BLACK RIVER KILLER

But on that particular afternoon, the eleven year old could barely remember her name. Melissa's wits were dulled by the drugs in the bloodstream, her limbs strained and reddened where the improvised belts kept her tied to the table. Cold sweat had made a mess of her once glossy locks, and the warm, glorious honeyed eyes were unfocused and distant. A purple and green bruise had been formed where a needle was often stuck into her arm without a second of care, breaking the skin and causing further damage every time they pumped her full of the chemicals.

Delirious, hungry, thirsty, sleepy, nauseated - many had been the states the little girl found herself in, withering away and transforming into a shadow of the vivacious and charismatic daughter and school mate she was to others. But when the fighting started, the noise was so uncharacteristic of these strange days that Melissa couldn't help but look at the scene.

And what she saw there would have perhaps broken a mind like hers if she hadn't been so influenced by the drugs. Black grime oozing from flesh, a heart ripped from its ribcage, the sound of something being squashed to death - but the figure that hovered over the table caused something different to bloom in the girl's chest. Melissa was feeling anxious and tired - but for the first time, there was this tiny sparkle of hope flourishing among the drug-induced lethargy, causing her to reach for him as if she had been drowning and he happened to be a steady, blessed rock.

"Please," Melissa managed to get out, movements restrained by the leather belts keeping her fastened to the table - her torso, however, dipped forward, falling pathetically towards the stranger like a ragdoll abandoned by its owner, "Please, take me... Take me away."

She didn't know where she was - but it wasn't home; it wasn't safe. Nothing could prove to Melissa that the man bleeding close to her was a better option, but it was the only thing she could do - with her tormentor gone (the ugly voice from the other woman had stopped, after all), he seemed like the best chance to escape the constant sting of needles, chemicals burning in her veins and the white lights that didn't let her sleep properly.

Was he truly a saviour when he only did his duty? The woman who now withered away on the floor was nothing to him but a vessel for something he was created to destroy. To this girl, however, she was "evil": not a pitiful victim, not a shell of a person, but a true monster to be vanquished.

In that same way, she begged for him as if he was the very materialisation of "good". As if Omri's claws hadn't left indentations in the soft, dirtied skin of her face.

What would it be like, he wondered, if he was capable of goodness?

As the girl pulled weakly against her bonds, Omri's eyes drifted to consider her belts, and then he moved around the table and brandished his claws in a moment of contemplation. In a split-second, all that leather came apart like butter beneath the sharp black tips of them.

Omri's arm stretched out, catching the girl as she fell against it. Once again, he could sense her gratitude and awe in that extraneous sense all angels had for human sentiment-- and once again, he found it impossible to reconcile that level of emotion with the absolute nothing that his existence was.

He was only an angel. Compared to this creature made in God's image, he was little more than a worm.

"You can barely support yourself." In that disjointed tone, Omri's voice travelled dispassionately between them. He shifted, pressing a hand to the back of her neck, and blinked at how blazing her temperature was. This wasn't normal for a human, surely (and if he had any better knowledge of human physiology, he would have realised her undernourishment made her sick).

"Those belts were the only things holding you up, Girl."

I can't believe you wanted me to cut them.

How perfect Omri looked with his wings out and sluggish black liquid curling over his sides. The terrible, wonderful sensation that came when Omri's cock disappeared from the flesh beneath Anthony's palm and ( somehow, reaching further still ) drove against his cervix. His scream was muffled by Omri's mouth. Anthony kept his heels dug in despite the burning in his legs and scratched his blunt nails into the back of Omri's shoulders.

Omri's thrusts were a mix of heaven and hell made real, and every press to the young man's cervix made him see stars. He kissed Omri sloppily, spittle continuing to drool out of him. Sweat soaked the mattress below. Anthony begged his body to accept the angel, who felt large enough to split him in two. God, there had never been another partner, or a toy, or anything Anthony experienced in this life that could reach like this. Only Omri — relentless, merciless Omri, whose vice - like grip gave Anthony no reprieve.

