A/N: First fic I've written in a long time. And I'm upset with how much this fandom is lacking in fanfiction. Shame on you. Also, Clay's first name really is Clayton. True story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Moral Orel. I am not writing this for profit. I own nothing.

Warnings: Father/son incest, pedophilia, and sexual situations. Don't like, don't read. Flames will be used to roast the delicious souls of the damned. Mmmm, tasty souls.

Orel had awoken from a terrible nightmare. He'd dreamed of what hell was like. Of burning in agony as he passed by demons and burning people, all of them screaming and crying and reaching for him. He'd never had such a terrifying dream. As he sat up in his bed, not even the comfort of holding the bible to his chest could calm him down.

He wrapped his blanket around him tightly as he got out of bed and opened his bedroom door. The house sounded so quiet. He'd usually at least heard the sound of his little brother making noise, but tonight he was completely passed out. Deciding that a glass of milk would maybe help him go back to sleep, Orel held his blanket even tighter to himself before making his way through the hallway.

As he came close to his father's study, he noticed the faint glow of firelight, and the crackle of burning wood. Was his father still awake? It was pretty late, but he couldn't be sure. Very slowly, he rose his hand up and tapped his knuckles against the hard wood of the door.

"Dad?" he asked softly. He strained to hear his father's response, or even footsteps coming from behind the door. He waited a few seconds before knocking again.

"Dad?" the apprehension in his voice was almost tangible. He suddenly feared that his dad was sleeping, and would be upset that Orel woke him up. Before he had time to flee, he heard the floorboards creak just before the door opened. He squinted his eyes when the dim orange light washed over him, and before him stood his father.

"Orel?" Clayton asked, sounding exhausted.

"D-did I wake you, dad?" Orel asked, averting his eyes. Clayton was holding a glass of scotch that was half empty, but it probably wasn't his first glass of the night.

"No…" Clayton replied in a soft voice. He paused a moment before asking, "Why are you up, Orel?"

Orel was completely silent, keeping his eyes fixed to the floor. He felt a little embarrassed to say he'd had a nightmare, but he couldn't lie. "A bad dream," he answered.

Clayton sighed, in a way that made Orel feel like he was being a burden. He was used to hearing that sound. But to his surprise, instead of his father telling him to just go back to bed, he tugged on his blanket and pulled Orel into his study. Even after he'd shut the door, Orel stood like a deer caught in the headlights. He didn't know what to expect whenever he entered this room.

He watched as his dad walked over to the liquor cabinet and opened one of the cupboards, grabbing a glass identical to the one he was holding. He took a clear glass bottle and examined the label, and then poured its contents into the empty glass.

"Don't just stand there, son. Come over here."

Orel quickly did as he was told and walked to where Clayton was standing. The older man turned to face his son and held the spare glass in front of Orel. Orel stared at it in confusion before looking up at his dad.

"What is it?" he asked curiously. Clayton rolled his eyes.

"It's lemonade, Orel."

Orel raised his eyebrow in suspicion. He was about to comment how lemonade wasn't see-through, but his dad swiftly interrupted him.

"It's Vodka, Orel. Just drink it."

"Alcohol? But isn't it against the law for me to drink alcohol?" even as he said this, he obediently took the glass between his hands. "I'm just a kid."

Clayton sighed impatiently and walked over to his chair, sitting down and leaning back in a comfortable position.

"It's fine, Orel. Jesus drank alcohol. And I'm an adult who told you it's okay. You can drink alcohol if your parents say it's okay," Clayton spoke in an assuring manner. He took a few sips of his own drink before looking at Orel expectantly.

Orel saw flaws in his father's logic, but he knew better than to question his father in his study. He stared down at the clear liquid in the glass before bringing it up to his mouth. The taste made him wince, and he swallowed as much as he could before gasping in disgust. He'd never felt the intense burn of liquor, and he instinctively pressed his hand against his stomach.

"That's my boy," Clayton commented proudly. After getting accustomed to the way his throat felt after drinking liquor, Orel felt his body start to burn up like a fever. He looked over to his dad, who curled his fingers to beckon him closer.

"Come here, son."

Orel set his glass down and walked over to stand beside his father. Clayton stared at him, looking strangely happy.

"Sit down," Clayton urged. Orel looked at his father uncomfortably.

"Where?" he asked. He looked even more uncomfortable when his father patted his lap with his freehand.

"Come on, don't be shy Orel," Clayton insisted. Orel glanced at the floor again. It'd been at least five or six years since Orel had sat upon his father's lap. It seemed so childish to be doing so at his current age. Still, he didn't want to disappoint his father. Clutching his blanket around him tightly, Orel sat down at an angle, almost diagonally so that his head was resting against his father's shoulder.

