satan), published in his poem collection 'The Flowers of Evil' (Les Fleurs du Mal). Translation into English by Richard Howard.

Warnings: violence, multiple non-con! sex during a black mass (m/m) and a disillusioned former priest...

A/N 1: In her wonderful story 'To find you in the dark', my dear fellow author Shadowy Star wrote something about Damien having a 'Gerald-shaped hole within his heart'. Please don't flame me now for the sentence 'the loss of his companion had torn a hole in his soul' and so on and so forth, okay?

A/N 2: Of course it's debatable whether the main characters would ever do something like the stuff described in this fic, especially with regard to Gerald Tarrant/Hawthorne. My sole excuse is that this was written for the Porn Battle on AO3 and Dreamwidth, a challenge which usually doesn't call for elaborate plots and stringent logic, if you know what I mean (for example, the entries have to be rather short in order to fit into the available space). But somehow, what was meant to be a little snippet born from a crazy plot bunny developed into a full-blown story. I can only hope that it isn't too much OOC for your liking...

Prompt for the - unfortunately cancelled - Porn Battle XVI: darkness, ritual, cult, sacrifice, altar

Well, three more ficlets to come if everything goes well. But it's rather difficult to write porn while being in pain, alas...

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Jaggonath, 1251 A.S.

Aptest angel and the loveliest!
A God betrayed, to whom no anthems rise,
Satan, take pity on my sore distress!

Prince of exiles, exiled Prince who, wronged,
yet rises ever stronger from defeat,
Satan, take pity on my sore distress!

Trying very hard to maintain his erection in spite of the dire circumstances, Damien Kilcannon Vryce, once priest and now member of the secret organization Gloria Dei, closed his ears to the rhythmic chanting all around him. Twelve hooded men lusting for power and the wealth which came with it, every single one of them high on the aphrodisiac mixture of herbs smouldering in the incense burner and a rush of adrenaline driving off the last compunctions they otherwise might have still had deep down in their corrupted souls. Should they ever suspect that one of their circle had been replaced by an undercover agent of the Church of Unification, they would tear him to pieces faster than a pack of Amoril's white wolves.

You've gotten yourself in the vulking shit up to your neck once again, Damien, the warrior knight thought drily. But if the institution he was serving deemed it appropriate for him to participate in a black mass, including a gang rape and subsequent human sacrifice, he didn't question the wisdom behind his orders. Those times were long gone, had died the day when the bastard for whom he had betrayed everything his faith was standing for had left him on Black Ridge Pass without the slightest sign of regret.

The man who had risen from the ashes of his previous life still worked for the common good in his own way, but he had become colder, harder, as if the loss of his companion had tore a hole in his soul, a gaping void of indifference and detachment from human affairs which would have been anathema to his former self. He did what he did because he was told so, but the holy flame of pity and compassion which had driven him on for so many years had been smothered by a blanket of disillusionment, maybe never to flare up again.

It went without saying that he didn't look forward to proving his virility in such an abysmal fashion, nor did he intend to let the auburn-haired youth currently bound to the sacrificial altar die a horrible death at the hands of a few lunatics who had fooled themselves into thinking that the ritual killing of young men would gain them favours with their hellish master. As a matter of fact, his superior had explicitly instructed him to save the victim, at whatever cost to himself. But it wouldn't do to interrupt the unholy ceremony now. If he drew the pistol hidden in the folds of his black cloak and made an end of this insanity too early, the only crime they could charge the participants in the ritual with would be rape. A grievous offence without a sliver of doubt, but nothing their lawyers couldn't handle considering that the Vice Mayor of Jaggonath, the chief police officer and a well-known crime lord were among the miscreants. Confronted with the charges, they would unanimously testify that the youth had agreed on celebrating a somewhat kinky orgy. A hefty sum of money would change hands in order to ensure the deplorable lad's silence, and this would be the end of the matter.

His organization couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let this happen. Religious beliefs were everyone's own business, and if those idiots deemed it wise to bank on the forces of the dark, so be it. As the imagination of man couldn't spawn demonlings any longer, they would in all likelihood be in for a nasty surprise, anyway. But over the last eight months, already four young men had been found dead, abused and their throats cut. Seven others had vanished in the Jaggonath area without a trace. Granted that a few of them simply didn't want to be found for whatever reason, it was still a frightening number. No, as much as he wished otherwise, he had to wait until the very last moment before he could finally drop his mask in the most literal sense of the word and put the fear of God into those accursed blasphemers.

