I have now seen The Book of Mormon twice. I am obsessed. So, is it really any great surprise that my obsession spawned fic? No, of course not. The surprise is more what kind of fic it spawned. O_O;;; Apparently, once I fall, I fall hard and fast. From "OMG, I can't even describe kissing, whatdoIdo, whatdoIdo?" to "Huh let's write some dubcon/noncon for the Devil and Elder McKinley. That might be fun." in like a month. *sweatdrop* So, erm enjoy?

(Well, what the hell was I supposed to do when I lost the 10,000 words of fluffy puppy love fic I'd written for him? *snerts* I mean, sure there's a world of choice between that and this, but.. eh? This was fun? Yeah, I'm not sure I buy that, either. ^_^)

Title: No Exit
Fandom: The Book of Mormon, a Broadway musical
Pairing: Elder McKinley + Elder Price, Lucifer/Elder McKinley
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,259
Warnings: SPOILERS!. Oh, and slash, angst, torture, dubcon/noncon - Umm yeah. Don't ask me. I don't know. I'm still a little skeeved that I wrote it. O_o;;;

Disclaimer: Neither the musical nor the boys belong to me, if they did, Elder McKinley would have a boyfriend by the end of the show and it would probably be Elder Price. ^_~ ((Book of Mormon was written by Trey Parker, Matt Stone and Robert Lopez.))

Summary: "For longer than I care to remember, I've spent every one of my dreaming hours in Hell."

June 20, 2011: This all started because I'm kind of obsessed with the Spooky Mormon Hell Dream idea and how Elder McKinley appears in Elder Price's. That implies to me that it isn't so much a Dream as it is a realm that can be visited. (Oh sure, you could say that Elder Price is dreaming Elder McKinley... but where's the fun in that? ^_~)

Also, there's the fact that Elder McKinley has the dream "nightly." Given what was done to Kevin that one night - psychological torture, disemboweling, good gravy, they run him through the ringer O_O - I can't even imagine what that must be like to live through on a nightly basis, especially if one presumes that it's been happening nightly since Elder McKinley figured out he was gay in fifth grade. That seems to me like it would be a phenomenal source of angst. And you know me and angst. ^_^ So... I played with that. And it was fun. ^_^ *coughs* Albeit disturbing.

Enjoy? *sweatdrop* And please remember... comments and reviews are love!

No Exit
by Renee-chan

I can't help but sigh as I open my eyes on a far too familiar scene - fire and brimstone, lost, wailing souls, the screeches and cackles of unholy demons. It seems I've spent half my life here in Hell, maybe because I have - the half that occurs between lights out and sunrise, anyway. For longer than I care to remember, I've spent every one of my dreaming hours in Hell.

The first time I found myself here, I was terrified. I was so young and it didn't take much. A few waving pitchforks, a short chase around the lava pits and a demon yelling, "Boo!" in my face was enough to have me wetting my bed and screaming for my mother. I babbled out the whole story to her, the terrible visions and the overwhelming fear that I'd done something truly horrible to deserve that dream.

I was five.

She stripped my bed and put on fresh sheets while I got myself cleaned up. When I climbed back into bed she sat beside me and began stroking my hair, told me that most Mormon children had the spooky Hell dream at some point in their youth. It stemmed from having done something wrong. It was Heavenly Father's way of allowing us a glimpse of what was to come if we continued on in our wicked ways. She asked then if I had anything that I would like to tell her.

I tried to think of what I might have done that was so wrong that G-d would send this nightmare to me. I really did try. I tried so hard... and when I couldn't think of a single thing, I cringed and said so. My mother frowned, shifted a little, finally leaned over and kissed my forehead, said, "Well, perhaps it was a mistake. Try to get back to sleep, sweetheart."

The minute she was gone I started to cry, more terrified by the idea that Heavenly Father could make a mistake than I was by the idea that I might go to Hell. Looking back from the perspective of years, my mother must have meant that she'd made a mistake, misinterpreted my nightmare, but that wasn't what I understood that night. I didn't realize it then, as terrified as I was, but that misunderstanding was the most tremendous gift... What misunderstanding?

