[ Honestly, he'd asked for it. A competition, an opportunity to metastasize his desire for physical dominance into intimacy ( Quentin's words had rung a little bell in his head, after all; a notification resonating within him, that some people thought of violence as intimacy, that some people liked tooth and claw in a way that got them off — ). It's not like he wants to rip Matt apart or anything, he's just stumbling through a few millennia of — well, naivety.
The barrier snaps shut around him, thin and pretty and transparent. And magic is a thing he never had, not like his siblings. Isis and her gauzy tendrils of mist, Osiris's mint-scented ivies and roots, Nephthys's arcs of warm light — moving around them like auras, fetching physical items and interacting with individuals from a distance, stroking cheeks and kissing brows and touching the tops of heads gently. And then, there was him.
No magic. Just sands, imitating and mimicking and falling short, strange, unlike them the flow of magic. Physical manifestations of physical power, his fists and claws and weapons and sands. God of magic, god of life, god of harmony. God of the desert. Born last and different and always, always yearning. It almost hurts to feel magic against his skin for a moment, and he can only turn that hurt into fuel for determination. Into fuel for anger. Anger into power. ]
— you think a trap is war?
[ His voice crackles, a mix of complex emotion and a brief twinge of don't you dare and a desperate little oh, i don't want to lose it. His mouth curls slowly, first at the corners and then at the lips, until he's come to bare his animal-sharp teeth — incisors and canines and premolars like a carnivorous cat or dog — at Matt's laughing form. ]
Little witch, you must not challenge so boldly.
[ He's not mad. He's not. He's just suddenly very, very interested in sinking his teeth into the pretty barrier, in getting his claws deep into it like a beast might slip theirs into soft flesh, biting and curling his fingers hard and fast and pulling the barrier. Straining to tear it apart by sheer force, the way he always has had to with magic. Physical prowess against metaphysical. Somewhere, something tears audibly.
And that's when the delight comes back into his eyes, bright and red and thin dark pupils like a devil as he feels something slacken between his teeth. Through gritted jaw he sneers, joyfully: ] Five seconds.
no subject
The barrier snaps shut around him, thin and pretty and transparent. And magic is a thing he never had, not like his siblings. Isis and her gauzy tendrils of mist, Osiris's mint-scented ivies and roots, Nephthys's arcs of warm light — moving around them like auras, fetching physical items and interacting with individuals from a distance, stroking cheeks and kissing brows and touching the tops of heads gently. And then, there was him.
No magic. Just sands, imitating and mimicking
and falling short, strange, unlike themthe flow of magic. Physical manifestations of physical power, his fists and claws and weapons and sands. God of magic, god of life, god of harmony. God of the desert. Born last and different and always, always yearning. It almost hurts to feel magic against his skin for a moment, and he can only turn that hurt into fuel for determination. Into fuel for anger. Anger into power. ]— you think a trap is war?
[ His voice crackles, a mix of complex emotion and a brief twinge of don't you dare and a desperate little oh, i don't want to lose it. His mouth curls slowly, first at the corners and then at the lips, until he's come to bare his animal-sharp teeth — incisors and canines and premolars like a carnivorous cat or dog — at Matt's laughing form. ]
Little witch, you must not challenge so boldly.
[ He's not mad. He's not. He's just suddenly very, very interested in sinking his teeth into the pretty barrier, in getting his claws deep into it like a beast might slip theirs into soft flesh, biting and curling his fingers hard and fast and pulling the barrier. Straining to tear it apart by sheer force, the way he always has had to with magic. Physical prowess against metaphysical. Somewhere, something tears audibly.
And that's when the delight comes back into his eyes, bright and red and thin dark pupils like a devil as he feels something slacken between his teeth. Through gritted jaw he sneers, joyfully: ] Five seconds.