😈 Timothy 3:1But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days.😈

--- *** ---

At first, when the potently megawatt, inexorable process of the sealed kiss with its own reins, stretching the thin elasticity of your linked naturally cherub, lusciously soft lips, sweltering heat zapped the pit of your stomachs abruptly, oblivion fogging swiftly your hurricane of thoughts. Engulfed in your own outstandingly compact world, where the sole population was you and the possessed man of the cloth. The further, bland worries and foreshadowed for the future issues, having their own potential chance to seed their own problematic wights to imperil not only your reputation, but also your names and lives, no longer relentlessly misted and howled aggressively its own rational, intelligible ballad.

In spite of it has been a long time when you have traded a genuinely steamy kiss with a representative of the opposite sex and solemnly oathing yourself to not kiss anybody unless your potent feelings played their own cards right and truly evidenced in your care about the partner, you couldn't flee from the romantically steamy battlefield. The bewitching spellbind of the sweet kiss you traded with the devotional member of the clergy was a sheerly apparent contrast to Jude's. It spoke deeply unimaginable emotions, poured entirely, dearly into its mastery and notion.

The difference was not only utmost humongous, further the emotions and the sentiments, mystically predominating in their one of a kind way.

The kiss which you swapped with the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer was an absolutely blatant drool, speaking volumes about its genuine incarnation of the tension which wasn't even romantic, howsoever, oddly sedated your muscles and bones. Spellbinding with its mystic hex how gorgeously appealing was the Bostonian if you exclude her unwelcomingly austere character. Notwithstanding the stark magic of the differences into the both kisses, Timothy's hungrily emphatic intentions especially due to his invincibly unholy, diabolical master commanding his furious impulse to ignite the celestially potent flames of its unspeakable motives for a pious clergyman like him. Timothy was a candidly devoted member to the cloth and he wouldn't break a vow to imperil viciously his career and reputation. Nevertheless, due to his potently inescapable attraction to nobody else than you after profusely gracing him with your tremendous care and time to listen to his revelation while disinfecting your former obnoxiously plum, vivid bruises, the real adrenaline and impulse dethroned his hallowed rationality and subsequently earning the promiscuously wicked, irked glares of God, studiously observing you after spotlighting his own servant betraying the once solemnly took vows in the beginning of the priesthood.

Initially your unsacredly intentions of performing the objection of the kiss with retirement and fleeing promptly the sufficiently expansive chapel room, profusely bestowing you with enormous free space railed your vagons of thoughts until it escalated to betraying the insanely rabid decision of not savouring once its lusciousness of the kiss which you swapped with the pious clergyman.

Stilling your creamily dainty fingers to cradle gingerly mellow the nape of the older man's delicate neck until your fingers ushered to tower to his short mop of unblemishedly, luxuriously chestnut strands, curtaining beautifully his charming facial attributes, consequently managing to comb your digits and fingertips along with the dose of fingering process through his chestnut, thickly refined strands, admiring the crispy softness of his hair.

As the kiss escalate to ferociously steamy and conjugating series of breathless moans and groans coursing through your brittle lungs, the gentle squeeze of your waist's recurring brace emboldened boldly the British compatriot to twirl his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to optimistically encourage your lips to part during the strong-willedly profuse duel of tongues, ominously, desperately fighting for domination, lingering your pinched shut eyelids to critically affect the kiss's mesmerizingly magnetic phenomenon as you both leisurely molted without having the farther care about the rest of the general population's existence and their real motives that may criminally hazard your surreptitiously cryptic relationship. Ocean of syllables and vowels were almost dying on your tongue tips to urgently forge their brilliant utterances, expressing genuinely your thoughts.

"I'm crazy about you, Y/N!"

"You're insane!" As soon as the holy man plugged his wet, berry-coloured tongue inside your mouth, sealing the kiss which escalated into French, meantime, you linked your rested foreheads on skin by skin, despite the incessant functioning of your gears of thoughts, reproducing their own very imagination and creativity depicting your private, small bubble of your worldview. You didn't want to break off the kiss in the most embarrassing way even thinking of hazardously telling into his face the inner voice's bare, unmasked thought of his utterance.

