The challenge was to write what happened if  a character other than Mary Eunice had been possessed by the demon of Asylum. And I loved the idea, but I apparently absolutely cannot write AU. (Although I enjoy the Hell out of reading it!) Honestly, my personal relationship with fanfiction sees it as an homage. I don't have the ability to change original storylines - only to work within canon, or create my own canon outside of the original. So here is my canon answer to the challenge question. Also I only borrowed Buer. The demon is not my original creation, but exists in multiple rhetorics.

The farm boy had been such a delightful acquisition. Truly delicious - an innocent soul. And so rare these days. Not to mention that young, strong body with its many propensities for pleasure. That swelling tool was highly entertaining.

Buer still regretted not sticking it into the boy's mother.

Oh well, the demon thought. All good things must come to an end.

But did it have to be such a clumsy, bumbling, ridiculous, and befuddling end? A crippled, shrivel-sacked old priest and a secret murderer who was honestly an amateur at best (not that there wasn't hope for him - he had promise, and a flair for the dramatic that the demon appreciated). For their own fucking Christ's sake, it was an embarrassment.

Oh, but the Monsignor was trying. Admirably, really. Buer rolled the boy's eyes - spat some more curses at the men. It laughed at Timothy's clumsy efforts toward exorcism.

Timmy? Was that what his mummy had called him? The vision coalesced: the young, soot-haired son on the blonde mother's lap as they read from her bible and his pudgy pre-adolescent fingers gently kneading her breast through black cotton... Always so intriguing - the memories and fantasies and imaginings that dwelled in the minds of humans.

Intriguing and promising.

Like the ones with the nun. Timmy's hands beneath a habit, shoving it up and his hips snapping between stockinged legs as he fucked her on an abandoned patient's bed. Very intriguing. Angry his fantasies were - angry at himself for his sinful weakness. Wrenching the nun's head back by her hair and wimple as he drilled into her from behind...

But so...hilariously inexperienced. Buer chuckled a demon chuckle. The man was over forty - still a toddler in demon years - but well into human adulthood, and hadn't fucked? It was truly laughable.

But also tempting. To devour that final shred of innocence. To watch the last of the priest's resistance crumble in the clutches of the right cunt (willing or not). And of course, the simple pleasure of sex.

Nat that this priest was what Buer might call innocent, anyway. Not with the skeletons lurking in that closet. Sinful ambitions of a Papacy? Some kind of...Nazi doctor thing? No, this man was as tainted as his dirty thoughts.

Still...could be fun.

Buer's time with the farm boy was nearly up. There would have to be a new host soon. Jed's body was failing like so many others. The demon sometimes...forgot to feed them, perhaps. Or took them out naked in the cold too long. The humans' bodies while truly delightful were sadly fragile to inhabit.

And speaking of habits...

That was her, then. The nun from the priests' fantasies. Ah, how very intriguing...She was unexpectedly older than the priest. But the attraction was evident on many fronts. Clearly, she worshiped the man - so cleverly hiding his lie behind that collar. And that alone was a powerful aphrodisiac. In fact, the demon salivated to imagine her sliding to her knees before the holy man...

Because she was experienced.

Very experienced.

Buer practically kicked its hooves together internally. Such a salacious history she had. So many men...writhing in sticky tangles of drunken lust. So many women - all of them devouring her and her devouring them - cocks and cunts alike and she'd felt no shame. But it was hard to feel shame, the demon supposed, when one was numbed by tragedy and drink...

She would be a perfect empty vessel.

With her, he could have it all. Lust with her pet priest (and yes, he would be her pet soon enough - a slave to her red satin-clad skin). Power over the patients here - access to all it could want. And maybe...if it played its cards right...it could carry that priest all the way to Rome. What delightful evil could be wrought from the seat of Godliness?

How strikingly, gloriously sacreligious it would be: The Pope, sweaty between the thighs of this nun, and putty in the palm of Evil's hand.

Only one thing troubled the demon: She was tough, the nun. It had felt a sharp, burning spike in her anger at being told to leave. Had felt true fury in her fists when she'd flailed at the farm boy, uncontrollable rage when she'd railed at his taunting. There was a minor concern that the demon might not be able to control that one. That she just might prove too much to conquer completely. That she just might fight.

Buer didn't want a fight. And besides, even if it won the wench, she was no stranger to longing for death. It could practically smell that other one on her - that dark cousin; the one with the great black wings.

What if it took residence in that beautiful body only to be broken at her own hand? If she called for Shachath...they would both be taken. And this nun would doubtless have no compunctions toward suicide.

