Trigger Warning for 💉Blasphemy & Strong Language💉

💉So wake up sleepy one

It's time to save your world 💉

--- *** ---
--- Later that Day ---

"She wore blue velvet, bluer than velvet was the night, softer than satin was the light from the stars," Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton recently played on the radio while you were widely awake in the very wee hours of midnight, honing up your ears to dedicatedly room the honey-mouthed vocalist's vindictively tempting voice accenting the very lyrics.

Stinging shut your eyelids to constrict its fleshily facial muscles to rest and solemnly dedicating its serene hour of eavesdropping the vintage songs from the last two years when nobody around you could contagiously reckless hex you with a headache or glassy tiredness was possibly the most refreshing therapy for insomnia and loneliness. The genuine sentiment of the divinely yearned tranquility pierced the very kitchen. The feather-soft horripilation perkily rabid cropped your delicate epidermis even underneath your fresh pair of pyiamas you have dared to wear twice after the apocalyptically vengeful, bloodthirstily elating nemesis of your former manager, Cole Derek Lowe.

Ethereally timeless dynamic roller coaster of hours passing at summer breeze's pace gauged the dozens of meaningfully authentic, fiercely passionate discussions you and the British compatriot shared. The authentically meaningful gathers on the kitchen table even when the British compatriot didn't dare to graze a tiny bite from your freshly prepared meals except for the dozens glasses of water hydrating his organs and delightfully fleet satiating his appetite.

Even if the hot topic on the media like newspapers, radios and television's breaking news exceedingly monotonous was being objected to cease from its regular appearance, yet the authorities' oblivion to your bare hands whose pristinely delicate fingers crooked around a kitchen knife to banish the pearly precious life out of Cole Derek clouded them. They weren't aware of your persona. It was illegal to get rid off of somebody in the possibly bloodiest, the most sadistic way. You didn't have any other choice than banishing the life out of the drug cook with series of repetitively blood-curdling, villaniously potent stabs to plummet down his survival's chances. The last heart pulses to violently excited thud into his torso. The last breathing coursing through his nose. The final seconds and moments of his very life before his heart halted its frequently eager function to gear up his frail skeleton and muscles to contract and twitch even motioning. The final countdown, itself. The final destination of his ethereally sable, coated in eternal unnerve soul to aimlessly wander the expansive world.

Yet the neighbours haven't even questioned the godforsaken corpse inside the abandoned brothel. Little did they know who was staying behind the bloody knife and the dead body. The ideal match of the demise. Such a compatible and down-to-earth pairing. It resembled a blood-curdligly complacent landscape for the demons to cast in the darkest corners of the sites and surreptitiously imbibing with their bloodthirsty, villaniously eagle vermillion gemstones the relentlessly discrete, graphically explicit details illustrating the absolute reality's atrocity. Nobody still questioned between you and Timothy. Your home was the genuine sentiment of celestial tranquility and safety the most. You and the possessed priest played your own cards right. Just how it supposed to be.

Anyway there were certain versions to interpret specifically its true epitome of the played cards right especially in a case how to get away with a murder. Sooner or later, the murder's perperator is going to be detected and the goose is going to be cooked in your case. There were the fewest cases of homicide that have abided unsolved or rather so untouchable. More unsolved than certain conspiracy theories. More untouchable than the forbidden fruit in the heavenly Eden's garden.

Your rear perched on the cozy chair and channeling the smooth sway of your hips at the smoothly calm, sweet rhythm of the music and syncing the breathtakingly velvety spell bewitchingly spellbinding you. The low hum of the radio accompanied the full moon's full twilight conveniently unique streaming through the panes. The true prospect of the nocturnally nirvanic paradise. The intoxicating tranquility. Overlooking the uneven monotonously tiresome car engines' drones pitching the neighborhoods and the sheer acceleration of the vehicle' sleek ghost through the concrete motorway.

A vague, sympathetically beaming smile adapting to elaborate upon your naturally rosy-coloured, brim lips and lowly humming to escort the song's lyrics.

"She wore blue Velvet, bluer than velvet was the night," Ushering to dart your tongue to docilely thoughtless licking your upper and lower lip whilst chanting the lyrics along with the singer, himself, fiendishly graceful whiffled the incoherent soft breeze of indulgence to prominently thud the kitchen walls.

