[ 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--
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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--