Author's First Note: Hi everybody! Welcome to my very first imagine, where the reader and certain fictional character will be interpreted in variety of writing tropes such as fluff, angst and smut! I'm seriously nervous if you're going to like my very first imagine, despite the fact I've mustered up somewhat with writing anything with the reader, itself. 

As well, I will write in general imagines with Timothy, Jude, Elsa, Oliver, Frank, Dean, Sam, Castiel and many other fictional characters, but mostly with Timothy, Jude, Elsa, Oliver, Frank, Dean, Castiel! The guest starts for fictional characters that may have their own imagines are going to be Kit, Madison, probably Brooke and many others. You can always request me anytime which fictional character or a celebrity would you like me to write an individual work, you know! Don't be shy!

This imagine is mostly dedicated to my friends who are Timothy enthusiasts like me Celeste-Moore, sociopathsis, jlangster_, JessieLangeFan, southernauthor and Yararebird (I know you both can't stand Timothy, but since you're my pals, you deserve an adorable present!) I hope you like and enjoy this shitty imagine! Sending you a ginormous love everybody! 

Trigger Warnings for 💉Mentions of Violence and Torture, Blood 💉

How a peculiar irony in the small, nevertheless, sufficiently eerie scenario that befell the priest, himself! Baptizing a criminally insane serial killer, nefariously known for being the murderous Santa Claus and his veiny, bloodthirstily bare hands taking the lives of eighteen people from five different families who would have a spectacularly memorable Christmas solely if his insanity hasn't granted him the corrupted decision, was purely one of the worst, unimaginable mistakes for Timothy Howard! How could he baptize a hair-rising, peculiar lunatic with sufficient rich criminal history and thereafter the performance of crucifixion on the monumentally wooden, threadbare cross was inexorably registered? Would Timothy forgive himself after his hands and feet severely bled to be trapped in an invincibly eternal darkness with minimal chances of its direct, deserved escape?

He still questioned why Shachath, the Angel of Death even bestowed him with a second chance to grant to his life a celestial sequel with persistently persevering the severely sore pain of its crucifixion and Sister Mary Eunice's particular demeanor lately. Everything was whirling and twirling in an unsacred, bleak vortex of its apocalyptic destruction and unchangeable chaos with fleet catharsis.

Timothy was sensing the weakness infernally corrupting him with lacking strength and stamina to find any sense in straightforwardly continuing his living own life even clashing strong-willedly with the hazards. The devil and the sheer manipulations of Leigh Emerson diminished his perky, encouraging chances to strive for its worth survival. Jude was absolutely right. One of the wee pieces of evidence that she's right and her innocence is indisputably a circumstance was interpreted in Leigh's sugarcoated sweet manipulations and his deft ability to tamper his own preys. It was too late.

As soon as the second life was destined to reign over the pious man of the cloth and one of the last visitors inside the small chapel was one of the staff members, witnessing the despondently explicit illustration of the crucifixion of the director of the notorious, old mental institution, subsequently the deft message that reached you about the small chapel's disturbing ruckus was already earned by you.

The beginning of your actual serious career as a young, diligently intelligent and starkly aspiring doctor debuted in Briarcliff in less than a half a year. During most of your time with your outstanding stay in the nefarious, dilapidating mental hospital, you earned visits and arranged visits with patients, regardless how young or old they appeared to be actually, but mostly an younger audience. There were rare times when you're slightly late with your arrival accurately on your workplace. Furthermore, you're getting along with the staff members, numbering the security guard Frank McCann who was sadly deceased, the head nun of the facility Sister Jude and the aspiring Monsignor Timothy Howard.

You didn't have galore of interactions with the owners of the facility, howsoever, Jude was more frequent with beholding one another for a couple of minutes, discussing grave issues, associated with certain visits in your office.

When the elegantly classy jet-black chunks of your petite shoed feet thudded passionately vehement against the concerted flooring of the compact chapel pitching the dully, lifelessly silent background, your weathered petite, brilliantly creamy hand timidly lowered to the grandiose wooden material enough to bundle the double hardwood door and manipulating your very presence to occupy the outskirts of the indoor church, the initial thing that struck you with your arrival was the recent prey of excruciation was nobody else than the director of the madhouse, himself. Timothy Howard.

The horridly blood-curdling vista of the pious man of the cloth's horrified condition and his glassily big, roundish cocoa brown gemstones spoke emotions, paired with his starkly unavoidable nakedness as a compact, lily-white cotton cloth secured his crotch. The prospect's interpretation was doubtlessly terrifying not only for yourself, but also for the older gentleman. A bountifully thick, marvelous layer of perspiration terrifically mantled the tandem of his chestnut hair and ghostly pale, still youthful complexion. Incredulity gasped resiliently silent in his lowly-decibeled-clad groans and grunts, solely discernible ballads tingling its own sluggish, humdrum tunes into his vulnerable ears. The daylight's flawlessly alabaster light showered the small holy site and casting its own angelically reliable light to grace with its own generous illumination the recent visitors, pale enough to curtain the freshly handsome facial attributes of the ambitious Monsignor to your {E/C} gemstones.