G-d could make mistakes.

In later years, that thought would help me through some of the worst times of my life. But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself and I really shouldn't lollygag about on the landing platform while I ruminate. I'll just be in the way when the next soul falls from Earth.

Stepping to my right I take a turn past the large set of boulders that mark the entrance into the spooky Mormon Hell dream. I was surprised, at first, to discover that it wasn't the only one of its kind. Most of the major religions had a spooky Hell dream of their own, gateways - anterooms, really - into their own Hells. I found it fascinating in the beginning, spent a little time exploring those other Hell dreams, but in the end I always come back here. I'm comfortable here, know my way around. Some nights that terrifies me - it's really the only thing left in Hell that does.

As I start down the path, a gaggle of crumb-covered children runs by chased by a gang of horned demons. I laugh. It's unfair of me to do so - I know those kids are scared out of their wits - but I can't help it. There are usually at least two or three midnight snackers running around every night. They're cute. Really. I wave as they go past. The kids don't notice, but several of the demons smile and wave as they go by. The last one even pauses long enough to fist-bump me as he goes past. I snort. I'll have to let someone know that Rastiel's spending too much time topside. First-bumping? Really. I shake my head sadly as I continue on.

Most of the lower-level demons don't even bother looking at me as I walk past, too intent on their victims for the night to even bother with me. The tortures are simple in this tier, more like practical jokes. One child is being shoved up on stage at a Christmas pageant to play baby Jesus... in his birthday suit. Another is being tossed into missionary duties, ringing doorbells and the like, armed with a copy of the Torah and the Quran, no Book of Mormon in sight. Another has his Book of Mormon but when his door opens a demon is the one to answer, snarling viciously. Honestly, it's pretty much all harmless fun here. A tiny voice inside me that whispers that at the ages that these kids are, I wouldn't have thought so, would have been just as terrified as they are now. I ignore it. The truth is, most of these kids are young, first-time offenders. The vast majority of them won't be back, at least not often. I keep walking, uninterested, as usual, in these games.

Further down the path the atmosphere changes, the smell of sulfur and burning hanging heavy in the air as I pass into the second tier. It's darker here, hotter, and the miasma of evil is a little thicker. I don't quicken my pace, but I wish I dared. I still have a queasy feeling walking through this tier of more concrete physical tortures. I didn't sleep for three days after my first go round in this tier.

I was ten... and it was shortly after I met Steve. I didn't tell my mother about it, this time - like I hadn't told her about all the times which came before - but I'd had the Hell Dream many times since that first time, once every two to three months, at least, between the time when I was five and when I was ten. I still didn't know why yet, couldn't figure out what I was doing that prompted it - or how G-d could make so many mistakes if I hadn't actually done anything wrong, after all. I even thought for a while that someone else was arranging to have me punished in their stead. It wasn't until Steve that I understood.

I wasn't here for something I'd done... I was here for something I was.

I rebelled after that, fought back against the demons as best I could, railed at Heavenly Father, too. It wasn't fair. Why would G-d create me a certain way, then turn around and punish me for being what He made me? It wasn't right. I told him so, often, screamed it at the top of my lungs every night. It made the demons laugh... and I'm still not sure He ever even listened.

A hand catches at my sleeve, bringing me abruptly out of my memories, and I make the mistake of turning to look. The boy can't be more than fourteen. His eyes are bright with tears that aren't falling. These are the eyes of one who has been here before... the eyes of one who has learned how useless it is to cry. But for the color, they could have been my eyes five years ago- no. No... longer ago than that. I spent years worth of nights in this tier and I'd learned the futility of screaming and crying by the time I was twelve.

