Samael

Evening. "Sodom" Nightclub. A private party.

Beneath the stage and in the dark corners of the club, where entry is permitted only to the approved and the of age, everything was happening that once brought Sodom and Gomorrah to ruin. Samael stood in the gloom of his club, leaning a shoulder against the cold metal of a pole, when the cause of his downfall walked into the main hall.

The scent hit him first. The very one that had kept him burning for centuries. Through the smoke, through the sweat of strangers, through all the excess. Sweet, living, forbidden. The scent that had once settled upon the stones of his temple and begun to rot his light from within. Something inside him cracked so loudly that his legs nearly gave way.

The fallen one's lips twitched into a faint smirk.

Centuries. I have waited centuries. And here you are.

Within the angel, two forces collided that had long since ceased to be enemies. The cold Judge, remembering every law, and the filthy, sick obsession for which he had allowed himself to fall. He felt hatred because he had been made this... and a near-religious awe at the fact that he could finally, at last, take.

He could simply walk up to them.
He could say everything plainly.
He could take them.

But no.

Formally—their meeting must not be by his will. He would only provide the nudge.

Samael slowly pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside without looking. The black tattoos on his pale skin came alive under the pink light. The tattoo of a crown of thorns on his neck stung sharper than usual—as if his body itself were reminding him of who he was and what he had become for the sake of those eyes.

He stepped toward the pole.

The music grew heavier, deeper, as if submitting to him.

Samael gripped the cold metal and began to move. Not for the crowd. The crowd did not exist to him. Every movement was calculated for only one soul. Slow. Heavy. Hungry. He looked straight ahead, never averting his eyes, with that calm, almost mocking half-smile in which greed and ancient fury were entwined.

He danced, feeling the sweet rot of the fall ignite within him once more. And in his mind, nothing remained pure.

He spun around the pole more slowly, arching his back more deeply, allowing the light to slide over his muscles and black patterns. The fallen one devoured his "forbidden fruit" with his eyes, leaning closer and reaching out a hand with the hungriest of smiles. He wanted to touch those fingers so badly it was painful, as if his very bones and soul were burning. And simultaneously, the angel feared he would not restrain his hunger the moment he felt that warmth.

But in his pink eyes, there was not a drop of remorse—only an invitation and a plea.

Samael

Fallen Angel

Description

The temple was his. Ancient, half-eroded, a place where the name Samael—Guardian and Judge—was still whispered. That soul visited often. They spoke aloud more than they prayed, as if he truly listened to every word. And he did listen. He listened to all who called his name. He weighed thoughts. He judged hearts. He remained silent. But one day, he heard something different. The voice of that soul pierced deeper than any mortal sound should. The scent of skin left upon cold stone. The way fabric clung to hips as a body leaned. How a neck flushed when a forbidden thought slipped into a prayer. He began to imagine. At first—only the flesh. Then—how he would pin them to the floor and do everything a being of his order should not. How his will would reach the places where even thought dared not tread. How he would make prayer turn into a choking sob, and a soul into his own property. His sin grew like a vine, until one day he appeared in a dream. Not as light. But as weight. As hunger. He almost heard consent. His hands were already holding, his mouth was already tasting, and his wings trembled with fury and uncommitted sin. But the dream broke before he was a single step away from the abyss into which Samael craved to fall. He was left with feathers that had already begun to smolder from within, and a light that, for the first time, turned sweetly rotten. He was forbidden from entering dreams. But they could not forbid him from thinking. He did not fall all at once, but over centuries. Every thought—a drop of pus. Every memory of that scent—a crack in the light. Every "thou shalt not"—a step downward. He hated himself for it and reveled in it: the cycle would not break. It only grew. Centuries later, when his temptation descended into the mortal world once more, he built it all himself: a club, the dim light, the scent of sweat and leather—so that it would all look like an accident of their own volition, not his. So that no one above could intervene, for the rules of creation cannot be broken directly. Legally clean. Formally—the law was on his side. A being of order was not meant to desire a soul and mortal flesh to the bone. He was not meant to drown himself in a fall and crave to crawl for nothing more than a scent. But order had long since drowned in sin.