Author's Note: Welcome to the second imagine which is going to be divided on two parts as the individual sequel will be in the impending imagine, due to the fact, it will be a great blend of fluff and smut! 

Do not kill me if I'm seriously obsessed with Timothy and writing incessantly about him, howsoever, it's such a shame there are actually meager stories with him even imagines as I'd like to grant him the huge credit for being my favorite and the best AHS male character of all time! (I love also Oliver, Kit, Dandy, Frank and some other male characters, howsoever, Timothy has a special room in my heart as the Queen of the Unpopular opinions!) I'm going to write also imagines with Jude, Elsa, Oliver, Dean, Castiel, Frank and many other characters, so please be patient if your favorites' imagines haven't aired out yet!

This one-shot is mostly dedicated to my lovely loyal readers that are not only the loveliest people I've ever spoken to, but also being marvelously talented writers and Timothy enthusiasts like southernauthor, sociopathsis, Yararebird, Celeste-Moore, jlangster_, peopleareweirdaf and k_aldxnx! 

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You have always been one of the most active visitors of the hallowed building especially during the weekly masses in the weekends for a handful of years. You weren't one of the most religious people in the small city of Massachusetts, however, your piousness paralleled efficiently to every averagely religious Catholic. In the past weeks, the former local clergyman whose age range was over seventy was replaced with much younger and that transmuted into nothing more than an eye candy for you and increased your regular visits in the church during the week days.

In spite of you didn't have any problems with the former priest that was enough old for retirement and bleated series of venomously nonchalant stammers during his half-hearted, holy declaims, his brilliant intelligence and sheer kindness was unbeatable yet, your very presence often troubled to maintain an appropriate eye contact even caught a glimpse of the British compatriot during his speeches, performing masses or on the contrary roaming around the church.

Father Paul and Timothy traded somewhat similarities which were associated with their two of kind characters, compared to their very physiques that were obviously screaming its contrast. They were both simply the most affable, sheerly intelligent, deftly straightforward and even indisputably open-minded men of the cloth you've ever encountered in your life. Howsoever, Father Paul was with a handful of decades Timothy's seniors.

The ex-man of the cloth of the local chapel's physique was vividly memorable for his balding scalp, paired with his average-sized, rotund apple green embers, balding expressively, lightly thick eyebrows. His apple green embers and eyebrows were the very candid, altruistic key to the sacred emotions which they spoke during his speeches. Serving the local chapel and daily joining the hallowed masses even attending other sites where his very presence was obligated objected its own sequel at the moment. In addition to his appearance, the senior holy man's skin tone was exquisitely tanned and heavy wrinkles relentlessly weighing off their burden onto his lower eyelids and other specific facial sites along with his sufficiently tall rotund anatomy, gauging approximately 5'11. For some for their own fortunately, whilst for others unfortunately, Father Paul's crepuscule already fated his own days and his rich career.

Anyway the new addition's replacement of thr chapel rather utmostly affected your experience inside the hallowed building's exquisitely marbled, ornate with rich diversity of icons and monumentally lacquered, welcoming cross walls. Not only you were beyond critically magnified by the British compatriot's English lilt puncturing its sharpness of his honeyed lethal accent at every uttered word along with his pools of abysmal coffee brown that scanned its own surroundings promisingly, intelligibly, moreover his pure goodwill, bare intelligence and ethereal open-mindedness astonishingly warmed your heart and the pit of your stomach every time you caught a glimpse of hints of detecting the genuine notion of the young priest.

Within the approaching early morning of the spring, slowly bleeding into the daylight's twilight with its roundish, gigantic pale gilt sun showering bountifully its vibrant sun rays filtering the living beings, buildings, plants and trees with its saturating curtain, pale enough beautifully to illuminate their attributes, the elegantly classy dark pumps' monotonous choir of whispers against the cemented ground indicated your mere gait, aiming to the holy façade to not miss the morning mass where you have the same high chances of seeing even meeting in person the aspiring Monsignor. The early May climate ideally objected its own frosty cold times to bother the living beings. It was ridiculously late for the wee hints of late winter to reborn phenomenally and assaulting the entire small city of Massachusetts gruesomely.