I don't want to look, don't want to see anymore than I already have, but the boy's lips form the words, "Help me... Please!" and I am caught. I turn, meet the eyes of one of the two demons assigned to this boy. I know those eyes. Irrasiel smiles at me, mocking and cruel, and carelessly rakes his claws over the boy's chest again. His partner cackles, laps up the blood as it spills. I shudder but don't let my eyes leave the demon's. After all this time I can't afford to show weakness. If I do, tomorrow night I'll be back under Irrasiel's claws, myself.

The demon laughs, the sound like broken glass over a chalkboard. He holds a hand out to me, claws glistening with blood. He laughs again, "Thirsty, my pretty one? Want to join us?"

I shudder again, shake my head. The demon sneers, leans closer until I can feel the heat of his sulfur-tinged breath on my face. Irrasiel's voice changes, becomes almost a purr, "I miss you, my pretty one. I miss our long nights together. It isn't fair, Lucifer keeping you away from me, all to himself. Perhaps you'd put in a kind word? Tell him you miss me? For old times' sake?"

Before I can get my refusal out, that sneer widens, "How about it? One night with you. That's all I ask. One night of your time..." He looks down briefly, stabs one claw into the boy's abdomen, meets my eyes knowingly as the boy finally screams, "...for one night of his?"

The grip on my sleeve tightens and I fight the desire to run, force myself to meet the boy's eyes. Trade another's suffering for my own? Is that not the very meaning of altruism? Of martyrdom? Is this not what Jesus would do? I stare down into those pleading eyes, tears now running freely from them and for just a moment... I consider it. I could spare this boy a night of pain. I could. I've survived the worst that Irrasiel can dish out - and he is creative - I could doubtless survive it, again... but.

I drop to my knees beside the boy and gently kiss his lips. In spite of being dry, chapped and swollen from being bitten to stifle screams, they are soft, pliant beneath mine... and responsive.

I knew it.

I can't give this boy salvation. I can't even give him comfort. All I can give him is truth, bitter as gall. I pull back and whisper into the boy's ear, "I can not save you from this. No one can. Heavenly Father is punishing you for being exactly the thing he made you to be - a perversion of all we are. I can't save you. I can't even save myself."

As I walk away and the boy's screams change in timbre, sound broken in a way they didn't before, I finally give in and speed my steps. I'd just done half of Irrasiel's work for him... but what choice did I have? I had to tell the boy the truth. He deserved that much. He won't thank me for it, not yet, but in a year's time... two year's time...? He would.

I used to seek out boys like him on the outside, try to give them the comfort and support in the waking world that I couldnt here, but I stopped that two years ago. All it took was the accidental overhearing of one conversation...

I'd been tracking one boy in particular, a boy maybe two years younger than me. I didn't know his name, but I'd been seeing him off and on in the Hell dream for a few years, now. Recently, I could feel it as he finally starting to break under the strain of repeated abuse. After all this time I recognized the signs. I had to find him before that happened, let him know that it would be all right. I couldn't comfort him in Hell, any warmth or gentle feeling was leeched away from any attempt, leaving it barren and cold, little comfort at all. But I could comfort him here and I intended to. After three years of searching, I'd finally found him - in my own church, no less!

I followed he and his friend - ironically, a boy I'd helped similarly the year before - towards the area behind the church after services, intent on cornering him in a private place where we could talk. Before I made my presence known, however, I overheard this:

"Colin... I don't know how much longer I can do this. I... I want to be with you, but the dreams are getting worse. I just want it to stop. I'll confess, take my punishment and forget I ever wanted this to begin with. You'll find someone else... someone stronger. It's better like this." Colin shook his head, "No! Joseph... you can't. It gets better - I've talked to some older boys that feel the same way we do and they said to ride it out. After school, after our missions, when we can make our own decisions... it gets better. OK? We just... we just have to wait a little longer. Please... don't leave me now. Not after we've come this far. Not when we're so close." Joseph dropped his head onto Colin's shoulder and let out a soft sob, "I don't think I can. The dreams are getting so much worse Colin, you really have no idea. There's this one demon that terrifies me. He's never touched me, never even come near me, but he scares me. His eyes are so cold, so empty, like nothing he sees in that awful place even phases him like it bores him. How evil do you have to be to be so unaffected by so much suffering?" His voice choked off.

