[ I would say "no Set, and not for lack of trying", but this is definitely the first time he might be able to get with Matt in ANY way, and that's delightful. Clobbers him.
He's not — unwilling to play along. It feels like something he can do, and some part of him thinks back, back, to Horus. To not feeling... ready, or versatile, "for" him. Not being ready to take on those determined affections. Why not give a few things a try here? Clobbers him twice, because his response is — unskilled, to say it kindly. It might not be as smooth or OVERTLY sexy, either. A bit too pragmatic, maybe. ]
You know if you do not put clothes on, I WILL throw you over my shoulders and carry you away as-is.
S sex aside, you would
You
I would break you in half, no matter how we arranged it.
[ This might sound totally wild, but the reason Matt doesn't immediately say oh sorry, this was for someone else is because he doesn't want Set to feel slighted again. Like the least favored god among Saltburnt's spread. Matt already feels like he might have been unfair to Lucifer (yes, that Lucifer); if this becomes a pattern, he'll have to do some serious soul-searching as to whether he deserves the powers he was gifted with.
Also, Set's reply is riddled with tidbits that are just begging for follow-up. Are these tidbits erotic? Maybe not strictly speaking. Matt's intrigued nonetheless. ]
You'd literally break me in half?
No way. You've already touched me without breaking anything.
[ Is Set really going to carry him off??? It'd be like the fourth time since he got to this manor, if so. ]
[ that's very nice of matt not to do that because set WOULD feel deeply slighted because he DOES have a horrific sense of self and value bestowed upon him via soul-rending curse. he WOULD become ANGY again, and that would not be fun. he also doesn't understand that you can like,
send a text to the wrong person, or butt-dial. ]
I could. I absolutely could. I am very strong.
[ He's also curious. About a lot of things, and ( SHOCKINGLY? ) painfully shy. ]
I nearly crushed your ribs with my thighs alone, Matthew.
I am not
It's not that
I would not do it on purpose. At least not while NOT mad at you. And s
[ Matt devours the lines of Set's text messages like they're a poem that leads to buried treasure. His lips twitch in fond recollection for nearly crushed your ribs with my thighs alone; he lingers on that line a moment before following the rest of the messages down to--
Oh.
Oh. ]
I mean
maybe it's not something YOU do while mad, but ...
I can say I've had some pretty satisfying angry sex. Mortals in general seem to manage to straddle that divide in a fun way more often than you'd think
Matt is beginning to map out a number of textures and touchpoints in the vast, diaphanous landscape of Tropical Storm Set. Some are sharp, lashing, all "nature red in tooth and claw." Some hit like a punch to the mouth. But some, he finds, are surprisingly tender. ]
Noted. That's okay.
That's good.
I only want to do things that other people want.
[ Clumsy phrasing, and a massive understatement, but it's true. ]
[ Well, he is, one day, the god of chaos. A god of disorientation and confusion, meant to bring to light the fallacies of devotion and rattle faith to its core. He's also made of conflicting things, so yeah. Tender bastardcore. ]
Okay.
So, when you say... you are good to have sex, if someone is on top.
Is that a medical assessment or because someone wants it of you?
It's my interpretation of "no heavy activity," which is a medical assessment
and it's something I want to do.
[ Really, really wants to do. Saltburnt has spoiled Matt in terms of access to charming partners for frequent and mind-melting sex, and at this point in his routine, he's not used to going this long (d a y s) without some form of sex. ]
[ not easily at all! but when set is injured, he has an animal hindbrain that thinks anyone approaching him has ill intentions, even if he's invited then into his space. ( it's the trauma :( ) ]
But, if it is what you want, who are you to be denied it! I guess it is your body to use against others, even though you are so crushable.
I definitely am on top, though. Injured or not, you will not best me for it.
