"Not a soulmate," Alfie repeats. "Well, right there is the fucking crux of it, ain't it, because, you see, unfortunately for that poor fucking someone a soulmate bond tends to trump all other fucking bonds."
Preposterously enough, Alfie's enjoying the sheer fucking insanity of the meeting - Christ, he thinks he's even intrigued by whatever fucking voices the man hears inside his head. It makes his words good-humoured and indulgent as he considers the unknown claim on Marc. "I suppose the lack of answer on your part means you'd rather be fucked dry," Alfie states. "That's all right, I'm not all that fond of having my cock sucked. After all, your mouth is really just another fucking hole waiting to be fucked, isn't it?" Part of him is tense with an eagerness to brutalize - not because Marc doesn't care to belong to him, exactly, his interest in hurting the man derives more from the obvious strength corded into the muscle in him than anything else. It has a great deal of appeal, that, the thought of hurting a man in a way he's incapable of being fully prepared to endure.
No, there isn't a fucking question of fucking Marc. Claiming the man demands that Alfie fuck him and he's conscious that settling his claim on Marc now - before the man has time to consider anything else - is the only way to do away with any chance Marc might have of evading Alfie's intent to own him. For all the numerous ways for a soulbond to be accepted, the majority of them tend to veer away from ownership, Alfie knows, the few that go anywhere close to it still stopping sharply short of any real show of force, but it only stands to reason that if it's in Alfie's nature to hurt and possess that it must be in his other half's nature to be owned and taken apart.
Still gripping Marc's neck, Alfie reaches around him to undo his trousers and he jerks them open to draw Marc's cock free, his hand slipping down to cradle Marc's balls and lift them free of that cage of fabric, too. Marc's skin is appealingly hot in his hand - the weight of his testicles heavy against his palm - and Alfie kneads them possessively before he finally lets them go. "If you beg for it, I'll reconsider taking your arse dry," he tells Marc almost fucking cheerfully before he jerks the man's trousers down past his hips. "Taking care of one's possessions has to be another fucking mitzvah, yeah?"
He uses the word to rile Marc up but a possession is more or less what Alfie is leaning towards making of the man. It suits him to own a rabid fucking dog like this one, after all, and if the pretty shudders Marc has been offering since Alfie gripped his neck are any fucking clue then he's sure it more than fucking suits Marc to be a used piece of chattel.
“It doesn’t trump this one.” But beneath the smothered anger in his voice Marc is aware of a creeping unease, the absence of Khonshu’s voice—his presence, his power—coming as an unpleasant, unwelcome surprise in the heat of the moment. He’d have expected the demented old god to be here by now, urging Marc to kill this asshole, flooding fury and vengeance into his veins until his eyes light up bright with them. Marc, what are you doing? Steven asks desperately and Marc knows he’s expected it too. They’re not meant to belong to any soul-bond, and if Marc had ever wanted a soulmate it wouldn’t be one like Solomons, who clearly intends to take his claim on Marc out in his flesh like he’s some sort of bridal sacrifice, and with great fucking relish too.
Terror grips in him at the words Alfie speaks so cheerfully about fucking him dry, but there’s a distance between him and the panic of pure emotion and Marc is certain the greater part of it isn’t his. He’s already compartmentalizing, some part of him calm and resolute about enduring what Solomons intends to do, since it seems his body won’t fight back, and then leaving it behind him just like he’s left everything else that hurt. He can’t, Marc, he can’t do this to you, you can’t let him hurt you, Steven is saying and Marc cuts him off, determined not to let him be a part of this.
Go away, right now. Go away, shut your eyes and go to sleep. You cannot handle this.
While he’s dealing with that he’s aware of Solomons still gripping him by the neck like he’s an animal to be held by the scruff as he reaches around him to undo his trousers, and then Solomons’ hand on his cock, jerking Marc out of his own head with a gasp. He shudders as the man cups his balls and kneads them, the edge of roughness an unwilling counterpoint to the cold shrinking sensation within him, his cock feeling heavy and hot. “You’re a real sick fuck, aren’t you?” he says to the other man, fury in the words, clenched between his teeth. Solomons offering to let him beg not to be fucked dry twist into him as he turns his head towards the man. “Why don't you shove your mitzvah up your ass instead?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-05-07 11:42 pm (UTC)Preposterously enough, Alfie's enjoying the sheer fucking insanity of the meeting - Christ, he thinks he's even intrigued by whatever fucking voices the man hears inside his head. It makes his words good-humoured and indulgent as he considers the unknown claim on Marc. "I suppose the lack of answer on your part means you'd rather be fucked dry," Alfie states. "That's all right, I'm not all that fond of having my cock sucked. After all, your mouth is really just another fucking hole waiting to be fucked, isn't it?" Part of him is tense with an eagerness to brutalize - not because Marc doesn't care to belong to him, exactly, his interest in hurting the man derives more from the obvious strength corded into the muscle in him than anything else. It has a great deal of appeal, that, the thought of hurting a man in a way he's incapable of being fully prepared to endure.
No, there isn't a fucking question of fucking Marc. Claiming the man demands that Alfie fuck him and he's conscious that settling his claim on Marc now - before the man has time to consider anything else - is the only way to do away with any chance Marc might have of evading Alfie's intent to own him. For all the numerous ways for a soulbond to be accepted, the majority of them tend to veer away from ownership, Alfie knows, the few that go anywhere close to it still stopping sharply short of any real show of force, but it only stands to reason that if it's in Alfie's nature to hurt and possess that it must be in his other half's nature to be owned and taken apart.
Still gripping Marc's neck, Alfie reaches around him to undo his trousers and he jerks them open to draw Marc's cock free, his hand slipping down to cradle Marc's balls and lift them free of that cage of fabric, too. Marc's skin is appealingly hot in his hand - the weight of his testicles heavy against his palm - and Alfie kneads them possessively before he finally lets them go. "If you beg for it, I'll reconsider taking your arse dry," he tells Marc almost fucking cheerfully before he jerks the man's trousers down past his hips. "Taking care of one's possessions has to be another fucking mitzvah, yeah?"
He uses the word to rile Marc up but a possession is more or less what Alfie is leaning towards making of the man. It suits him to own a rabid fucking dog like this one, after all, and if the pretty shudders Marc has been offering since Alfie gripped his neck are any fucking clue then he's sure it more than fucking suits Marc to be a used piece of chattel.
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Date: 2022-05-08 12:33 am (UTC)Terror grips in him at the words Alfie speaks so cheerfully about fucking him dry, but there’s a distance between him and the panic of pure emotion and Marc is certain the greater part of it isn’t his. He’s already compartmentalizing, some part of him calm and resolute about enduring what Solomons intends to do, since it seems his body won’t fight back, and then leaving it behind him just like he’s left everything else that hurt. He can’t, Marc, he can’t do this to you, you can’t let him hurt you, Steven is saying and Marc cuts him off, determined not to let him be a part of this.
Go away, right now. Go away, shut your eyes and go to sleep. You cannot handle this.
While he’s dealing with that he’s aware of Solomons still gripping him by the neck like he’s an animal to be held by the scruff as he reaches around him to undo his trousers, and then Solomons’ hand on his cock, jerking Marc out of his own head with a gasp. He shudders as the man cups his balls and kneads them, the edge of roughness an unwilling counterpoint to the cold shrinking sensation within him, his cock feeling heavy and hot. “You’re a real sick fuck, aren’t you?” he says to the other man, fury in the words, clenched between his teeth. Solomons offering to let him beg not to be fucked dry twist into him as he turns his head towards the man. “Why don't you shove your mitzvah up your ass instead?"