"Monsignor!" The haphazardness of the dose of raps, dully, morbidly clunking against the hardwood material mildly caught you off guard along with the megawatt, exceeding decibels into Jude's address when one of Timothy's larger, virginally creamy hands manipulated to reach for your H/L hair's luxurious locks to teasingly, amorously play and finger them. "Monsignor!" Dawdling your hitched breathing apt to tandem then you caught-off-guard halted the kiss as tried to regenerate your breathless brittle lungs and barely inch proximity dimly increased, dividing your intimate space you shared together.

"I'm dearly sorry, Y/N!" After a persistent clash of vowels and syllables, slurping to their own demise inside the ambitious Monsignor's wine-stained oral caverns, hydrating luxuriously his organs, in the interim, he pawed gingerly your well-sculptured, healthily chubby cheek in the palm of his flabbergastingly warm, consolingly protective hand, bestowing you with myriad of pure, hair-rising warmness and unconditional love. "I love you!" A sharp, coy exhale fastened his ribcage after flushing stubbornly his tiny, vulnerable nostrils and inhaling the deliciously opulent fragrance of your cologne, admiring your crispy youthful grace and your one of a kind physique.

"Don't apologize, Timothy! I love you too!" After calmly stern caution slipped sloppily from your mouth, consequently the romantic revelation pinched widened in scrumptiously sweet shock, readable all past his handsome facial attributes. Sweltering heat postponed to dump relentlessly your facial skin with its pinkness bountifully sympathetic tickling playfully with its finger, mellow motion.

"Timothy! Are ya busy?" Another dose of raps, hammering vehemently, lively against the wooden material didn't taunt your muscles to flinch at surprise at all,balefully gritting her teeth due to the lacking response and sheer abstinence in the British aristocrat's mannerism.

"Just a second, Jude!" Within a split second, the masculinely feather-soft, ghostly pale fingers slithered from your jaw and your H/C mane and trustless frustration scowled to sketch your facial attributes momentarily due to the warmness's abrupt replacement with disappointing lukewarmness roaring onto your facial flesh. At the moment, the older gentleman retired to the locked door and managing to maneuvere his virginally silken fingers to twirl the key in the rusty keyhole and within a single click the door unlocked, throughout swinging merely opened with its sufficient space, offering hospitably its gap that granted the uninvited guest to peer curiously. "Hi my rare bird!"

A glowingly benevolent smile permeated smoothly past his mouth, opting to not show any wee signs and hints of leeriness, indicated either in his mannerism body language or on the contrary utterances and leaking the true notion of his mystically arcane nature. The hybrid of the humanoid devil or rather the fiendish mortal with nirvanically apocalyptic, invincible supernatural power, coursing through his veins and stabilizing his bones and muscles with immunity against any damage. Moreover, the first face of Timothy heinously insisted his vulnerability and mystic fiendish side don't leak, nor being slyly detected. The first and true face of the aspiring Monsignor.

"My goodness!" Muffling your venomously velvety whisper with its headstrong Maryland lilt, puncturing its sheerly silky accent to declaim the safety of hardly exposing starkly your very presence within a single sloppy syllable, formulating its own performance instantly. The heart pulsations' acceleration frequented its tandem, playfully vehemently thwacking into your chest and a handful of pristinely creamy fingers pawed the violent sync grazing your palm and digits, strongly praying that Timothy won't leak your very presence in front of the former sleazy nightclub singer or on the contrary, the holy woman finding on her own that her boss wasn't all alone at all.

"Hi Timothy! How are ya feeling today?" Inclining an emotionally dark, thick eyebrow in fleetly deft motion, a soar lump bubbled jubilantly into Timothy's masculinely appealing, bulging Adam's apple. "Much better?"

"I'm doing fine actually. You don't need to be that deadly concerned about me, Jude!"

