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Before your blade touches skin, a droplet of holy water falls from its point, sizzling as it makes contact with Lilith's budding breasts. She has chosen another girl on the cusp of maidenhood, claiming that its claustrophobic confines brings greater release once she sheds it again. Greater pleasure from the acuteness of pain, too.
You run the blade's edge across the reddened burn mark, your fingertips between her hairless thighs; both Lilith and her skin hiss at the contact. Steam rises and orange-white light emanates from below the epidermis as it splits apart.
Lilith dislikes the deformation of her immaculate vessels, but you have too much fun ruining them. Why preserve one meatsuit when so many others are waiting to be possessed?
When you first joined her ranks, before Lucifer's imprisonment, she told you many secrets, many promises and lies. You saw your ink-black eyes reflected in her dead-white ones, and wanted to believe that at the end of days you would rule the world beside her.
The knife handle digs into your palm, your knuckles turning white from gripping it; you want to carve her vessel's very bones, break the seal before its time. The superficial wounds you inflict no longer appease your anger. You take it out on this little girl because she lets you, because she knows you'd never break her.
Afterwards, you douse her wounds with baby's blood. She's as beautiful as the world will be once it burns, and you'll remember her in its destruction.