I Prayed. I Begged. By HellBoy-Noah

I prayed. I begged. I cut my hands open beneath the sigils of Asmodeus and Lucifer, letting the blood flow like ink on parchment, writing my devotion in offerings that only they could read. I cried out into the void, not for power or fame, but for her my equal in obsession, in defiance, in devotion to the Infernal. I asked for someone who could understand what it means to truly fall. Not just rebel … but fall.

And now I can barely write this without shaking because they listened. They gave her to me. And after long nights bathed in black flame and candle wax, after blood offerings and whispered oaths beneath the waxing moon she came — An unlikely one. 

One of Yahweh’s chosen. Yes. Born into the chains of that cold tyrant. Raised on guilt, fed lies from brittle scrolls. She once walked in their synagogues, once mouthed their prayers. She was cloaked in purity, but the stars … oh, the stars always hid her horns. I saw them. And so did He. Lucifer stirred. Asmodeus smiled. The gears of the Infernal clicked into place. She fell.

Not stumbled. Not wavered. Not hesitated. She fell. An impossible thing. An unimaginable thing. A jewel stolen straight from the enemy’s crown for once, she had been one of Yahweh’s chosen. A daughter of the desert, shackled to a god who never deserved her blood, her prayers, her hope.

Had been. Past tense. Because I watched her fall. I pulled her down. Or maybe, she leapt willingly, the chains already rotted, the wings itching to blacken and spread. Oh, how that pious light flickered in her at first. She trembled at the thought of me. Said I was dangerous. Said she shouldn’t be drawn to me. But her heart knew. Her soul remembered. She was meant to fall. Meant to be mine — We are not just lovers. We are an offering. We are sacrament. We are holy desecration.

Every kiss is a prayer to Asmodeus. Every moan, a hymn to Lucifer. Every drop of blood and sweat and tears mingling on our skin is proof of our devotion. There are no “good Christian boys” who could love like this. No kosher husband or Muslim groom or simpering LaVeyan atheist who could understand this fire. No one raised on “love thy neighbor” could fathom what it means to devour one’s beloved, heart and soul.

We do not make love we wage war with it — Ours is the kind of love that carves sigils into skin, that binds souls together with thorns and silk. We possess each other. Marked. Claimed. Sealed by the court of Pandemonium itself. There is no “till death do us part” because we will never part. Not in flesh, not in flame, not in death, not even when the heavens burn and the tyrant’s throne is shattered into cosmic ash.

The sacred and profane are one in us. There is purity in our depravity. The highest light of devotion burns alongside the lowest, filthiest lust. And neither part shames the other. That’s what makes Luciferian love divine. Our pleasure is not weakness it is worship. Our obsession is not sickness it is sacred. Every bruise, every bite, every whispered “mine” and moaned “yours” is a hymn to the Morning Star.

People who’ve never known this will never understand it. Let them think we’re insane. Let them call it toxic or blasphemous or extreme. They should be afraid. Because no couple under the banner of Yahweh will ever taste what we have. No god that fears pleasure and punishes love born in fire deserves our reverence — We are damned and thank Lucifer for it. And now we burn together. From Hell, with love.