"Yar behaviour is strangely questionable lately," Folding dramatically cold-blooded her satinly lean, femininely potent arms across her chest, a perky motion of quirk of an eyebrow objectef each pattern of mirth to decorate her very facial features, grimacing peculiarly the expressional sanctum. "And I really don't like that." In the interim, the British aristocrat maneuvred his throat to object its emotional plea and consequently swigging begrudgingly the soar lump, constricting his throat muscles nonetheless.

"Jude, I'm not hiding anything!"

"Of course, you're! What happened with that Y/N kid?"

"I'm afraid to confess that you've lost your way," The haphazardness of the dramatic ambience, suffocating the pairing initially caught you off guard when the austerely cold-hearted highlight of the holy priest's dramatic pause plummeted down the cliffhanger's chances of amusement for the Bostonian, whose silky arms dropped in defeat and separated from the body language's real indication process. "Unfortunately!"

"W-What are ya saying, Timothy?" Hopelessness and helplessness cusped kindheartedly, thus predominating in the sheer speechlessness and overwhelmedness, painting with its barren nuances the Bostonian's face that didn't possess any modicum of uniqueness to detect the genuine face of panic. The bittersweet race of her heart constricted in a grated Pandora Box, where the escape's chances were utmost minimal in a handful of conditions. Acknowledging the genuine motives behind its notion of what Timothy opted to explain to her and thereafter within the perpetual progress of acknowledging the stark, ugly truth behind the notion of his authoritative caution. "I-I" ve lost my way."A frustrated gasp joined her ribcage, thus smacking to bedaub with the back of her elvish hand the bountiful layer of brightly sticky perspiration, coating marvelously her forehead after dragging upward her habit for a split second and managing to readjust its fixed position at last.

Even though it has been less than a minute since the both members of the clergy traded words in a heated discussion, stilling your paradoxally unforgivable fear of exposure in front of the blonde, in fact, you were the little secret of the ambitious Monsignor, your flimsy heart unavoidably clenched in your chest, pinching shut your eyelids for awhile to assimilate and reconsider the absolute reality.

"It's true! Not only the movie night a few days ago with your worrying absence in your office which lead to the disappearance of a few patients and the alcohol taking a toll on you," Shaking his head, attempting to demonstrate his real concerns about the recent condition of the older woman even though he didn't want to believe his rara avis would be capable of such disgraceful disappointment for him, but also for their and the mental institution's reputation in general. "But also saying such baloney that Dr. Arden is a Nazi war criminal."

"First and foremost, ya have to take a look at the souvenirs' parcel which Dr. Arden possesses actually," Series of stammers, jumpcutting to fleet doldrums suffocating the atmosphere for awhile commenced to arouse beehive of spectacular doubts. "Second I told ya about that patient under the name Anne Frank that she was in Auschwitz with him and how his real name isn't actually Dr. Arthur Arden!" Shaking continuously her head, whereas her orthodoxally clean, smooth fingertips manifested to knead gingerly her temple, in order to refrain the early symptoms of nausea and migraine at the thought of the profusion of overwhelmedness over the Nazi war criminal that was the main doctor of science in the nefarious mental institution. Even though the British compatriot somehow fought with his incredulous side, trying its best to dominate consciously and mindly, anyway he didn't peel a single word during his right hand's logical, profound monologue about the distressful dilemma with Briarcliff's main doctor that's crucially responsible for the disappearance of galore of innocent lunatics and their mutilated, inhumanely tortured conditions due to its aftermaths of his sadistically cold-hearted experiments performed on its utterly focused targets.

"Then what's his name?" A heavy, rusty sigh flushed the younger gentleman's tiny, vulnerable nostrils in no time, cradling gently, creamily his temple into his fingers' scoop, agreeably attempting to demonstrate his diplomatically rational side in its pale, starkly realistic illumination.

"Hans Grupper!" Another reluctant stutter gingerly sailed out of her oral caverns after conjugating the foreign real name of the nefarious doctor of science. "He isn't a man of God. He is the actual evil!"

"I strongly promise to take care of him and granting him the abolishment of his position as soon as possible."

"Y-Ya believe me?"

