#insert name x reader

But she.

But she.

She calls for you in the ghastly night. She longs for your touch as though it could ignite a thousand fiery nights, illuminating the path back to you. She whispers for you across oceans, and it touches only your ears because it is meant for you, and you alone. It is maddening, the loud and beautiful cultures of New Orleans can never mask the sound. But God says that you can’t take the horrifically tempting offering that lures you to the devil.

No, you must endure and quiet your thoughts. You mustn't let her into the folds of your mind again.

Oh, but she.

You can taste her candied lips on your tongue. The ache in your mind will never subdue as her sultry seduction penetrates your thoughts like delicious sin. She whispers to you and shivers go down your spine,

“My sweet lover, mon chéri. Come home to me.”

A bead of sweat from denial and restraint pools at your temples as you rush out the door. The hammering voice of the woman—your devil, your lover, your angel—she calls, relentlessly.

“Our bed is cold, my love.

The fading colours and streams of light devour themselves in a warm, fleeting breeze that surpasses you.

“Come to me. Come home.”

The doors to the church burst open as you stormed inside, utterly dishevelled—hair wild and tangled and in clothes that looked unearthed. You didn’t know how much you were sweating and heaving until the pastor approached you and put a hand on your shoulder.

“Father, I need your help,” you cried.

Inconsolable and with your speech unintelligible, he walked you to the confessional, where you prayed your wishes would be answered. You poured your heart into begging for the holy God to listen to you and bring salvation, seizing you from the ache you felt for her and only her.

The way you had tangled with her, harmonious and adoring of every curve and crevice of her sublimely torturous body. The graceful embrace of the excruciatingly harrowing beauty that she possessed, you could not deny how badly you wanted her, even if you knew you shouldn’t.

In the small enclosure, the oak wood would normally overwhelm you, but her voice travels with the scent of ripe overcast and dried roses. You inhaled it deeply, despite yourself.

The creep of her distant smile flashed behind your eyes like a nightmare and a dream at once.

“God cannot save you now, my love.”

“My child,” he spoke from the other side, snapping you away from the hallucinatory thoughts that swirled you helplessly, “what burdens you?”

You choke out the words, “Father, I have lain with another woman. I have lain with the devil."

He pauses for you to continue, uncertainty swirling as you confessed.

"The devil is not a man, Father. She is a woman, and she has devastating beauty that overwhelms me," gasping through the treacherous tears that began to fall, “she has these roots in my soul that I can feel and I can hear. She whispers to me, Oh God."

"God is not here."

“Do you hear her now?”

“I can hear her,” blurting out the words, you shook violently, “I can feel her presence. She calls me when I am weak, and Father, I am always so weak for her.”

The scent of her grew stronger as you cried, like your very essence was made from hers. As though she was seeping through your pores and filling your lungs with her last breath. You were drowning in it—she was breaking you into bite size pieces, plating you like an exquisite meal.

“You may need help beyond the church,” he tried, but you banged on the door.

“No! This—she is eating me alive from the inside; there is no cure but God.” finger nails digging into your palms, “Please, please, help me repent.”

No words are exchanged past this, while you poured out your confession like a leaky faucet. You dropped your head in defeat as the gravity of her stuck onto you in inevitable death. Her voice had quieted as you caught your breath.

In a split second, the sound of wood snapping in half and a descending scream pulled you out of your horrors to an even worse one.

To the one you’d feared all along.

You opened the confessional door to find the other side of it missing and torn from its place. The sound of your own heart beating kept you standing in place—when you heard it. The hum of satisfaction was all too familiar. She was here.

Turning toward the altar, you saw her, hunched over him. Her teeth sank deep into his flesh, feasting, and you'd been baited. Hook, line, and you took it perfectly as she imagined.

He didn’t cry, he didn’t wail, he was silenced. She ravishes at him until the light left his eyes and his hands unclenched themselves, going entirely limp. Parting from his raw neck to look into your enamoured eyes, satisfaction evident across her face for your dismay. Smiling wildly with her teeth and blouse stained with his blood.

“My love,” she whispers, crimson dripping down her chin.

There was no time to run, no time to think as you stepped backward cautiously—but she was quicker. She was at your side before you could think and hovers, trailing her eyes over your figure.

She leans to the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you, “You’ve been ignoring me.”

Unable to hide the tremble in your hands as you spoke, you shiver at her proximity and step backward again.

“Y—you just killed him."

She scoffs as if that were the most annoying thing she had ever heard as she inches closer to you, closing the distance once again.

“You think God listens to the call of your useless prayers? You think he will bring you salvation in the face of destruction?” her voice rising in volume and in anger as she walked you backwards, “This church will tell you you’re not made for me and I am here to say you were born to be mine.”

You’re quivering as her blood soaked fangs peek out from behind her lips, desire flooding your senses despite your reluctance. She presses on, as the lights shatter across the room, candles burning brighter and the heat finding your skin.

“The thing you should fear most is me, not some fairytale God. The scariest thing in this Godforsaken world is me.”

Feet shuffling backwards on the altar, you lost your footing, falling backwards. She doesn’t relent, she never does.

Gripping the fabric of your shirt over your chest, she urges you closer with strength that was unimaginable, and you hate how you loved it. Tears flood your vision as she tenderly shifts her tone when she speaks to you again,

“You are mine and mine alone. My companion, my lover.”