And although I think it'd be pretty hot to fight you and lose and then you ravish me, [ Matt decided a long time ago, if decide is the right word for it, to lean into physical vulnerability as both a way to reclaim his sense of agency and a rebuke of the notion that witches are predatory monsters (it's! the trauma!!!) ] in the name of keeping all my stitches in the right place, I promise to play nice
I am competitive. So, also in the name of keeping your injury from being re-opened, if we are to fight, when I tell you to submit — do so. Deal?
[ He can do this. It's like the time he snuck into Horus's quarters to dominate him, except there's no animosity between himself and Matt. It's a — what had the others called it? "An imaginary situation", in which masks are worn and they play pretend. He can play pretend very well! ]
Deal. [ To be honest, just reading the words when I tell you to submit has him feeling fluttery and warm. ] Whenever you wanna stop by, I'll be in my room.
[ Matt knows Set knows how to get there because of how he didn't need any guidance before grabbing his clothes. He also knows "whenever" is a pretty vague window, so he could be waiting for twelve hours or five minutes. Which means he has to hurry. Matt gets up, stitches pulling slightly, and starts working.
By the time Set arrives, whenever that happens to be, the door is cracked slightly. Nothing seems amiss; Matt's even visible on the bed, sitting propped up among the luxurious pillows in his pajama pants. (No shirt, because: why?) There's a faint magical gleam about the doorframe, but it's not a visible thing. Its golden energy is only detectable to the discerning. ]
[ He can do this, he repeats to himself. Entering the circumstances knowing that Matt will cleave to him when he is told to helps; control is what he fears the loss of, and perhaps beginning to expand his horizons with this man will be easier than having to fight one of the rougher ones. ( Set will lose, he knows. If someone tests their sexual dominance against him, he will lose. And it will be just like before, just like every time before with hands and teeth and flesh tearing him apart. )
To go to another man, knowing that he is going to partake in intimacy of the flesh ( for reasons, he cannot YET simply call it "sex"!!! ), he feels anxious. A crawling thing inside of his belly that tells him that he must not. It is silly to seek the heat of another man. Yet, he can remember kissing Horus. He can remember the way he'd thrown his arms around his shoulders and dove into the urgent, strong fold of his mouth; the way Horus's broad hands and strong arms had held him, and the brilliant, adoring blue of his eyes that looked upon Set with such glorification of his person.
He goes to Matt, because he wants to be knowledgeable and worthy of that worship. He doesn't want to flounder and flinch. And he pushes the door open without paying any mind to the spellwork around it — why would he? he's endless! — and he lowers his head and bunches his shoulders when he sees Matt, waiting and topless. It's different, when someone wears a shirt, for them to be bare. The war god's hair falls over his shoulders, pupils blowing wide and black within the red of his eyes, teeth bared in a sharp smile. ]
— what manner of fight is this, Matthew Jamison? [ and he just STEPS RIGHT IN :) get fucked set ]
[ So listen, Matt's mental calculus goes a little like this:
Set has said he's competitive. Set seems to grok the appeal of physical confrontation in a way he doesn't immediately apply to sex. Matt is constrained by a promise to yield when told to yield. Matt still wants Set to feel fulfilled by this encounter--flush with the thrill of victory, whatever exactly that means to him in his vast and glittering mind.
Therefore.
Set crosses the threshold, his question barely out, when the sigils limning the doorframe blaze like white gold. The space around him seems to collapse inward, dense as a star, and Set finds himself encircled by a scrim of demi-transparent golden light. For such a gauzy thing, the barrier is surprisingly resistant to being crossed.
On the bed, Matt sits bolt upright, giving a peal of bright laughter. (There's a teeny hint of strain in the way he sits, but for the most part, adrenaline seems to be carrying him along.) ]
That, [ he exclaims, ] is the art of motherfucking war.
[ 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.
[ Matt's laughter begins to fade as he focuses more closely on Set within the barrier. He's listening to him talk, but much more than that, he's watching his face, the way tension enters his posture and leaves it again, the places in his body that light up with potential energy. Set looks good dappled in magic. Right, somehow--as if through this holy lens, adoring as a stained-glass chapel, Matt is able to see how he'd appear lit by desert sun, haloed in a corona of golden sand.
