A/N: Thank you my lovelies for continuing on this journey with me. This is a trigger warning for violence and non-con. Please care for your mental health my dears.

Chapter Two: The Catalyst

/ˈkad(ə)ləst/

Noun: a person or thing that precipitates an event

Klaus shuddered as the silence stretched on with his bare bottom exposed to the damp air of his prison. He tried not to contemplate his position with his legs and hands pinned. With his face pressed into ground. Worse was the feeling of Marcel's gaze piercing through his back. Klaus dared not make a sound, as if to fade into the silence and allow Marcel to forget their compromising situation.

"This is for Davina, and everyone you've ever hurt," said Marcel. "You've destroyed so many lives, and this is a small price to pay."

Klaus begged to differ. This felt like the punishment second only to death. Perhaps even worse than death.

"I've changed, Marcellus," pleaded Klaus.

"I've heard that before, asshole. You never change."

Marcel told himself that this was a necessary evil to put Klaus in his place, but a little voice in the back of his mind nagged at him. The voice said to him that this crime was made even more unforgivable by the fact that Marcel was about to enjoy himself. Marcel ignored that voice, and considered himself righteous.

Klaus, on the other hand, went over every moment that had led to this. He thought of every murder and indecent act that had brought Marcel to hate him, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to feel that he deserved this fate. But, despite the murder and cruelty of his reign, Klaus had never – would never – lower himself to rape another person.

"Fuck you," whispered Marcel as he spit.

Klaus grit his teeth as cold saliva splattered on his lower back. Marcel maneuvered his legs between Klaus' thighs and pried his knees apart. Klaus told himself he could handle this. He had done this before. But as he felt Marcel press forward, the resolve melted away and he couldn't help but beg like a small child again. He hadn't felt this way in 900 years.

"Please don't do this, please, I'm begging you," he said, struggling uselessly against the newly created monster. "If you wanted me to grovel, you've won, Marcellus. I was wrong. I was wrong about everything, and I'm sorry. You don't have to do this, Marcellus…"

Marcel didn't answer. He had made up his mind.

Seconds passed, and Klaus felt hesitant pressure against his entrance. Marcel slowly pushed forward, but Klaus was rigidly tight and dry. Determined, Marcel bucked forward sharply and forced his way inside. Klaus jolted forward into the stone, but there was nowhere to go and the only option was to endure the pain and fullness. The physical sensation was nothing compared to the despair he felt. Shame was added to the mix as he heard Marcel exhale in a way that sounded like thinly veiled pleasure. Marcel grew even harder inside of him, and then Marcel started to move.

Having never taken neither a man nor a woman in this way, Marcel was lost in the tightness that surrounded him. Primal lust replaced his vengeance and his righteousness.

With every thrust, Klaus grunted in discomfort as Marcel groaned in pleasure. Marcel increased his pace and Klaus felt his insides tearing as he was split open. The wounds healed and the blood reduced the friction, but Marcel had a speed and strength unlike anything the world had ever seen. The intensity of his thrusts increased until Marcel's hips were a blur of motion, until Klaus' healing could no longer keep pace, until Klaus' screams could have surely been heard in all of New Orleans had it not been for the magic that cloaked them. This went on for what felt like hours. Klaus eventually stopped screaming. Everything was lost in a cloud of persistent motion, agony, and shame. He preferred the hell of that blade.

Then, the thrusting stopped, and for a nanosecond, Klaus mistakenly thought Marcel had come to regret his actions, but then reality sank in. Marcel, buried deep inside of Klaus, let out a primal groan as he threw his head back and came deep inside of his prey. Klaus cried out, disgusted by the wet feeling inside of him. It should have been over, and yet, Marcel did not remove himself from Klaus. Marcel simply collapsed in a crushing heap on top of Klaus.

He breathed heavily in Klaus' ear, a familiar sound that sent shivers down Klaus' spine. It should have been over, but the pulsating manhood in his ass was a cruel reminder and a persistent violation. Klaus couldn't move. He couldn't speak, and so he just started to cry as the reality hit of what had just happened. Marcel had raped him, the great Niklaus Mikaelson: patriarch of the original family, sire of hybrids, and former king of New Orleans. Now reduced once more to nothing but a common whore. And his life had come full circle.

Tears ran down his cheeks and swirled with the blood from his once broken bones. Klaus couldn't help but start to shake, and this was somehow enough to move Marcel.

"God, you're actually crying?" asked Marcel as he pulled out of Klaus and rose to his feet, leaving the broken man on the floor. "I told you that you were pathetic, but you wouldn't listen...I want to hear you say it."

Klaus quieted himself. He didn't want to give Marcel the satisfaction, but what would happen if he didn't play along? He couldn't go through that again.

"Wasn't this enough, Marcel?" Klaus whispered into the floor.

Marcel nudged Klaus with his foot and turned the man onto his back. Klaus' clothes were soaked in the blood that had pooled under his pelvis and stomach. A scraped bruise was healing on Klaus' cheek where his face had been rubbed raw against the stone. Marcel almost felt a twinge of guilt, seeing someone he had loved once in state like this. But then Marcel remembered Davina, and quickly pushed that guilt down into the depths of his unforgivable soul.

The men locked eyes. Marcel's heartless black gaze and Klaus' bloodshot stare.

"You win," whispered Klaus. "I'm pathetic. I'm wrong. I'm evil. My father made me his whore, and now you've made me yours. Are you happy now?"

Marcel thought for a moment, before he scratched his chin and nodded. "Yes…yes I am."

And with that, he walked away and left Klaus alone in the dark.

Klaus curled into a ball and wished for death. He thought of how his father would laugh if he could see his bastard son like this now. He thought of how disgusted his brothers would be to find him in this sorry state. He thought of how he was glad that Camille was dead because she would never be able to look at him the same way again. And he hated himself for being grateful that Camille was dead. But he hated himself more for hoping he would never see his daughter again, because then she would never have to be ashamed to have a father like him.

Klaus waited for Marcel's footsteps to disappear before letting out a wail of grief so powerful and sincere that it rocked the foundations of New Orleans. Although Klaus did not posses magical abilities, the pure and unadulterated emotion sent forth a burst of energy so potent that it penetrated the veil between worlds. The wave of energy cut through the domain of the ancestors and shattered a prison holding a terrible evil. And finally, the piercing of the veil between worlds had allowed quite a few travelers back into the world of the living. But those were stories that would unfold later on.