✟ Oh sweetie,

Monsters are real,

And they look like people! ✟

--- *** ---

Shortly after Timothy's brief, almost insurmountable clash with his rare bird as she raised the topic over you, nevertheless, Timothy retreated in his office by stripping off his clerical tiresome attires of the church and leaving his half-bare amusingly muscular, toned figure in a cotton, conveniently cosy nightgown with long sleeves and V neckline with a few undone buttons, exposing his kinkily hairy, masculinely toned chest.

Hideous weariness was clung to his identity and muscles and bones. Scarce rest functioned his vortex of thoughts and cells. His eyelids frequently drummed quietly in blink, coveting to be shut and collect sufficient rest for the imminent morning. The corners of his mouth were outworn to reproduce syllables and vowels after his strawberry-coloured tongue conjugated them efficiently.

Once the en-suite bedroom was illuminated in the dimming brass light, casting its own artificial light and saturating the British compatriot's chestnut hair, parchment and feebly jaded complexion, the idle, mere footsteps drumming against the cemented flooring were uneven as soon as he hopped up in his compact, sufficiently expansive bed and wrapping the duvet and tucking meekly his shoulders beneath the duvet's cosy fabric and space, ensuring balmy warmness shortly after turning off the lights in the desolated en-suite bedroom.

His fantasies were richer as much as his pretty impressive imagination. Little did the pious clergyman know how his creativity forged and heated the pre-mature thoughts as fertilising cores until their scintillating affect and paradox contaminate him with impure thoughts. More potent than a prayer. Sweeter and weaker than a sinfully luscious liquor, scorching the corners of his mouth.

Even when his mammoth, alabster hands fashioned in balled fists, clutching tightly the blanket to guard his frail skeleton against the common icy climate that whistled its own ballad in the asylum, his crotch bulged lightly, teasingly beneath his cotton oyster-white, plain boxers. Moreover, the solemnly took vows opted to maintain immunity to the man of the cloth depicting the impure thoughts and be involved in sexual acts, besides doing anything which was against his vows, career and anything holy, reckoning the almighty God.

Even when the priest was head over heels in love with Judy yet, nevertheless, the inescapable, phenomenal process of the butterflies, flapping and fluttering inside his stomach once he encountered you and throughout beholding each other more than once intensified his rusty feelings for not just one woman, but also an addition was added to the dilemma. No wonder why his aroused interest to get to know you wasn't occasional at all! You just seemed readily different than the others and after opening to him about the back story before your false commitment to Briarcliff, besides mildly alluding who's actually Cole, your former boss, he couldn't help, but not diminishing the escalated level of his interest in you. Even more his overprotective manners and green-eyed-monster once he caught you with nobody else than the falsely accused Bloody face Kit Walker was another defeat for him and menacing his tremendous hopes to keep you and protect you.

How is supposed a devotional, revered man of the cloth to be head over heels in love with nobody else than a former drug dealer? What kind of a romantic dilemma is going to happen even play out between a tremendously wealthy and worshipped religious holy man whose top priorities were working persistently, accomplish his own tasks efficiently, flawlessly and most of all rise in the highest tiers of the divine diocese? Is the power of love more potent phenomenon rather than the bloodthirsty, guilty yearn of possessing the exalted titles which were parallel to his morality and vibrantly, ironically contrasting his primarily, healthily human needs? The toughest questions whirled and twirled in his vortex of thoughts restlessly, yet exhausting him with a dilemma between dithering and emphatically venturing the daredevil decision.

His colossal, amusingly warm and stiff hand slithered downward after pushing his nightgown's hem and his spider strong, pristine fingers lingered on the cotton fabric of his boxers, fingering teasingly and sheepishly boyish the meaty bulge's higlands, contoured beneath the cotton underpants. Attractively breathtaking dust of cherry thick twin freckles powdered his well-sculptured, healthily ghostly pale cheeks with sweltering, bold heat creeping beneath the facial skin.

