Lead Us Not Into Temptation (Rave & darkangel76)

The air was thick with smoke, while the music thumped and the tension thrummed in sync with the heavy beat of drums reverberating off the sticky walls of the club. The lights flickered, bodies swaying in time to the sounds of electric guitars cutting through the darkness. The energy sizzled, crackling fire with each passing moment. Ellis kept up the illusion of drunken delight, a façade to lure in patrons willing to spend all their cash in one place. She was the prized gem, the one the others hated, yet some aspired to be...but, more than anything, she'd give it all up if she could. Dashed were her hopes. Gone were all the dreams she'd wished for in her youth. No matter how many shooting stars she saw in that inky pitch of sky, it didn't change anything.

Ellis was still alone and she still was a slave to her job. She felt sick as the scent of sweaty bodies bombarded her senses. Just what time was it? She longed to leave. But she was 'Synful's until the night was over, the last bit of darkness making way for the day. If only the day was hers to enjoy. Instead, she was forced to skulk through the night with the worst of them. With a heavy sigh, the girl clamped her eyes shut. Hatred pulsed through her veins, seething with every thought she had in her parents.

Parents. They didn't deserve the title.

"Ellie, Elllie!" came a shrill voice that could only belong to Jillian. The dimwit took her job far too seriously. Didn't she know it was a dead end?

Ellis groaned, raking a hand through her dark hair. The soft curls fell over her slim shoulders, brushing along the middle of her back as she turned to look at the vivacious blonde. Ellis knew the girl meant well. She just wished she'd stop pretending that this was the start to something better. She knew better. It was a downward spiral and merely the only place that paid her to dance. She remembered that day a couple years back when she ran away from her scholarship, the chance to attend a prestigious ballet school...but turned to dust along with her parents. Selfish bastards.

Ellis hadn't seen or spoken to her parents for about two years. The brunette knew she was better off. The two fought maliciously, their anger often turning on them. It hasn't helped when her dad started eating into her savings to support his habits. It had become too much, her health and sanity suffering. But as Jillian approached, she wondered if she traded that distance from her parents for something equally unhealthy. Equally insane.

"What's up?" Ellis asked, her blue eyes finding Jillian's green. Jillian bit down on her lower lip, her back arching slightly as she stood there clearly debating her next words.

"Well, rumor has it he's struck again," Jillian stated.

Ellis' eyes widened a moment. She willed her body to remain calm as she took in Jillian's information. She knew exactly who the blonde was talking about—The Nightcrawler. For the past six months he'd struck once a week and always at the wee hours of night. His victims were random, but each incident was always within a few miles of each other. Police had hoped this would make it easier to find him, catch him...but they weren't any closer to solving the issue than they were on day one. The kills, as Ellis knew only too well, occurred near her apartment. Yes, life was just a cruel joke, a sick existence with nothing to gain and everything to lose.

"You sure?" Ellis asked, her worry evident despite trying to appear happy for the crowd.

Jillian nodded. "Yeah. The boss mentioned letting you off early so that you could head home."

Ellis sucked in a sharp breath. Their boss never let anyone leave early. That could only mean that the asshole truly was worried. At least the guy had a shred of soul. Barely. Nodding, she started to fidget with her hands, wringing them nervously as she contemplated what to do.

"Go change and take the early night," Jillian pushed. "Call me once you get there."

Ellis nodded and headed back to her dressing room. The room was more like a closet than anything, the grime caked thick and stale. She shimmied out of revealing dress and shoved it deeply into her bag. Quickly, she pulled on her jean shorts and a black cami tank and strung her bag over her shoulder and about her tiny body. She swapped her heels for some sandals and was ready to run all the way home if she had to. As she exited her changing room, she came face to face with Greg, her boss. The big guy's expression was hard as he pointed toward the door, indicating she go. Without hesitation, she high-tailed it to the door, weaving through the frenzy of people, until she finally made it outside.

"Home. No stopping," Ellis told herself. Setting her jaw, she darted off in the direction of her home.

Jillian mentioned that The Nightcrawler, as the news called him, had already struck. Hopefully that meant he was sated and someone like her wouldn't cause him to glance twice. She held onto that, letting it guide her and keep her mind clear. As she rounded the corner, now only two blocks from home, she felt a strange shiver run down along her spine. She stopped suddenly and shuddered, her head turning to look down a small driveway leading to the backs of some apartments. Her blue eyes narrowed and the urge to see what was in the darkness suddenly became overwhelming. She'd told herself not to stop, but she couldn't help it. Something beckoned...pulled.

Slowly, Ellis began to walk up the driveway. Her mind protested as her body moved of its own accord. Teeth chattering, she wished she could stop herself, but it was no use. She heard a strange squelch, her eyes focusing on the dark shadow in an even darker corner. Was someone hurt? In need? Unable to resist, she reached out, her slender fingers barely brushing the velvet darkness hunched over in front of her.

