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✟ Haven't
I
Fallen
far
Enough?✟
--- *** ---
Once the man of the cloth broke the news about your forthcoming arranged release which will happen within a few days only, you didn't have anything prominent to utter except managing to bob your head meekly, humbly, pursing pensively, idly your cherub, chapped lips.
You had limited opportunities when you had to maintain a formal conversation with the clergyman, factly, his body and soul genuinely belonged to God and his wedlock to the almighty God wasn't exceptional at all and any cussing or physical contact would put you in a balefully ginormous danger, muddling your path to success and light. Notwithstanding the absolute reality, you thought by walking away with a vaguely beaming, affable smile, tattooed on your face would aid you to flee with a sluggish ease the territory where the retribution was foreshadowing.
"{Y/N}," All of a sudden, when your proximity with the British compatriot increased with a handful of inches as your slipper-clad feet drummed timidly bashful against the lifelessly grizzly cemented flooring, you felt some familiar weight clawing your dainty, alabaster shoulder momentarily. Paradoxal shivers and paroxysm seethed your body temperature and sedated your muscles and bones in no time, surrealistically pleasurable and oddly consoling touch grazing your shoulder blade. The honey, sugarcoating Timothy's English lilt tingled silver-tongued angelic hymns into your vulnerable ears and increasing rapidly rabid the heart beats, hammering in your ribcage. Bitter, dehydrated lump seethed in your feeble throat and struggling to swallow it and flexing your throat muscles in synchronisation. Another idle blink of your {E/C} embers blazed trouble and hesitancy, reluctant to neglect urgently Timothy's touch and the resonance, chanting your name. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm thinking to get back in the common room just before to be closed and being sent back to my ward." His enquiry begged for a rational explanation which you exchanged it adequately shortly after heavy sigh flushed jadedly your chest and the powder of cherry blush lingering hypodernically lingering beneath your facial skin. You sensed what kind of an exemplar of the trouble would br interpreted in your conversation with the ambitious Monsignor. Moreover, he was beyond realistically flabbergasted by your hideous stubbornness and admirable persistence. "I think you're having rather more business with your clerical duties rather than conversating a former drug dealer." The sheer sardonic timbre, darkening your Maryland lilt foreshadowed the sequence of the British aristocrat's stark frustration to clash your words with the exact formula of exposing his lighter, more genuine side of his identity, cloaked in the miserable cloth of chastity.