"Holy Jesus Christ!" It was amidst the fewest even the very first times whenever the pious clergyman didn't stifle hazily the cussing which were almost every being's impulsive blunt chanter anthem after pain, absorbed in their own disappointment or something foreign was being imbibed by their epidermis and organs even touch, depending of their conditions as well. Furthermore, his bulge was wonderfully spotlighting his hard crotch, swaddled warmly in the generous layer of thick, sticky heat between his legs. "Oh God!" Guttural sigh, coursing through the top of his brittle lungs surged the fresh oxygen, the pressuring pointless cloud of oxygen snorting his vulnerable nostrils, stilling constricted his eyelids and tinting explicitly unholy prospects in the heavenly reverie's realm. Admiring the stiffness of his erected manhood at his vehement erupting volcano of lava impure thoughts flooded back to his unholy side.

Tipping with the pads of his long, pristinely potent fingers the underwear-clad stiffness and shoving his virginal hands beneath the drawers. Afterwards he grabbed his erected manhood and commenced jerking off beneath the duvet after snatching to his knees with his only free hand the pair of underpants, giving him huger space to tease his manhood.

First and foremost, it was among the fewest times he's genuinely touched himself especially his crotch though after his once attempt to masturbate during his adolescence and found his guiltily pleased, consequently the British aristocrat didn't want to resume the act throughout the years, in fact, he's already depicted God's judgmental, fierce glares casted on him and shadowing his identity for the unholy, flesh act of pleasuring himself. Eventually when Timothy was sixteen-year-old young man with a bright future anticipated on his way to surefire and taking in his fragile hands everything he could change, his childlike curiosity pondered what would be like to touch himself when nobody was watching in his locked bedroom of his three-story mansion, owned by his family through the generations along with the indisputable immense wealth. What it would be like to grant himself modicum of pleasure at least once in his fresh life? What it would be like the solo-sex and how would affect him physically and mentally even when his tremendous piousness and re-reading the Holy Bible abundance of times were part of his lifestyle? Was that one of his biggest guilty pleasures? Would he woefully regret it?

Urgently ushering the heel of his hand and pads of his virginally strong fingers stubbornly teasing the sufficiently huge length and the stiffness lingering underneath his delicate hand's skin, irresistible sore groans and moans harshly vocalized the nocturnal hush in the en-suite bedroom, stilling the contractions of his eyes. His impure thoughts already painted galore of lavishly portrayed illustrations, productively provoking his sexual aggression to drive him to guiltily pleasurable insanity. He could already picture his softly satin, naturally berry-coloured lips pressing a hardening, sultry kiss on yours and urging exceedingly his wet tongue to plug into your mouth, deepening into a French kiss and scarcely sharing inch proximity. Your bare fleshes grazing featherly-delicate and synchronizing, devouring the mutual fleshy sweltering, ardent warmness you selflessly shared with one another. His hairy, toned chest itchily tickled by your erected, mauve nipples which were rhythmically brushing and the soft fat of your breasts bouncing up with every violent, insatiable thrust as your core's walls contracted his stiff length filling the once hollow's gap. His mammoth, smoothly-calloused hands vehemently clawing every inch of your bare, creamy flesh and relishing the femininity embroidered your overall figure and sweatily sticky zapping your jaded-clad muscles due to the uncontrollable lust, desire and love enveloping generously your synchronizing figures. Your greasy hairs bouncing in the rhythmical choir and while fingering and combing his chestnut hair with your dainty fingers, admiring the crispy softness and hitched breathless groans and moans sailing at the top of your lungs and your climaxes were approaching. The clergyman coveted after planting his seed inside you and unplugging his cock from your core to snap your eyelids shut to look at each other's thickly-coated perspirated-clad complexions with timeless desire, lust and love and his smoky quartz gemstones pursuing for your {E/C} gems, staring right at your brittle, translucent soul.

Within a few minutes of teasing his length and his fingers strong-willedly working on the stiff cock's rough-textured layer, glistening juices and empurpling the hard crotch with erupting fountain of semen, elaborating the final prayers in hallowed groans and moans after unavoidably dipping in the mist ocean of his impure thoughts about you.

"{Y/N}, Jesus Christ!" Muttering under his breathy pant your name sent paradoxal paroxysm to his body of sweetness and insatiable pleasure after masturbating and lifting ounce off his muscles and bones.

--- *** ---

--- The Next Morning ---

--- 26th of October, 1964 ---

Within the approaching morning and being released from your cell for poor-quality breakfast and pretending to take your regular medicaments, you lingered on the threadbare, old couch with Kit alongside you in the common room, whilst the same French tune was playing in the background, amalgamating with the rich soundtrack of monotonous lunatics' babbles, crashing irrationally their heads into the brick walls or dancing spirally.