Râmîêl felt it again. He'd almost forgotten what day it was, and the lapse in memory was a blessing turned curse. There was nothing like that sudden beat of the heart, that took with it all self-control. How fragile he must have been, to be doing one thing in a moment, and the next his mind is consumed. This need, this overwhelming craving for the taste of the mortals that surrounded him. They walked by, oblivious, blind, like sheep herded into the maws of the wolf by the very devil that cast the beast from the sky. A mocking breath was exhaled from his nose-- that was not the most honest thought. This Fallen was not cast down. He was not yanked, nor was he dragged. He was tempted. He was brought down here by nothing except his own will. He'd bitten the forbidden fruit, but it was not God who forbade it this time, but his very opposite.

A minute. That's about all the time he had before everyone in sight became prey. 'Hey, Ram! Come here man the game's about to start!' The voice called out from the bar across the street, just as the Angel stepped onto it. He went by Ram, and so they'd known who he was. Six days out of the week, at least. Sunday Night Football, replayed for the drunkards and the divorced in hours of the night that the sun began to defy with its rising. Râmîêl had saved these one last. The area around this bar was picked clean. For twenty miles in each direction, the Fallen had traveled, feasted, purged-- but proximity was running out. This town-- this was his town. This is where he lived, and you don't shit where you eat. This would end up being the last night he stayed in this place. He would feast here, and he would leave. Somewhere far. Somewhere where he could recruit better people than the slops in this good for nothing town. Somewhere where he could purge, and not wipe out half the population. The humans didn't deserve this. Or maybe they did. Thoughts of morality left him the moment the hunger struck.

"...Pour me a beer then, Jake." The Fallen's voice was deep, reverberating to those who heard him closely, and those would be the last words spoken to the bartender, and his customers within. His feet pulled him across the street, and once inside, his arm swung back so the door could lock behind him. Jake, the bartender and owner of this place-- a chubby man, balding through the middle of his head. He was nothing but good to Ram ever since he moved here. He fed the patrons thirst. He listened to their drunken stories. He struggled to pay his debts.

Jake would have no more problems after this night.

The minute was up.

Evidence of what transpired inside would first be heard, not seen. Had the glass not been sound proof, echoed screams, loud enough that you'd think they tore through the throat as they escaped, ran rampant within the bar. Blood splattered and spilled across its windows in bursts of cut arteries and slashed throats. Skin was torn from limbs, and scattered across the floor to float in pools of crimson leaking under every booth and every stall. Ligaments were torn from their bases. An arm severed to be consumed first, a throat next, a rib to follow. Every time the police reported on this, it was the same. The stench of rotting. Endless pools of blood. But not a single body, not a single piece of flesh in sight. Only bones. Broken and picked so clean you'd think they were crafted, as opposed to stripped. The sound of touch downs and celebration from the hanging TV did the bare minimum to block out the noise. Its screen was covered in the same spilled blood that stained the entire bar, and it only took the Fallen two minutes short of twenty, to unlock the door and let the gush of blood escape through the first exit released on its trap. The stench would quickly follow. People would come here. People would notice. It would be another report. Not that it mattered-- when the minute was up, Râmîêl could no longer be seen while his frenzy of lust and hunger ran rampant.

An Angel that traded his wings for the shadow. That was what he was. A crowd would come. He tried to restrain himself, but at this state, there was no such thing. Not to a degree of success. He turned around. If he went through the back doors and alleys, he might at least avoid the temptation, since he had no chance of resisting it. So he turned, and he went out the other way. His leather jacked was stained burgundy with the smears of blood. Grafts of flesh were covering his pants, and his brown boots were dyed a red not unfamiliar to the scene before. His face, especially his mouth and jaw, were covered with the blood of those he consumed. He had to discard his shirt and jacket. They were too heavy. The smell upon them reminded them of his weakness, and so he took them off and threw them in the nearest dumpster, leaving the shirtless angel to wander through the alleys. Yet fate would have it, that his victims were not quite finished for the night.

Just as he stepped into the alleys of the neighboring apartment building, he heard it. The shuffles of feet. The click of a walking stick. An elderly woman taking out the trash. His heart allowed him a single second of fear. A single second of regret and guilt about what was going to happen, but the moment it past, his feet darted forward, and another life was taken. Struck to the floor. Throat severed. Ram knelt before her, sinking jagged and sharpened teeth into the side of her neck, tearing flesh from bone and consuming her as she lay there, dying.

The thirst was so strong, that he did not feel the hairs on his body rise until it was too late. His back felt it first. The approach. The sudden sting of the unknown. The sudden burn of the holy. He didn't know what this was. An Angel?...No, it was not strong enough. It didn't matter, right? He could not be seen. They'd wander here, see a dead body, and run. But...it was different. It was different and it was confusing him. It was pulling him. It was pulling him away from his kill. From his thirst. Such a thing was not possible. Such a thing defied the temptations of Satan, and no being was strong enough to do that.

