#em.fic3

When I come to I'm clothed, and my body is seemingly unharmed but I still feel fuzzy, disoriented.  The taste of the wine I shared with Mr. Reed remains on my tongue and I swallow, noticing a faint smell of perfume and... something else? Something coppery....

I breathe as deeply and quietly as I can and allow my eyes to open. A small room, dimly lit and painted green. It's lined with paintings of gods and prophets, shelves of books and records, and a vinyl player sits off to the side, similar to the bedroom. Looking down, I realize I'm seated in a pew, of which there are rows. Is this... a church?

Two doors line the wall ahead of me, one green and one purple, behind a large desk with a half-burned candlestick on it. From the green door, Mr. Reed emerges in the checkered cardigan I remember him in from when he first ushered me inside, and the pajamas he threw on after we...

I'm extremely confused.

"Well hello!! Look at you!! How're you feeling? Bit groggy, I'd imagine? You were just a *touch* over served, that's on me." He admits, stashing a bright green watering can under the desk and grabbing his notebook and pencil off of it to write something down.

"Seventeen Hours. Good." He looks back to me, an excited grin on his face.

"Mister Reed?" I ask softly.

"Ms. (y/n)?" He chuckles, taking a step closer.

"What happened? What is this? How did I get here?"

"You were drugged, this" he gestures around us "is an institution of learning, and you were carried here. Anything further? No? Good. Let's get cracking!" He claps, rubbing his hands together and I jump in my seat.

"Whu-" I'm more confused than I was initially after this brief, unhelpful explanation but he prattles on;

"A few miligrams of temazepam in the wine, nothing lethal." He narrows his eyes, pointing a finger at me "You were indoctrinated into catholicism from what age?"

"I was baptized at two...why d-"

"Two. Years. Old. TWO, (Y/N)!! Forgive me but that's fucking ridiculous. You had no information and no way of consenting to whatever 'soul-protecting' rituals catholics do to children at two years of age.

You have lived your entire life by the teachings of a cult, my dear. A popular cult with a good handle on architecture and design, but a cult all the same. With their gaudy, artsy buildings and their priests wrapped up in silk and you," he looks me over, his expression sympathetic "Full of all that eternal guilt and shame for your entirely natural feelings and urges. For what? A reward only recieved after death? Heaven is about as meaningful to the living as a gold star sticker on a child's spelling test and I believe, no I know, that you're aware of this, (y/n). "

He sits on the edge of the desk as he lectures me and I take a second to look myself over.

These.... are not my clothes. A long, dark grey wool skirt with... a short-sleeved black mock neck sweater tucked into it..., the inside of the right sleeve is caked in some dark, calcified stain... These are...  comfortable clothes, modest clothes, thank God, but they. Are not. Mine. I shudder. How did he get these? And where is this lecture going? He pulls a few different versions of monopoly and the landlord game from the nearby shelves and likens them to different religions, laying a holy book atop each and telling me about 'iterations' and I am not listening and the stain on the inside of my sleeve that isn't my sleeve is almost definitely someone's blood and now I'm scared and what is going on? There's an immense pressure in my head and I'm breathing too fast -- is this how I die?

In this decidedly unholy place, amongst all these artifacts I've been told would protect me, at the hands of a man who not only led me into temptation, but now purports to have the ability to deliver me from evil? Is he the evil? I'm overwhelmed and I cry.

I cry like I have never cried before. My face is wet and I'm sobbing and I'm hyperventilating and Mr. Reed finally stops talking so I look up, flushed, snivelling, unsure of his next move.

He seems shocked for a moment, eyes widening. Then his brow furrows again as he leaves his place at the desk to stand beside me. "Shhh, shhh, come now. That's a bit dramatic, eh? Catholic school lasts what, twelve years? You can stand to listen to an old man drone on for a minute."

