Hypodermic Transgression ✝Monsignor Timothy Howard x FEM! Reader✝

Brass Kismet

Author's Brief Note: I'd like to thank you for all positive feedbacks and immense support in the first chapter which was rather prologue. Do not get me wrong, however, it's not my second nature to write with a fictional character x reader book which is slightly difficult task, due to the POVs or rather altering the perspective. It truly means a lot to me and it keeps me refreshed to update this book more often. Moreover, Wings of Light's new chapter hasn't been started yet and so I'm keeping your wits about the mild delay in its regular updates, in fact, I'm supposed to update it once a week. 

✟ I hope you like and enjoy the second chapter where the interesting part begins after the foreshadowing retrospection! ✟

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

Your dryly chapped, roseate lips were far from ebullient to curl after your strawberry-coloured tongue conjugates vowels and syllables in one meaningful word at least. Solely jaded, lifeless groans, barely benumbed escaping your tongue after the bar fight, the confront with Cole and the orderlies dressing you up from your grunge outfit with dark ripped, bloody-stained jeans, midnight black chiffon long-sleeved shirt and dark leather jacket into a rigidly shapeless, tiresome patient gown with its rigid hem flaring across your knees. You were mildly tipsy after consuming a sufficient quantity of beer to quench even headstrongly inebriating you.

The beauty coma just stopped in a halt once your brittle eyelids fluttered like wings opened at the partly austere, dull ward with a couple of yards space. The incessant choir of blinking your {E/C} jewels, emitting a helplessly lifeless groan gutturally, subsequently you came to the conclusion that you weren't all alone in the ward at all. The company of the senior nun, visually readable in her appearance between her fifties and early sixties with a fistful of gilded, silky locks of her coiffed mane framed her round full profile was far from a warm welcome for you. Literally embarrassingly shamefacing and challenging for you. An eerie flat line blurred every pattern of glee or sorrow, spread across her rosy-coloured, attractively cherub lips. Her smoky quartz jewels were fixated on your {S/C}, crestfallen complexion which no longer were battered with merry and shining smiles, soft textures of mirth glinting your {E/C} embers and blazing them more vibrant than the sunlight. Within persistent series of blinks, your vision cleansed abruptly and you had a better access to study your surroundings in the seconds of lethal silence where you weren't the protagonist to initiate the conversation, nor the stern sister of the church, seating on the chair by your right side.

Glancing forward, onward and backward, or rather spinning your {E/C} embers to survey each undiscovered corner of the cell, blazed with childlike inquisitiveness and bewilderment in the same time, you licked bashfully girlish your lips after twirling and spiraling your strawberry-coloured tongue in the exact axis. The cell where you're imprisoned was poorly furnished with nothing else than a tattered, smeared in filth bed sheets and blanket with feculent whiteness which wasn't as sheer as a brilliantly glimmering diamond. Briefly, you can tell you were imprisoned in a mental institution for criminally insane and it was one of the most infamous mental institutions in the small city of Massachusetts, Briarcliff.

The last thing you recalled from your tempest of thoughts' memories was the bar fight and how Cole taught a lesson to you and your only loyal, true friends in one of the cheapest bars of Boston. Explicitly damaging your cells with the sorely fresh, morbid memories of your former drug boss, who found you with Dana, Barb and Frederic nowhere else and got his own revenge with almost kicking your buckets in front of the customers and bartender.

"You had an accident, Miss!" The Boston lilt highlighted the head nun of Briarcliff, folding her legs, contoured with the rigidly woolly shapeless hem of her dark, conservative habit, whereas her fingers knitted in the relaxedly fashioned in balled fists petite, palish hands. Scarcely there was any quantity of foreshadowing the real motive why your freedom was rather strictly confined even worse. Deprived from contemplating the true notion of light and joining the general population's society with the complacent freedom, flapping its own golden, angelic wings, you squinted up at the sister of the church, holding her gaze steadily since your parents have taught you whenever somebody's turn was to utter a single vowel and syllable in a symphony together at least, thereafter the best thing you could do was the eye contact's stability, maintaining the adequate politeness in your manners even with your worst foe. The drums, brattling vigorously in your ribcage were parallel to the significantly murderous increased heart rate with the vortex of questions, swirling and twirling in your train of thoughts and the formal situation of facing much older adult, whose position was on much higher tier than yours.