Colin rocked him, rubbed his back, "I know. We've all seen him." Joseph looked up at that and Colin nodded, "The red-haired demon, right?"

Joseph whispered back, "With cold, flame blue eyes..."

Colin finished it, "The one who looks like he should be one of us, but couldn't ever have been. Of course I know him. We all know him. We've all seen him. The demons won't even speak his name. The just call him..."

The said together, "Lucifer's favored."

After a moment's silence, Colin said, "You know what? I'm going to find Elder McKinley. He... talking to him helped me, Joe. He helped me accept who I am and that Heavenly Father made me this way. Once we talked, the dreams came less often. Maybe he can help you, too."

After hearing that conversation, I was cold, shaking, almost in shock. I couldn't... I couldn't talk to them, not after hearing what I'd just heard. I'm ashamed to admit it, but when Colin left Joseph to go look for me, I fled up the nearest tree I could climb and hid. That was what they thought of me in the Hell dream? They thought I was a demon? Lucifer's favored demon, no less?

Almost worse than that though was this: I'd suspected that the boys I'd spoken with, the ones I'd helped to accept themselves, were no longer having nightly Hell dreams - after all, I wasn't seeing them nightly anymore, was I? - but why would Heavenly Father ease their pain and not mine? Why... why had I suffered these nightmares since I was five and nightly since I was ten? Why spare them and not the one who helped them? What had I done wrong?

When Colin failed to find me, he came back to collect Joseph and they left. I stayed up in the tree until nightfall, numb with horror and betrayal and unable to move, one thought on endless repeat in my head, "Why... Why? Why, G-d? WHY?"

I forced myself down a half hour before curfew, stumbled home as though drunk. No one saw me, though, thank G-d. I couldn't have explained myself if I tried. When I got home I slunk past my family, claiming a sour stomach - which even had the benefit of being the truth - and fled for the safety of my room and my bed. For once I was eager to go to sleep.

I hadn't wasted time with preliminaries that night, went straight to the second tier where I knew Joseph would be and tore him away from the demons about to start on him. When they protested, I snarled, warning them off my rightful prey... and it was only when I saw the fear - and respect - in their eyes that I realized what I'd done, realized why the other boys thought me a demon. Had I fallen so far that I was starting to act like one here? It sickened me, but I forced it down. Now wasn't the time. Now it was just a tool I could use, like any other. As the demons fled, Joseph fell to his knees, clutching at mine and sobbing, begging me not to hurt him. I snarled again, grabbed his shoulders and hauled him back upright. I was out of control and I knew it. I was angry at G-d and taking it out on an innocent... and I knew it.

I didn't care.

Finally, I got out, "What did I ever do to you that made you fear me so?"

Joseph swallowed his sobs and answered, though his voice shook. He said, "N-nothing. You've never hurt me, I know that, but... it's the way you walk around, so cold, so aloof, surveying everything. The demons all say that you're Lucifer's favored, so I just assumed..."

I was silent for almost a full minute, couldn't believe how neatly I'd been outmaneuvered here. I finally exploded back with, "Lucifer's favored victim, you moron!" I shoved him hard into the wall then sat down equally hard on the stone altar, my chest heaving as I fought to control the pain in my heart.

Joseph stuttered out, "Wh... what?"

I let out a bitter laugh, "I'm like you,. I'm just a Mormon kid caught in this Hell because Heavenly Father decided to make me a certain way, then when he didn't like what he'd made sought to punish me for it as though it were somehow my fault." As Joseph's mouth dropped open I laughed again, fought it as that bubbling laugh tried to become hysterics, "I've been in and out of here since I was five, then nightly since I was ten. I've done everything I could to ease things for others I found in a similar predicament and all this while, you've all thought I was one of them?" I buried my face in my hands then and finally gave in to the tears.

Joseph sat beside me, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, "Y-you... you really think Heavenly Father made us this way?"

