The statement is something of a boon, cutting through the unnecessary protests clamouring for attention in Alfie's head to rile up an age-old instinct to keep Marc exactly where he is. Brushing the man’s hand aside, Alfie clamps his own on the back of Marc’s neck and he grips it tightly as he says, “Yeah, none of that. Mine.” Surprised at himself, Alfie shrugs off the doubts living in the back of his thoughts and adds, “Pipe down on the nonsense, won't you? Finding a soulmate - well, that's meant to be a fucking mitzvah, isn’t it?”
Shaking Marc by the neck as if he’s a particularly unruly dog in need of reprimanding, Alfie thoughtfully rubs his knuckles on his shirt before he slips one of the rings off his fingers. It isn’t necessary for him to look at them for him to know which one to use, his mother may have had shit fucking luck with her own but her family propagated the importance of soulmates for generations before the Russians drove them out and it was her sister that once took the time to properly stress the need for ritual and intent to him, aware perhaps that he's too fucking likely to find himself gutting whichever poor creature is doomed to be tied to him. The ring is an obligation, she'd told him, and Alfie is surprised at how much he's retained of the conversation but that's how things tend to go, isn't it? The ring would have been his mother’s to give away if she’d been lucky enough to be born a man and he now slips it onto Marc’s finger as if he’s a fucking bride at the altar rather than an incredibly fucking mad hired gun that Alfie would be better off allowing to slip off into the fucking night.
Luckily he's a contrary fucking bastard, even concerning his own fucking interests.
He's more appreciative of Marc's physicality when he takes a longer look at him this time around. Not a boy - which Alfie is more than fucking glad for - and strong enough to withstand discomfort and pain, no doubt. The physical strength in the man only makes the wreckage of his mind more interesting, Alfie decides, trying to return to whatever fucking observation had set him to thinking of Marc as unravelling. If anything, he decides, the poor bastard has a fucking need for someone to get him outside his fucking head. “Open your trousers and push them to your knees, there's a good boy.” He breathes and thinks condescension to too large an extent to keep it from his voice. "Have you sucked much cock in your life, pet?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-05-07 08:31 pm (UTC)Shaking Marc by the neck as if he’s a particularly unruly dog in need of reprimanding, Alfie thoughtfully rubs his knuckles on his shirt before he slips one of the rings off his fingers. It isn’t necessary for him to look at them for him to know which one to use, his mother may have had shit fucking luck with her own but her family propagated the importance of soulmates for generations before the Russians drove them out and it was her sister that once took the time to properly stress the need for ritual and intent to him, aware perhaps that he's too fucking likely to find himself gutting whichever poor creature is doomed to be tied to him. The ring is an obligation, she'd told him, and Alfie is surprised at how much he's retained of the conversation but that's how things tend to go, isn't it? The ring would have been his mother’s to give away if she’d been lucky enough to be born a man and he now slips it onto Marc’s finger as if he’s a fucking bride at the altar rather than an incredibly fucking mad hired gun that Alfie would be better off allowing to slip off into the fucking night.
Luckily he's a contrary fucking bastard, even concerning his own fucking interests.
He's more appreciative of Marc's physicality when he takes a longer look at him this time around. Not a boy - which Alfie is more than fucking glad for - and strong enough to withstand discomfort and pain, no doubt. The physical strength in the man only makes the wreckage of his mind more interesting, Alfie decides, trying to return to whatever fucking observation had set him to thinking of Marc as unravelling. If anything, he decides, the poor bastard has a fucking need for someone to get him outside his fucking head. “Open your trousers and push them to your knees, there's a good boy.” He breathes and thinks condescension to too large an extent to keep it from his voice. "Have you sucked much cock in your life, pet?"