The last of the real cult members achieved his goal with a low grunt, and now all eyes were on Damien. Steeling himself to the inevitable, he approached the black not obsidian altar densely carved with symbols and obscene pictures on not altogether steady legs.

As if the sight of the ancient sigils was stirring up memories he usually tried to keep strictly under lock and key, he suddenly thought of the many times he had witnessed true power being wielded by a single man, power which could have levelled the entire city if the Hunter had so chosen without needing an incantation or even a mere gesture, let alone this ridiculous farce, and a surge of contempt welled up inside him. But in itself, the altar was a cunning device, indeed. In preparation for its intended purpose, its creator had spared the middle section of the bottom end, leaving an oval-shaped opening which allowed him to step right between the youth's wide-spread thighs. Now he only had to push his hips forward and bury his cock where he didn't want to go, and the final act of the drama could take its course at long last.

Gazing down on the naked limbs stretched out in front of him, though, his resolve to do what needed to be done suddenly faltered. In the semi-darkness only brightened by a few candles burning in huge golden candelabras, he couldn't see much of the blindfolded and gagged victim's face. But aside from the different colour and cut of his hair, the youth helplessly awaiting his fate could very well be what had become of Gerald Tarrant after his transformation in the bowels of the Hunter's keep. The violated body was just as slender as the one he remembered so well from Black Ridge Pass, the skin a flawless olive shimmering in the candlelight, and the dark brows just visible above the silk scarf acting as a blindfold were eerily reminiscent of the spread wings of a certain black raptor, letting the rising air carry him higher and higher into the night skies.

For a moment, he couldn't help but wondering what the adept would make of this. Would he congratulate himself to having dragged him on the wide and comfortable road to corruption he had walked down now almost to its very end? Approve of his course of action, as pragmatic and ruthless as he was? Or would he call him a complete and utter fool for risking his neck - and his eternal salvation - at the behest of an organization which didn't shy away from asking a deed so vile of him that it simply defied description. Even after spending years in the company of this walking, talking enigma, Vryce couldn't even begin to fathom how his reaction to the atrocity he was about to commit in the name of their God might be.

Be that as it may, for the time being he had more pressing problems at hand than the acceptance of a man who had tricked him into taking the easy way out and condemned him to his own personal hell of grief and remorse in the process without giving a shit for his welfare. Maybe it was just a matter of nerves, but the chanting seemed to become more and more inviting by the second, and he could feel questioning eyes on his back. It was now or never.

But yet he hesitated, held back by an eerie sense of foreboding. And by the fear that if he proceeded now, he would finally cross one line too many. The very next moment, things changed dramatically. If he had still been able to think clearly, he would have realized that his sudden resolve to push the plan through no matter what wasn't so much a deliberate decision on his part rather than an impulse planted straight in his subconscious mind by a powerful will he was having no defenses against. But he wasn't. His pelvis moved forward as if it had developed a life on its own, and he slowly glided into tight, oiled heat which fitted him like a custom-made glove.

Right from the point he had received his commands, he had resigned himself to the fact that he very likely would have to dredge up sweet memories of Ciani in order to be up to his task. Ravishing a boy under the watchful eyes of a crowd of strangers who would flay him alive if they knew about his true identity wasn't exactly helpful for awakening his sexual desire, to put it mildly. Not that he was in the least inclined to take advantage of the situation. Quite the contrary. After a few as gentle as humanly possible thrusts, he would keep up the pretence by means of a lustful groan and a few jerks and wait for the things to come. He surely wouldn't be the first man on Erna who needed to fake an orgasm.

But to his amazement, picturing his trysts with the loremaster proved utterly unnecessary. Whether it were the vulking herbs, a rather long period of celibacy or the incredible friction he wasn't accustomed to, his private parts were doing their duty just fine. A bit too fine for his peace of mind, in fact. Moving inside the young man felt so good, so very right in an inexplicable way that he found himself picking up the pace very much against his will. To distract himself from his mounting arousal, he bent forwards and brought his mouth close to his involuntary sexual partner's ear. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "Just hang on for a short while, and I'll get you out of here. They won't hurt you anymore."

Due to the gag, the only answer was an almost imperceptible nod, but at least it showed that the victim was still conscious and responsive. Damien allowed himself a small sigh of relief, but froze in mid-motion when he registered something hard and unyielding prodding into his lower abdomen all at once.

Flabbergasted, he had a closer look at the man he was screwing by command of his church. The drugs befouling the already stifling air were starting to have a rather detrimental effect on his eyesight, but he wasn't too stoned yet to mistake the offender for anything but an impressive erection on the youth's part. What the hell...?