And then, to his great surprise-that-shouldn't-be ... Set fucking bites the shield.
He bites it.
Matt's eyes widen, impressed and ruffled in equal measure. For a moment, he just watches Set's teeth tear at the delicate tapestry, his magic unraveling under the sheer force of it. A quick-and-dirty barrier of this sort, with only a bit of breath and sigil holding it together, can really only take one good hit before dissolving like a sugar cube in water. ]
Wow, [ Matt says. (Two seconds ... three ...) ] Uh, actually, "The Art of War" is a b--
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He's not — unwilling to play along. It feels like something he can do, and some part of him thinks back, back, to Horus. To not feeling... ready, or versatile, "for" him. Not being ready to take on those determined affections. Why not give a few things a try here? Clobbers him twice, because his response is — unskilled, to say it kindly. It might not be as smooth or OVERTLY sexy, either. A bit too pragmatic, maybe. ]
You know if you do not put clothes on, I WILL throw you over my shoulders and carry you away as-is.
S sex aside, you would
You
I would break you in half, no matter how we arranged it.
no subject
Also, Set's reply is riddled with tidbits that are just begging for follow-up. Are these tidbits erotic? Maybe not strictly speaking. Matt's intrigued nonetheless. ]
You'd literally break me in half?
No way. You've already touched me without breaking anything.
[ Is Set really going to carry him off??? It'd be like the fourth time since he got to this manor, if so. ]
no subject
send a text to the wrong person, or butt-dial. ]
I could. I absolutely could. I am very strong.
[ He's also curious. About a lot of things, and ( SHOCKINGLY? ) painfully shy. ]
I nearly crushed your ribs with my thighs alone, Matthew.
I am not
It's not that
I would not do it on purpose. At least not while NOT mad at you. And s
sex isn't something you do while mad
no subject
Oh.
Oh. ]
I mean
maybe it's not something YOU do while mad, but ...
I can say I've had some pretty satisfying angry sex. Mortals in general seem to manage to straddle that divide in a fun way more often than you'd think
no subject
[ damn why is HE getting so mad about the angry sex other people are having wow set ]
How is being hurt during sexual intimacy at all "satisfying"? Or fun! Or survivable, depending on how strong an angry partner might be!
[ Oh.
Maybe he's worried for Matt? ]
no subject
[ STRONG START ]
I mean, if it doesn't do anything for you then it doesn't, but all the same pulse-racing, adrenaline-producing lines of thought apply here.
or maybe how a little salt can make something sweet taste better
no subject
[ thank god this is text because set is So Visibly Uncomfortable
also this is not sexy at all sorry you've been dragged into unsexy times again matt ]
I would not want
To be an experience you survived.
no subject
Matt is beginning to map out a number of textures and touchpoints in the vast, diaphanous landscape of Tropical Storm Set. Some are sharp, lashing, all "nature red in tooth and claw." Some hit like a punch to the mouth. But some, he finds, are surprisingly tender. ]
Noted. That's okay.
That's good.
I only want to do things that other people want.
[ Clumsy phrasing, and a massive understatement, but it's true. ]
no subject
Okay.
So, when you say... you are good to have sex, if someone is on top.
Is that a medical assessment or because someone wants it of you?
no subject
It's my interpretation of "no heavy activity," which is a medical assessment
and it's something I want to do.
[ Really, really wants to do. Saltburnt has spoiled Matt in terms of access to charming partners for frequent and mind-melting sex, and at this point in his routine, he's not used to going this long (d a y s) without some form of sex. ]
no subject
[ not easily at all! but when set is injured, he has an animal hindbrain that thinks anyone approaching him has ill intentions, even if he's invited then into his space. ( it's the trauma :( ) ]
But, if it is what you want, who are you to be denied it! I guess it is your body to use against others, even though you are so crushable.
I definitely am on top, though. Injured or not, you will not best me for it.
no subject
with them too.