"Y/N," Oblivious to the older gentleman's very presence extraordinarily populating the kitchen and the mousily conjugated masculine, familiar footsteps ghostwriting the carpeted floor on his mission to surreptitiously approach you without your knowledge unless your sharp intuition and purely invincible instincts to exceedingly chime you about prejudices and eventual delusions that solely fog your eyesight and perspective, was namely eliminated by the low hum of the recently playing song on the name blending your chant, opting to craft a broadly beaming, gentlemanly charming smile at the corner of his mouth. "Rare bird!"

"Softer than satin was the light from the stars," Gracefully fluent chant bubbled from the beginning of your strawberry-coloured tongue, lingering the ominously iron-willed contraction of your eyelids' muscles blocking the tinting medley of nuances images flashing inevitably past your embers.

"Y/N!" Thickness devilishly heinous coated the ambitious Monsignor's throat, struggling to conjugate your name's pleasantly melliflous vowels and syllables formulating the whole exemplar flicked up his cinnamon brown-topaz embers on you and gravely pensive humming behind your back until channeling uneven, embarrassingly demanding his mammoth, pallid hand to claw sympathetically your shoulder blade.

"Oh!" In the meantime, your gaze shifted abruptly to the mammoth hand's owner and dawdling solemnly eminent its beamingly vibrant smile blooming across your profile, followed by a demurely girlish, guttural giggle to stifle the awkward News's megawatt tension stringing stubbornly the elasticity of your very intimate proximity. "Timothy! What a surprise to see you widely awake in the middle of the night!"

"You can't sleep, right?" Seating alongside you as his rear perched on the chair inching your distance in less than a handful of inches after jostling it up towards you and boring his cocoa brown bijous into yours vindictively ingenuous, kindling the celestially aureate flames glazing your soul.

"Yep." Ushering your head to diligently agreeable bob in the strong agreement to reaffirm your position, then he gingerly attempted to formate an appropriate suggestion to throttling the strenuous boredom and the lethal intertness momentarily. "I just have been always like that except for Briarcliff when I felt dead tired due to the heavy medicaments and the profligate condition."

"She wore blue velvet, bluer than velvet were her eyes! Warmer than may her tender sighs, love was ours!"

"Fair enough! I'm genuinely happy you aren't having the blues and struggling to collect its necessary break."

"Yeah, it was an uphill climb and I'm candidly happy it's all over," A heavy sigh expelled from your ribcage and diabolically steeping to recollect your hurricane of thoughts and sorting your mind neatly to shimmer its fantastic brilliance of the diamonds of the patchy chaos that has vaporized fleetingly."But Timothy, I don't want to use you and just to dump purposelessly your efforts for something the least it deserves to happen."

"You aren't using me. You're a ray of sunshine that deserves the world." The haphazardness of maneuvering his virginally long, meaty fingers to snatch a fistful of H/C locks to tuck them kindly behind your flexible ear, shuttling the paradoxally warm, coherent waves of unconditional love, sought-after warmness and gracious consolation spiking the electrifying goosebumps waltzing your delicate epidermis to linger. "What is urging you to think like that you use me?"

"My ex whom we didn't have a grave relationship after my parents' deaths and the high school was still there wasn't very fond of the idea of earning my own money in such a specific method." Muffling the stray, foreign noises after canalizing your pearly front teeth to nibble the raw spot of your bottom cherub lip docilely, bizarrely seductive gauging the aspiring Monsignor's knit of his dark, thick eyebrows to incise precisely the cusp to the bridge of his nose. "He called me a selfish twat and thinking that I was doping myself even if he's the one whom I caught once coked and did licentious things behind my back. Without my knowledge. Without letting me know about his discreetly stealthy attitude." The stark heartbreak after recalling the vividly graphic flashbacks of your past relationship with your ex-boyfriend whom you traded a particular relationship, rolled up its ball in toxic venom and then conveying nauseous casing to sousing the pit of your stomach, your smile was replaced with an eerie flat line blurring prominently crucial each discrete inkling of mirth and the blitherness falling off from your façade, unmasking your twinkle-toed happiness and leaking the real domino of the dejection. "Without letting me to know about his ambiguous life and the secret affair he's having with my ex-manager's ex-girlfriend. That lassie didn't like me and they both once spat into my face for being so selfish that I earn my money specifically after he started disappearing more often."

