[ for a moment, she is back at camp half-blood — in the big house, in her cabin, in his cabin when no one else was around — and her chest tightens with a sense of urgency, her legs moving in circular motions against his sides, her fingers clawing desperately at his back, trying to pull him down harder, harder — and she tries to imagine what it would have been like if they were both still at camp, if they had seen in each other then what they see in each other now. would it have been this desperate, this good?
his mouth drags her from out of the crook of his neck, though not out of her thoughts, not entirely. she's sure he can taste the familiar scents of camp on her skin and on her lips — the heavy scent of pine and dirt, wood and smoke, as if she lives and breathes and sweats the essence of camp half-blood, the essence that has shaped them both into who they are now in some way or another. it was home for both of them once, a home that kept them both safe, though not necessarily from each other. luke, with all his anger and resentment for the gods, and clarisse with her pride and passion, always clashing and butting heads be it with weapons or wit, on and off the field of battle. she knows luke no longer considers it home and she won't try to convince him otherwise — it's a life better left behind him — but she also knows the forsaken can be unforsaken, and all prodigal sons can one day return home.
she moves her hand away from his neck to join forces with the other on his back, spreading her palms wide against his sides as she slides them over tense, hardened muscle, and then just under the elastic of his underwear. it stretches with little resistance from the power of her fingers and she presses them down hard over the contours of his ass, bringing the unnecessary layer of fabric down with them. ]
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his mouth drags her from out of the crook of his neck, though not out of her thoughts, not entirely. she's sure he can taste the familiar scents of camp on her skin and on her lips — the heavy scent of pine and dirt, wood and smoke, as if she lives and breathes and sweats the essence of camp half-blood, the essence that has shaped them both into who they are now in some way or another. it was home for both of them once, a home that kept them both safe, though not necessarily from each other. luke, with all his anger and resentment for the gods, and clarisse with her pride and passion, always clashing and butting heads be it with weapons or wit, on and off the field of battle. she knows luke no longer considers it home and she won't try to convince him otherwise — it's a life better left behind him — but she also knows the forsaken can be unforsaken, and all prodigal sons can one day return home.
she moves her hand away from his neck to join forces with the other on his back, spreading her palms wide against his sides as she slides them over tense, hardened muscle, and then just under the elastic of his underwear. it stretches with little resistance from the power of her fingers and she presses them down hard over the contours of his ass, bringing the unnecessary layer of fabric down with them. ]