[ sometimes luke wonders if clarisse is too sharp. he has cut and scarred himself on that of a dragon claw — is she no different? he has been bruised and broken by her hand, even though the markings have faded with time unlike that of a dragon. perhaps she's more drakon than dragon, capable of breathing fire, but never quite gifted in charring him. ]
[ a part of luke knows exactly what it is she wants — and he wants to give it to her, to plunge into her until she combusts, dissipates beneath his hands like that of the spark he had killed within himself — but luke finds he doesn't want to simply be a mere fuck she'll forget in the theatre of her memories. heroes are remembered — the ones worth remembering are held upon pedestals, and those who are beneath them strive to be them. luke knows he's no hero, no matter what percy might have said on his deathbed, but he finds he wants to strive for a place within clarisse's memory where heroes are stored and remembered. he will fade, one day, from the lives he had touched and destroyed, but unlike the marking of the dragon that will forever remind him of his successes and failures and what he had gained and lost, they will never look upon their own flesh and think luke. even the redness on her thigh he had sucked into being will fade with time. ]
[ clarisse is sharp and hard where luke has now turned soft and blunt, and he finds that his fingers only continue to stay hooked in her underwear, knuckle pressed hard against her hip, with him pressing now right against her underwear. all he has to do is rip it from her like she had his shirt and his sense of security — no one can touch him within his fortress, he had thought, not until clarisse la rue, but he doesn't do as he so desires. he continues to press his pelvis into hers, feeling himself spark like a fire where she grinds; it should be enough to make him comply and lose control, but luke possesses a willpower that is only unique to him, and while his eyes roll and he groans low and deep within his own throat, he persists on. one hand leaves her underwear to try and burrow beneath her back, the ascent up her spine causing him to stretch and extend above her. for once, his touch lacks that of his claws; blunt finderpads against a canvas waiting to be painted red. when he reaches the middle of her shouder-blades, he gives her a push, pressing hard against the notches of her spine there. ] Then c'mere.
[ she drags her mouth against his, bites at his lip, pulling the bottom in a bid to rip him apart as if he is meat dangling in front of her, but luke finds she doesn't simply kiss him. kissing is more intimate than what they're doing now — and he finds himself longing for it, the intimacy, the belonging, the acceptance, the gift that he deserves as much. ]
no subject
[ a part of luke knows exactly what it is she wants — and he wants to give it to her, to plunge into her until she combusts, dissipates beneath his hands like that of the spark he had killed within himself — but luke finds he doesn't want to simply be a mere fuck she'll forget in the theatre of her memories. heroes are remembered — the ones worth remembering are held upon pedestals, and those who are beneath them strive to be them. luke knows he's no hero, no matter what percy might have said on his deathbed, but he finds he wants to strive for a place within clarisse's memory where heroes are stored and remembered. he will fade, one day, from the lives he had touched and destroyed, but unlike the marking of the dragon that will forever remind him of his successes and failures and what he had gained and lost, they will never look upon their own flesh and think luke. even the redness on her thigh he had sucked into being will fade with time. ]
[ clarisse is sharp and hard where luke has now turned soft and blunt, and he finds that his fingers only continue to stay hooked in her underwear, knuckle pressed hard against her hip, with him pressing now right against her underwear. all he has to do is rip it from her like she had his shirt and his sense of security — no one can touch him within his fortress, he had thought, not until clarisse la rue, but he doesn't do as he so desires. he continues to press his pelvis into hers, feeling himself spark like a fire where she grinds; it should be enough to make him comply and lose control, but luke possesses a willpower that is only unique to him, and while his eyes roll and he groans low and deep within his own throat, he persists on. one hand leaves her underwear to try and burrow beneath her back, the ascent up her spine causing him to stretch and extend above her. for once, his touch lacks that of his claws; blunt finderpads against a canvas waiting to be painted red. when he reaches the middle of her shouder-blades, he gives her a push, pressing hard against the notches of her spine there. ] Then c'mere.
[ she drags her mouth against his, bites at his lip, pulling the bottom in a bid to rip him apart as if he is meat dangling in front of her, but luke finds she doesn't simply kiss him. kissing is more intimate than what they're doing now — and he finds himself longing for it, the intimacy, the belonging, the acceptance, the gift that he deserves as much. ]