"I'm really sorry to hear all that, Y/N!" All of a sudden, the devotional member of the clergy's unintentional whisper curled upon his upper pale-pinkish lip, lingering the extension of his colossal, sallow hand quivering to yank featherly-soft one of your smaller, creamy to fasten its grapple, gulping the heinously chaotic thickness plastering hypodermically his Adam's apple.

"He didn't even respect my emphatic decision to support myself and my grandparents. I didn't have other choice and I was a minor. I needed those money to help them live their final moments in starkly moderate financial atmosphere. I know I'm the black sheep but thanks to those money," Bare melancholy greatly blending the altruistically gentleman compassion glimmering into the possessed clergyman's cocoa brown-topaz cabochons, channeling to follow each short-lived, nevertheless, preciously-clad moment of its body language's motion and divulgence. Twin fat crystalline tears timidly twinkled unknowledgeable onto your lower eyelids, balefully villainous intimidating to trickle down your well-carved, chubby cheeks. "I'm living a much better life where I can have food along a decent lifestyle like average household would have that's born with a silver spoon in their mouths. I'm just happy I realized our relationship's goose was being cooked by the destiny and I exited its toxicity to burden my shoulders and infectiously submerging my mind and heart by keep telling me I deserve better."

"You really deserve much better, Y/N! I'm happy I found you." Generous bedaubs of unhealthily whitish fingertips planting its heartmeltingly emboldening touches coated its thin rivulets shimmering onto his flesh, foreshadowing the aftermaths to repatriating the tears' stream, sluggishly buffing the contagiously breathtaking, reassuringly optimistic smile curved upon his baby-pinkish, brim lips. "I don't know much stronger person than you are, little bird!"

"You haven't being through such hell except your family didn't approve your idea to join the priesthood after receiving God's initial urgent call."

"Ours a love I held tightly! Feeling the rapture grow like a flame burning brightly, but when she left, gone was the glow of!" The song on the radio dawdled up its play as Bobby Vinton's entincingly lofty, honey-mouthed voice accenting the lyrics by rhyme and the vibrantly sunny glow of the song infectively interpenetrated the brassly strong-willed refrain to mewl a blatantly low-spirited sob.

"Believe me, your honesty and your wonderful strength and versatile stamina built such a celestial angel! One of a kind angel!" Crumpling the built heat to hypodermically powder your cheeks with ticklish pinkness healthily promising, inviting, the heartwarmingly candid words of the friendly nickname melted your heart. "I don't care about your past and whatever you used to work so that to earn money in such nefariously promiscuous way just to afford the essential supplies to strive for your survival. Your present persona matters way more than anything." Registering to knead on repetitively restless, ruthlessly soothing circles your brittle knuckles and the tender flesh of your fist with his frail, protective fingertips. "Come on, little bird! Better to reflect on your present and what you're currently possessing."

"I'm trying."

"Don't worry about the past and whatever burdens your shoulders!" The gentlemanly beneficent offer of his solely free hand to convey its friendly reminder to you, formulating its outstandingly complex context of the offer for a dance until the song's epilogue and it was replaced with other chanson that couldn't appeal to either of you. "Wouldn't you mind a small dance, would you?"

"Of course not, Timothy!" A sheepishly coy giggle bubbled up from your throat and delightfully jointing his colossal, veiny hand and lifting up your rears from your recent seats, in order to sync every soothingly smooth rhythm of the song and registering your feet to shuffle in brief, angelically malleable footsteps ghosting the carpeted floor. Knotting your fingers in the welcomingly promising, secure grip of your bonded hands as a result of extending your satin arms and molting into the chanson's rhythm and the pearly precious moment you exchanged amidst the most unique, regardless how shoal it could endure its elapsing hourglass of the descending sand to immerse the surface. "Are you on fire in the dancing?"

"Not exactly, but I just wanted to share it with you, Y/N!" The silver-tongued British lilt punctured his politely frank motive foreshadowing the gentlemanly dumbfounding request that nonplussed you and a thick layer of chromatically vibrant hues domino fused to illustrate your real profile. "I can be incredibly clumsy in the dancing, but it's worth it."

