(no subject)
[Wayward boy, steadfast angel; Samael wasn't as duplicitous as all that. He had the soul of an angel and the face of a fucking scoundrel. He also had the body of a Greek god, according to the woman he met in Brooklyn on Wednesday night. He had been out for a run and she was walking her dog. A housewife with fantasies of cheating on her husband. It was too easy.
Now that he knew some Greek gods, he'd have to ask. Compare notes, maybe. It was fucking unsettling, though. You shall have no other Gods before me. There was only one God and He was Samael's Father. Samael was good with the Ten Commandments. Well. The first five, anyway. At number six, it got sort of shaky. You shall not murder. (About that - he'd killed no one until Iowa last week.) Do not commit adultery. (About that - he'd had four concubines and Lizzie on Wednesday night was the most recent of many.) Do not steal. (About that - he'd been good in recent years, after an adolescence of shoplifting for kicks.) Do not bear false witness against your neighbour. (About that - no, no, he was quite good at that. He tried not to lie. It gave him heartburn to lie.) (Do not covet your neighbour's wife. (About that - was it okay if he gave her straight back afterwards?)
Samael waited at the bar for his cousin Maud (family, family, family), a gin and tonic in hand as he surveyed the bar's clientele. Easy picks, all of them. He was likely drinking too much but he didn't think he'd really developed a taste for it. Samael was too fond of control. Contrary to what some might think, he had a great deal of self-control. It took self-control to fucking walk away from his brothers instead of pitching even more of a fucking fit over their fucked-up perception of him, of Raphael, of fucking human life in general. It was pretty fucking funny. Samael's mind groped towards the illogical conclusion: in clustering around sweet Raphael and protecting him from the big bad influence of big bad brother, they'd unwitting unleashed a whole new fucking hell for anyone who crossed Samael's path this week or this month. Well, they had Raphael now but they didn't have Samael. It was likely fucking easier for them, too. When the time came, as it surely must, for Uriel to wield that fucking flaming sword or for Raphael to break out those chains (and not in the fucking fun way), they could be entirely dispassionate because Samael was not their fucking brother (though they are his brothers).
The fucking sickener was that he'd been so fucking happy to find them. What the fuck ever. The feeling wasn't mutual. He'd do his thing, like always, and they'd do theirs.]
[text to azazel]
That chick who comes to clean your apartment might need a raise. Just saying. Dante. PS: Not really a chick, is she? She like 60 or something? Or was it just the light? Should I tie a neck-tie to my door handle next time?
Now that he knew some Greek gods, he'd have to ask. Compare notes, maybe. It was fucking unsettling, though. You shall have no other Gods before me. There was only one God and He was Samael's Father. Samael was good with the Ten Commandments. Well. The first five, anyway. At number six, it got sort of shaky. You shall not murder. (About that - he'd killed no one until Iowa last week.) Do not commit adultery. (About that - he'd had four concubines and Lizzie on Wednesday night was the most recent of many.) Do not steal. (About that - he'd been good in recent years, after an adolescence of shoplifting for kicks.) Do not bear false witness against your neighbour. (About that - no, no, he was quite good at that. He tried not to lie. It gave him heartburn to lie.) (Do not covet your neighbour's wife. (About that - was it okay if he gave her straight back afterwards?)
Samael waited at the bar for his cousin Maud (family, family, family), a gin and tonic in hand as he surveyed the bar's clientele. Easy picks, all of them. He was likely drinking too much but he didn't think he'd really developed a taste for it. Samael was too fond of control. Contrary to what some might think, he had a great deal of self-control. It took self-control to fucking walk away from his brothers instead of pitching even more of a fucking fit over their fucked-up perception of him, of Raphael, of fucking human life in general. It was pretty fucking funny. Samael's mind groped towards the illogical conclusion: in clustering around sweet Raphael and protecting him from the big bad influence of big bad brother, they'd unwitting unleashed a whole new fucking hell for anyone who crossed Samael's path this week or this month. Well, they had Raphael now but they didn't have Samael. It was likely fucking easier for them, too. When the time came, as it surely must, for Uriel to wield that fucking flaming sword or for Raphael to break out those chains (and not in the fucking fun way), they could be entirely dispassionate because Samael was not their fucking brother (though they are his brothers).
The fucking sickener was that he'd been so fucking happy to find them. What the fuck ever. The feeling wasn't mutual. He'd do his thing, like always, and they'd do theirs.]
[text to azazel]
That chick who comes to clean your apartment might need a raise. Just saying. Dante. PS: Not really a chick, is she? She like 60 or something? Or was it just the light? Should I tie a neck-tie to my door handle next time?