Buer practically boiled in the dying boy's body. The priest had strengthened his approach without the old bastard. And the murderous psychiatrist was rampaging a campaign to salvage what was left of Jed Potter. But it was too late.

The time was nigh. And while it wanted the nun - the cunt and breasts and breathy moans that would bring the Papacy to its demise, she was simply too risky. Too strong. Too much in love.

Love was such an inconvenience.

But the object of her love could more than suffice. They would be perfect together. She would yield like a reed in a creek bend and Buer would enjoy every inch of that creamy, curvy body with the priest's mouth and hands and fingers and cock. (That cock had grown quite hard when the priest pulled the nun against him; Buer had felt it - had felt the tempting guilt.) He would bring her even more into his control, into his worship. She would do anything he asked and more.

Most importantly, she would revel in every impious second.

In the absence of any delicious pure innocence, Buer hastily hatched its plan of attack inside the Father. First, kind comfort for the Potter family downstairs. Then, a gentle, sympathetic visit to the nun. To the...rara avis. Buer could have laughed aloud and perhaps it did - at the irony of these two idiots, these two delightful liars and their secretly lusty dinners. Their sweet imaginings - red slips and gentle kisses and golden curls fanning on slender pillows - were almost nauseating. How simply sad that they could eat her chicken across from one another, mouths espousing salvation while both their minds were imagining savagery.

Yes, she would need comfort after Potter's death. After the filth Buer had thrown. She would fret over truths. She would worry the priest had heard: that she was a whore. She would live in terror that the man she worshiped would turn her away for good knowing her sordid past.

Buer would simply have to prove her wrong.

It could practically feel her fragile cheekbone beneath priestly fingers now. The sticky tears there. "You mustn't cry, sister. The boy is free now. In the hands of God and the forgiving house of Christ."

She would lean into the touch. Trembling smile. He would free all that hedonistic hair from that confining, constricting wimple. Would it surprise her? Yes - delightfully so. He could practically taste her shocked gasp, taste the breath he would take from her mouth. Teasing touches would not be necessary.

Take her forcefully. With abandon. Let the temptress have her victory. Because if Buer had learned anything about womankind it was that they were hardly kind and that they adored a senseless man.

Tear the habit open, then. Send the black buttons flying so that she would never find at least one of them again - a morning after reminder of the delicate vow she'd broken. There would be many reminders. The red, raw bites on her neck and thighs. Bruises on her hips. A tight, painful scorch in her cunt. Yes, it would like to see the tough nun limping.

One night in the many to come. Brilliant, really, with no limitations in her barren womb. Human reproduction was yet another inconvenience to overcome. So many seeds in the priest to plant with no crops to yield. But she still bled on the month, empty menses. Broken bloody promise that made Buer salivate. He would drink it to her last drop... Too bad the bitch would never litter. In the grand scheme of mortal parenting, she would have made a fine mother. It was what the priest saw in her - a mother.

A mother he just happened to want to fuck.

Buer could hardly wait to finger her every wet, weeping orifice. To stick that pristine dick in every holy hole she hosted. We'll ride her to Rome, Father, it thought, watching from above as the priest prayed impotently. She'll make a pretty Cardinal's toy - sticky in those sanguine silken sheets.

He wondered if he couldn't just keep her naked the whole time. A prisoner in Vatican luxuries. There would be so many changes in the holy city. Changes the world over. The Catholics wielded such great power.

The priest already recognized that. And speaking of...

Buer slipped like an afterthought through the room. Through the breathless mourning. Flitted above the Potter boy's dessimmated body. Caressed the loose curl at the nun's jaw. Soon, lovely... Paused above the wretched murderer, so shocked at what he'd witnessed and still not a believer. But that could change.

Timothy took no notice of the devil on his back. They rarely noticed. Too absorbed in their own complicated thoughts and desires to recognize that they were being invaded. Sinister, invisible, and calculating, Buer prepared to own the priest's fine form.

But a whiff of something blissful gave the spirit pause. What is that? If it had a heart the heart would have sped, would have bled at the sudden, overwhelming perfection of pure, unadulterated innocence.

Something so beautiful just begging to be broken.

Her.

The options evaporated, shimmered like the heat over summer asphalt. Buer shifted quickly, still unnoticed. Past the stunned, stupid faces. So unguarded she was. So innocuous.

She fit like a glove, the little nun. And not a moment too soon. The demon was exhausted. It needed rest. And a moment to appreciate its new divine hostess. Through her young, untried eyes he saw horror for a moment and then...

Darkness.

"Sister!"

Mary Eunice collapsed. Buer was home.