Fill The Demon

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Once the nocturnal daily episode bled into the relentless, hysterical dynamic roller coaster of the midnight, prominently painting even darker the realistically phenomenal landscape of the night, subsequently the madhouse dipped in the abysmally misty, sinisterly quiet rivulets of the doldrum. No any single soul has whispered its own ballad. Uneven, hair-risingly dim footsteps echoed through the profoundly dull, lifeless hallways' walls and concetre flooring. It felt like an unexplainable heaven. Interpreted in its sacred sanctum of heavenly tranquillity settling conveniently inside the sites which no any single wretched soul chanted its despondently rowdy, hysterical wail at the top of their lungs.

The profoundly timeless night which was rather desolated for the pairing in the austerely dim lit office of the head nun of the nefariously dilapidating, grandiose mental hospital passed at snail's pace. Frank and Jude spent a couple of hours throughout logically rational, deep colloquys that variated from business up to their personal lives and desires. Even if they haven't discussed so much the British compatriot, at least his name numbering yours were part of their colloquy that has altered its own brilliance of the pigments and filling their growling, satiable desires to discuss certain interests and topics. The duo has already concluded with their dinner dishes and dumped the platter with emptied bowls and plates with balefully subtle remnants of food chunks, pooling the surfaces.

The late November mildly lukewarm zephyr antagonistically danced and ferociously howled its rowdy echo to collide against the brick, dimly cracked walls of the exterior and the shut windows.

"I didn't mean to bring it," Series of uneven, versatile stutters sailed out of the Bostonian's tongue tip whilst moistening to provide its necessary dew of hydration after manipulating to twirl in its exact apex her wet, berry-coloured tongue to bedaub delicately, greedily her upper and lower plumpish lips. Even though myriad of unconditional discomfort and unholy shyness submerged the pit of the Bostonian's stomach to bring the same topic in front of her fewest loyal, outspoken friend, the very thought of the ambitious Monsignor's disquieting disappearance wasn't a child's play for her to bear and assimilate recurringly the patchy hollow he wasn't able to fuel rabidly rapid at all. In the interval, the security guard registered his lapis lazuli huge, rotund gems imbibing the former licentious jazz nightclub singer's beautifully curtained with its thin veil of artificial saturation of her porcelain, elderly youthful complexion, whereas stabilising the maintainence of the eye contact they bore into afflictively diabolical, ruthlessly. "B-But it's almost midnight and the Monsignor's disappearance is quite distressful."

Notwithstanding the circumstances, factly, the former police officer has never been even slightly fond of the ambitious Monsignor, anyway he was somewhat certain after granting instinctive trust to his hurricane of thoughts and fiendishly acute, cunning intuition that either Timothy wasn't in Boston or on the contrary he was somewhere in Briarcliff, howsoever, rather referred the company of the heavenly loneliness to conveniently swaddle him.

Hypodermic Transgression ✝Monsignor Timothy Howard x FEM! Reader✝Where stories live. Discover now