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✟ Oh sweetie,
Monsters are real,
And they look like people! ✟
--- *** ---
Shortly after Timothy's brief, almost insurmountable clash with his rare bird as she raised the topic over you, nevertheless, Timothy retreated in his office by stripping off his clerical tiresome attires of the church and leaving his half-bare amusingly muscular, toned figure in a cotton, conveniently cosy nightgown with long sleeves and V neckline with a few undone buttons, exposing his kinkily hairy, masculinely toned chest.
Hideous weariness was clung to his identity and muscles and bones. Scarce rest functioned his vortex of thoughts and cells. His eyelids frequently drummed quietly in blink, coveting to be shut and collect sufficient rest for the imminent morning. The corners of his mouth were outworn to reproduce syllables and vowels after his strawberry-coloured tongue conjugated them efficiently.
Once the en-suite bedroom was illuminated in the dimming brass light, casting its own artificial light and saturating the British compatriot's chestnut hair, parchment and feebly jaded complexion, the idle, mere footsteps drumming against the cemented flooring were uneven as soon as he hopped up in his compact, sufficiently expansive bed and wrapping the duvet and tucking meekly his shoulders beneath the duvet's cosy fabric and space, ensuring balmy warmness shortly after turning off the lights in the desolated en-suite bedroom.
His fantasies were richer as much as his pretty impressive imagination. Little did the pious clergyman know how his creativity forged and heated the pre-mature thoughts as fertilising cores until their scintillating affect and paradox contaminate him with impure thoughts. More potent than a prayer. Sweeter and weaker than a sinfully luscious liquor, scorching the corners of his mouth.
Even when his mammoth, alabster hands fashioned in balled fists, clutching tightly the blanket to guard his frail skeleton against the common icy climate that whistled its own ballad in the asylum, his crotch bulged lightly, teasingly beneath his cotton oyster-white, plain boxers. Moreover, the solemnly took vows opted to maintain immunity to the man of the cloth depicting the impure thoughts and be involved in sexual acts, besides doing anything which was against his vows, career and anything holy, reckoning the almighty God.
Even when the priest was head over heels in love with Judy yet, nevertheless, the inescapable, phenomenal process of the butterflies, flapping and fluttering inside his stomach once he encountered you and throughout beholding each other more than once intensified his rusty feelings for not just one woman, but also an addition was added to the dilemma. No wonder why his aroused interest to get to know you wasn't occasional at all! You just seemed readily different than the others and after opening to him about the back story before your false commitment to Briarcliff, besides mildly alluding who's actually Cole, your former boss, he couldn't help, but not diminishing the escalated level of his interest in you. Even more his overprotective manners and green-eyed-monster once he caught you with nobody else than the falsely accused Bloody face Kit Walker was another defeat for him and menacing his tremendous hopes to keep you and protect you.