I got myself under control enough to say, "Of course, he did. No one else had a hand in our creation, did they?"

He smiled then, wrapped his other arm around me in a tight hug. I'm ashamed to say it, but I cried on his shoulder for almost an hour, pouring out the pain I'd carried all day... all my life, really. But there was no comfort in this, just as I'd known there wouldn't be. All the outpouring did was increase my pain a hundredfold until I felt I was drowning in it. And I was.

I didn't see Joseph in the Hell dream after that night - neither he nor Colin, actually. A week later, though, they both found me, cornered me when they knew I'd be alone. They sat on either side of me on the isolated park bench which had become my refuge... and hugged me tight between them. Joseph whispered, "Thank you."

I tried to push them away, laugh it off like I didn't know what he meant, but Joseph was having none of that. He just held me tighter, like he had that night, and said, "I know it was you, Elder McKinley. Once I stopped and thought about it, it wasn't so hard to figure out. So, thank you. And I'm sorry."

I sighed then, awkwardly returned the hug, "It's OK, Joseph. Really."

Colin put a hand on my shoulder, said quietly, "But what about you? Why are you still? I mean you've helped so many of us" He trailed off then, unsure exactly where to go with that sentence, I'm sure. Well, I knew exactly where that sentence was going. I'd wondered about it often enough myself since that night.

I laughed, shook them off and stood. My eyes were wild, a little of the "demon" flaring in them as I spoke, "Maybe this is my reward, boys! Maybe my reward for turning so many of you against the church's teachings is that I get to rot in Hell even before I die. I don't know. And you know what? I don't care. Not anymore. I'm done."

They pleaded, argued, tried to sway my decision with thoughts of all the other boys out there who needed my brand of help, but my mind was made up. If this was Heavenly Father's punishment for teaching so many younger boys that it was OK to be gay, for pointing out to them that it was Heavenly Father, himself, who had made us this way then clearly I had to atone for that to save myself. That meant no more helping, no more encouraging, no more keeping Mormon boys from their just punishments. Joseph was the last.

And here we are. I can't help that boy. I can't even help myself. Two more years of nightly torment with no end in sight How does that saying go? "Stare too long into the Abyss and the Abyss will stare also into you?" or some such.

Well, I was just full of the Abyss these days and it no longer ended when I opened my eyes in the morning. Proving what a twisted sense of humor our mission school director had, he'd sent me and my companion to Uganda. Uganda Ha. If ever there was a Hell on Earth, Uganda was it. And to top it all off, G-d added his own twisted sense of humor into the mix. Three days ago, He had walked the biggest temptation of my life right through my front door.

Kevin. Fucking. Price.

I'd been gay all my life. In spite of what I told others, I wasn't really ashamed of it, either. How could I be? In my mind, that made no sense. G-d made me this way. So, for me to be ashamed of it was to deny G-d's very right to make of me what He would and that I wouldn't do. But I'd never acted on it. I'd never kissed a boy. I'd never flirted with a boy. I'd never indulged my passion for musical theatre or avant garde fashion. I'd never I'd never I'd never. I'd been trying to crush the trappings of being gay out of myself for two years.

but I'd had a crush on Kevin Price for far longer than that. In fact, knowing what I know now, Kevin Price was the one who sent me spiraling into that very first Hell dream when I was five. It was innocent, really, not either of our faults. I hadn't meant anything by it, certainly, but Heavenly Father hadn't cared. I'd admired Kevin, heard how good he was, so one day in kindergarten, I'd pulled him aside on the playground and told him so. He smiled, well-used to praise even then, and I'd gone on to say that I hoped to marry him someday, since that was what you did when you loved someone and if Heavenly Father loved him so much, then so did I. He smiled so sweetly at me and in equal innocence, said, "OK!" and we shook on it.

I didn't understand!

How could I have understood? I was five. And Heavenly Father punished me anyway, as though I'd meant it the way an adult would.