"I do!" The appealingly huskiness and profoundness punctured the brief reply of the younger gentleman, managing a docile, modest nod in solemn agreement after a persistent clash with belief's ambiguous dilemma, whirling and twirling in his hurricane of thoughts. "You don't have to be worried, Sister!" All of a sudden, he maneuvred his mammoth, smoothly marbled hand to paw her dimly silken femininely delicate shoulder, softly massaging beneath his delicate digits the rigidly shapeless wool fabric, admiring the Bostonian's pure femininity.

"I'm not worried at all," Raising an arch cheerfully of his dark, kinkily thick eyebrow, Timothy unloaded a sharp exhale at the top of his fragile lungs at Judy's words, demonstrating effortless relief, vigorously coursing through his veins and muscles. "Any longer, Timothy! Hopefully he earns what he truly deserves."

"Excellent!" Docilely humble bobbing his head once again, the haphazardness of another sharp exhale didn't taunt any muscle to quiver in sheer amusement as Timothy's passionate covet to conclude the dialogue with the former licentious nightclub singer. Tiresome blink apt to choir its tandem of his smoky quartz optics, brassly glittering its discoloured pattern, texturing his indiscernible pitch-black pupils. "I didn't mean to be brash, Sister, but I'm somehow busy right now. We may take care of that serious business with that incredibly suspicious doctor in a jiff."

"It's alright, Timothy! Take yar time!"

"Anyway thank you for informing me about Dr. Arden! Speak to God and we'll fix the mess with him later in Briarcliff." After swapping humbly diligent bows of their heads, subsequently the room's door slammed shut when the older lady retired to the chapel's grandiosely magnificent, lively yard to join the visitors. "Phew! That was pretty close Jude to get you in trouble."

"I know so far she seems to doubt your behavior lately." The suddenness of your interaction to the hardwood table and seating back on your old seat also escorted an additional participant to ghost its soothingly gracious presence to numb the remorseless emptiness and patchy hollow. Timothy despised from the bottom of his heart contemplated the bleakly ebony cloak, mantling wonderfully your petite frame with sheer barren despondence and desolated emptiness. He despised the loneliness ghosting your very presence. He despised even the people that pretend to be your entertainingly company, hardly could be interpreted with their unthinkable nickname, labeled gracefully onto them.

"It's true, but it's not your fault at all!" Soothingly melodious hum, whereas clumsily trembling his lower naturally baby-pinkish, plumpish wine-stained lip. "Y/N, do you regret the kiss?" Meanwhile, registering to crook your youthfully creamy, spidery fingers around the glass of unfinished, dimly stained communion wine, dawdling its idly mischievous dance and tipping aggressively your fingertips against the glass material, reproducing series of somber whispers.

"Not at all!" Heavy sigh remarkably jettison its refreshing oxygen, coursing through your wee, flexible nostrils, whereas a heartwarming, superb heat wobbled to zap the pit of your stomach with welcoming, precious warmness, bearing a semblance of a sunny rattlesnake suffocating your organs at the thought of your very first kiss you shared with the aspiring Monsignor and being his very first prey of its steamily promising kiss, succumbing you into a small bubble of your own sanctum with your worldviews, creativity and pearly dreams. "Why I've to regret it? You've been always so kind and open-minded to me." Shaking your head in additional disagreement to the posed question which you once earned and then deliver your straightforward vouch as rational as possible, meantime, paradoxal paroxysm urged exceedingly glacial to shrug your delicate shoulders, scarcely sensing the potent pangs of the conscience of bestowing a devotional man of the cloth with seductively sultry, memorable kiss, spellbinding bewitchingly specific the luxurious collection of memories you may recall from your first romantic experience ever though its brief endurance eventually.

"I'm doubtlessly pleased to hear it, Y/N! I also don't regret you're the first ever woman I've ever kissed in my whole life." Then your elvish viciously bloodthirsty for its dark red liquor to savor its uniquely scrumptious, fiendishly insatiable flavor, richly lacing your tongue and oral caverns, you lifted up the glass of dark red liquor to gulp a handful of tiny sips, seething your flimsy throat. Moreover, you didn't have any intentions of prying about his personal business with Jude in Briarcliff about the Nazi war criminal rooming your ears after unintentionally eavesdropping and witnessing their whole rationally medley of formal and informal dialogue they traded within a few minutes only. You weren't those kind of individuals whose peculiarly crucial business was prying into your beloved' personal issues and dilemmas even if they weren't personal at all and characterizing their embodiment of blamelessly discreet, deserving way less audience to acknowledge behind its real context. "My older brothers John and Adam have already dated a few girls unlike me."