Anthony begged his poor, overstimulated vagina to open back up. After several minutes of Omri's work, it did. He almost sobbed with the relief that came : blinding pleasure overwhelmed his senses, dropping his cries back to guttural moans. Anthony's lips traveled across Omri's cheek, his jaw, the top of his neck. Wherever he could reach, he left wet, pink marks with his numb and shining mouth. Anthony's fingers traveled down, following those strong arms, until they rested atop Omri's.

❝Bruise it,❞ Anthony whispered harshly, spine arching. The pressure of Omri's cock and sheer amount of wetness he could sense trapped within justified the loud, sickly sounds their bodies made when they collided. ❝I don't care what I say — don't stop. Please, don't stop, not until I'm good for you again —❞

Anthony's reaction was as immediate as it was visceral, each touch marked with desperation as his mouth explored the inches of Omri's skin. The points of his claws dug into Anthony's flesh in turn, cutting shallowly and drawing beads of red-- wounds that, inevitably, were healed by the gush of holy seed inside him. But the bruises that Anthony begged for-- a reaction of human skin outside Omri's control-- would linger. Omri's fingers pressed into warm meat and fat and muscle, and when he felt his thrusts were too long, he hissed in mild frustration and lifted, forcing Anthony's heat to press flush against him.

(Don't stop, not until I'm good for you, Anthony had begged. What did "for him" mean, when Omri wasn't one the humans gave offerings to?)

"Hah--" Omri's claws cut, pressing lines into Anthony's flesh as he travelled up his thighs and gripped the backs of his knees instead. Buried to the hilt, he thrust in quick and shallow, forcing Anthony's torso to bounce and slide over those decrepit sheets each time.

"Yes," he breathed, "take it." A hard smack, a circling of his hips, and he felt Anthony's pussy cling to him as much as he felt the wash of cum that inevitably spilled and smeared over his stomach and balls. Omri was close now with that first load, and he wrapped a hand around Anthony's throat whilst the other kept his leg lifted. "Take it, Anthony. Take it and be clean."

He looked Anthony over, sweeping over his unfocused eyes, at his flushed face, and at his drooling mouth and bouncing body. To see what he could take-- how his belly bulged with each insistent thrust of Omri's cock, how his abused core continued to squeeze around him, how that last bit of resistance bumped against the tip of his cock every time-- would be admirable if he were capable of it.

This was why Omri chose the humans with nothing left. Truly, God would see what Anthony could take when there was nothing else to live for.

And God would see how Anthony's body so bravely swelled as Omri spilled inside him, tip against the muscle of the human's cervix and forcing rope after rope of thick cum into his womb. There was a measure of determination to it-- Omri's hand kept Anthony owned and collared whilst the other moved in to caress the centre of his human's core. The pleasure, the heat, the pain that was the crux of all this: all of it would culminate in cleansing, and all of it would spread its warmth through every system Anthony had.

He waited like this, hips still flush to Anthony's body as he spilled inside him. Then, wings spreading, his hands moved from the human's belly up to his chest, holding him down there as he began rolling his hips slowly.

"Feel it," Omri commanded, thick cock rubbing every inch of Anthony's insides he could reach. "Feel how deep inside you it is.

"I'm going to make you full, Anthony, so that you spend all evening being cleansed from the inside."

As Omri spoke to the baby, the priest's tired eyes wandered over and up. They studied Omri's face. The borrowed laugh lines, the thoughtful expression, the evident sincerity of his promise. Anthony leaned fully into the angel, pleased to allow something else to bear his poor, aching body.

As your father, Omri said, and Anthony smiled. He remembered the first time he had seen the other's changed ( aged ) features. Because we are parents, Omri insisted then, with such certainty that Anthony's heart had twisted around itself with sheer adoration in the same fashion it did now.