He sheds his cardigan, draping it over my shoulders as they shake. He produces a tissue from one of his pockets and brings it to my face, dabbing away my tears. "You've been extraordinary for me so far, (y/n)." Mr. Reed scoots into the pew next to me, his eyes catch mine and he hums, reassuring "Such a virtuous, reasonable, obedient girl." I take a breath, resenting how much I lust after his blessing, his praise.  "See, I'm just introducing you to something new. Something different than that to which you're accustomed," He resumes, snaking an arm around my shoulder "When you walked in here, you weren't used to having your beliefs challenged. Only affirmed. It was scary, mm? But you let me in. You let me experience all of you, inside and out, because somehow, somewhere, deep inside, you know I'm right. You know this is right : what we do, who we are together. You taught me your doctrine, I owe it to you to teach mine."

"But you- you requested the- why...?" My voice cracks.

He squeezes my shoulder, speaking softly into the crook of my neck "Knowledge, (y/n), is power. Power is... what? Mm? What does power give to us?"

I shiver at the feeling of his breath on my neck and silently curse myself for welcoming it. "Uhm..." I look up at him, uncertain "Control?"

"Control! Exactly! Brilliant!"

I can't help the small smile that arrives on my face at knowing the correct answer to one of his questions.

"Control is the root of each of these doctrines." He gestures to the desk with the games and books laid out on it  "Think of your church. Sit, stand, kneel, listen to some old twat tell you you're unworthy of heaven, sit, stand kneel, stand, sing, kneel again, eat some crackers, go home. It's all programming.  They have you learn all that bovine choreography not because it amplifies your prayers to some all knowing benevolent being, but because it subdues you. It tires you out. Makes your body ache. You need something to do with your hands in those pews so you fold them in reverence because idle hands are the devil's playthings, are they not?"

"... Sure.... Mister Reed? Whose clothes are these?"

"Some things aren't for us to know, (y/n). And some are. Like how I know," he smiles "that you are going to continue to be keen for me, stop asking ridiculous questions, and do what I say. Because we're both thoroughly aware of the fact that I am your god now." His breath is hot on my neck as he chuckles, I can feel his grin, and I flinch.

He's in control. Older. Wiser. Stronger. Smarter. I look up into his eyes and he kisses me before I can even think to move away. His tongue tackles mine, fingers lacing into the hair at the nape of my neck, his other hand squeezes my thigh, my eyes roll back "mmh-" and maybe he is God. He breaks the kiss, looking me over.

His eyes undress me and I wish his hands would follow suit but they don't.

"Walk to the desk, stand in front of it."

I do as he says. There are 4 rows of pews on either side of the room and at the end of the aisle there is a door that seems to lead into a hallway. As I make note of this, Mr. Reed gets up from his place and begins stacking the books and board games, placing them on the floor beside the desk, and setting the needle on the vinyl player. He stands before me, bringing a hand up to stroke my cheek.

The song he's selected begins with a wavering guitar note, and I recognize it immediately. 'If, I could make a wish, I think I'd pass, can't think of anything I need-'

"Have you heard this song before, (y/n)?"

'No, cigarettes no sleep, no light, no sound...' the song plays on.

"Of course, Mr. Reed.  'The Air That I Breathe' by The Hollies? Everyone knows this song."

He closes the short distance between us, smirking down at me as his fingers trail the outside of my arms.

"Not. Everyone. And certainly not everyone your age. Your generation is a mess. All depression and 'memes' and vanity," he rolls his eyes "but it's obvious that you, my dear, are something totally different. You're a person of tradition, sure, but more importantly, one of great intellect. We share this trait. Because of it, people shy away from us. Ostracize us. Call us 'crazy' or 'obsessive' of our interests. Hence why no one's come here looking for you. To them," he takes my hands in his "We are alien in our entirety. But to Me, you are an angel. A lost lamb, searching for truth in every interaction, looking for a god in all things. You were destined to find me eventually, to be freed of your inhibitions and made new... "

His eyes are wide and I watch them flicker with something unidentifiably terrifying. The song ends and the record skips as the room's momentarily warm ambiance is replaced by silence again.

"Mis-mister Reed?" I blink "I won't lie, you're scaring me-"

"Enlightenment can be an entirely horrifying journey. Knowing our souls at a depth others might only see as aspirational...It is scary," he squeezes my hands and my palms are sweating but he doesn't let go, instead  lowering himself to whisper in my ear "but are you frightened more of the depth of knowledge you've acquired, in your short time here?... Or how much you've enjoyed yourself doing so? After all," he continues, "good girls aren't supposed to."