It was the very first time to contemplate the terrifyingly bone-chilling vista of the vulnerable holy man in such light. You could even scarcely picture what kind of a nightmare he's been through and you could put yourself into his shoes. In spite of you liked the both owners of the madhouse, however, you slightly preferred more Timothy due to his humanitarianly benevolent nature and not belittling the inmates due to their rebelliously headstrong demeanor. Anyway you weren't very fond of the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's institutionalization against her will and stripping her off from her clerical possessions.

Despite the fact that Mary Eunice was the recent nun in charge of the mental institution, after her possession and her barbaric strictness settled inside the grand façade, you weren't very fond of her, due to her criminally hair-rising deeds such as slitting the deceased security guard's throat, releasing a murderously dangerous serial killer and locking him up inside the former sister of the church's office to torture even register its attempted rape and perpetually manipulating the British aristocrat. You received seldom visits from her, however, you had the same impression of her. Stilling its doubtless disappointment to label her from head to toes into your eyes.

Spearing the series of writhes with your piercing, brutally honest {E/C} bijous, slowly but surely you managed to stride in long, dramatically sluggish footsteps whispering against the concerted flooring, in order to approach and aid the older man.

"Dr. L/N," In the meanwhile, your petite frame perpetually, stubbornly approached the crucified tall figure, subsequently begrudgingly squeezing your cherub, elegantly painted bloody red lips into a thoughtful, cautious purse. Your thrilled gaze landed on the divinely flabbergasting landscape, speaking luxurious emotions which could be barely interpreted in a few pages chapter of its own book. The only thing which the British aristocrat could do was conjugating series of surprised gasps, amalgamated with sluggishly muddy vowels and syllables, crafting his address towards you as his smoky quartz gems speared the smaller figure of yours, parting his naturally nude pink, cherub lips into a soft O. "What are you doing here?"

"Thanks to one of the staff members, I'm here due to its urgency, Monsignor!"

"It's not that urgent, Dr. L/N!" Another desperately breathy stammer slipped from his mouth, diabolically drawing your into a small bubble of being all ears where your own world existed solely between both of you and curtailing gradually the proximity which you shared with an inch per a second.

"It's undeniably urgent, Monsignor!" All of a sudden, austere sharpness honed your caution, whereas your front ivory, still firm teeth clamped your lower lip to be nibbled tirelessly. It punctured your intentions that you won't dump the man of the cloth to succumb in its own sore, apocalyptic agony and pain even confront the face of the demise right away. "I'm not going to leave you die and succumb in your own pain and agony on that cross."

"D-Do you truly mean it?"

"Yes, I really mean it, Father!"

--- *** ---

--- An Hour Later ---

Within an hour after getting a wheel chair as soon as Timothy got dressed up in his daily outfit and manifested its process of bandaging cozily his hands and feet, you rather preferred to escort him in your own sufficiently expansive office and your very presences ghosting the vibrantly contrasting loneliness which you shared with yourself during your shift. Most of the time, you were commonly lonely in your own office, anyway the bizarrely comforting, kindhearted presence of the aspiring Monsignor was a new decent addition nonetheless.

It wasn't an easy task to take care of somebody who was having trouble with getting anything done on his own, due to his once severely bled hands and feet after the unspeakably blowminding, barbarous incident.

Shortly after you finished with checking a handful of prominent patient files which belonged to recently committed lunatics to the facility, consequently your dainty bony fingers maneuvered your pair of round-framed classy eyeglasses to be bundled from the bridge of your nose, due to the golden prerequisite to be equipped with them while surveying in a scrutiny certain remarkable documents that were part of your work. The pair of eyeglasses motionlessly kipped on the top of the cherry wood, exquisitely polished bureau and shooting your {E/C} bijous to the British compatriot who was currently perusing warily the daily newspaper with his own pair of eyeglasses, scanning the ink paged up on the sheets of papers.