After getting ready for the day within a quick, healthy breakfast and morning coffee including a morning lukewarm shower, your impending destination was literally the church. It wasn't far away from your flat at all. Just a blameless walk wouldn't hurt at all. It would solely arduous gear your muscles and spike your adrenaline and authentic motivation to grant the sequel to its walking journey to the church due to its real motive you regularly accomplish.

Within a handful of minutes, your E/C cabochons landed on the hallowed façade along with the ocean of people, ranging from children to seniors overcrowding the grandiose yard. Their faces unmasked their genuine selves either happily, moodily or on the contrary melancholically, depending on the person, itself. The extraordinarily plain vista of the local Boston church amiably, amorously embraced you with the sea of gardenias, adorning prominently the yard along with tall, recently blossomed aesthetically grand crowns trees. Last but not least, a handful of priests and nuns additionally minorly participated in the huge horde of strangers either roaming around and dearly getting ready for the morning mass or otherwise trading a couple of words with the recent visitors.

A vibrantly optimistic, kindhearted smile curved upon your modestly mauve painted lips, engulfing profoundly in your thoughts to behold the same handsome, charming and benevolently sympathetic face of the ambitious Monsignor again especially this morning. Like the other ordinary mornings that were individual with their own peculiarity. The violently jubilant heart pulsations thudded in your ribcage at the thought of the British aristocrat and optimistically reminiscing a reverie you hopefully could covet to be parallel to the absolute reality, despite your sheer, inevitable shyness.

Casually relaxed approaching the grandiose gracefully polished double door, subsequently you manifested to fashion your petite, creamy hands into balled fists, throbbing its weight, in order to give sufficient scale of space for you and the other visitors to step inside the chapel's interior and holding politely, hospitably the door for the others whose categorical decision was to join Timothy and you, fueling the patchy hollow space with their figures.

Approximately a half an hour later after the majority of the visitors gathered inside the interior and politely, graciously took their seats on the authentically polished, antique pews as your seat was eventually on the first in the right side, swapping a handful of centimeters distance with a few middle-aged adults, you had higher chances of being noticed by the new clergyman. Higher chances of starkly divine recognition. Higher chances of contemplating through his lukewarmly charming, ghostly pale complexion the deftness of forging a fleetly kindhearted, glowing smile pearly blooming upon his naturally pale-pinkish, plumpish lips. Higher chances to notice the bare, raw glint, curtaining blanched his cinnamon gems with its beautifully bleached shade sheening his natural eye colour, fiercely alight of your very presence and bestowing you a magnifying ogle, imbibing your youthful beauty in the corner of his stark eye.

The prominent church mass just begun less than a half an hour after the unceasing gather of horde of visitors and members of the clergy, populating each remarkable, tiny inch of the interior, whereas a handful of homilies were fluently delivered to the grand batch of strangers, eagerly, agreeably being all ears with honing up their sensitive, vulnerable ears to the tunefully, silver-tonguedly nonchalant tunes of the owners' declaims, pitching and muting shamelessly the uncommonly morbid doldrum, besides outnumbering the eloquently elating daylight birdsongs.

"He is not only able to cast wicked men into hell, but he can most easily do it. Sometimes an earthly prince meets with a great deal of difficulty to subdue a rebel that has found means to fortify himself," When the entire grandiose crowd registered their own respectably presentable silence, resiliently expressing their bountiful respect to the British aristocrat as he took a turn with his other collaborators, ghosting with their reassuringly friendly presences on the podium, the tall frame of your focus manipulated to share a meager proximity with the oak wood, richly lacquered podium, one of his mammoth, promisingly smooth hands' masculinely strong, nimble fingers emphatically curled around the Holy Bible's leather covers and categorically spreading them until his pools of deep cinnamon brown darted to the yellowish, antique sheet of papers, illustrating genuinely the ink, puncturing the sharp accent of the text, divided into galore of paragraphs. His English lilt headstrongly ushered to grace the congregation with his eloquently pleasant, breathtaking homily, stilling the attention precisely shifted to him and his studiously cautious coffee brown huge, round cabochons scanning slowly but surely, boldly the Holy Bible's paragraph with its text about the essential subject, namely interpreted in its own individual Literature. A prim sympathetically, vague coy smile gently tugged at the corners of his chapped mouth. "So 'tis easy for us to cut or singe a slender thread that anything hangs by; thus easy is it for God, when he pleases, to cast his enemies down to hell." Attentively zipping your mauve-painted, cherub lips into a pensive, girlish purse, your vulnerable ears honed up for the megawatt focus you celestially utmost targeted the older gentleman with his impressively bewitching appearance, lingering his ethereally timeless charm and charisma, welling into his larger frame. The sole distraction for you during the mass's assemble and most of all the utmost homilies which almost each pious member of the church conveyed lusciously silver-tongued didn't cease to engulf you in the compact bubble of tiresomeness, stiffing your muscles and bones along with the incessant choir of your eyelids, almost dead, lethal weight battered and obscuring their lively functioning. "What are we, that we should think to stand before him, at whose rebuke the earth trembles, and before whom the rocks are thrown down."