He wondered if his weight bothered his father at all, but Clayton didn't seem to mind. He just idly took another sip of his drink and stared off into space. Orel shifted a bit, relaxing his hold on the blanket. He was starting to really feel the heat fill his body, and he silently wished it wasn't so warm in this room. The fire heated the room, his blanket was uncomfortably warm, and his father's body heat mixed with his own was starting to feel very unpleasant.

"So Orel, what was your nightmare about?" he asked conversationally. Orel looked away, and began swinging his feet back and forth.

"I dreamed I was walking through hell," he whispered. It was obvious by his tone; he felt that even dreaming of hell meant he'd done something bad. After confessing his troubles, he glanced over at his father so see his reaction. Clayton didn't even look fazed by his answer.

"Were you being tortured at some point?" he asked. Orel shook his head no.

"Did the devil speak to you?"

He shook his head again. "No. It was like I was on a tour. It was horrifying," he whimpered the last part and shuddered when he remembered. The image of a face, the flesh melted and twisted calling out to him. It was enough to make him want to start crying.

Orel jumped when he felt his father's hand touching the back of his head. Clayton ran his fingers through Orel's hair in a soothing manner. It was such a caring, paternal act, so uncharacteristic of his father that Orel had to glance back to make sure it really was his father. He'd been so starved for affection of any kind, that this small act of love was bewildering.

"Do you know what nightmares are, son?" Clayton asked. Orel gently shook his head. His father continued to stroke his hair before taking a long drink, and then giving his glass to Orel. Orel took it in his hands without question. He was so elated to have his father touching him so nicely. It was so rare to have physical contact from his father that wasn't painful. He simply drew quiet as his father began to speak.

"Nightmares are sometimes glimpses into hell. It's God's way of letting us know that the punishment for our sins is very real, so real that it can affect us even while we're still alive. A righteous man who obeys the Lord and does what is right may never have any fear of Hell, but God will still remind him that if he steps one toe out of line, then he'll suffer the fate of a common sinner."

Orel listened intently, hanging on every word. Sometimes his father's explanations for things seemed a bit unrealistic, but sometimes his answers were perfectly logical. Orel knew he was still walking the path to God's Kingdom, and even though he tried his best, sometimes it turned out being wrong. But it was good to learn from his mistakes. And this was another process of learning.

"Do you have nightmares, Dad?" Orel asked. Clayton grinned, tapping his fingers on the glass in Orel's hands.

"Finish that, and I'll tell you."

Glancing at the glass, he stared at the amber colored liquid and very slowly brought it to his lips. Just as he took a little into his mouth, he felt the glass tipping, and its contents poured into his mouth like a flood. He swallowed in a panic, looking up at Clayton. His father wore a mischievous expression as he held the glass, forcing Orel to drink every last drop with no stopping.

Finally, when he'd swallowed the last bit, Clayton took the glass and set it on the table beside is chair. Orel groaned as the alcohol burned a line down his throat, pooling like molten lava in his belly. Clayton's soothing finger's never stopped combing through his hair as Orel relaxed again, feeling heat rise in his face as he grew warmer.

"Yes son, I do have bad dreams," Clayton admitted. Casually, he placed his other hand on Orel's stomach, and Orel flinched from the contact. In the back of his mind, he wondered how drunk his father was to be so touchy-feely. But in all honesty, he was ready to take what he could get.

"Sometimes I don't sleep all night in fear of bad dreams. I just lie awake, too afraid to close my eyes. It seems that no matter how much good I do, God constantly reminds me of what punishments lurk around every corner. He just wants to watch me sit in my bed for hours until I give in, and then He shows me just exactly what I've been dreading."

As he spoke, Clayton occasionally gripped Orel's hair before resuming its gentle strokes. He listened to his father like it was a sermon, but as time passed, Orel found himself growing a bit dizzy. He shifted his weight and laid his head sideways against his father's chest, getting nice and cozy. Clayton didn't even glance at him when Orel put one of his legs up on the armrest.

"You could be the Reverend of the church, you could be a Nun or a Priest, and no matter how much good you do, He'll still visit you in your sleep and ravage your mind with unimaginable horrors. No matter how much good I do, He'll never let me forget."

Orel could feel the hand on his stomach start to twitch. It wandered over his thigh and rested there, gripping his leg tightly before going still again. The fingers in his hair slowed in their movement, but they were still drifting from the roots of his hair and down to the nape of his neck. It was such a relaxing touch that Orel began to close his eyes.

Clayton voice went quiet for a moment. He stared at the fire, as if dazzled by the flickering flames.

"I sometimes see her face. I hear her talking to me. Sometimes I wake up and expect to see her standing there."

The hand on Orel's thigh slowly drifted back up, ghosting over the fabric of Orel's pajamas. It was so feather light that Orel could barely feel it, even when his father hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. He barely registered the feeling of his bottoms being slowly dragged down. It was only when he felt it being tugged out from under him did he even crack open his eyelids.

