Author's Note: Since Oliver and Timothy are my AHS male biggest crushes, subsequently I decided to write something with them especially Oliver, in fact, I haven't written anything about him and he deserves something! It will be a dynamic roller coaster of angst and fluff for sure!

Moreover, I'm not a fan of the overrated song Sweet But Psycho but I wanted to name this one-shot after that song, due to Oliver's incarnation!

It's a special dedication to my marvelous buddies like sociopathsis, stallonesgirl, southernauthor, Celeste-Moore, Trash_Bag_123, JunykoWalker, Yararebird and barnesthor-, regardless if you are Timothy or Oliver enthusiasts! I hope you like and enjoy this one-shot! :))

--- *** ---
--- 29th of October, 1964 ---

The days passing at snail's pace for Nancy Lavender Goodwood equated to the ironic child's play, embodying her stay in one of the most ill-famed mental hospitals in the small city of Massachusetts. Each ticking second, minute, hour even a day felt like an ethereally, unholy timeless sanctum where the time has eventually halted to gauge its current estimation. The real notion of centuries could articulate the sluggish pace of the timeless eternity and reckoning Nancy's daily schedule that was formulated in her meals twice daily paired with working in the bakery and staying from time to time in the common room with Lana, Grace, Shelley and Kit who was the falsely accused nefariously ominous serial killer under the name Bloody face.

The young woman was in the beginning of her twenties, standing solely 5'4 and possessing sheerly averagely body structure. Her waterfall of silken, profoundly photogenic iris tresses curtaining her olive-tanned façade. Her exquisitely dainty, delicate facial attributes such as her small, button nose and thin, elegantly sable eyebrows motioning the genuine curl of her facial expressions. In addition to her facial attributes, twain of huge, expressively rotund amber bijous mirrored the absolute reality glimmered its true majesticness of the absolute reality's illustration.

Further, a pentagram miniature star tattoo imprinted balefully stark on her wrist, factly, Nancy Lavender's devotion to the atheism and Satanism ascended divinely her interest in the vile even if her very character brightly contrasted her religion that equated somehow to the immorality according to the religious nobodies' perceptions. Her late adolescence aroused her ginormous interest in the atheism and Satanism even regularly practising during her leisure time, besides re-reading dark and classy Literature a couple of times and having abysmally logical discussions with her older brothers Herbert and Kenneth that were tremendously religious young men whose visits in the chapel remarked once a week at least. She genuinely enjoyed her discussions with her older siblings, regardless the mass of discords they had on such controversially complex topics, battering their tongue tips and grinding on, begging for their immediate, celestial release.

Her miniature pentagram star tattoo has swathed her left wrist since the beginning of her young adulthood.

In the past few weeks, Nancy Lavender lost literally anything like her job to teach other keen enthusiasts of Satanism and most of all her entire freedom to divinely relish and treasure each ounce and notion of her very life, full of bright opportunities, full of bright hopes, full of bright adventurous, dynamic roller coasters whirling and twirling her experience.

Due to her friend that could be rather interpreted namely as her former friend witnessed her continuous depression through the advancing weeks and months even ruthlessly restless insomnia heinously tormenting the lilac-haired lady, consequently Briarcliff became her home and populating its ruthlessly lifeless, dull hoary walls of the facility until either her emphatic release and seeking its cure or on the contraries the eventual, apocalyptic demise suffocated her bones and muscles from functioning lastly. The young woman couldn't believe one of her fewest friends could be capable of alienating from her and labelling her as mentally ill for the recurring depression and insomnia. She didn't have even any inkling of detrimental hysteria or other genuinely eerie symptoms of not colourfully fitting with the grandiose mass of general population, however, her days were sincerely reckoned and enveloped in the fiendishly pitch-black, unsacredly darkness engulfing her from head to toes.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the young atheist made a handful of pearly authentic, deep friendships with Kit, Grace, Shelley, Pepper and somewhat Lana, in spite of she wasn't quite fond of the journalist's exuberant inquisitiveness estimating her prying nature, anyway Nancy didn't deem her as a dreadful person at all. The young atheist had seldom skirmishes with the ambitious Monsignor, the head nun of the notorious mental hospital Sister Jude and her meek, sheerly innocent protege Sister Mary Eunice. Anyway her impressions glimmered their true colours due to the physical and mental encounters of the patient with each member of the church though she was mostly doted on the aspiring Monsignor and Sister Mary Eunice, factly, they treated her graciously polite and they didn't demonstrate any inkling of fiery hostility.

The sonly hired juvenile psychiatrist Oliver Thredson was the new addition of Briarcliff and being potently, obstinately against after Sister Jude's inhumane treatment towards the wretched souls and the unimaginable, villainous methods of the inmates' cure of opulence of mental sicknesses. The psychiatrist was hired to work on Kit Walker's case though he also glimpsed studiously the lilac-haired lady and engulfed in a compact bubble of his celestially compassion extraordinarily afflictive contouring his youthful, refreshingly attractive facial attributes.