"It's worth it with somebody you really emulate to have compatitability."

"Blue velvet but in my heart there'll always be precious and warm, a memory through the years!"

"It's true!" A self-consciously ticklish, fiendishly mischievous grin twisted across his handsome facial attributes and spotlighting remarkably his light-heavy wrinkles beneath the unhealthily wan veneer blanching his façade of his natural skin tone. "You are once in a blue moon, little bird!"

"Aw, really?"

"I truly mean it, Y/N!"

"Timothy, you're a priest and," The series of stutters slipping sloppily sleek of your berry-coloured tongue during your revelation, dropping your dainty chin on top of his broad, muscly shoulder, in spite of the huge difference in your heights. You have never had any crush on a clergyman unless the nefariously infernal snake pit that was well-known for relentlessly confining criminally insane nobodies to the general population's community and welfare under the name Briarcliff graced you with an ambiguous destiny. On one hand, the exuberant inaniation to resume skipping your regular slumber habits under the form of spending your hectic daily schedule to be refilled with brief breaks in the common room and the regularly diligent hardwork in the bakery. On other hand, you met somebody whom you genuinely deeming to hang the moon. Or rather, who was the only God's messenger that was sent to you to grant you with myriad of divine felicity, angelical love and sweltering warmness. "Isn't it a bit unholy to make such confessions,"

"Shu, shu, shu, darling!" Manifesting to plant a tenderly mellow, cherubically reassuring kiss on top of your head and his other arm lingering its buckle restlessly to clip circa your middle, murmuring sweet nothing into your vulnerable ear, whereas his British lilt never ceased to astound you and to spike its tempest of horripilation to stormily shameless entwining your overall skin on your arms and legs. "It doesn't matter if I'm the president or the Monsignor or even your co-worker. As much as God loves me and trusts me to not do criminally rabid things that are under no circumstances in my case, I'm always ready to be outspoken." Clearing smoothly his throat when ushering his only free arm to secure your middle and buckle its grapple categorically, a low hum in approval elaborated his mouth and rubbing the small of your back gently, completely helplessly melting in the tight, kindhearted embrace you formatted together. "I love you, little bird!" How long it's been since somebody has outspokenly confessed to you the little three words that spoke volumes behind its genuinely cordial context? How long it's been since you would depict a holy man's naturally nude pink, deliciously plumpish lips to sloppily straightforward drip its sweet juices of the sinfully forbidden revelation that stayed between both of you as your little secret? The very undertones of the megawattly meaningful, authentically romantic revelation exposed the real tremble of his voice.

"I love you way more than you can picture, Timothy! I really don't have any idea what would have happened if I didn't meet you. Probably I'd have died in that snake pit."

--- *** ---

--- A Few Days Later or So ---

--- 4th of December, 1964 ---

"Please, save his life!" Reciting in an iteratively disquietude the murmur under your breath whilst folding your legs and manifesting to knit your pristinely delicate fingers, anticipating for the average pool of crystalline liquid to boil in the kettle set on one of the hotplates of the cooker, in order to pour yourself a cup of jasmine tea and blending it with honey and modicum of lemon to enrich luxuriously the real flavor of the liquid. A straight line dogmatically buffed past your nude pink mouth and struggling to obscure the very hopes of optimism and nirvanic salvation via the exorcism, whereas the frequent sheepish quiver of the furnitures and the paraphernalia adorning the kitchen didn't eventually halt at all. Tingling its alarming tones into your ears, bearing a semblance of a hand lugging its sufficiently long fingernails to scuffing roughly, frequently sluggish wood until it descended wholly to the edge after the dozens of great deal of efforts to inscribe its marked territory the owner.

A quarter an hour ago Father James in the company of Father Malachi and Dr. Roth arrived inside your property to banish the vile essence out of Timothy's frail skeleton with great deal of efforts. Due to their ominously stringent instruction to not comfortably assist them during the conjuration of Timothy, throughout you couldn't help but following childlikely mousy their guidance. You didn't have other choice. The realistically grotesque illustration of the afflictively tormented physically and mentally Monsignor stubbornly coherent soiled your vision, train of thoughts and your flimsy heart.