❝She is loved by God,❞ Anthony agreed — perhaps a bit too hollow. ❝... and she is loved by you and me. We can track her milestones together, Omri ; those can be her goals. Her ... purpose.❞

Omri lifted his head to glance at Anthony's profile, memorising the look of affection written so clearly in his eyes. He knew what love looked like on him, but there was something different in the love he showed the creature-- something softer, sweeter, than the visceral devotion he showed his deity. "I'll have to find something to write in, but we can track its development.

"I doubt anyone's documented Nephilim growth before."

Omri's gaze dropped to the creature's little pink face even as his thumb lifted from its fragile skull. He was sure it didn't understand what 'milestones' meant, but supposed Anthony's compromise would have to do. Perhaps it was the duty of parents to track the things their stupid creations couldn't to make up for their inherent uselessness.

It was bizarre to think the stuff his flesh cock made to cleanse Anthony's insides could be used to make a little one. Omri sat at the edge of the bed, watched his human touch their spawn, and curled an arm around Anthony's middle because his nape wasn't nearly as convenient to touch when they sat together like this.

"Do fathers hold their children often." The question was sincere; his uncertainty was more obvious with the furrow of his brow. "How gentle do I have to be.

Jonathan holds the infant tenderly in his arms, unable to help the absolute adoration he holds for the tiny being he'd been forced to carry against both his knowledge and will. He can't hold any hate in his heart towards such an innocent little thing such as Damien- a name those who forced his existence gave him- when it was those who did such demonic work in the name of God that were the problem.

Truthfully, the baby is the only reason he feels joy anymore, and yet, he knows if he doesn't act fast, it'll be ripped away.

You can spend the week with him, but he soon must begin his own destiny.

That's what the sister had said, as if allowing this week to bond is a gift. Confined to his room, there's not much Jonny can do in the ways of escape.

So, he's been praying harder each and every moment than he has in his entire life- and to every higher power he can possibly think of. Though, as they're only two days away from when his son will be taken from him, the hope that something will save them begins to dwindle.

Perhaps he should accept their fate, make it easier on himself, but Jonny simply can't bring himself to.

He's almost too wrapped up in memorizing his son's face that he almost misses the sound of the floor creak from the other side of the room- jolting upright and holding his child protectively against his chest.

The compound is a damned cesspool, that's for sure. Omri leaves bodies in his wake: humans lying on the floor, over tables, and chairs. Some of them, too weakened by the effects of possession, expire as soon as the demon is ripped out of their guts. Others breathe thinly, caught on that precipice between life and death. Only a few-- the children of the compound especially-- remain in their deep sleep, requiring only rest before they can continue the rest of their life demon-free.

The last room he reaches is one he opens without fanfare. Omri twists the knob, walks in, and stands in the doorway, unblinking eyes cutting through the space until it lands on an infant sleeping quietly in its parents arms.

The child makes his lip curl.

He doesn't bother with introductions, ignoring the question posed to him. Omri walks in, knives sticking out of his back and chest, scissors in the back of his hand, and viscous, black ooze curling out of each wound.

"What is this."

It doesn't smell like a demon, but something else. Something so close to God it makes his flesh body erupt in goosebumps and sweat bead on the back of his neck.

She's been watched by at least three different dudes and one really persistent sugar-momma in the corner all night now. Not that Emily doesn't think she's a total catch;   she's just  not  looking for that kind of trouble tonight. All she's looking for is the bottom of a few bottles if she can help it, and then maybe her apartment keys at the bottom of her bag if she can manage to make it all the way up to her floor without passing out on the stairs again. Some murmuring from behind her and she's had about enough of the ogling and decides to make it someone else's problem entirely.

In she sweeps, fingers laced with the first hand that's open enough. Emily leans a little on the counter, giving up as sweet a smile as she can manage over all that simmering almost-drunk anger.