"Aren't supposed to...?"

He pushes his cardigan off my shoulders, letting it fall onto the desk behind me. He then tugs down the zipper on the side of my skirt that isnt my skirt and it slips off my hips, crumpling at my feet. He pushes the fabric of the sweater over my breasts, exposing me further, running a thumb lightly over one nipple, and I wince at the sensitivity of my own body, taking my lower lip between my teeth.

"Aren't supposed to let me do that. But you do. And good girls, (y/n)," he reaches his opposite hand between my legs, feeling how slick I've become over the course of his lecture "don't get wet in dangerous situations... with strange men..." He runs his fingers along my vulva, pressing up gently as he scans my flushed face for a reaction, which he gets easily, as my body responds before I can, bucking against his hand desperately. His fingers dip into me a few times and I moan, breath ragged as I melt for him.

"I-" I am defenseless. I know it and so does he. Mr. Reed knows I'll take anything he gives, give him anything he wants, that I'm addicted to the lightest touch of his hand or gentle word from his lips.

"You, (y/n), are not a good girl. They don't want it, need it, the way you do. Barnes would never behave for me the way you have..." He mutters, bringing his two fingers from one set of lips to the other and my core is tense with anticipation. I don't question him, though I want to. Barnes..?

"Open." I do. Mr. Reed watches my eyes and he doesn't need to tell me to suck because I am a good girl, and my face burns with white-hot shame as I reach for his already half-hardened cock, ready to prove it to him.

I squeeze his shaft gently and it twitches in my hand, stiffening for me as if on command. He takes his fingers from my mouth and watches me play with it through the thin pajama pants, intrigued. "Go on then."

That's all the permission I need and I sink to my knees, taking his boxers and pajama pants down with me as I watch his cock spring forward, throbbing.

I wrap a hand around it, looking up at Mr. Reed as I slowly stroke. I watch open-mouthed as a bead of precum dribbles from his tip. Snapping out of my trance, I lick the underside of his length from base to tip before taking him into my mouth as far back as I can, bobbing my head over him slowly

"Ohhh..." he groans "You are dirty, (y/n). One orgasm and you're on your knees, doing anything for more... you'll get it too..." his hands find my hair again and he thrusts himself deeper into my throat, tears immediately welling in my eyes and cascading down my cheeks as I gag on him "Mmmh, you'll get over that gag reflex eventually," he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me painfully upwards, spinning me around by the shoulders and bending me over the desk "but today is simply *not* that day, I'm afraid..."

He's inside me instantly, ramming forcefully against my cervix as he stretches me out again. I feel myself clench a couple times around him and he slows his pace, making me groan in annoyance as much as pleasure.

"Please, Mr. Reed," I whimper

"Not... yet..." he murmurs, affixing his hands to the front of my hips as he resumes his agonizing strokes.

"Mister Reed I can't-" I moan

"I said, Not. Yet." He gives a slow, hard thrust with each word and it's all I can do not to push back onto him. As the rhythm of his hips builds I feel an internal coil prime itself to snap, and right as Mr. Reed's fingers find my clit, it does.

"Ohh my gohddd, Mister Reeeed!!"

I see white as my body pulses around him, coming entirely undone in hot, flowing waves as I convulse, glazing his length.

He keeps fucking me, forcing soft, raspy moans from my lips.

"Whose are you?" He commands, a hand wrapping around my throat as he pistons into me, his grip firm.

"Yours!" I whine.

"And to whose. Fucking. Creed. Do you devote yourself? Quickly..."

"Yours Mister Reed! I take no others before you! Just you, only you..." the words fall from my mouth as a distressed whimper before I can process their meaning and I gasp as I feel him fill me with thick, hot ropes of semen.

He groans as he comes inside me, slowing pace gradually before pulling out.

He grabs the discarded skirt from the floor and cleans himself off with it, then holds it between my legs as my tender, limp body recovers. He waits a few seconds, tugging his pants and boxers back up his legs, then walks to the purple door with the skirt in hand, tossing it into whatever room waits beyond.

