Omri only knew of communion in that tangential way he knew anything of the rituals of man. Consuming the consecrated host of Christ's body meant that, in that moment, they became one-- and, compared to all the other ways that God or Allah or Yahweh sought Their believers, it was the ritual that was simplest for him to do. There was no need for symbols and representations, no requirement of hosts when Omri was already flesh and blood; Anthony could eat of him as he was, in a form that existed precisely to interface with the humans that God loved so very much. So when Anthony ate, and Omri felt that meld of their spirits, or essences, or lifestuff, whatever it was they were made of, he groaned at the experience Anthony gave him-- at that unspeakable, indescribable, ethereal thing of a love so endless Omri once thought only God was capable of it.
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 could not baptise, but he could leave marks of his own. Unbidden, he sank all the points of his teeth into Anthony's meat, piercing and slicing and bursting with red.