It was a complication which definitely hadn't been on his agenda for the day. But maybe the lad just couldn't help it. His head was a mere five inches away from the incense burner, and after inhaling the obnoxious mixture for roundabout an hour now, it didn't come as quite a surprise that his body was betraying him under the influence of the very same herbs which were currently setting his own nerve-ends on fire.

Before the warrior knight could get his bearings again, something alien but yet so utterly familiar forced its way into his mind again, and this time, it was more than an inarticulate impetus. Much more. "Don't you dare to stop now, Vryce," a calm but determined voice whispered inside his head. "Give those bastards their money's worth and bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. If you're having qualms about laying with me, let me assure you that I'm finding the experience thoroughly enjoyable."

To Damien's utmost horror, the sudden reactivation of the mind link he had shared with Gerald Tarrant left only one logical conclusion, and he wished that the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Appalled beyond words, he tried to draw back without wasting a thought on the possible consequences of a coitus interruptus, but it was to no avail. His treacherous pelvis didn't just stay where it was but started to move again on its own account, slow at first, but then settling into a hard and fast rhythm.

Pounding into the adept, it felt as if the unity of his body and soul had been splintered into a myriad of tiny fragments. The sentient creature called Damien Vryce was positively furious about the manner he was being used once again, mortified, aghast and elated all wrapped up in one mind-blowing package, but his randy-as-hell dick wasn't in the least interested in his emotional turmoil. He wouldn't come, though. Mustn't come. That much, he owed to his self-respect, if such a thing was still existing at all.

Pulling the last remnants of his dignity around him like an invisible mantle, he valiantly ignored both the all but inaudible chuckle that answered his unvoiced train of thoughts and the pleasant sensations eating away at the crumbling walls of his composure. But his resolve lasted only until the man panting and shuddering under his thrusts tensed up with a throaty moan which proved a more powerful aphrodisiac than a bunch of miserable greens could ever be. Although he wouldn't have thought it possible a minute ago, the ring of muscles massaging his shaft most agreeably at his every motion contracted even further, and he forgot all about his resolutions and the human flowers of evil watching their coupling with hungry eyes.

This was what he had been wanting for years now without ever admitting it to anybody, not even to himself. Having Gerald or whatever his name was now against all odds, listening to his small whimpers and groans escaping through the blasted gag and feeling his erection twitching between them each and every time his cock was hitting home, simply proved too much for his already severely impaired self-control.

Without even realizing what he was doing, he grasped the adept's hands and held on to them like a drowning man. Slender fingers interlaced with his own, tightened convulsively as narrow hips bucked up in the throes of passion and a silent scream of pure, unadulterated pleasure reached his mind via their unique link. Then the first spurt of hot wetness splattered all over his abdomen, marking him with the proof of his lover's orgasm, and this was all it took to send him over the edge, as well. Emptying himself into the pulsing channel which was milking him with nigh to intolerable intensity, his hoarse outcries effortlessly drowned out the chanted praise of the Prince of Darkness.

When Damien had come halfway to his senses again, his eyes fell on the ceremonial dagger offered to him by a meaty, beringed hand. Remembering his part in this abysmal play, he accepted it without batting an eyelash and pressed the razor-sharp blade against the hollow at the base of the former Hunter's neck, but hesitated at the very last moment as if struck by sudden doubts. "What are you waiting for?" an impatient voice spoke up to his left as if on cue. "Just cut the little sluts throat and be done with it. We haven't got all night."

The moment of truth had finally come, and Vryce silently prayed that everything would go well. In a blink, he sliced through the ropes binding the 'youth' to the altar, pressed the dagger into his hand and drew his pistol instead. Two shots hit the ceiling, and before the members of the coven could process what was happening, reinforcements in form of ten Knights of the Flame in full battle armour stormed into the belowground chamber.

The devil worshippers didn't stand the ghost of a chance. Several of them tried to make a run for it, but were cut down before they could even reach the door. Others raised their hands in defeat, but it didn't do them any good. A mere three years ago, Damien would have protested against the unnecessary carnage he hadn't anticipated, would have insisted on arresting at least the men begging for mercy instead of slaughtering them like spring lambs, but now he wasn't giving a damn. The only thing that mattered was that they wouldn't be able to hurt anybody ever again. And that he had just fucked the living daylights out of no other than the new incarnation of Gerald Tarrant.

