To be honest, Laurence wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten into the position he was in -- and quite the awkward position it was, at that.

Oh, he knew how it'd started. He'd gone to that bar.

It had been described as a meeting place for buff, strong men -- so of course it sounded like his type of bar. He remembered the inns back in the time of the (shudder) Crusades, when warriors would relax by kicking back amongst their own kind, telling stories, forgetting the horrors they'd seen that day. This bar had sounded like that kind of place, so Laurence, feeling the need for a stiff drink after being bested in yet another 'friendly' duel with Michael -- they were up to "best fifty of ninety-nine" now -- had packed up his stuff and gone. He'd even remembered his ID as, for some bizarre reason, he was always targeted as an underage drinker.

Well, the bar had certainly been full of buff men, yes, but... it wasn't precisely the amount of leather that was being worn so much as the style of leather that was being worn that had been a bit... disturbing. Still, the men there were talking about who they'd fought and who they'd conquered, so Laurence had just figured that it was some odd new thing. Trends passed quickly; he didn't think he had to worry about it.

It was probably a bad sign that the best beer he was offered was Corona, but... well, after seventeen Coronas, he was feeling pleasantly buzzed enough that the beer tasted good, and the company was more appealing.

Which was probably why he didn't slug the other man when a body pushed up against his and a deep, velvety masculine voice murmured, "Hello, angel. New in town?"

After a few moments of panicky heart attack, Laurence had reassured himself that there was no way his molester could actually know he was an angel -- it was just a term of affection. Yes, affection, he decided. And since he did have seventeen Coronas under his belt, he was feeling rather affectionate and assumed anyone else must feel the same way.

The man was drop-dead gorgeous, with long auburn hair and pouty lips, and of an unusually slender build. He looked less like a, well, he'd heard them called "leather daddies"... and more like, well, what some of said "leather daddies" had described as a "bitch". Laurence wasn't sure of the slang, but he'd heard conquered men called far worse things by those who had bested them.

"Who're you?" Laurence had asked, in a more than slightly dumb tone, his tongue surprisingly thick in his mouth.

"You, beautiful, can call me Andre."

Warning bells had gone off, admittedly, at the name -- but really, it wasn't that uncommon a name, and what were the chances of the Archangel of the Sword running into the Demon Prince of Lust in a warrior's retreat such as that one, right? Right.

Andre seemed to have been a pleasant enough person, even buying Laurence a few drinks to start off "a new friendship". He'd slipped the bartender a few bills, and Laurence was delighted when he realized that the next few drinks were definitely something a lot better than Corona. What, he wasn't sure. But they were much better drinks -- it was nice, Laurence had decided fuzzily, that his new friend was so well acquainted with the bar circuit.

After a while, it had seemed perfectly normal that Andre end up in Laurence's lap, sucking on his neck. "So, stranger," Andre had husked, "what's your name?"

Embarrassingly, it took Laurence a few minutes to remember. "Uh... Laurence."

"Laurence." Andre peered at him for a moment, then smiled secretively. "Well, Laurence. Do you wanna?"

"Yeah," Laurence said, having no idea what Andre meant, but at that point, anything seemed like a good idea.

Andre's smile widened, if that was possible. He sure had pretty lips, Laurence noticed. "Your place or mine, angel?" Andre asked, and licked at Laurence's mouth.

That was when Laurence clued in to what Andre wanted and had a moment of panicky religious and employment confusion until he reminded himself that both warriors and Catholics had a long history of gay sex. Thus reassured, he considered the question before realizing that taking this person back to Heaven would be a bad thing and said, "Yours."

When Andre led Laurence into the brothel, it was the first sign that something was a bit off. The tether to Hell was another one. "Oh," Laurence said. Then "OH," as Andre grabbed him and kissed him until he saw stars.

And then they were in Hell, in Shal-Mari, in the Bordello, and when he tried to make a break for the nearest exit, he nearly stepped on a mass of writhing bodies.

Well, one thing led to another, and now...

Now he was in some kind of dangling leather harness in an uncomfortable spread-eagled position and wasn't sure how to get out of either the harness or the situation.

Desperately, Laurence searched his memory for some bit of Catholic wisdom to help him in a situation of unbearable temptation. Triumphant, he dragged a phrase from his memory. "Get thee behind me, demon!" he shouted.

Andre considered that.

"Okay," he said, and grinned.