Nancy Lavender deeply know she didn't belong somewhere which was a residence for criminally insane and didn't fit with them at all. Who could be her knight in the shining armor one day?

While the atheist populated the bakery and crooking her petite, flimsily marbled hands to knead with her deft fingers the round-shaped series of tiny doughs seating motionlessly smeared before her on the counter, the humdrum ballad of lunatics' frequent babbles, prominently sprinkled with stark, inflaming rage due to their double shifts situated in the bakery and unhealthy restlessness blanching their pallid complexions.

"Nancy," The suddenness of the stealthily terrifying very presence of the psychiatrist caught off guard the atheist as his honey-mouthed voice tingled angelic anthems while addressing informally the patient as he seated and the thin, flimsy elasticity of their proximity etched elegantly. "We have to talk!"

"Doctor, I am indeed busy and you don't have any idea how much my goose is cooked if I don't-" The series of begrudging stutters categorically ominous escaping her mouth as her breathing hitched frigidly, ruthlessly and sensing the unnatural exuberant pressure of her digits and palms kneading unspeakably the plenty of roundish raw doughs and heels of the younger woman's elvish, thickly dough-smeared hands scouring exuberantly the soft entities heinously headstrong.

"Don't worry, Nancy! I know better how we will arrange the things so that Sister Jude to not get you in trouble." All of a sudden, the psychiatrist gingerly, politely cut off as his naturally pale-pinkish, lusciously cherub lips parted in his stealthily plotted concept of the notorious, old asylum's escape later tonight.

"Really?" Incredulity roughly contoured the patient's delicate, feminine facial attributes momentarily, whilst manipulating her thin, elegant eyebrow to incline mischievously, spotlighting remarkably the medley of speechlessness, overwhelmedness and great nonplus contagiously carving its prominent, authentic territory.

What the young woman could barely believe was how the sonly hired juvenile doctor that was a couple of years her seniors was capable of gifting her with the extraordinarily celestial freedom! He was the only staff member that could bestow her with something blomindingly unbelievable for each lunatic who has either truly deserved or not to be committed in the mental institution. The thought of the nefariously unspeakable atrocities whirling and twirling their own phenomenally disastrous vortexes staged behind the dully, lifelessly hoary walls of the madhouse twitched spine-chillingly Oliver's stomach and envisioning the vividly explicit, horrendous prospects of the inhumane treatment towards the mindless inmates and how Doctor Arthur Arden and Sister Jude were the main antagonists of their disaster along with the beehive of attentive, demanding security guards and orderlies.

"Yes, Miss Nancy Lavender Goodwood!" Still self-consciously questioning his mannerism and genuine compassion readable across his spellbindingly bewitching facial attributes, thus the pronunciation of the young woman's full name conveyed the friendly reminder to amorously blast the young lady's gut when the hair-splitting blandishments clouded her chaotic hurricane of thoughts, being oblivious what kind of ruinously somber mask swathed Oliver's charming face. Full of paradoxal secrets. Full of paradoxal mysteries. Full of cryptical theories behind his very identity to be uttered and purred behind his back. A kindhearted, sympathetic smirk was tattooed on Oliver's porcelain, yet youthful complexion.

--- *** ---

--- A Few Hours Later or So ---

Within a few hours after the young woman arranged an appointment with the cryptical doctor in six o'clock to meet in the lobby, in order to fulfill perpetually their cloak-and-dagger motive to flee the unimaginably nefarious, dilapidating mental hospital for criminally insane, consequently Nancy escorted diligently, mousy Oliver to the front door and heading towards his lily-white vehicle parked outside.

The mid-autumn faint, nocturnally reassuring breeze aggressively coiled to fan the both young adults' figures when the series of their dreary, unavoidably contumacious footsteps whispered against the ground and the doctor was gentlemanly unlocking his car's doors and thereafter holding firmly the passenger's rear door, in order to aid the atheist to hop up inside the vehicle divinely smug, cozy.

"Doctor Thredson! Doctor Thredson!" The haphazardness of the very presence of Jude's employee Frank McCann fleeing the monumental façade to bleat blatantly, huskily his chant to keep the younger gentleman's wits about his formal, professional address. "Sister Jude is asking for ya!" Panting heavily when the both men's proximity inched more than a couple of feet to swathe the thinness of the extravagant elasticity. "Anne Frank, or whoever she is, her husband brought her back!"

"I don't work here anymore, Frank! As a matter of fact, I never did. You can tell her I said that." Shortly before participating in the prominently comforting, lonely company of the juvenile inmate, throughout the psychiatrist's heavy sigh bubbled up from his muscly, toned chest and sheer nonchalance touching his caution, whereas the authentically tremendous impatience of Nancy to witness her savior to start the vehicle's engine coursed through her thoughts and venomous veins.