A voice rolls out of the deep of the next tier, out of my own private room of tortures, shivers up my back to caress my ear, "Because G-d doesn't love you, Ryan. He never did. He just needed an excuse to give you over to us. You know this by now."

I jump then, hate myself for the quaver in my voice as I scream back, "Stay out of my head!"

The voice slithers up my front then, like a snake crawling up my stomach and chest, softly brushing my lips before whispering into my ear again, "But I like it here. I like you here. Someday someday I'll keep you, too. My own. My little sinner. G-d's abandoned golden child, exiled to a Hell on Earth to match the one he carries in his soul. I find that delicious." Along with that last word, a hand finally emerges from the dark, wraps around my stomach and pulls me back against a hard, fever-hot chest.

I don't struggle, don't cry, don't cry out. Like I said, I learned not to years ago. A second hand joins the first in wrapping around me, slides up from my stomach to my chest, starts softly stroking the flesh underneath the collar of my shirt. I bite my lip over the whimper that fights to emerge. Lucifer needs no encouragement from me, nor do I wish to give him any.

He hears anyway, spins me to face him. Even as he grips me to him in a hold so tight it hurts, his lips are soft, tender, as they cover mine, coax them open. I whimper again, fight with myself, as always. I can't deny that part of me wants this, even needs it, but I don't want it from him. However, when I refuse him I whimper again. It's bad - worse than any torture Irrasiel ever visited on me. I don't think I can handle that tonight. Not tonight when all that was left of my ideal world - the perfection that was Elder Price - lies crumbled in disillusioned ruins around me. Tonight I need comfort and I'm so far gone that I don't even care from whom I take it.

He senses it, as always, when my resistance melts away. With a soft chuckle, he grips my behind, kneads it in his large hands, "Well, well someone's eager for it tonight, isn't he? That's a change of tune. I like it."

He uses the grip he has on me to lift me, carry me further into the room to deposit me on the bed. This bed has had many faces, many forms, many uses most of which leave me shaking in revulsion just thinking about them. Tonight though, it is wide, strewn with feather pillows and sensuously soft blankets a lover's bed.

No no, I don't want this, not like this. I can't I can't give my consent to this, even if it means pain, humiliation, terror I can't. I open my mouth to say so, but Lucifer covers it with his hand, laughs softly and shakes a finger. A moment later his features shift, change, melt away to reveal those of Kevin Price, my own fallen angel.

He removes his hand, then, smiles so gently, "There, now is this better?"

And oh, Heavenly Father, forgive me I can't say no. With those shining, earnest brown eyes boring into mine, I give in to the illusion, give myself over into the hands of my tormentors, one wearing the face of the other, with hardly even a token resistance.

He moves quickly then, vanishes our clothes as though they never were and presses me back into the mattress with deep, probing kisses. I lift my hands to stroke his face, run them into his hair and down his back to pull him closer. With this the only way I can ever have him, I need more and I need it now.

He settles between my legs, rocks himself against me and I gasp into his kiss. He plunges his tongue into my mouth, thrusting it inside in the same rhythm with which he rocks against me, prelude to what will come next. His tongue is hot, scorching, leaves my mouth feeling like I'd drunk a cup of tea too soon after it was poured. It's the one piece of the illusion that's off, that doesn't feel real, and I'm grateful for it. It keeps me grounded, keeps me from getting lost in the lie.

One of his hands slides up my side to my chest, plucks at one of my nipples until it hardens. Then, even as he shifts his other hand to do the same on the other side, he lifts his mouth from mine and clamps it around the hardened nub, suckling at it and laving it with his too hot tongue. I cry out, bury my hands in his hair to hold him where he is. I need this. I want this. I do.

His lips curve into a smile against my chest then and he grazes his teeth on the oversensitive nipple. I cry out, louder this time, and my hips jerk involuntarily off the bed.

He switches his attention to the other nipple, then while I'm good and distracted he reaches down, hooks his hands under my knees and spreads my legs wider. That's all the warning I have before he presses inside me. When I cry out this time it's only half in pleasure. He's burning hot inside me, just like his tongue, and like that heat, his size is another thing he doesn't bother to hide. And it hurts, especially when I'm so unprepared.

