[ luke groans, deep within his throat — the rumble of a dragon, note quite a drakon; although, he wonders if he is like the serpent that she had slain in her bid to exact revenge for a misgiving dealt by his hand. he feels himself splitting in half as her strong hips meet his, spinning him into a fire to forge and mold him into the strongest and, yet, weakest blade her nimble fingers could handle. one of his hands comes to slide down her leg and pull her at the bend of her knee, but it's useless, for he is just as guarded as she is. he wants to possess her in a way that he is finding she is of him; he's not a child of ares, but he finds himself viciously fighting this battle as if he were, with all the sharpness he can muster: with his short, blunt fingernails and his deadly canines and sharp, out-of-time thrusts. those long fingers of his slip beneath the waistband of her underwear, but they don't dive further to explore, not like how he would with the woods or during a game of capture the flag, seeking out the enemy behind every bush and tree trunk. ]
[ but he finds that he is just as he had always been. he had always fought her with sharp words and sharp blades held by fingers with weaker nails, unlike hers that have always cut like that of a dragon claw. but he remembers how she would always unsaddle him somehow, by making him pause and rethink his decision, change the tactic in which he approached stealing the flag or kicking her feet from out under her. luke doesn't like the reminder of the past. camp half-blood remains shrouded in shadows and buried deep within the back of his mind. even when he thought himself rid of it, she would come, smelling of pine and of the smoke of lava and the campfires. he'd always acted so arrogantly in a bid to earn himself a punch from clarisse; as a personification of camp half-blood, so proud and passionate in her ugly, bright orange shirt she no longer wore, had made luke's blood bubble in a different way to now. she'd been a walking reminder of all the disappointment he had elicited from those who once knew him — no one would ever look upon him with familiarity if they were to see him. he is simply a betrayer, a demigod who had gone against the grain and his own kind. but clarisse doesn't look at him now with that in her gaze — he finds that she's not looking at him at all. ]
[ it's clear to him she enjoys his sharpness of his teeth to the softness of his lips, but luke finds it slightly disheartening, something dark swooping within his heated gut, that she doesn't seem to meet him. she diverts to his neck or his collarbone, but only ever briefly does she linger on the most powerful weapon he owns. he tries to still his hips, but he finds that they are as uncontrollable as that of a dragon waiting to be tamed by his own hand. he lifts his head, needing to focus his eyes as he tries to capture her busy gaze. ] You afraid I'm going to bite?
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[ but he finds that he is just as he had always been. he had always fought her with sharp words and sharp blades held by fingers with weaker nails, unlike hers that have always cut like that of a dragon claw. but he remembers how she would always unsaddle him somehow, by making him pause and rethink his decision, change the tactic in which he approached stealing the flag or kicking her feet from out under her. luke doesn't like the reminder of the past. camp half-blood remains shrouded in shadows and buried deep within the back of his mind. even when he thought himself rid of it, she would come, smelling of pine and of the smoke of lava and the campfires. he'd always acted so arrogantly in a bid to earn himself a punch from clarisse; as a personification of camp half-blood, so proud and passionate in her ugly, bright orange shirt she no longer wore, had made luke's blood bubble in a different way to now. she'd been a walking reminder of all the disappointment he had elicited from those who once knew him — no one would ever look upon him with familiarity if they were to see him. he is simply a betrayer, a demigod who had gone against the grain and his own kind. but clarisse doesn't look at him now with that in her gaze — he finds that she's not looking at him at all. ]
[ it's clear to him she enjoys his sharpness of his teeth to the softness of his lips, but luke finds it slightly disheartening, something dark swooping within his heated gut, that she doesn't seem to meet him. she diverts to his neck or his collarbone, but only ever briefly does she linger on the most powerful weapon he owns. he tries to still his hips, but he finds that they are as uncontrollable as that of a dragon waiting to be tamed by his own hand. he lifts his head, needing to focus his eyes as he tries to capture her busy gaze. ] You afraid I'm going to bite?