“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: 2022-05-08 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?"