As I fight to adjust to the intrusion, a tear slips unbidden down my cheek. I wanted this, asked for it all but begged for it in my own way. Heavenly Father, I was weak. Please forgive me. I'm sorry

He hears it. Of course, he hears. This is his realm. Not even thoughts are secret from him. His lips turn down into a frown as he stares down at me, Kevin's warm, bright eyes growing flat and angry. He leans down, hisses into my face, "I'll not have mention of that name here, in my own bed. It is such a turn-off." He leers down at me then, says, "But if that's how you'd rather play this, if you'd rather be the unwilling victim than the ardent lover that's A-OK by me. I'm flexible. Are you?"

He doesn't bother to hold my wrists, knows he doesn't need to, knows I won't fight back. Instead he shifts his grip to the back of my thighs, forces my legs open wider, so wide I fear my hips will pop. He then rears back and begins pounding into me in earnest.

It's easier on me, on my heart anyway, when all he wants is to hurt me. Then this is just one more torture. Tonight, though tonight he also aims to remind me that I wanted this, that I needed this that I still need this and that he's the only one I'll ever get it from. So though he slams into me so hard I see stars, so hard that it's on the tip of my tongue to beg him to stop, he also hits my prostate on every stroke. After just a few thrusts, all thoughts of him stopping are gone and I'm arching up to meet him, the heat and the weight of him the only solid thing I can hold onto in this world gone mad.

He presses me down into the mattress, the suffocating blanket of his weight providing a welcome friction against my own hardness. I won't last long like this. I never do. Seconds later and one particularly well-aimed thrust has me spilling my own heat against his.

He laughs then, a knowing laugh, and I brace myself for whatever is coming next. He pushes my legs even further back until my knees are bent practically to my ears and sets up a punishing rhythm, hard, fast, continuing to hit my prostate with every stroke.

I'm embarrassed by the mewling cry I let out in response, toss my head back and forth as I finally try to push him away, oversensitive and unable to handle the continued assault. It's futile, but I knew it would be. He just laughs, grips my thighs harder. The heat, that cruel practiced aim oh, G-d help me, it isn't long before I'm hard, again.

He laughs, cruel, mocking, as he pounds into me once, twice, three times more and fills me with the scorching heat of his seed. He pulls out then, releases me, leaves me empty, aching and desperate to reach completion. He stares down at me out of Kevin's eyes, spread out and flushed with need, eyes begging for something I am far too ashamed of to plead for out loud.

He leans closer and I part my lips, hoping to entice him back in to finish what he started. That isn't his aim, though, and well I know it. His lips twist into a sneer and instead he grabs my arm, hauls me off the bed towards the windows that overlook the rest of this Hell. I don't even bother blushing when the demons below see me outlined there, naked and aroused, and start whistling out their cat calls. This particular humiliation lost its edge years ago.

He hooks his chin over my shoulder, presses against me from behind and its all I can do not to rub myself back against him. Please please. He smirks as he hears my thought, reaches a hand down to wrap around me, lets me thrust into the loose - too loose - circle of his palm once, twice, three times, then lets go again. I can't quite bite back the whimper this time. He lifts that hand, points towards a spot in the third tier and his voice rumbles from behind me, deeper than Kevin's should be, "There... Look."

I do as commanded and Oh dear G-d in Heaven. That is Kevin. Elder Price, having the Hell Dream why? For breaking Rules 23 and 72? I fight back hysterical laughter. Well, doesn't that just beat everything?

Lucifer laughs from behind me, "Not just for that, my pretty one, though he knows it not yet."

"Why are you showing me this?" My voice is rough, hoarse with these first words I've spoken aloud since trying to warn the Devil out of my head when I first arrived.

He smirks, cradles me against him, "I wish you to go down there. Participate. Let him see you. Join in the breaking of Elder Kevin Price."