"Dominique, nique, nique! S'en allait tout simplement! Routier pauvre et chantant! En tous chemins, en tous lieux,! Il ne parle que du bon Dieu
Il ne parle que du bon Dieu!"

"It's unbelievable the vinyl recorder's vinyl disk hasn't been changed." The young gasman emphasized, whilst lighting up with a lighter his cigarette after yanking surreptitiously an old cigarette pack somewhere from the common room and taking a drag at the cigar length, consequently emitting a heavy hoary cloud dim and the pungent nicotine reek wafting across your sensitive, tiny nostrils whilst the contagious nicotine laced his ivory, youthfully firm teeth as he offered you cigarette though you shook your finger, squinting up your {E/C} jewels at his trustworthy chocolate brown. "You don't want a cigar or to take a drag at least?"

"No, not at all!" Quirk crinkled his fresh, palish forehead at the offer you were granted one-off and your vouch was far from crudely cold, offering him a benevolently reassuring smile, cradling your plumpish, naturally mauve lips. "Anyway thank you for the kind offer, Kit!"

"Anytime!" After dumping the cigarette pack on his left side, thereafter he took a second drag at his cigar length and blowing grizzly severe cloudy dim which ebbed out within the elapsing seconds."I'm sure this vinyl recorder's monotonously playing disk is just here to annoy us and part of Sister Jude's game."

"Or rather, her favorite song or her goody-two shoes' meek minion favorite one?" Your attempts to guess the dilemma of the eerily humdrum song, playing on loop in the sufficiently vast room was far from easy, easing the bitter lump, seething your feminine Adam apple to manipulate your throat muscles to swig it surreptitiously.

"Or she was enough drunk while choosing the proper vinyl desk for this vinyl recorder?" The young man's sense of humor was sufficiently contaminating your uncontrollable, guttural guffaws, hurting your stomachs at the punchline of the joke during the daredevil game you opted to guess or at least surmise why the sinister French tune was incessantly playing on loop in the room and nobody seemed certainly enthusiastic to dance even chant it out loud.

"Jesus, Kit! She's a damn nun."

"À l'époque ou Jean-sans-Terre! D'Angleterre était le roi! Dominique, notre père,! Combattit les Albigeois.Dominique, nique, nique! S'en allait tout simplement!"

"So what? There are some daredevil nuns who even dare to be tipsy and touch secretly a bottle of liquor even finding themselves deadly drunk as rabid dogs." Meanwhile, playfully shrugging his broad, muscly shoulders, Kit attempted to play silly in front of you and enforcing violently a content, merry grin opening in a wide O your mouth, baring emphatically, cocksurely your firmly ivory teeth, wearing thousand patterns of merriness with great company, great punchline of the jokes and great sense of humor.

"I can scarcely imagine a devotional woman or a man of the cloth insanely boozing a bottle with liquor and then doing such-" All of a sudden, the double door swung widely opened at the sight of your friends who were victims of a bar fight a few nights ago which caught you off guard, cutting you off curtly with a stutter, scratching your throat after acknowledging their presences after eyeing in the corner of your eye everything else which encircled you in a circle summoned your cunning perspective to study the surroundings promptly. The mirth didn't fell from Frederic, Dana and Barb's facial attributes, striding up to you and Kit, factly, they were far from frustrated to behold you again, regardless whenever you were set free or otherwise imprisoned.

"{Y/N}, is everything alright?" What it was oblivious for the young man was that your stare was darted not only to your solely loyal and true buddies, but also speechlessness numbed your whirlpool of thoughts and your tongue failing to craft the exact vowels and syllables, lurching in the corners of your mouth. "{Y/N}!" He nudged you to draw your attention momentarily as you glanced back at him, bobbing absent-mindedly your head in solemn agreement even when you didn't harked his enquiry at all. His masculinely strong, alabaster fingers cradled between his forefinger and middle finger the nicotine length, shooting a skeptical gaze at the horde of young adults, fakening his vaguely kindhearted smile, spreading across his lusciously cherub, baby-pinkish lips. 

Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for this slightly short and sloppy chapter, nevertheless, I opted to update this book sooner than later. I promise some of the imminent chapters will be longer than certain.