"Only. Me. Hm?" He chortles under his breath. "Only you Mister Reed!" He mocks in an exaggerated American accent, circling the desk and turning me over, scooping his arms under my legs and torso to lay me across it longways. He tugs the sweater he'd dressed me in the rest of the way off my body so I'm laid out bare before him, still attempting to catch my breath. "I take it youre not a practicioner of idolatry then. " He chuckles.

"Only... you...I promise...just you Mr. Reed." I breathe, opening my eyes, my gaze focused on the ceiling.

He hums, smirking down at me. I feel him run a finger down my torso.

"Gorgeous little zealot, and so easily converted... begs a question, did you ever really believe those things you preached to me?"

"Mostly?" I cringe at the admission, exhaling deeply.

"Mostly. From my understanding this is the typical experience of Catholicism, yes? You... grow up, being hammered over the head with flawed logic, you stop believing about halfway through middle school, feeling like a complete fraud at your confirmation into the faith, and some years later, just the way R.E.M. describes it, you lose your religion either to one that makes sense, or to one that roams so far from your parents' ideals that you feel like a rebellious teen in your twenties, having cracked the code. Hm? Sound correct?"

I feel understood, yet ashamed as his words sink in. "Y-yes, Mr. Reed, I'd say that's accurate.." I mumble.

His hands are warm as he pulls me up into a seated position on the desk, pressing a soft kiss into my forehead before letting his chin rest gently on top of my head. "It's so hard to be misunderstood the way you are, (y/n)," he mutters, arms wrapping around my shoulders, holding me tight against his chest "the way we have been..." Mr. Reed rubs gentle circles into my back, soothing me further, and I let my hands rest on his back, keeping him there. He goes on;

"But that's all over now, now that you've found the only true faith, my singular infallible doctrine. You do trust in my control of you, don't you, (y/n)?" He withdraws slightly, scanning my face.

A beat.

"Yes, Mr. Reed. I entrust myself to you fully. I know you'll guide me righteously,-"

"But you hesitated. I allowed you my blessing, my sacrament. I placed my seed within you, allowing our souls to entwine, and you hesitate when I ask you to verbally acknowledge your trust in me as your singular deity?"

"I'm just a little bit fatigued, from the-" I breathe, confused

"Oh, (y/n)... tsk... and you were doing so well..." a pitied expression colors his features as he stares down at me, taking a step back.

"Wait, wait, what do you me-"

"That just won't do, I'm afraid-"

I watch his arm hack an invisible line through the air and my ability to breathe is instantly diminished. My hands rush to my neck, and only when I feel a warm gush come forth does it dawn on me that he's holding a box cutter, with which he has just slit my throat open in one fluid swipe.

"Mister Reed-" I wheeze, barely a whisper "why?"

"Faith must be unwavering. There is no room here for hesitance. For ambivalence. For selfishness."

I choke out sputtering breaths in a desperate attempt to prolong my conciousness, but the edges of my vision start to tint in spite of my efforts. Tears run hot down my face as I silently plead with him, but Mr. Reed resumes his rant unaffected;

"Too innocent to prophecise, and setting you free, well that would never work... but don't worry dear, sweet angel. It's really not you... its me. I require a perfect convert with true, unwavering belief in my principles to aid in execution of these experiments...it is sad though, we really could've been something, mm?" He looks me over affectionately, even now, as fresh blood pours ceaselessly from the wound and down my chest, torso, and thighs.

I cough, tipping forward some and watch blood spatter his white cotton shirt. "Please-" I croak weakly, reaching for him. He steps back further, brows raised.

"If it's meant to be, (y/n), you'll resurrect for me, certain of your faith. And if not, well," he gives me an awkward grimace, "I bid you adieu then, and wish you comfort in the fact that you were of great use to me in your... " he checks his watch "Eight hours here." A fond smile.

I fall forward off the desk and onto the carpet, my head bouncing against the floor with an excruciating thud. I watch Mr. Reed take a seat in one of the pews as he watches me spasm in shock and struggle to breathe through a series of garbled croaks, gasps, and wheezes, stifled by the flow of my own blood coating my larynx.

My mouth opens and closes a few times, hands still weakly striving to stem the steady gush from my lacerated neck, but nothing comes out as my body goes rigid in shock, my eyes lose sight, and I lose conciousness for the last time.

There is no white light. There is no chorus of angels.