"How is reading the daily newspaper, Father?" Even though you didn't have any personal conversations even any wee hints of personalizing your own utterances into neatly informal due to the moments where you could barely afford to open yourselves in front of each other, the haphazardness of your aroused interest to keep in touch platonically with Timothy didn't have the nerve of lingering the true notion of loneliness even though you were both occupying the same site without swapping even a single word mutually. It was sorely, painfully intolerable for you to keep the doldrum icily swaddling the room. Furthermore, he's a devotional clergyman and you almost didn't share anything in common or having similar interests so that to formulate a rationally entertaining discussions except about the lunatics, the supplies and certain memorable visits of the patients. It was somehow risky for both of you even to have a personally informal confag that would make modicum of sense at least, due to the apparent higher tiers in the general population's world classification of both of you as individuals with your own careers. A genuinely candid, benevolent smile tugged at the corners of your bloody red mouth, examining in a scrutiny the older gentleman without having any intentions of getting from the chair unless an exceeding business anticipated eagerly for you.

"It's nothing special," The answer you're looking for via your enquiry, nimbly begging for it once, consequently tingled alarming tones shortly after the emergence of English lilt's honeyed punctuation into his utterance and manifesting sheepishly his weathered with dried dark blood fingers to flip the newspaper page up to the last one, averting his stare from the luxurious ink glinting past his vision and subsequently maintaining an appropriately sympathetic eye contact. A woefully sympathetic smile flexed his sharp jaw, whilst quirking quizzically his thick, dark eyebrow due to the suddenness of noise, settling into the office after spending the majority of the time which you've traded with one another a mutually invincible hush without peeling a daredevil word. "Dr, L/N!" Managing to bob modestly, timidly his head to reaffirm his presentable address towards you mildly unnerved you with addressing you formally just shortly after granting him the medical aid he truly deserved, although how desperately blood-curdling was his condition in general.

The dim light illumination of the sufficiently expansive room graced with bountiful layer of aureate light, isolating the ruthless pitch-black shadows to embellish your facial skins.

Low-spirits generously adorned the holy priest's facial attributes, whereas the concerns balefully contoured your face, factly, the landscape of the suffering older man uncomfortably engulfed you into altruistically compassion, tearing your heart off on millions of glassily flimsy fragments, stormily swathing your ribcage.

"Are you feeling better?"

"A little bit, but it's still painful." Stoicism roughly grained his unblemishedly porcelain, young-looking yet complexion, uncommonly accenting his velvety, mellow voice with evident soreness in the fresh aftermaths of the crucifixion and bandaging his wounded areas. Strangely, what it apocalyptically nonplus you was how the aftermaths of the crucifixion stilled his smile and persistent nature, although the thousand patterns of despondence and woefulness glittering its lavish ornate of his radiantly rueful slit, permeating across his naturally baby-pinkish, lusciously plumpish lips. "Thank you for asking, Doctor!"

"Do you need something specific, Monsignor?" An uneven, devilishly morbid doldrum rectified the patchy hollow shortly after the posed question was reproduced.

In the interval, the British aristocrat bashfully clumsily, lazily dumped the newspaper on your cherry wood bureau and readjusting his posture in the wheelchair sufficiently cozy to fathom his anatomy to adapt to its comfort. Suddenly his weathered, creamily brittle fingertips ushered to reach for his sharp, well-carved jaw line to trace warily, clumsily the stubble he allowed to grow in the range of a handful of days and the wee hints of masculine scruffiness highlighting his physique.

"I haven't shaved my facial hair for a few days." A bitterly troubling lump seethed his Adam's apple and smoothly begging for its salvation, whilst flexing obstinately his throat muscles to swig the hypodermic nugget without averting his pools of profoundly expressive chocolate brown, sheening his low spirits vividly with its dancing flames. Meantime, his fingertips leisurely still lingered on the scruffy, kinky stubble. "Could you do it for me, please?"

"Of course, Monsignor! Needless to ask, because I'm always there for help."

Once an ultimatum engulfed you to take care of his unshaved for a few days facial hair that mapping his jaw line, thereafter you lifted up your rear from your comfortable chair and plainly ambling up to his wheelchair, whilst retrieving his smartly clean shaving razor, paired with a tube of foam to manifest the process of shaving. At the moment, you removed the tube of foam's cap after ushering your spidery pristine fingers a couple of times to twist and release its entrance to the twain of cabochons. Shortly before smearing the lily white gel, you besprinkled the territory of facial hair with your drenched fingers after allowing the counter's sink faucet to be turned on and allowing the rich crystalline jet water monotonously running.

Timothy cleared gruffily his throat with a cough, consequently gracelessly childlike muffling with the flat surface of his bandaged palm as its breath tickled gingerly, graciously the oyster-white bandage's rigid fabric.

"Don't try to pressure yourself as well! If you need anything else, tell me right away." Elaborating the selflessly caring caution, throughout one of your hands' digits gently manifested a squeeze of the tube's rim to baptize your only free hand's fingertips with oyster-white, majestically pristine foam and within a couple of seconds applying it to his stubble warily. The very first time when your fingertips gingerly grazed the British compatriot's jaw, afterward a delicate, promising race of his heart inexorably electrified its goosebumps, pricking his discreet epidermis, foreshadowing the sequence of its physical contact you've generously, featherly soft gifted him.

