[ clarrise rocks her hips into luke like a ship trying to navigate unknown and tempestuous waters. she doesn't have percy's natural understand of the sea, has no concept of how to control it — though she doubts anyone truly can aside from the god of the sea himself. even then she knows how easy it is to fall prey to crashing waves, and if she isn't careful, she might lose herself, find herself drowning under his weight, much sooner than she'd like.
his rhythm is erratic, unlike the beating of her heart, which beats fast and steady, a battle drum raging against her chest — how can he not hear it? it rings in her ears, beat after beat, directing the way her hips roll in an attempt to find the balance in their discord. part of her wishes she could swallow him up entirely, like the mighty charybdis, only to spit him back out again and start all over.
perhaps the world has already done that to him, though — taken a young hero and thrown him into the sea of monsters, just to watch him fail as he let anger and resentment swallow him alive, becoming exactly that which he was intended to fight until the moment came that he would have his second coming, one where the gods and everyone else no longer needed another hero or martyr. she wonders what it must've been like, thrown so abruptly back into a life that is no longer his own. ]
Fuck, Luke — [ she's cut off by her breath catching in her throat, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. she arches into him and with it presses her head as far back into the sheets as it will go, returning his grip on her hand with enough force to bend even iron to her will. she can't even begin to comprehend how much she loves the way he says her name, breathy and hot against her shoulder; the way she knows she has done this to him, reduced him to desperate thrusts and her name on his lips. it's almost enough to send her over the edge, almost enough to send her reeling toward the only thing that makes sense right now, but she's nothing if not stubborn and she refuses to let this be over so soon, despite the rising heat boiling inside her threatening to explode and her near inability to breathe.
she draws her free hand over his jaw as his mouth comes to meet hers again, frenzied and sloppy; her fingers brush over his scar, but she keeps her hand there, at his cheek, gently directing him where to go. she isn't often this gentle, but scars are meant to be revered — not feared as so many people believe — and her hand there, gentle and unmoving, is her call to worship. ]
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his rhythm is erratic, unlike the beating of her heart, which beats fast and steady, a battle drum raging against her chest — how can he not hear it? it rings in her ears, beat after beat, directing the way her hips roll in an attempt to find the balance in their discord. part of her wishes she could swallow him up entirely, like the mighty charybdis, only to spit him back out again and start all over.
perhaps the world has already done that to him, though — taken a young hero and thrown him into the sea of monsters, just to watch him fail as he let anger and resentment swallow him alive, becoming exactly that which he was intended to fight until the moment came that he would have his second coming, one where the gods and everyone else no longer needed another hero or martyr. she wonders what it must've been like, thrown so abruptly back into a life that is no longer his own. ]
Fuck, Luke — [ she's cut off by her breath catching in her throat, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. she arches into him and with it presses her head as far back into the sheets as it will go, returning his grip on her hand with enough force to bend even iron to her will. she can't even begin to comprehend how much she loves the way he says her name, breathy and hot against her shoulder; the way she knows she has done this to him, reduced him to desperate thrusts and her name on his lips. it's almost enough to send her over the edge, almost enough to send her reeling toward the only thing that makes sense right now, but she's nothing if not stubborn and she refuses to let this be over so soon, despite the rising heat boiling inside her threatening to explode and her near inability to breathe.
she draws her free hand over his jaw as his mouth comes to meet hers again, frenzied and sloppy; her fingers brush over his scar, but she keeps her hand there, at his cheek, gently directing him where to go. she isn't often this gentle, but scars are meant to be revered — not feared as so many people believe — and her hand there, gentle and unmoving, is her call to worship. ]