Bad Habit II
Title: Bad Habit II
Author: marmaladeflesh
Rating: R
Summary: Continuation of Bad Habit! What Connor does when he thinks Murphy is asleep. Murphy's trapped!
Disclaimer: Oh how depressing it is, not owning the MacManus brothers.
Warning: I don’t mean to offend anybody with sacrilege and fragment sentences.
I’m sitting in one of the wooden church pews a couple rows from the back, head bowed in silent prayer. Why is it that we insist on curling in on ourselves; down on our knees, hands clasped together while we speak to God? It’s almost absurd even, that we look to the ground instead of up to the skies. I picture God as being above us, around us, inside us all. Maybe a lot more prayers would be answered if we stood on our rooftops and shouted our prayers, a megaphone amplifying our pleas.
When a man closes his eyes and whispers to God, it’s called prayer. When he chooses to openly talk to Him, it’s considered psychotic.
I look around and I see faces I’ve seen countless times, but none are familiar to me. Preacher talks in a low monotonous murmur and every so often I catch an excerpt of the story of Cain and Able. The jealousy Cain felt for Able. Oh, how he made him want to sin. Lusting, touching, kissing. Burning. Marked as evil.
This version didn’t seem quite right.
With a puzzled look, I turn to my right to Connor. I’m actually shocked to see that my twin is an exact likeness of me. He is me.
I’m looking at me look at me.
I turn to myself and say in Connor’s hoarse whisper, “Murph, you awake?”
Am I awake? Had I been sleeping? And suddenly I find myself in bed with a misplaced feeling I never can get used to. I’m somewhere at the gates of consciousness. It’s dark.
I don’t stir. I hear rustling sounds, bed springs popping, and church bells.
Then…silence. Hidden in that silence something is gradually escalating. The harder I listen for it, the more it makes itself present. It’s an odd sort of sound. Like…
I’m briefly reminded of The Tell-Tale Heart. The haunting repetition of a dead man’s heartbeat: thump thump, thump thump, thump thump.
I hear…can it be? A hitch of breath here, a gasp there.
Right now I’m wide awake. The rhythmic thumping is my heart in my ears and Connor’s fist pumping himself in his boxer shorts. As if I needed that clarification.
I try not to think of Connor’s hand slipped down his shorts just a few feet away from where I lay in my own bed. I try not to picture him arching and sweating in his sheets, toes curling and trying his damn hardest to keep quiet so as not to wake me up. It’s too late for repressing, brother mine.
The familiar stirrings in the pit of my stomach have me cursing myself. I feel myself stiffening. Way to go, sicko. My erection trapped between me and the mattress, it’s almost painful to bear. I can’t do so much as thrust to alleviate the ache or even shift in the slightest to readjust for fear of Connor finding out I’m not asleep and possibly stopping what he’s doing altogether. For some reason, that would be a very, very bad thing.
Maybe I’m trying my hardest not to breathe audibly because I don’t want to miss any sounds coming from Connor’s side of the room. Faintly, I hear the slapping of skin on skin and my insides leap at the thought. I swallow quite difficultly.
Lo, how terrible a brother I am! I’m sick and disgusting. Pervert! I shouldn’t be awake to hear these noises. I shouldn’t be alive. I'm paralyzed and now my bed feels as comfortable as a church pew. The ever-insistent throbbing of my dick only aids to the agony. God, is this my punishment for staring too long, letting my hands linger in their trails on his back, and when I’m alone and think of him with thoughts impure?
I’m thinking not to think of Connor but that only makes me think of Connor.
Anything from lalala random thoughts to my favorite songs, to reciting the alphabet backwards.
I hear Connor’s whimpers.
The only thing that gives me some sort of peace and semblance of mind is our family prayer, which is, ironically, something Connor and I share and value deeply.
I recite in my head, And Shepherds we shall be
I hear his held back, broken grunts.
For thee, my Lord, for thee
His quickened breath.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand
The slapping sound is unmistakable now in the dead of night. Slick and smooth. Fast and tense.
Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands
I can smell the scent of sex heavy in the air. In the dark recesses of my mind, I wish to be closer.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee
I’d worship Connor. Him above me, under me, all around me and inside me. I wouldn’t mind getting on my knees.
And teeming with souls shall it ever be
Connor all but fucking growls when he comes. The sounds are just fascinating. They make me want to say fuck morals and Sunday school and pretty much everything I’ve ever known about God. Anything to behold this sight of him in his most intimate moments, feel his skin, taste it, be smothered in all that is Connor, my lovely brother.
In Nomeni Patri Et Fili
I feel heady as if I’d been drinking and realize I’ve soiled my boxers.
Spiritus Sancti.
***
there you have it, the second installment of Bad Habit which i think will be a trilogy.