"No!" The word explodes out of me before I can even think to hold it back. And even once I can, I don't want to, anyway. This. This is a line I will not cross. It's one thing to simply not help. It is another thing entirely to purposefully harm. And to hurt Kevin? Never.

Another laugh, "Very well. You had your chance. You've chosen your side. When you're screaming beneath me in the nights to come remember that."

With that, he bends me over the rough rock of the window ledge and presses back inside me in one smooth thrust. Only now Oh G-d. He's bigger, heavier, hotter, larger. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain, refuse to acknowledge the tears that slip free. Even when he reaches under me, wraps a hand around my softening flesh and pulls until I harden again, until I finally come with a soft cry I still won't give him the satisfaction of screaming.

Moments later, body still aching and face still red, I find myself with Kevin, dressed in sequins and sparkling brighter than I could ever hope to in my waking life, dancing around him like a marionette on strings. Lucifer can't force me to hurt Kevin, that much I know. They can do things to you here, but they can't force you to do anything against your will. So when commanded to do Kevin harm, I was able to say no but when commanded to dance, to dance for Lucifer's pleasure, I can't say no. I can't. Like these nightly degradations, the dance, the music I want them too badly for myself to deny them to him.

As I jump and twirl, trying to catch Kevin's eyes, to let him know that he's not alone, I realize one thing - just as there is no comfort in Hell, there is no joy in this. The dance, the music they are empty, hollow, lifeless. And being party, even in this small part, to Kevin's pain and anguish apparently I was wrong when I thought that Hell no longer held the power to frighten me, because this this terrifies me beyond belief.

But just like that boy, I know I can't help Kevin here. Come morning, though come morning I'm going to find him, wherever the fuck he went tonight and beat some sense into him. No. No, that's the demon's influence talking, again.

Get out of my head!

No, I'm going to find Kevin and for the first time since Joseph and Colin, I'm going to do whatever I can to help free someone from Hell. Kevin Price is too good for Hell and in spite of everything he's done, in spite of all his newly discovered flaws - or perhaps even because of them - I love him now just as much as I once thought I did when I was five. And because I love him, I'm going to do whatever I can to protect him, from me and from himself.


Elder McKinley: *gapes* You you I *wobble eyes*

R-chan: Oh come on, don't do that.

Elder McKinley: *wobble eyes harder*

R-chan: Come on, I mean it!

Elder McKinley: But but :'(

R-chan: *sigh* Really, dude. Buck up.

Elder Price: *taps the fic author on the shoulder* Excuse me, miss, but I think what he's trying to say is that it's unfair of you to take out your own upset over the fact that you lost the fic you were working on on him.

Elder McKinley: *_* *nods* *_*

R-chan: *rubs forehead* Oh, for the love of Pete. What the hell is it lately with characters thinking they get a say in how I write them sex? Shouldn't they just be grateful I'm writing it for them at all?

Elder McKinley/Younger Claude: NO!

R-chan: *twitch* Fine. Fine. I'll try for some fluffy sex for you, too, then. Happy?

Elder McKinley: *wary nods*

R-chan: *sigh* Right. Right. I'll, um get right on that. *trudges away*

Lucifer: *stops the fic author on the way out* *slow smirk* I gather my opinion may not count but for what it's worth, I approved.

R-chan: *small twitch of a smile* I appreciate your candor, sir. I'll bear it in mind. *slow smile of her own*

Elder McKinley: D: *whimper*

Elder Price: *cuddles Elder McKinley*

Elder Cunningham: *spies the two* *eg* Ooooooh. I get it! ;-D *runs off*

Elder Price: *sighs* I I should be worried, shouldn't I?

Elder McKinley: *happy purrs* Indubitably. But not unless she recovers the other fic. *looks up, frantic* *curses quietly* I meant "until," not "unless!" Damn it. I'm sorry! Please don't write another fic in the meantime!

R-chan: *snickers quietly* We'll just see about that

Questions, comments, boysenberries?