[ his legs move of his own accord. he stands at the very threshold of the bathroom and simply stares at her. it's as though she's like any creature he's seen before, standing in her bathroom, back to him — the clarisse la rue he knows would never bare such a vulnerable part of her body, not even to her own cabinmates. ]
Yeah.
[ a small, dark part of luke thinks to make her say it. could i what, la rue? what is it that you could possibly need from me? but the quiet voice inside of him that wants to spite her, to get payback for all the shit she's done to him — punching and punishing him continuously like he's still the bad guy — is just that: quiet. it's a luke that's angry, the kind of wrath that had spurred him on to take on a world much larger than one, sole demigod. ]
[ he wonders if this is a trick. did clarisse learn something from spending so much time with the aphrodite kids? but it's a cruel thing to think. clarisse hardly thinks well of her own body, unless it can be turned into a weapon ... and using it as silena had once done so, he doubts her even capable. he stares at her neck, though, then her shoulders, then those powerful shoulder-blades that work as hard, if not even more so, than her own legs. but when his eyes lift, he sees hers, and that desire to push her to say it, to even demand it of him, dissipates almost instantly. ]
Right. [ his own voice sounds rough. ] Okay.
[ taking a step forward, luke's hands remain uselessly by his sides. his hands are the most powerful tool he has — nothing can stop him when he puts them to work, whether it be a lock or a computer or a sword. but he finds his fingers slack, the bones in them turned to fluid. he moves closer so he can feel the heat of her body almost soak through his own clothes, as if they're in some sort of water bubble. outside, in the real world, she could barely touch him, not even when her own hand had been in his. but here, in his own private den, he finds heat searing his skin at the mere proximity he is to her. ]
[ one hand comes to lightly touch her shoulder, as if to anchor him — for his own purpose? or that of the zipper? — and the other latches onto the zip and begins pulling it down. the hand on her shoulder disappears, though, to come and hang uselessly by his side, but the teeth are hard, as all zippers are, and he finds that he has to brace the dress in place by curving his hand against the slope of her side, just before the bone of her hip. he keeps his eyes trained on her back, on watching the teeth of the zipper open up as if a mouth, as the knuckle of one of his fingers slides down her spine lightly as its revealed to him. ]
no subject
Yeah.
[ a small, dark part of luke thinks to make her say it. could i what, la rue? what is it that you could possibly need from me? but the quiet voice inside of him that wants to spite her, to get payback for all the shit she's done to him — punching and punishing him continuously like he's still the bad guy — is just that: quiet. it's a luke that's angry, the kind of wrath that had spurred him on to take on a world much larger than one, sole demigod. ]
[ he wonders if this is a trick. did clarisse learn something from spending so much time with the aphrodite kids? but it's a cruel thing to think. clarisse hardly thinks well of her own body, unless it can be turned into a weapon ... and using it as silena had once done so, he doubts her even capable. he stares at her neck, though, then her shoulders, then those powerful shoulder-blades that work as hard, if not even more so, than her own legs. but when his eyes lift, he sees hers, and that desire to push her to say it, to even demand it of him, dissipates almost instantly. ]
Right. [ his own voice sounds rough. ] Okay.
[ taking a step forward, luke's hands remain uselessly by his sides. his hands are the most powerful tool he has — nothing can stop him when he puts them to work, whether it be a lock or a computer or a sword. but he finds his fingers slack, the bones in them turned to fluid. he moves closer so he can feel the heat of her body almost soak through his own clothes, as if they're in some sort of water bubble. outside, in the real world, she could barely touch him, not even when her own hand had been in his. but here, in his own private den, he finds heat searing his skin at the mere proximity he is to her. ]
[ one hand comes to lightly touch her shoulder, as if to anchor him — for his own purpose? or that of the zipper? — and the other latches onto the zip and begins pulling it down. the hand on her shoulder disappears, though, to come and hang uselessly by his side, but the teeth are hard, as all zippers are, and he finds that he has to brace the dress in place by curving his hand against the slope of her side, just before the bone of her hip. he keeps his eyes trained on her back, on watching the teeth of the zipper open up as if a mouth, as the knuckle of one of his fingers slides down her spine lightly as its revealed to him. ]