[ a nice, firm punch to the jaw, perhaps that to the nose, breaking the bone that's only just healed from his last bump in with her. she's always leaving her marks on him in the form of bruises or broken bones or tiny, little scratches that heal over time. she never quite stays, not like the rest of them, so he expects her to present him her usual gift and then scram. ]
[ but the old clarisse of months past seems lost within the depths of the shirt she wears of his. he feels everything — the wall at his back, her hands burning his neck, her mouth on his. luke's hands have moved of their own accord, curling on the bones of her hips in a bid to keep him astride whatever idea she has inside of her head. but he doesn't have time to react or even reciprocate. like a storm, she consumes him, and he has very little time to comprehend the danger the tornado her anger and resentment and grief and friendship presents. ]
[ he stares down at her, eyes open, maybe for the first time in a long time, with his fingers gripping her sides so tight. he can feel the bones of her hips, can feel it beneath the pads of his fingers; the heat of her body burns into his. it's the most real thing he's felt ever since he crossed the border of camp. he doesn't feel as though he belongs — he very much doubts the contours of clarisse will be as soft as she is right now, or fit him like the hands of both thalia and annabeth had so right in his own grip, but, for right now, luke can feel that the world is shifting beneath his feet. the glory in repeating what others have done — this is new, and while luke has been so desperate to lead his own path, he finds himself a little panicked at such a turn. ]
[ but his hands curl into the fabric of his own shirt, the one that she wears quite clumsily on her own shoulders, raising it just slightly as he ducks his own head to hers. where she had crashed into him like an angry wave bashing against the shoreline, he meets her differently — soft and slow, he tries to coax her mouth open with his. she has already split him in half, ripping him apart, that it's time he returns the favour. ]
[ he wonders what she means, though. enough as in enough, you need to get over yourself or that he's enough, simply just enough. ]
no subject
[ a nice, firm punch to the jaw, perhaps that to the nose, breaking the bone that's only just healed from his last bump in with her. she's always leaving her marks on him in the form of bruises or broken bones or tiny, little scratches that heal over time. she never quite stays, not like the rest of them, so he expects her to present him her usual gift and then scram. ]
[ but the old clarisse of months past seems lost within the depths of the shirt she wears of his. he feels everything — the wall at his back, her hands burning his neck, her mouth on his. luke's hands have moved of their own accord, curling on the bones of her hips in a bid to keep him astride whatever idea she has inside of her head. but he doesn't have time to react or even reciprocate. like a storm, she consumes him, and he has very little time to comprehend the danger the tornado her anger and resentment and grief and friendship presents. ]
[ he stares down at her, eyes open, maybe for the first time in a long time, with his fingers gripping her sides so tight. he can feel the bones of her hips, can feel it beneath the pads of his fingers; the heat of her body burns into his. it's the most real thing he's felt ever since he crossed the border of camp. he doesn't feel as though he belongs — he very much doubts the contours of clarisse will be as soft as she is right now, or fit him like the hands of both thalia and annabeth had so right in his own grip, but, for right now, luke can feel that the world is shifting beneath his feet. the glory in repeating what others have done — this is new, and while luke has been so desperate to lead his own path, he finds himself a little panicked at such a turn. ]
[ but his hands curl into the fabric of his own shirt, the one that she wears quite clumsily on her own shoulders, raising it just slightly as he ducks his own head to hers. where she had crashed into him like an angry wave bashing against the shoreline, he meets her differently — soft and slow, he tries to coax her mouth open with his. she has already split him in half, ripping him apart, that it's time he returns the favour. ]
[ he wonders what she means, though. enough as in enough, you need to get over yourself or that he's enough, simply just enough. ]