       ❝ Hey, handsome, ❞   she drawls, propping her cheek up on her open hand.   ❝ feel like playing along to get me out of some dumb drunk's flirting? ❞

She's not really going to give him a chance to say no. Her hand slips out from under her cheek to absently fuss with his collar a little, like she'd been comfortable correcting his wardrobe their whole lives.

       ❝ I'll get'cha whatever drink you want. No limits. Just don't let that  string bean  lay a pick-up line on me with your life. ❞

Omri’s affinity for human alcohol isn’t a new thing. The experience fascinates him—in the wake of being created in God’s image, man chooses not to cherish their forms, but to poison them. To his best approximation he believes they do this for the sake of pleasure, but what pleasure comes from it is another matter entirely.

So when he’s sat at the bar, and a warm hand lands on his own (he smells the booze in her blood as much as he does the vexing question of human sin), the offer for a free drink is one he’s hardpressed to refuse. Without looking at the woman, Omri’s eyes sweep over the bar, and his lip curls slightly when they meet the figure sauntering towards them.

String bean, the girl said. He glances at her, wonders if she can sense it, and then breaks the touch of their hands so he can wrap it around her waist instead.

“Hey, man,” whines the human labelled “String Bean”. Omri’s gaze is unflinching. “C’mon, I saw her first.”

But behind him, lurking over his shoulders like a layer of smog, is a presence entirely not of this earth. Could she tell? he thinks briefly. Does she know how hungry this thing is?

“This is mine,” Omri says, stunted and plain. Besides that first look, he hasn’t spared the woman another glance, but the demon latched onto String Bean’s body opens its nasty, cosmic maw. In a way, he understands the appeal.

(Sometimes his brothers question where the line between Demon and Demon Slayer lies. Omri’s own criteria for choosing humans to serve him toe so close to what makes them tasty to the enemy: he likes them sinful, likes them weak, likes them when they have nothing left to live for.)

String Bean reaches a hand out and Omri’s fist grips his wrist without hesitation. The arm around the woman at his side is unmoving.

The cloud of black behind String Bean’s shoulders shivers, then pours itself into his ear.

“You wanna fight, buddy? Is that it?”

Green eyes flick in the woman’s direction, and without any note of affection he posits: “You think I should, darling?”

Feed ...? Anthony opened his mouth to ask for further explanation, but the words died on his tongue. Omri's hand was there, forcing him to take this strange substance from his not - self. The priest's tongue licked up what he could first. When that was gone, he closed his lips over the wound. Fresh blood coated the back of his teeth as he sucked obediently.

Anthony knew the taste was alien to him. He couldn't describe it — only that it was wrong for blood as he was familiar with it. The priest would have gagged on it ( combined with the sluggish, oozing nature of it, as well ), but he suddenly found that he couldn't. Such trivial physical affairs didn't concern him. Anthony Ward was flesh, but he was not ; he was human, but he was not. All at once, the effect of consuming Omri's blood flooded in, sweeping away Anthony's sense of himself.

❝Omri ?❞ someone asked. The sound was distant and muffled. Anthony heard it, but he wasn't aware that he had attempted to speak.

The world was bright, and extraordinarily colorful, and strange — even without his eyes open, Anthony could see how it had changed. He felt it closing in around him, though he recognized that it wasn't the world's fault that he did. It was because of this pesky skin, like bars holding a bird of prey in a too - small enclosure. Without this case of meat and organs, however, Anthony wouldn't be able to touch him.

Anthony was such a willing prisoner, so good and devoted to his angel. A creature of true warmth may have wept to receive his attention ... but Omri, or Anthony, or the thing in - between that Anthony was dimly aware he had become, wasn't capable of such sentimentality. Anthony inspired a different response in Omri, in them : his desire to possess Anthony was present and sharp, like his claws, and behind that selfishness was a muted recognition that Anthony was special to him, them, it in a way that no being ever had been.