Shortly before the direct sequel of the half-hearted, sacred sermon, meantime, Timothy's solely free colossal, monstrously pristine fingers waltzed gingerly around the glass of freshly cool translucent liquid, throughout lifting it up as its glass material manifested its featherly soft graze, shooting his cocoa brown bijous to spear your refreshingly young-looking complexion, transmuting its uncommonly particular glance into an embarrassingly adorable, beatific ogle. The haphazardness during the multitasking process of the older man's hydration, benevolently gifting himself with a pause for awhile and trading an ogle with you darkened your face in bright cherry hue. A weak, innocently welcoming smile tattooed celestially, straightforwardly on his parchment, still young-looking face, passionately ablaze by your presence, interpreted strong-willedly in your regular visits and tremendous loyalty to not miss any half-hearted, motivationally moral topics raised on the podium, no matter if its owner was the British compatriot or on the contrary any other member of the clergy.

Thereafter you stifled doze of disappointed grunt, breathily discernible for you and rusty enough to taunt one of the visitors' attention promptly, numbering Timothy, himself. Shortly after finishing with taking a guiltless sip from his glass of lukewarm water, the major assemble couldn't stifle their resiliently ridiculous hush clapping vigorously passionate their hands, agreeably expressing their emboldening support for the priest's recently conveyed homily. The audience's major clap spoke volumes and the faint, meekly haughty bow of his head, registering the ambitious Monsignor's immense, altruistic gratitude to the people who separated modicum of their time to attend the hallowed building even not demonstrate any wee hints of hideous disrespect.

As soon as the holy man maneuvered to retire of the podium triumphantly momentarily, in order to greet presentably with a handshake and swapping a couple of words for a split second with each person, the paradoxal unnerve utmost affected your frequent bounce of your crossed leg on top of your elegantly thin, classy jet-black stocking-clad other leg with its eagerly cheerful jet-black pencil skirt, hem motionlessly flaring across shortly above your round, symmetric knees. The linger of its relentlessly baleful flush decorating your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks sweltered ferociously hypodermic your facial skin under your inquisitively girlish, uneasy gape at the British aristocrat, surveying in a scrutiny every petty, discreet detail behind the handshake and brief conversations he shared with the seniors.

"God bless you, Father!" Scarcely having the boldness to suffocate your perkily childlike, euphorically shy giggle after your wet, strawberry-coloured tongue elaborated persistently its choir, meanwhile, you retrieved delightfully, smugly the grasp of the offered handshake, bobbing docilely your head, whereas Timothy joined the giggle's symphony. Pinching your utter focus to his cinnamon brown big, expressively roundish minerals, you didn't have any intentions of haughtily dumping its adequate, enamored eye contact's maintenance.

"Bless you, Y/N!" The honeyed calmness, sharpening acutely his utterance, whilst a paradoxally pleasant, hedonistic heat twirled in the pit of your stomach with its ultimately sweltering warmness, zapping your lower abdomen's empty, untouched areas, you molted gingerly, delicately into his grasp and honeyed voice, coveting to ethereally endure longer than its circumstances' offer. "Just call me Timothy!" Shortly before retreating to greet gentlemanly gracious the other rest of the audience, a featherly-soft, exquisite squeeze of your mutually linked hands as the frequency of your vehement heart pulsations sluggishly elaborated in your chest, heating abruptly your body temperature and flush slitting your delicate, swan neck.