[ it seems kind of fitting that he'd handed her a red shirt, since all he seems to see with her is red. he's not blind to see that it's a colour that suits her, but he's a little too distracted by his own anger to really take note of the view. otherwise, he'd make her uncomfortable by leering at her, having his eyes linger on her long legs or where the shirt opens to reveal even more of her flesh. she's always been tall, almost rivalling him, and while he used to think resting his arm on her shoulder when she'd been shorter had been a fun way to rile her up, he's kind of glad that she's grown to a height where that would be made near impossible. her presence has always been an overpowering one, just like her height. ]
[ it's time for him to push her, though. ares kids have always been bullies, and hermes kids have always taken the shit people throw at them without so much as a whine. he's kind of tired of being her punching bag. he's allowed it, over the last few months, because he knows he deserves it. he can't punish himself enough for fucking up big time — for misunderstanding what family really is, of allowing his anger to control him. he doesn't not think the gods deserved a smack down, but not at the cost of everyone else. ]
[ he thinks clarisse deserves one, though. he's allowed her to hit him and bruise him and bust his jaw and his nose and all without much complaint. he even walks into her fist if she holds it up high enough for him to smack into. but he's tired of the bruises and he's tired of the reminders that he's only good for one thing — and that's a repeat performance. where's the glory in doing what others have done? where's the glory, the healing, in continuously moving in a cycle where he ends up beaten rather than moving forward? luke looks at clarisse with a soft gaze for something akin to hope, that perhaps, maybe, if she forgives him, as annabeth and percy and grover and the rest of them are nowhere to be found, that maybe he can somehow forgive himself. ]
[ luke takes a step forward, towering over her — and knowing that he is, that his height is perhaps one of the only advantages he has in this. he'll always have it; clarisse may be able to cut him at the knee, but he'll always have a few inches on her to make her feel as small as she's made him feel over their brief passing. ]
Like what? [ his eyes are hard on hers, his voice still burning with anger, but he tries not to shout. he bites it out. like the name his long lost blade had taken, he tries to bite back by fighting fire with something just as hot and searing, but different. he's tired of playing by clarisse's rules; she's changed them, anyway — coming into his apartment, entering his life, leaving some stupid imprint of a fist on his face. she's wearing his shirt, and he knows, when this is all over, when she finally hightails the hades out of there, he won't be able to wash her scent out, regardless of how many times he tries. ] Seems to me you have a problem with just me being around.
no subject
[ it's time for him to push her, though. ares kids have always been bullies, and hermes kids have always taken the shit people throw at them without so much as a whine. he's kind of tired of being her punching bag. he's allowed it, over the last few months, because he knows he deserves it. he can't punish himself enough for fucking up big time — for misunderstanding what family really is, of allowing his anger to control him. he doesn't not think the gods deserved a smack down, but not at the cost of everyone else. ]
[ he thinks clarisse deserves one, though. he's allowed her to hit him and bruise him and bust his jaw and his nose and all without much complaint. he even walks into her fist if she holds it up high enough for him to smack into. but he's tired of the bruises and he's tired of the reminders that he's only good for one thing — and that's a repeat performance. where's the glory in doing what others have done? where's the glory, the healing, in continuously moving in a cycle where he ends up beaten rather than moving forward? luke looks at clarisse with a soft gaze for something akin to hope, that perhaps, maybe, if she forgives him, as annabeth and percy and grover and the rest of them are nowhere to be found, that maybe he can somehow forgive himself. ]
[ luke takes a step forward, towering over her — and knowing that he is, that his height is perhaps one of the only advantages he has in this. he'll always have it; clarisse may be able to cut him at the knee, but he'll always have a few inches on her to make her feel as small as she's made him feel over their brief passing. ]
Like what? [ his eyes are hard on hers, his voice still burning with anger, but he tries not to shout. he bites it out. like the name his long lost blade had taken, he tries to bite back by fighting fire with something just as hot and searing, but different. he's tired of playing by clarisse's rules; she's changed them, anyway — coming into his apartment, entering his life, leaving some stupid imprint of a fist on his face. she's wearing his shirt, and he knows, when this is all over, when she finally hightails the hades out of there, he won't be able to wash her scent out, regardless of how many times he tries. ] Seems to me you have a problem with just me being around.