"That's why I stay up so late in here; because I don't want to have bad dreams. Alcohol sometimes makes me forget the nightmares. Sometimes it doesn't. But it's better than taking my chances without it," Clayton was rambling in a low voice, as if he feared that God could hear him if he spoke louder.

Orel was in a heavily drugged state. His eyelids felt heavy, and he felt so comfortable where he was. For a moment, he thought that he was dreaming this too. His father's fingers gently weaving through his hair, the sound of his father's heartbeat, so loud in his ear. He was hardly aware that his genitals had been exposed, due to the warmth of the room.

Clayton wasn't even looking at him. He continued to speak in that soft voice, staring directly at the fire. Orel moaned on an exhale as he felt fingers trailing down his belly, like spiders were walking down over his navel. He closed his eyes again when Clayton began petting his head, as if to distract him.

"I feel like I'm in control when I'm in this room. I get to choose if I have bad dreams or not. He doesn't get to decide, He gets to sit back as Clayton picks what movie we get to watch. Even if I know He's still in charge, I get to pretend in here. I get to think that for a second, I'm in control."

The fingers on Orel's belly trailed lower. Orel made a quiet gasp when he felt something tickling his lower abdomen, right above the area where his penis emerged. Without warning, he felt Clayton gripping his sex, but it was gentle. He briefly opened his eyes before closing them again, lulled by the gentle stroking atop his head and his father's soothing voice.

"I work to feed my family. I'm a good father. I'm a good man. I'm a good, honest man. But He picks on me like I'm a dishonest and thieving liar. It's just not fair."

Another quiet moan escaped Orel's lips as Clayton began to stroke him, coaxing the premature organ to harden. Orel pressed his face into his father's chest as he felt the sharp waves travel through him. Through the haze of his alcohol ridden mind, he felt the strange pleasure as it flowed up his spine, rousing Orel from his tired state.

Clayton drew completely quiet, but he risked a tiny grin when he felt his son fully harden against his palm. He gripped his son's hair tightly and forced Orel's to look forward. He finally opened his eyes, and watched as his father's hand slowly stroked up and down his member. He had no clue that what his father was doing was a sin, but he instinctually knew it wasn't right.

His mouth couldn't form words. It was as though the liquor was preventing him from speaking coherently, and as Clayton continued to touch his sex, all that left his mouth were small gasps of pleasure and strings of tiny moans.

His cheeks were a deep red as Clayton paused, pressing his thumb against the tip of Orel's arousal. The slit leaked precum, and he smeared it around the head, eliciting a sharp pleasure cry from Orel.

"Does that feel good, son?" Clayton whispered lustfully, speaking inches away from Orel's ear. Unable to deny it, Orel swiftly nodded, causing his father to chuckle darkly. He focused his attention to the tip, bringing a tightened fist down over it again and again.

Orel's hands gripped what was within reach- one hand clenching his blanket, and the other took hold of his father's bathrobe. He closed his eyes in shame as Clayton increased his efforts. He was dragging his hand down over Orel's erection at a rapid pace, occasionally squeezing the tip and earning a frantic moan from the young boy every time.

Orel was lost in the pleasure. He didn't know what to think, or what to do. He couldn't even stop himself from crying out when Clayton forced him to tilt his head and began to suckle on Orel's neck. He'd never felt things like this; he'd never even dreamed that something like this could even be a possibility.

Clayton gently kissed below Orel's ear as his hand picked up the pace, and Orel unconsciously bucked into his father's hand as his pleasure rose to a peak.

"Such a good boy, Orel," Clayton whispered, sounding possessive. Orel gripped Clayton's robe like it was a life line as he felt something rise, threatening to burst.

"That's my boy."

Those words sent Orel sailing over the edge of ecstasy. He let out a soft whimper as he throbbed in Clayton's hand, who was caging his release with his fingers. He held Orel tightly, feeling every pulse as his son came for the first time. His face went blank in fascination as his actions were finally sinking in.

Orel panted, letting his eyes flutter shut. He had no idea of the severity of what had transpired between them. He couldn't even think properly, his mind going empty as he twitched from the fading sensations. Clayton held up his hand and stared at his son's essence that coated it.

His eyes lingered for a moment before he wiped it off onto his robe, and he was considerate enough to pull Orel's bottoms back up.

Orel pressed his face into Clayton's chest, unsure of what to do or say. Clayton fixed his eyes back onto the fire, which was slowly dying down.

Minutes ticked by before Clayton finally spoke.

"This is our secret, Orel. You can't tell anybody. Do you understand?"

Orel was slow to respond, but after a few seconds he nodded.

"Promise me, Orel. Or you'll burn in hell."

The threat was what caught Orel's attention.

"I promise, dad," he whispered softly.