"Come on! A stroke of luck got them earlier, you know!"

"I know!"

--- *** ---

--- Later that Day ---

Within a several hours the daylight's daily, monotonous episode slowly but surely bled into the nocturnal episode with its majestically expressive, artistically dark shades of the night, painting with variety of dark shades the nocturnal illustration.

The church special event promisingly played out with the series of games that anticipated not only the members of the church that were the main hosts, but also its visitors. Starkly childish euphoria vehemently pulsed through the visitors and the pious members of the clergy's lungs and organs, hammering their high-spirited humor ethereally, bountifully.

As soon as the church event ended and you went back at work in the cafeteria to serve the customers and fulfill diligently your duties, at the moment the ambitious Monsignor and his right hand were already occupying the dilapidating, old mental institution.

In the interim, the senior doctor of science has already accepted abundance of visitors in his austerely furnished and unwelcomingly icy, prophet of doom ambience fogging the darkest, the most bleakly denuded outskirts of his personal territory. Even though his leisure seldom graced him with the opportunity to water his flowers even seed a handful of new seeds in the soil-clad pots even smartly cleaning and keeping its orthodox, pristine hygiene of his laboratory to glimmer unblemished the glossiness of proper healthiness, lacing the brick walls and each ounce of the furnitures.

Lowly droning a tunefully nonchalant, idle tune jingling reassuringly solitude ballad pitching his austere office whilst his masculinely aged, frail fingers grasped the water can and managing to water a couple of dry-soiled-clad pots of plants until the serenely dancing hush was interrupted by a handful of door wallops, scraping with balled fists the wooden material and barely succumbing with apprehension the senior doctor, dumping the water can aside.

Playfully rueful, wry smirk tugged at his chapped, nude pink lips.

"Dr. Arden, it's urgent! May we come?" The infernally profound, husky undertones, chanting its inquiring ode of Timothy iron-willedly urged the older gentleman to welcome his forthcoming visitors, whereas the blonde accompanied him to their worst foe's lair after discussing exceedingly professional the dilemma with the Nazi war criminal and calling the authorities to arrest him for his villainously almost impossibly unforgivable crimes, subsequently paging up his rich criminal history due to his possession of two home lands.

"Needless to ask, Monsignor! Come in!" Within a couple of seconds, consequently the notoriously squeaky hardwood, old door swung broadly opened at the prospect of the hallowed pairing coupling together to abolish maliciously the senior doctor of science. "It's good to see you today especially at such unpredictable part of the day! Huh?" Lingering his villainous smirk, permeating past his chapped mouth, Arthur maneuvered his rotund sapphire blue orbs at the pairing, spearing their purely contrasting scintillating glares, tattooed on their faces. The sheer, wry sarcasm and politeness puncturing Arthur's rhetorical utterance scarcely ceased to flabbergast either of the business partners.

"How would you like to explain to us, Dr. Arden?" Shortly after Timothy and Jude managed to step inside the uninvitingly hostile site as Timothy slammed ruthlessly the parcel with nefariously ominous souvenirs and illegally explicit pornographic Polaroid photographs refilling its uniquely nefarious paraphernalia, meanwhile, the former sleazy nightclub singer ushered her leanly silky arms to fold across her healthily bony chest, transfixing her sorely painful glare on the much taller figure participating recklessly into their company.

"What's supposed to mean all this? Where did you find the parcel?" Diabolically relentless grin darkened the religious holy woman's mouth, curving the balefully exposed pearls to apt to ornate extraordinarily her jaw, speaking emotions behind her stark face after pushing ruthlessly the ominously squeaky door to shut and close its offered space of freedom, cusping the abysmally grim hallway and the site.