Behind his eyelids, Anthony's gaze lifted up. He wondered if God was watching them. Omri ; the Anthony whose knees had just given out and sent him back against Omri's chest ; and the not - Anthony that was not - Omri but somehow both of them.

❝I want you,❞ said the many faces of Anthony. Some groaned it, others whispered it. As he sank deeper into Omri's chest, that Anthony begged dumbly for the angel to fill the yawning pit in him. The return to himself was so abrupt that Anthony's mouth was still speaking when his lashes parted, revealing his pretty glazed - over eyes.

❝Please,❞ he said. Please for what, he did not know — but he could guess. His hands were atop Omri's arms, holding fast to them. Anthony couldn't recall moving them there. His nails dug in reflexively as the priest spoke again.

It was one thing to know man was made in the Lord's image. It was another to experience firsthand just how much of that was true.

"Fuck," he breathed, so human in that moment that there was nothing he could do but swear. The love of God was a simple fact of life, and as one was created, they received it without need to do anything else. The love of Anthony, though... Omri had earned that, even if he had no idea how. This human was his, body and soul, and would be part of his domain for as long as he was worshiped. This human was his, and Omri felt for himself how desperately Anthony longed to be one with him in that searing thing of love.

Speaking in the tongue of angels, he heard himself call Anthony beautiful. But Omri couldn't say for sure where the word had come from.

When the immediate euphoria of their connection receded, Omri caught himself standing firm. In the back of his mind was sweet Anthony, his first follower, so needy and wanting and full of devotion. Did God exist like this, with the billions upon billions of creatures They made so present in Their core? How did They not go mad with it? How did the voices and their inherent desire not strip Them of purpose?

I want you, he heard Anthony breathe.

"I know," he heard himself say, stroking Anthony's throat with something close to fondness. So that's what human love feels like.

"My human." Omri's teeth skirted Anthony's ear. "You must be strong for me first."

He guided him then, coaxing him with murmured commands to hold onto the edges of the lectern and lean his weight upon it. The hand on Anthony's throat remained, and the blunt tips of his nails began to lengthen, harden, and sharpen, tinged now with grey and black instead of the pink and white of his flesh disguise. Omri's other hand had settled on Anthony's back to encourage his submission, urging him to bend for him. Strangely, he felt his own mouth start watering.

Omri's middle finger traced the bumps of Anthony's spine, up and up and up until he found the nape of his neck. His lips caught the bone between his shoulders, then shifted lower and to the side, seeking muscle instead.

"Stay," he demanded, curving a clawed hand over Anthony's shoulder. Teeth grown sharp (to tear demons apart) brushed Anthony's skin.

Omri's request for him to take off his shirt made Anthony's lashes open abruptly. His tongue crossed his lips, wetting them ; in spite of his efforts, he still found it difficult to reply verbally. Instead, Anthony nodded. Perhaps later, he would wonder at how easily he obeyed the angel's command to undress. Now, however, it just felt right. This was the way of his relationship with Omri, and a certain satisfaction accompanied the notion that the angel's behavior was the same. As if all of these years of strife meant nothing and everything at the same time.

He unwound the black sash from around his middle and set it on the nearest pew. The next layer was his long, dark cossack, which was easily removed due to the buttons down its front. Anthony opened it to his waist and allowed the top to hang free. It was only when he reached his binder that Anthony hesitated. His fingertips grasped the little zipper in the front of the garment. With a deep breath, he began to take it off. Anthony turned away from Omri as he did. Placing it to the side was a far slower and more solemn act. Once the binder was off, Anthony raised his arms and crossed them over his breasts self - consciously. In the years since Omri's last visit, he had found some sort of peace with his body -- but that was partially based on the fact that no one ever saw it.

❝Is this ...?❞ Anthony glanced over his shoulder. What you wanted? The expanse of his bare back emphasized the new texture of his skin. It was thinner and less soft to the touch than it used to be. ❝I locked up before you arrived. There's no one planned to be here.❞ No interruptions, he insinuated, unable to hide the way his breath caught in his throat at such a thought. Regardless of Omri's intentions, they would be alone for the duration of them.