Ocean of realistically graphic, distressfully discouraging scenarios flashed vehemently in your hurricane of thoughts. Bestowing the psychiatrist Dr. Roth and the both priests a sufficient trust that was approximately emulating to rely on their best efforts and fantastic job to resuscitate the true spirit of the British compatriot, your attempts to still the ominously pigheaded hopes the vile essence to dwell out of your friend's large frame promptly and then get back to his normal life minimalized the starkly remorseless, bloodthirsty pessimism.

"Scumbags! Scumbags!" The expletives repeatedly cut coherently through the kitchen and your bedroom's secure walls, catching you off guard when you lifted your rear up to check on the kettle, attempting to swallow hard the bittersweet lump thickly coating your feminine Adam's apple. The ferociously antagonistic, infernally deep voice inexorably deflated joyously sardonic the possessed Monsignor's wickedly sinister intentions that were delivered out solely in the fiendish language as the demon crudely flagrant reined his muscles and cells to be forcefully commanded of uttering unspeakably unthinkable exemplars. "Your game is reining off gradually as I can see, you little pigs! If you win, you will eat my hat!"

"Uh oh! Hopefully the demon doesn't play his own cards right." Heavy, jaded sigh expelled from your fragile chest whilst your E/C bijous landed on the simmering pool of translucent liquid that partly immersing the surface of the silver entity. Darting pensively your wet, berry-coloured tongue to laden its hydrating lick your lower and upper brim lips, consequently you ushered one of your petite, flimsy hands' fingers to glide to halt abruptly the currently zapping hot plate and preparing yourself a clean, unused teal polka dot canvassed mug, in order to pour its heaty stream of the healthy liquid and enrichening its flavor with squeezing mildly a lemon and spoonful of honey to blend its breathtakingly natural savor and curling your fingers around a silver spoon to stir the beverage and your only free elvish hand channeling the kitchen sink's faucets to submerge the already used kettle.

Yet, the haphazardness of the incessant tremor of the nigh furnitures and entities harshly composed the ode of the restless rowdiness pealing around you.

A few minutes of inaction and eagerly anticipating the temperature of the happily hot healthy beverage to drop perpetually, meanwhile, the furnitures and the entities halted in the stopand shepherded you to dash out of the kitchen and venture up inside your bedroom at the prospect of the senseless British aristocrat escorted by the senior man of the cloth along with his younger co-worker and the psychiatrist.

"Timothy!" The sea of pinched broadened stares transfixed on you squinted up to follow each motion of your trembling muscles when you registered to hunker down past the double bed and surveying in a scrutiny the senseless body of the British aristocrat. "Did you bash the demon out of his body?" When the German-American doctor was pumping series of CPRs to the ambitious Monsignor's toned, muscular torso to acknowledge explicitly his condition and in case to be pretty aware of the aftermaths of the exorcism, the eerie sleepy and prim smile burnished upon his chapped, nude pink mouth.

"I'm guessing and that's why I'm giving CPRs to the recent prey of spiritual possession."

"Look what, Doctor Roth! You and the priests accompanying you are truly responsible for his very welfare. I can't even picture what it would be to be on the front page of the newspaper bolding its title the director of Briarcliff dies as a result of heart attack in a former falsely committed patient's home."

"Miss, I'm assuring you Brother Howard will be fine! He needs some rest just to see,"

"Father James, there is a method to acknowledge his recent condition!" Cutting off curtly the redhead, consequently you leant your earlobe past the British compatriot's brittle chest and the featherly-soft, frigidly heartwarming heart pulse unevenly thudded in its confine while your elvish, weathered hands clawed humbly the bed sheets.

Was that a heart beat? Was he still alive or that's just his final moments even when his eyelids curtained shut and an emotionlessly prim, still peaceful smile nailed the corner of his lip?

"Timothy!" Then you drifted to cup the flabbergastingly icy, pallid complexion in the palms of your surprisingly warm, gracefully silken hands of the consciousless older gentleman, a woefully wry smile permeating across your lips.

Author's Note: Another cliffhanger which I rather preferred to amuse the readers with conspiracy theories what might happen after the exorcism of Timothy and will they come true after 28th chapter. 

Do you rather prefer possessed or normal Timothy and why? I'd like to hear your opinions.

Likewise, I hope you like and enjoy the new chapter as well. Don't forget if you liked it a lot to leave your feedback.