Her eyes shone with harrowing clarity, but it loosens your inhibitions. As though you were wine drunk, you couldn't help the undeniable urge to lean into her; a gravitational pull drawing you into the glow of her captivating eyes as her smile grows.

She tilts her head knowingly, purposefully softening her words to coax, “I love you, do you understand what that means?”

At the whim of her words, you were falling back into the intensity of her intentful gaze despite the horrors that surrounded you. The blood bath and the destruction that she brought on meant nothing anymore.

She was so beautiful that it hurt like hell.

The tears had gone and dissipated like they were never there. This must've been the damnation they spoke of, but fuck, you didn't care.

“You are loved,” she whispered, and in her sultry seduction, you felt entirely seen like no one had ever seen you before.

The woman you were to fear, the monster she proved to be in her bloodlust and horrific displays of her power—you loved in the same way she loved you.

She whispered your name as she closed the distance, kissing you hard with purpose. Your desolate state was gone, and you were compelled to hers. As though starved, she devoured your lips and leaned you down at the altar like a sacrifice that would never be forgotten. Her fingernails trailed down your side and gripped your hips tightly as she moaned into you. This time, you swallowed her sounds whole and didn’t cower from what it meant.

She parts from you with a sticky red line of spit and blood as she stares at you, and you hardly hear her,

“Do you,” she rasps, “submit to us?”

You nod, feeling drunk on her already.

She smiles, "This, my love, is what it means to be loved by death."

When she leans further into you and sinks her teeth into the fleshy part of your neck, and you moan so sweetly for her. Your lips part in a familiar way that only she invokes from you, and you hold her head there. Keeping her there, letting her drink from you. Wanting her to.

Pulling and sucking the fluid in your veins that pump and keep you alive—she drains you.

Her hands wander down to the button of your trousers and slip beneath. The damp fabric that welcomes her makes you jolt as your eyes flutter and knees parts immediately. She hums in approval at your surrender, fingers trailing up and catching at the sensitive bud in practiced circles. Sinking her teeth deeper into your flesh as though holding herself back from tearing into you entirely, and that made it better and worse at the same time.

You moan again for her as she laps at the place she'd bitten, placing open-mouthed kisses and smiling against your neck. Pushing the ruined lace to the side, she pumps a finger inside as her thumb continues its ministrations.

You whimper her name, the blood leaving your body as she takes you apart. Shamelessly let her, just like you always do.

What shame could you have with a woman as divine as her?

The room shrank to the two of you, and you were utterly hers like the stars had written it. The world fluttered and it was euphoric balancing on the edge of life and death.

Another finger slips inside, and you can’t take it.

As your skin paled your mouth feel open, mumbling lowly in almost a whisper only for her ears, “please.”

She would not deny you, working you faster as control slipped from between her experienced hands.

It was too much to teeter on rope of existence and she took pleasure it taking you further. Taking pride in how she knew your body better than you did yourself. It felt like heaven, even if the woman before you mirrored the devil more. To you, she was like an angel of death, bringing delicious evil in every crevice, breaking you down like a toy in her soft palms.

Every button of yours she has memorized.

Then it hits you. You’re convulsing as you come on her practiced fingers but wicked as she is, she moans into your neck as if this was satiating her.

She doesn’t stop her fingers from between the folds or her drinking until you go completely limp, letting her hold you close. Whining her name, overwhelmed, overstimulated and past the point of feeling faint.

She nearly bleeds you dry before she sets you back down and admires her handiwork.

“Beautiful, in death and in desire. You will be my queen,” she whispers in your ear, "we will be queens of the damned. We will rule the night."

She rolls up her sleeve and bites at her wrist, blood trickling down to the floor and bringing it over your lips. She pressed it to your parted lips, forcing the crimson to pool in your mouth.

At first, you whined, the taste bitter and metallic on your taste buds, but then—you so willingly indulged.

Once it reached you and the power began to take root like sigh of relief in the midst harrowing pains—you felt whole. Drinking from her made you feral. She tasted better than she looked, and that you could not believe. Your fingers curled over her wrist as you bit harder, canines aching like they had just grown in.

Her lips part in a familiar O that you’ve drawn out only in bed from her, when your head was between her warm thighs. Pulling sweet sounds and soft moans of your name as she fell apart for you—over and over.

She melted to your side, giggling as though this was entertainment while you sucked the life from her.

This was so familiar, she was so delicious.

Her plump blood stained lips, that you were just kissing like they were breathing you alive, were caught in her teeth. The candle lights roared higher as you dug your nails into her wrist, eyes rolling back in pleasure. She moaned loud and proud as she praised you, stroking your hair before her hand began to go weak.

When she said your name to snap you out of the bloodlust, you didn’t listen, you couldn’t. She gasped and pulled her arm from you, weakened.

She whispers another praise, unintelligible but you could make it out vaguely,

“Mine, all mine,” she’s humming as she slipped down onto her back, wetting her lips and mumbling about plans for the two of you once the transformation was complete.

You were sitting up, every sense heightened—you had never felt more alive.

The deep red meant to be sinful, you'd engorged in it and felt headier as the wave of pleasure clouded your previous endeavours. This could be love or might just be obsession, it didn’t matter—nothing else fucking mattered.

But she.