Reaching from behind him, Omri pressed his right palm to Anthony's breast bone. Beneath it he felt the warmth of his humanity, and a delicate thumb stroked the twin rises of his clavicle in quiet wonder (you are in God's image, but it's me you worship).

"You aren't dreaming, Anthony Ward."

His hand slid up. In a way Anthony ought to find familiar Omri collared his throat with his fingers, and he tipped the human's head up as he stepped closer. He nosed at Anthony's right ear, then brushed his lips against the corner of his jaw to suck and lick at it. Omri worried at the flesh until it was wet and tender, then shifted to offer the same attention to the other side. With every thud of Anthony's heart, blood pumped beneath the spit and holy residue Omri left behind, and in his glowing gaze he relished the dimension of colour that wafted from every mark.

Any angel would know Anthony was his if they saw him. Any demon, too.

His tongue swiped hotly up the nape of Anthony's neck. His lips followed, sucking the first knob of his spine. Omri marked humans with his saliva before, but his follower deserved something more.

"I'm going to feed you," was the only warning he gave. The index and middle of his left hand came up to his own mouth, and beneath the ends of his canines Omri split the skin on the pads of them. Skin tore open, black beaded and oozed out, and he pressed the mess of them to Anthony's lips.

"Eat of my body." Omri's voice was low, commanding. "You've earned it, praying to me for so long.

❝You're right : it is a quiet angel,❞ he replied first. The humorous remark felt right. Normal, even. Anthony inhaled deeply. ❝I ... have nothing to ask you, Omri ; my questions were all about you. They were — vain, too. Not very fitting for a man in my position.❞ His trembling fingers gestured toward the white around his neck. Anthony swallowed thickly before he continued, watery eyes fixed to Omri's face.

❝It was : is Omri out there ? does he seem well ? do you think he remembers me ?❞ A flush of pink appeared along the top of Anthony's beard. ❝... could he miss me, too ?❞

Something equal parts foolish and brave made Anthony raise the palm atop Omri's chest and place it gently on the side of the other's neck instead. Omri's skin was as perfect as it had always been. Anthony's thumb stroked it leisurely.

❝Have you seen my angel ?❞ Anthony added, echoing his earlier sentiment. He sighed, then, playfully pretending that the stature replied. ❝Well, when you do ... tell him that I still need him. Tell him that I'll be waiting until I die and probably after, if I have a say. Tell him that I hope he hasn't forgotten me, because I have spent my entire life praying he'll come back. I've ... grown old, and gotten softer, and a lot has changed — but I have not gone a single day without praying to him. There's nothing else out there for me besides him.❞

It was the worship that was new. Omri recognised fondness, and Anthony was hardly the first human to grow a sense of attachment to him. The unorthodox techniques he employed in his cleansing (techniques his brothers most certainly had opinions on) seemed to inspire such feelings, and he gave up understanding why. But Anthony touched him with such an intense mix of devotion and quiet unworthiness that Omri's nostrils flared with breaths he didn't have to take. Where they were forced to be trapped inside him, all six of his wings itched to be free.

Perhaps if he were more concerned about Anthony's soul and its destined place with God, he would warn against taking false idols. Instead, Omri's nerves flared with the force of Anthony's love. The last time his physical flesh had felt so pleasured was decades past, when he was buried in Anthony's willing body.

"I could never forget you," he said, and despite the blasé tone it was terribly truthful. Omri wasn't built to lie. "But your prayers have distinguished you even among the other humans I've owned.

"I think..." Omri's fingers tucked some stray curls over Anthony's ear, eyes absorbing how much shorter they were, how grey. "That makes you my first follower, Anthony Ward. I don't know what to do with you."

But he certainly had an idea, evident in the soft, thoughtful sound that hummed out of him.