And although I think it'd be pretty hot to fight you and lose and then you ravish me, [ Matt decided a long time ago, if decide is the right word for it, to lean into physical vulnerability as both a way to reclaim his sense of agency and a rebuke of the notion that witches are predatory monsters (it's! the trauma!!!) ] in the name of keeping all my stitches in the right place, I promise to play nice
no subject
Well, of course you would lose and be r
ravished by me.
I am competitive. So, also in the name of keeping your injury from being re-opened, if we are to fight, when I tell you to submit — do so. Deal?
[ He can do this. It's like the time he snuck into Horus's quarters to dominate him, except there's no animosity between himself and Matt. It's a — what had the others called it? "An imaginary situation", in which masks are worn and they play pretend. He can play pretend very well! ]
no subject
[ Matt knows Set knows how to get there because of how he didn't need any guidance before grabbing his clothes. He also knows "whenever" is a pretty vague window, so he could be waiting for twelve hours or five minutes. Which means he has to hurry. Matt gets up, stitches pulling slightly, and starts working.
By the time Set arrives, whenever that happens to be, the door is cracked slightly. Nothing seems amiss; Matt's even visible on the bed, sitting propped up among the luxurious pillows in his pajama pants. (No shirt, because: why?) There's a faint magical gleam about the doorframe, but it's not a visible thing. Its golden energy is only detectable to the discerning. ]
cw allusions to sexual violence
To go to another man, knowing that he is going to partake in intimacy of the flesh ( for reasons, he cannot YET simply call it "sex"!!! ), he feels anxious. A crawling thing inside of his belly that tells him that he must not. It is silly to seek the heat of another man. Yet, he can remember kissing Horus. He can remember the way he'd thrown his arms around his shoulders and dove into the urgent, strong fold of his mouth; the way Horus's broad hands and strong arms had held him, and the brilliant, adoring blue of his eyes that looked upon Set with such glorification of his person.
He goes to Matt, because he wants to be knowledgeable and worthy of that worship. He doesn't want to flounder and flinch. And he pushes the door open without paying any mind to the spellwork around it — why would he? he's endless! — and he lowers his head and bunches his shoulders when he sees Matt, waiting and topless. It's different, when someone wears a shirt, for them to be bare. The war god's hair falls over his shoulders, pupils blowing wide and black within the red of his eyes, teeth bared in a sharp smile. ]
— what manner of fight is this, Matthew Jamison? [ and he just STEPS RIGHT IN :) get fucked set ]
no subject
Set has said he's competitive. Set seems to grok the appeal of physical confrontation in a way he doesn't immediately apply to sex. Matt is constrained by a promise to yield when told to yield. Matt still wants Set to feel fulfilled by this encounter--flush with the thrill of victory, whatever exactly that means to him in his vast and glittering mind.
Therefore.
Set crosses the threshold, his question barely out, when the sigils limning the doorframe blaze like white gold. The space around him seems to collapse inward, dense as a star, and Set finds himself encircled by a scrim of demi-transparent golden light. For such a gauzy thing, the barrier is surprisingly resistant to being crossed.
On the bed, Matt sits bolt upright, giving a peal of bright laughter. (There's a teeny hint of strain in the way he sits, but for the most part, adrenaline seems to be carrying him along.) ]
That, [ he exclaims, ] is the art of motherfucking war.
[ PRACTICE DISSIMULATION AND YOU WILL SUCCEED. ]
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.
no subject
And then, to his great surprise-that-shouldn't-be ... Set fucking bites the shield.
He bites it.
Matt's eyes widen, impressed and ruffled in equal measure. For a moment, he just watches Set's teeth tear at the delicate tapestry, his magic unraveling under the sheer force of it. A quick-and-dirty barrier of this sort, with only a bit of breath and sigil holding it together, can really only take one good hit before dissolving like a sugar cube in water. ]
Wow, [ Matt says. (Two seconds ... three ...) ] Uh, actually, "The Art of War" is a b--