Twincest Drabble
It seems I've been bitten by the drabble-bug, so I decided to write about my favorite Madden twins. It's RPS, but nothing even resembling explicit, so readers be wary (or not). Disclaimer as usual, I don't own or know 'em, I insinuate nothing, and so on and so forth.
Title: Faithful
Author: stage_master
Rating: PG
Summary: A drabble on faith and the twins.
Disclaimer: Same song and dance, I don’t own anyone and am insinuating nothing.
The high ceiling produced echoes that reverberated off the stain glass walls as the man
made his way slowly down the worn carpeted isle. Candles flickered and spun in the
drafts of whispered breaths uttered over clasped hands, some clutching small wooden
beads on braided cord, others draped in nothing but wrinkles and time. The man lowered
himself noiselessly down onto one of the long unpadded benches, black-clothed knees
spread slightly with tattooed elbows resting lightly on the back of the seat in front of him.
His dark haired head bent to rest on ink covered hands, calloused fingers rubbing the
small silver chain and cross weaved through his steady fingers.
He heard a withered old widow pray for guidance in her time of waning faith.
He heard a young boy pray for mercy for his sister dying in the hospital.
He heard a man of God pray for strength to guide his flock to salvation.
And he heard his brother’s words from the night before:
Please, Benji. Please.
The man refused to ask for forgiveness. Instead he raised his head and studied the figure
stretched across the wood cross that hung above the burning candles, above the bent and
solemn heads.
Instead, he asked for understanding.
Title: Faithful
Author: stage_master
Rating: PG
Summary: A drabble on faith and the twins.
Disclaimer: Same song and dance, I don’t own anyone and am insinuating nothing.
The high ceiling produced echoes that reverberated off the stain glass walls as the man
made his way slowly down the worn carpeted isle. Candles flickered and spun in the
drafts of whispered breaths uttered over clasped hands, some clutching small wooden
beads on braided cord, others draped in nothing but wrinkles and time. The man lowered
himself noiselessly down onto one of the long unpadded benches, black-clothed knees
spread slightly with tattooed elbows resting lightly on the back of the seat in front of him.
His dark haired head bent to rest on ink covered hands, calloused fingers rubbing the
small silver chain and cross weaved through his steady fingers.
He heard a withered old widow pray for guidance in her time of waning faith.
He heard a young boy pray for mercy for his sister dying in the hospital.
He heard a man of God pray for strength to guide his flock to salvation.
And he heard his brother’s words from the night before:
Please, Benji. Please.
The man refused to ask for forgiveness. Instead he raised his head and studied the figure
stretched across the wood cross that hung above the burning candles, above the bent and
solemn heads.
Instead, he asked for understanding.