"Do not ask the questions, because we're the ones we're presumed to pose them, okay?" Balefully authoritative punctuation sharpened the austere reprimand of the nun, narrowing her hazelish-brown huge, expressively roundish embers at her worst foe's heavy-wrinkled, alabaster complexion, igniting its very coals of her ablaze adrenaline and frustration, waltzing altogether in its diabolical lunar optics shortly before retreating to his laboratory to collect piece of evidence with her observations about his inhumanely sadistic experiments on the wretched souls.

"T-That's a conspiracy against me." Sheepish gasp elaborated atop his Adam's apple, chattering his sharp, mapped with hoary scruffiness jaw line, whereas manifesting his neatly trimmed, small fingernails to reach for his bald scalp to scrap its milky flesh, furrowing his eyebrows and narrowing his grimace at the antagonistic targets per a couple of seconds. "I'm completely sure that insane young lady that claims to be Anne Frank bamboozled you with things about me that I'll eat my hat."

"It's not just an insane young lady, doctor! It's high time for yar nemesis after not only taking an ace look at the parcel's possessions," Hesitantly retiring to interact to the larger frame, ushering him to glimpse ardently at the parcel's paraphernalia with heinously illegal goods, the explicitly blood-curdling vista of the outlaw taken photographs of women without their consent and Nazi souvenirs bulked Arthur's pools of deep ocean blue, swallowing hard, whereas the British compatriot's virginally potent, milky fingers steadily crooked around the paradoxally mystic bonnet. "Ya see what we've got there? Huh?" Sheerly flawless sarcasm apt to adapt to mastery dripped sloppily from Judy's tongue tip, shooting a quick, cautious glance at her rival's thickly mantled in guiltless mask parchment complexion, lingering her authentically woeful, vile smirk, glinting its brightest nuances along with Timothy's. "Nazi souvenirs! Illegal photographs of women without their consent! Raping a hired prostitute and mutilating Shelley even not bothering to abandon her in the woods. What the hell were ya thinking?" A heavy, jaded sigh flushed her nostrils to measure her outstandingly energetic patience, welling into her veins as Timothy's blood boiled frequently, outrageously irritated. "That ya could get away somehow with yar filthy, unforgivably unspeakable crimes?"

"Let's call it a day if you're thinking Shelley deserves a second chance for her whorish behavior! She's always getting in trouble for either stealing from the bakery or seducing one of the orderlies."

Within a handful of minutes the unnatural telekinetic power of the possessed priest hexed the older gentleman to escort them to his icily eerie laboratory to examine warily each secretively tactful detail depicting the landscape of the sorrow, torture and demise, thereafter the trio retired back to the office and the police sirens' ode pitched gruesomely, speaking volumes for Arthur. Not only the rest of his life or rather the final apocalyptical years of his bland life would be spent behind the jail bars for his heinously unimaginable deeds even for his fake identity, further an opulent medley of fury and frustration unconditionally suffocated him slowly but surely, scarcely pondering certainly what kind of sentiment was fierily dominating at the moment. Controversial concoction brewed and cooked inside his very cells and vortex of thoughts.

"They're coming for you, Arthur Arden! Be prepared!"

A few minutes later after the eagerly playing on loop, bearing a semblance of hair-rising broken record on a vinyl recorder the police sirens incessantly droned the background, a handful of police officers set a foot inside the dilapidating, old asylum to arrest the Nazi war criminal. Shortly before his celestially precious liberty was unholy deprived from his both bare hands, the last things he could recall and behold with his own irises was the betrayal of the aspiring Monsignor in the company of his rara avis. The jail bars were his last resort and invisibly calculating the divinely golden remaining time until his actual demise of natural causes. Even witnessing the childishly panicked facial expression, cracking upon the juvenile sister of the church Mary Eunice was an inevitable disaster, transmuting into a memorable heartache and betrayal for her immobility to rescue him from the vicious claws of the law that were headstrongly dragging his handcuffed-wrist-clad large frame to outdoors and eventually the vehicle in the custody.