Instead of granting you a reply, the holy man solely manifested a modest, childlikely meek nod, reaffirming your caution, commanding him to keep your wits about anything he requested you anytime what he needed actually.

As soon as the thick, wonderful layer of blissfully smeared spume ornate the entire area of scruffiness, consequently you manipulated the shaving razor gently, attentively to graze with its silver razor the thickly dark, kinky small formation of beard, delightfully encumbering the razor's silver surface with light gel and the dose of hairs. You tried your best to be as careful as possible without leaving a gory track of welt or scar, ominously tattooed hypodermically on his facial skin. It was your first time shaving seriously a facial hair of a representative of the opposite sex and it wasn't that difficult at all, in spite of the risks of leaving modicum of bloodthirsty, hideously memorable scars.

"It's almost ready, Father! No need to be that anxious." A coyly feminine, maternal grin curved faintly, amorously your crimson red-painted lips, whilst your fingers carefully, delicately danced around the shaver and technically aiding to the ambitious Monsignor to get his facial hair cleanly, presentably shaved.

"Don't call me Father, Y/N! It's just Timothy!" The haphazardness of crafting the nimble words jingled alarming tones into your ears, in spite of its sheer, guiltless nonchalance prominently touching his undertones, raising an arch of his eyebrow after addressing him formally with his clerical title. For very first time, you're frankly allowed by the older gentleman to be informal with him instead recurringly calling each other with your formal, professional titles. Moreover, the safety of its informality was dearly guaranteed to both of you. Nobody would acknowledge how just the petty, miraculous things could bring you so much together and increasing its platonic intimacy even though you're oblivious to the career risks as well. "Alright, Y/N?" In the meantime, the sole thing to affirm an agreement was an agreeable bob of your head, boldly declaring your position behind your resiliently versatile façade. "Good! I have never had such brutally painful accidents except the scar on my lip which was caused by one of my siblings that was a young boy and crashed into a tree by an accident in the presence of my father." The hoarseness and wry sarcasm spotlighting extraordinarily the rich tones of Timothy's half-hearted, boyishly sheepish snicker didn't vanish into the thin air at all. "My father made him to pay for the car damages, despite he was just a child and the children aren't mean to be blamed for the accidents that happen."

"I'm really sorry to hear all this, Timothy!" When you were finished with shaving the last remnants of scruffiness and retiring to the counter's sink to wash off the foamed removed hairs, afterwards your front ivory, firm teeth maneuvered to slam between your lower lusciously cherub lip to nip its delicate skin, stifling its throaty, innocently doe gasps, dying on your strawberry-coloured, wet tongue. "I'm certain your father is an ungrateful imbecile for forcing a minor to pay for anything."

"Don't be sorry, Y/N! I'm happy I'm not living with my ungrateful father, who's always a control freak, you know!" Suddenly the sink's faucet was turned off as the jet water's stream no longer was unceasingly drenching the once used razor which was left. In the interim, you managed to amble up to the temporarily disabled priest and controlling cautiously his wheelchair up to the counter as a guiltless inch of distance was mutually shared when you returned the faucet on under its quivering motion of your petite, creamily soft hand.

Unknowledgeable yank of your solely free elvish hand into the clumsily doting grip of the British aristocrat's bandaged hands caught you off guard when you were about to drench bountifully, happily the remnants of foam on his roundish, full profile. An inwardly subtle, awkward moan sailed out of your tongue tip and your heart perplexedly leaped and skipped a beat in the same time. The predictability of its delicately promising, welcoming gesture from the Monsignor has never ceased to astonish you to bones. An electrifying goosebumps lavishly battered to your epidermis and paradoxal paroxysm sedated your bones and muscles, whereas the pit of your stomach zapped abruptly. Your roundish embers blazed fierce speechlessness and wrenching them broadly opened like windows to your very soul.

The delightfully soothing grasp of your elvish hand's weight graced you with an endless covet to extend its everlastingness until the steamily creamy, platonically doting pressed peck on your fragile knuckles.

"Thank you for everything you've done for me, Y/N!" A complacently proud, girlish smile flashed upon your puffy complexion, baptized in perky pinkness, tinging your well-sculptured cheeks smoothly, followed by a kindhearted, candid tightening of its grapple.

"Always for you, Timothy!"

Author's Final Note: What are your thoughts on my first imagine? You can tell me how sucks it's actually, because I really worked hard on this short imagine as your feedback is important!