Until he felt the touch-- and she would feel blood stained skin beneath her finger tips. In a split second he rose, revealed to her for reasons unknown. A titan. A behemoth, dwarfing her in size. His body was so muscled and lean, it was as if he'd been crafted by Greek hands from marble. His frame was wide. His height no less than six feet and then some. The visage in her mind would have almost been maddening, had she been normal. She'd get the lightest version of it. Of what it was like to look upon Hell itself, within a creature not spawned from it. The image of black wings fluttering from his back would flash in her mind. They no longer existed, and yet they flashed regardless. A wingspan so wide it would reach well past the edges of the street they stood on.

He towered over her, and he looked down upon her with a red flare in his eyes, full of rage and confusion. Full of conflict between his hunger and her presence. He knew, from the second she looked at him-- that she could see him. See behind him. The body. The massacre. The blood. He knew what he was called around here. He knew what they named him. Stupid-- the Nightcrawler. She'd have no time to think of such a thing, for in the next second, his arm had extended, and his fingers had grasped her fragile throat, squeezing hard enough to lift her from the very ground with his grip alone. "How can you see me." His voice was almost deafening in this state. Not from its shriek, but from the pull of it. From the sudden urge to draw herself even further to him the moment she hard his voice.

"Who sent you."

Slick, warm, slippery. Ellis just barely touched the shadow, but the warm wet was unmistakable as she brought her thumb and forefinger together. She let the liquid slide over her finger tips, painting them dark as she attempted to study them. She took another step forward, the pull so utterly strong. But something was off. Something was wrong. A shiver ran along her arm causing her entire body to tremble. Just then, the shadow grew, a hulking mass looming over her like an angel of death. In that moment, her heart turned to ice, air refused to fill her lungs. She faltered and then a hand was wrapped around her throat.

Ellis gasped, desperate for air, as her hands feebly tried to pry the ones off her neck. Large fingers squeezed, her feet lifting off the ground as she began to violently thrash. She tried to scream, to shout. But her air was cut off, the words couldn't come.

As Ellis' vision clouded with shadow, strange thoughts moved through her head. Twisted thoughts, dark and sinister and drenched in blood. She saw herself with someone, his face hidden as if her thoughts purposely tried to hide his identity. Did she know him? She must! There was a familiarity as she saw herself walking with him, sitting with him, his large hands gripping her protectively. The swirling images faded and she suddenly felt his lips trailing over her skin, her naked body arched against his. He buried his face between her breasts, feasting, relishing the soft mounds as an ache began to grow between her legs. Growling, he spread her legs wide, his weight heavy upon her tiny body.

"I...I..." Ellis rasped, her blue eyes wide, wild with terror as her body responded to sensations unknown. If only she could answer. If only she could find the one in the visions! Terror laced her lurid thoughts, snapping her back just enough, only to tease once more as her clit swelled and cunt gushed, soaking her panties. "I...I..." But it was no use. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe! Sputtering, choking, she knew there'd be bruises, blooms of blues and purples, while she fought for precious air. Her body thrashed, the darkness growing. It was becoming too difficult to fight. As she slowly succumbed to the velvet of night, she felt her body grow warm, radiant heat swallowing her whole.

This little creatue, was the one that caused the hair on his back to stand.

She was...small. Fragile. A simple hold and she was dying in his hand. Why would they send this? This wasn't a threat to him! This was a joke! It had to be-- she was confusing. She was...he didn't know. He didn't know anything but the basics, as his body pivoted and he slammed her back against the wall behind her, hand holding her up where it was. She was fragile. He knew this. She looked Human. He knew this. She was dying. He knew this. He was so drawn and attracted to the woman he was killing that his fingers were giving way, despite his desire to snap them. He knew this, too.

Suddenly, it all hit him at once. A scent-- one of arousal. One of...need, from between her thighs. She was getting wet, and his mind shut off. His body reacted on its own, a hand running forward to slip two fingers between her legs, and run them up against the drenched jean shorts, right against the wet cunt, if seperated by a little fabric. The moment he touched it, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Images...visions, they were being shared. He experienced suddenly, what she was experiencing. Every thought. Every scene, in which she was in his arms. In which she was laid down before him, legs spread and high, with his cock buried deep within her womb.

He saw it all, while killing her-- and had he had the visions a minute later, she would have been dead in his arms. When his eyes rolled back, the pressure on her neck suddenly eased. She was no longer being choked by his fingers, only held. Slowly, he leaned forward. Slowly, the single ray of light from the window at her side would shine on his face. Little by little, his image would reveal for her. He, was the man in her visions. He was the one she saw. He was the draw. And not a moment later, did she find his lips suddenly smashed against her own in an aggressive kiss, without precedent nor warning.

His mind was not at work here.

This draw had taken over his body completely. His entire being was telling him what to do. Telling him to hold her tighter. Telling him to push his hips against her own and grind the quickly rising shaft between his legs against those drenched shorts. The sudden lust and draw were so strong, he could barely think-- and when he did, they were thoughts of those visions. Thoughts of her. His free hand quickly reached down and tore at the drenched fabric keeping him from her, be it his own, or hers, until tatters were left to hang around her thighs, and his manhood sprung up to replace that fabric as shelter against her slit's wet lips.