Hope you enjoyed it and i love any feedback!
Author: marmaladeflesh
Rating: R
Summary: Continuation of Bad Habit! What Connor does when he thinks Murphy is asleep. Murphy's trapped!
Disclaimer: Oh how depressing it is, not owning the MacManus brothers.
Warning: I don’t mean to offend anybody with sacrilege and fragment sentences.
I’m sitting in one of the wooden church pews a couple rows from the back, head bowed in silent prayer. Why is it that we insist on curling in on ourselves; down on our knees, hands clasped together while we speak to God? It’s almost absurd even, that we look to the ground instead of up to the skies. I picture God as being above us, around us, inside us all. Maybe a lot more prayers would be answered if we stood on our rooftops and shouted our prayers, a megaphone amplifying our pleas.
When a man closes his eyes and whispers to God, it’s called prayer. When he chooses to openly talk to Him, it’s considered psychotic.
I look around and I see faces I’ve seen countless times, but none are familiar to me. Preacher talks in a low monotonous murmur and every so often I catch an excerpt of the story of Cain and Able. The jealousy Cain felt for Able. Oh, how he made him want to sin. Lusting, touching, kissing. Burning. Marked as evil.
This version didn’t seem quite right.
With a puzzled look, I turn to my right to Connor. I’m actually shocked to see that my twin is an exact likeness of me. He is me.
I’m looking at me look at me.
I turn to myself and say in Connor’s hoarse whisper, “Murph, you awake?”
Am I awake? Had I been sleeping? And suddenly I find myself in bed with a misplaced feeling I never can get used to. I’m somewhere at the gates of consciousness. It’s dark.
I don’t stir. I hear rustling sounds, bed springs popping, and church bells.
Then…silence. Hidden in that silence something is gradually escalating. The harder I listen for it, the more it makes itself present. It’s an odd sort of sound. Like…
I’m briefly reminded of The Tell-Tale Heart. The haunting repetition of a dead man’s heartbeat: thump thump, thump thump, thump thump.
I hear…can it be? A hitch of breath here, a gasp there.
Right now I’m wide awake. The rhythmic thumping is my heart in my ears and Connor’s fist pumping himself in his boxer shorts. As if I needed that clarification.
I try not to think of Connor’s hand slipped down his shorts just a few feet away from where I lay in my own bed. I try not to picture him arching and sweating in his sheets, toes curling and trying his damn hardest to keep quiet so as not to wake me up. It’s too late for repressing, brother mine.
The familiar stirrings in the pit of my stomach have me cursing myself. I feel myself stiffening. Way to go, sicko. My erection trapped between me and the mattress, it’s almost painful to bear. I can’t do so much as thrust to alleviate the ache or even shift in the slightest to readjust for fear of Connor finding out I’m not asleep and possibly stopping what he’s doing altogether. For some reason, that would be a very, very bad thing.
Maybe I’m trying my hardest not to breathe audibly because I don’t want to miss any sounds coming from Connor’s side of the room. Faintly, I hear the slapping of skin on skin and my insides leap at the thought. I swallow quite difficultly.
Lo, how terrible a brother I am! I’m sick and disgusting. Pervert! I shouldn’t be awake to hear these noises. I shouldn’t be alive. I'm paralyzed and now my bed feels as comfortable as a church pew. The ever-insistent throbbing of my dick only aids to the agony. God, is this my punishment for staring too long, letting my hands linger in their trails on his back, and when I’m alone and think of him with thoughts impure?
I’m thinking not to think of Connor but that only makes me think of Connor.
Anything from lalala random thoughts to my favorite songs, to reciting the alphabet backwards.
I hear Connor’s whimpers.
The only thing that gives me some sort of peace and semblance of mind is our family prayer, which is, ironically, something Connor and I share and value deeply.
I recite in my head, And Shepherds we shall be
I hear his held back, broken grunts.
For thee, my Lord, for thee
His quickened breath.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand
The slapping sound is unmistakable now in the dead of night. Slick and smooth. Fast and tense.
Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands
I can smell the scent of sex heavy in the air. In the dark recesses of my mind, I wish to be closer.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee
I’d worship Connor. Him above me, under me, all around me and inside me. I wouldn’t mind getting on my knees.
And teeming with souls shall it ever be
Connor all but fucking growls when he comes. The sounds are just fascinating. They make me want to say fuck morals and Sunday school and pretty much everything I’ve ever known about God. Anything to behold this sight of him in his most intimate moments, feel his skin, taste it, be smothered in all that is Connor, my lovely brother.
In Nomeni Patri Et Fili
I feel heady as if I’d been drinking and realize I’ve soiled my boxers.
Spiritus Sancti.
***
there you have it, the second installment of Bad Habit which i think will be a trilogy.
Hope you enjoyed it and i love any feedback!