His thoughts miles away, he watched silently until the last screams had died down and nothing was moving anymore but his brothers-in-arms. How his organization would be able to hush this up with regard to the prominence of some of the deceased escaped him so far, but it was none of his business. Not for the first time, a house fire certainly would serve the purpose well, and even if the charred remains were finally found in the ashes, nobody would be much the wiser. He himself had carried out his duty as so very often before, and now he could go home to his cold bed and try to find forgetfulness in sleep. But first, he needed a wash.

Stifling a sigh, he pivoted on his heels and made for the flight of winding stairs leading to up to the exclusive club reserved only for the most affluent and powerful big shots in Jaggonath. Many of them wouldn't return to their waiting families ever again.

Shaking off this unsettling thought with a mental shrug, Vryce opened the door to the luxurious bath, just to freeze on the threshold. Apparently, he wasn't the only one feeling the need for a thorough cleansing in the wake of the incidents of the night. His shoulder-length hair shimmering in the lamplight, the former Hunter was standing right in the centre of the room as if he had been waiting for him, a terry towel slung around his narrow hips. Dark eyes regarded him with a trace of sardonic amusement in their fathomless depths, but it soon became clear that the very man who had writhed and moaned beneath him not long ago had no intention whatsoever of starting a more verbal communication process.

When the silence was beginning to become uncomfortable, Damien blurted out the first thing crossing his mind. "I liked your previous haircut better," he said gruffly. "And why on Earth and Erna did you opt for becoming a redhead? The colour clashes with your complexion."

The adept shrugged. "A man forced to act as a decoy had better take care that his cover isn't blown. Never mind my hair, Vryce. It will grow again. If my reduced appeal to you is the only matter of importance you wanted to bring up to discussion, I'd rather take my leave now. It's been a long night."

"Just wait a minute, stranger. I hope you don't think me nosy, but I like to know the name of people I've been intimate with."

The 'youth' who wasn't young by any stretch of the word bowed ever so slightly. "Gerald Hawthorne, at your service. Is that all?"

No, it wasn't. Not by a long shot. Registering the haughty condescension the adept's quiet, utterly composed voice, something inside Damien snapped. Fuming, he crossed the distance to the man he had gone to hell and back for in three long strides and dug his fingernails into his shoulder-blades without any regard to possible damage. "Right now, I don't give a shit for your beauty sleep or lack thereof," he ground out viciously. "What the hell has possessed you to let yourself being gangbanged by a bunch of complete nutcases, chained to a vulking sacrificial altar? You could have gotten yourself badly injured, Gerald! Killed! After all I've seen and done, I was sure that nothing would surprise me anymore, but your latest prank beats everything!"

Hawthorne darted him a withering glance. "And what would you have preferred me to do? Picking one of your precious innocents for the task? A virgin with no experience whatsoever in what was waiting for him? I thought you weren't inclined towards cruelty, but evidently, I was mistaken."

"And you had the required experience, I take it?" Damien shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Let's say I'm not exactly a novice in these matters. That's all I can tell you, and all you need to know. And now kindly let go of me. Slowly but surely, I'm running out of patience."

The warrior knight obeyed, but didn't step back. "Actually, there's something else I'd like to ask you," he choked out between gritted teeth, his cheeks reddening. "What you said about finding it enjoyable... is this true?"

"If 'it' means having your cock up my ass, the answer to your question is 'yes'. I would have thought that it was plain obvious, even for a rather distracted lover."

Registering the stunned expression on his face, Hawthorne's mouth curled into an amused smile. "Don't look at me like a dying not duck in a thunderstorm, Vryce," he chuckled. "You wanted to hear the truth. Now live with it."

"But Gerald, I... I still don't understand. With regard to your, well, history, how the heck can you find pleasure in spreading your legs for a guy? I simply can't wrap my head around it!"

"As usual, you're jumping to conclusions. To begin with, I'm not the person you're having in mind. The first Neocount of Merentha is dead, was killed at the hands of his last living descendant. But even if I were Gerald Tarrant, you'd better remember that you don't know anything about his private life save than he was married and sired three children. What would you say if I told you that he warmed his king's bed for nigh to fifteen years? That the founder father of your faith always preferred to lay with a man in terms of pure pleasure gain? I hope this isn't too much of a shock for your priestly conscience."

"I won't deny that I'm somewhat surprised to hear this. But as you've already stated so nicely, you aren't Gerald Tarrant."

"Just so. I'm exactly what you called me a few minutes ago. A complete stranger. That we know each other in the biblical sense of the word now doesn't change a thing."

The callous remark, uttered in a voice as icy as a midwinter night high up on the Divider Mountains, sent a cold shiver down the warrior knight's spine, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. "You might have a point here," he said with enforced calm. "But it doesn't have to stay like that. We could meet again, become better acquainted with each other, and in time..."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Vryce," Hawthorne cut him off. "Up to now, our chance reunion hasn't caused me any harm, but pushing my luck even further would be utterly futile. And it wouldn't work, anyway."

