[ his hands against her back, nails dragging down her spine, are just enough to make her breath hitch, catching in the back of her throat, and she pulls away from his neck to return that shit-eating grin of his. he's a fast learner, like all hermes kids seem to be, but he's bolder, more aggressive than chris ever was. chris was soft and timid, and clarisse had to coax him into biting and scratching and fucking her hard into the wall. he was always more worried about hurting her, despite the fact that he'd seen her hold her own numerous times in battle and slay a drakon without so much as blinking an eye. sure, she appreciated the concern sometimes, but other times it was exhausting, suffocating.
she appreciates the lack of concern luke has more, his willingness to follow her lead, to counter every one of her moves with his own, as if they're choreographing a new dance one step at a time. she thinks she likes this one a lot better than the old one. ]
I was hoping you'd say that.
[ just as promised, or threatened — not that it matters either way — she balls her fists into his shirt and pulls, the cotton fabric no match for the strength of ares. it rips easily in a jagged line, finally exposing his chest, and clarisse's lips curl into a smirk, her eyes wild with pride. she'd forgotten how built he was, and for a moment she's lost just staring at him, the contours of his biceps, the hardworked definition of his abdomen.
she runs her hands over his chest, spreading the torn fabric over his shoulders, but not removing it entirely. she'll let him take care of the rest while she sits back on her knees, staring him down and not once taking her eyes off him as she carefully undoes the buttons of his shirt on her shoulders at an agonizingly slow speed. she wants him to watch her, unbuttoning one after the other with a slight roll of her hips accompanying each button undone. ]
no subject
she appreciates the lack of concern luke has more, his willingness to follow her lead, to counter every one of her moves with his own, as if they're choreographing a new dance one step at a time. she thinks she likes this one a lot better than the old one. ]
I was hoping you'd say that.
[ just as promised, or threatened — not that it matters either way — she balls her fists into his shirt and pulls, the cotton fabric no match for the strength of ares. it rips easily in a jagged line, finally exposing his chest, and clarisse's lips curl into a smirk, her eyes wild with pride. she'd forgotten how built he was, and for a moment she's lost just staring at him, the contours of his biceps, the hardworked definition of his abdomen.
she runs her hands over his chest, spreading the torn fabric over his shoulders, but not removing it entirely. she'll let him take care of the rest while she sits back on her knees, staring him down and not once taking her eyes off him as she carefully undoes the buttons of his shirt on her shoulders at an agonizingly slow speed. she wants him to watch her, unbuttoning one after the other with a slight roll of her hips accompanying each button undone. ]