[ luke doesn't understand clarisse's deal. she shifts from hot to cold within a matter of seconds — and he can't quite keep up. but before he knows it, the door has been slammed in his face. he's gone from hot to cold himself — from cold to warm to scorching, to only find himself freezing in his own damn room. ]
[ he stares at the door and sheds himself of his jacket. a part of him, the good part, the one he thinks that wants to behave and atone and be worthy of something akin to forgiveness, drops down on the edge of his bed and pulls his shoes off. if she wants to go home after this, she can walk herself. but it's then, with the weight of his denim jacket off his shoulders and his shoes no longer weighing him down, he feels himself free to move — and, most importantly, to feel. ]
[ he marches back to the bathroom and pushes the door open. luke's never been the type to simply let others push him around. hadn't he so much as proved that to the gods? push him around and he pushes back — he'd wanted to be on his best behaviour with clarisse, to break them out of their vicious cycle of shit, but he finds that she just continues to push, push, push. ]
[ luke's observant. it's how he had managed to trick percy all those years ago, it's how he had been able to steal the master bolt from zeus. but his anger has blinded him, and with his brows pulled together and his hands bunched into tight, tight fists, all he sees when he enters the bathroom is red. not clarisse in a dress, not clarisse's bare shoulders, not clarisse's bare back. his gaze first lands on her back, on the space between her shoulderblades, before landing somewhere on her profile. ] What's your problem? Do you get off on playing games with people?
[ is this some sort of fucked up punishment? had she demanded he not leave her alone and bring her back to his simply to fuck with him? she's had enough of punching him in the face, so she's going for the gut? it's not really a secret that luke doesn't have anyone. for her to waltz back into his life and offer the hand of potential friendship, or at least a friendly acquaintanceship, is cruel if she's going to simply take it away. he understands that he deserves it, he understands that even she believes he deserves very little, but seeing it in action rather than merely thinking it scars deeper than a dragon's claw. ]
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[ he stares at the door and sheds himself of his jacket. a part of him, the good part, the one he thinks that wants to behave and atone and be worthy of something akin to forgiveness, drops down on the edge of his bed and pulls his shoes off. if she wants to go home after this, she can walk herself. but it's then, with the weight of his denim jacket off his shoulders and his shoes no longer weighing him down, he feels himself free to move — and, most importantly, to feel. ]
[ he marches back to the bathroom and pushes the door open. luke's never been the type to simply let others push him around. hadn't he so much as proved that to the gods? push him around and he pushes back — he'd wanted to be on his best behaviour with clarisse, to break them out of their vicious cycle of shit, but he finds that she just continues to push, push, push. ]
[ luke's observant. it's how he had managed to trick percy all those years ago, it's how he had been able to steal the master bolt from zeus. but his anger has blinded him, and with his brows pulled together and his hands bunched into tight, tight fists, all he sees when he enters the bathroom is red. not clarisse in a dress, not clarisse's bare shoulders, not clarisse's bare back. his gaze first lands on her back, on the space between her shoulderblades, before landing somewhere on her profile. ] What's your problem? Do you get off on playing games with people?
[ is this some sort of fucked up punishment? had she demanded he not leave her alone and bring her back to his simply to fuck with him? she's had enough of punching him in the face, so she's going for the gut? it's not really a secret that luke doesn't have anyone. for her to waltz back into his life and offer the hand of potential friendship, or at least a friendly acquaintanceship, is cruel if she's going to simply take it away. he understands that he deserves it, he understands that even she believes he deserves very little, but seeing it in action rather than merely thinking it scars deeper than a dragon's claw. ]