For a moment Damien wavered, torn between feelings which had finally broken the chains of denial and the harsh demands of reality. It was beyond all question that his mouth had a disturbing tendency of running away with him. Just one wrong word, and the adept would crumble into dust or succumb to whatever terrible fate laying in store for him in case of a breach of his latest compact. Maybe it was indeed better to let him go and wish him well. He had survived losing him before. He surely would again.

Yeah, keep telling yourself this crap, and you might believe it in the end. Bad luck that it remains to be seen how much of your sanity will be left this time," the warrior knight thought miserably. But as depressing as the idea of parting company with his former ally once again might be, something was nagging at the back of his mind with rising insistence.

His brow furrowed, he reviewed their conversation until he found what had stricken him as rather odd with regard to Hawthorne's explanations for his outrageous behaviour. A logical incongruity which wasn't at all like a man who was wont to wield his brain like a finely honed sword. When the truth was finally beginning to dawn on him, his anger flared up with a vengeance. "I said it to Tarrant once, and now I'm saying it to you: you're full of shit (WTNF, p. 394), Gerald! 'Our chance reunion'? Don't make me laugh! How daft do you think I am?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Then let me refresh your memory. If I'm not very much mistaken, you were the mastermind behind this inane plan. You and no other picked both of us for the task, in full knowledge of what would happen between us. You twisted son of a bitch wanted it to happen, but needed a vulking excuse for giving free reign to your desire. Saving a hypothetical innocent boy from getting raped played but a minor role in your scheme, if at all. Don't you dare to deny it!"

Gerald swept past him and made for the door without bothering to reply to his tirade, and the warrior knight's temper reached boiling point. "Run away from the truth then," he yelled after him. "That's what you always do, isn't it? Taking what you fancy and making yourself scarce immediately afterwards, leaving chaos and heartbreak in your wake! You're a destroyer, Hawthorne, and a coward on top of it! The Hunter was a merciless killer, an abomination living beyond the grace of God. But unlike you, at least he had guts."

The lithe, scarcely-clad body moved with almost inhuman speed and fluency, and the next thing Damien realized was that he was laying on the cold bathroom tiles, staring up to a face whose expression didn't bode well at all. "How can you dare to accuse me of cowardice, Vryce?" the adept whispered, his dark eyes blazing with defiance. "You know nothing about me. Nothing about my past or the price I had to pay for this one act of indulgence, and I'd rather leave it at that. But trust me that letting the bastards have their way with me wasn't an experience I care to repeat. It will take some time to get the memory of their filthy fingers out of my mind. But that's none of your concern."

"I wish it were so. Just thinking of these vulking villains groping you, let alone making use of other body parts I won't mention, brings my blood to a boil."

A black eyebrow shot upwards. "You're jealous."

"Are you kidding? Of course I'm jealous!" Giving a small, self-deprecating laugh, the warrior knight raked his greying hair. "God knows that you manage to raise my hackles like nobody else" he muttered, "but I'd like to apologize for the things I said to you. They were utterly uncalled-for. In fact, I'm the coward. It wasn't until we were having it off with each other that I finally admitted to myself how much you really mean to me. Call me a fool, but I simply can't face losing you once again."

Hawthorne sighed softly. "As usual, you're quite a pain in the neck, Vryce, but I have to concede that I share your sentiment to a certain degree. Would you like to know why I haven't been afraid tonight, not for one single moment? Because I've never doubted that no harm could befall me in your presence. Don't let this go to your head, though. It's already big enough."

"The pot calling the kettle black," Damien retorted with a broad grin. "But what now, Gerald? Are you still looking forward to your bed?"

"The tiles will do for now, I suppose. Laying with you was pleasurable in the extreme, and I wouldn't mind an encore if you're feeling up to it."

As it was to be expected, the question shaped up as being purely academic. The bath towel which wasn't needed around the adept's hips for the time being made for a halfway convenient underlay, and even before five minutes had passed, Vryce wouldn't have cared if he had rested on a bed of thorns. Hawthorne rode him slowly, deliberately, repeatedly taking him to the brink of orgasm and pausing just short of bringing him to the point of no return until he though he couldn't take it anymore. His last coherent thought was that something wonderful had started that night, something going much deeper than pure physical pleasure. Then his lover was speeding up again with a moan indicating that there would be no further delays, and he stopped thinking altogether.