divided | ( open post! ) voicetest → luke castellan!

( open post! ) voicetest → luke castellan!

what do:
→ drop a prompt (images work best for me!) or a previously written scenario.
→ completely up to date (but if you throw hoo at me I will have to rely on you and Google).
→ i'm gonna be slow because i'm possessed. (what else is new?)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ it seems kind of fitting that he'd handed her a red shirt, since all he seems to see with her is red. he's not blind to see that it's a colour that suits her, but he's a little too distracted by his own anger to really take note of the view. otherwise, he'd make her uncomfortable by leering at her, having his eyes linger on her long legs or where the shirt opens to reveal even more of her flesh. she's always been tall, almost rivalling him, and while he used to think resting his arm on her shoulder when she'd been shorter had been a fun way to rile her up, he's kind of glad that she's grown to a height where that would be made near impossible. her presence has always been an overpowering one, just like her height. ]

[ it's time for him to push her, though. ares kids have always been bullies, and hermes kids have always taken the shit people throw at them without so much as a whine. he's kind of tired of being her punching bag. he's allowed it, over the last few months, because he knows he deserves it. he can't punish himself enough for fucking up big time — for misunderstanding what family really is, of allowing his anger to control him. he doesn't not think the gods deserved a smack down, but not at the cost of everyone else. ]

[ he thinks clarisse deserves one, though. he's allowed her to hit him and bruise him and bust his jaw and his nose and all without much complaint. he even walks into her fist if she holds it up high enough for him to smack into. but he's tired of the bruises and he's tired of the reminders that he's only good for one thing — and that's a repeat performance. where's the glory in doing what others have done? where's the glory, the healing, in continuously moving in a cycle where he ends up beaten rather than moving forward? luke looks at clarisse with a soft gaze for something akin to hope, that perhaps, maybe, if she forgives him, as annabeth and percy and grover and the rest of them are nowhere to be found, that maybe he can somehow forgive himself. ]

[ luke takes a step forward, towering over her — and knowing that he is, that his height is perhaps one of the only advantages he has in this. he'll always have it; clarisse may be able to cut him at the knee, but he'll always have a few inches on her to make her feel as small as she's made him feel over their brief passing. ]

Like what? [ his eyes are hard on hers, his voice still burning with anger, but he tries not to shout. he bites it out. like the name his long lost blade had taken, he tries to bite back by fighting fire with something just as hot and searing, but different. he's tired of playing by clarisse's rules; she's changed them, anyway — coming into his apartment, entering his life, leaving some stupid imprint of a fist on his face. she's wearing his shirt, and he knows, when this is all over, when she finally hightails the hades out of there, he won't be able to wash her scent out, regardless of how many times he tries. ] Seems to me you have a problem with just me being around.

[ the fire in clarisse's eyes dies down, no longer a raging inferno, but something more akin to a campfire, something both of them can relate to. camp had brought them together, once. she knows luke will never return to camp half-blood, but the warmth of the atmosphere, of friends and family alike, shines in her eyes. she's seen luke in so many different lights today, isn't quite sure which one this is.

he towers over her — only by a few inches, but still enough to be intimidating — and she holds her ground, lets his words pierce through her armor, the vehemence in his voice like poison slowly corroding her defenses. she's still angry, but not enough to bite back. there's still time to fix this, even if fixing a situation with luke castellan is the last thing she'd ever imagine herself doing. ]

I don't. [ it's quiet as much as it is true. she doesn't have a problem with him being around, not really. it's just an act, a defensive maneuver set in place for when he gets too close — she lets him get too close — and she panics; her fear of letting people in and facing her feelings has always been one of her greatest downfalls. then, just to clarify: ] Not anymore. [ she hesitates, looking him over as if she's trying to find something she lost. it's a futile effort, because she knows — she knows the old luke castellan is gone. she's seen it, she's experienced it, even if he pretends and puts up a mask of his old self, it isn't there anymore. not really. that part of him died with kronos. ] You've changed. [ it isn't forgiveness, not exactly, but it's something. ]

[ she's changed, too, literally, emotionally, mentally. she can understand how percy and annabeth and chris and silena all forgave him, but it's still too big of a leap for her to take in one day. he's already started to change her mind, just by doing all of this, for not putting up with her just putting up with him, for finally pushing back and calling her out on the things she's too afraid to admit. whether she realizes it or not, this is what she's been looking for all these years — of course it would be a son of hermes who would deliver it to her. ]

Edited 2014-04-10 01:33 (UTC)

[ he doesn't like how she shifts, hot to cold, hot to cold, hot to cold. he can't keep up. luke's used to running — he can run miles and along long stretches of land and still have a sense of place, but when it comes to clarisse these days, he can't figure her out. he still doesn't understand why she's here, in his apartment, wanting to shed the skin of a girl who is a mere stranger to him. why does she wish to bare herself to him when all she does is look at him with contempt? he's the bad guy, he's her bad guy, and yet, here she is, her tone changing to something softer, and she's looking at him like he can hang the moon for her instead of destroying it. ]

[ every time they meet, she brings up the past. every time they seem to collide, she has a bone to pick with him. but how can she still do so when he has none left? all the skeletons in his closet have evacuated the area. he's left alone, not even his thoughts care to stay and keep him warm. to him, he's always a problem for her — it's why he feels so unbalanced and unsettled with having her in his apartment, having her throw him for a loop by asking for a shirt, having her undress herself from the layers of brick she wears around her body so people like him can't even get close to touching her heart. if annabeth had listened to clarisse, if she had been wiser, had clued in a little better, she would've wrapped herself up in clarisse's impenetrable suit of armour long ago. ]

[ luke stares at her. he's not sure how much time passes between her finally relenting and his anger crumbling. his brows pull together, uncertain, confused, definitely still as angry as he had been, but he's coming down from his high. he scoffs, shaking his head, and his eyes shift from hers. she may be giving him honesty and a part of herself neither expected her to give so freely, but luke is still guarded, and he can't look her in the eye for fear of what he'll see — and of fear of what she'll see in his. ] Clearly not enough.

[ it had been a moment of weakness only seconds ago, when she'd allowed him to take down her walls. it'd been a moment of weakness for him, using her as an anchor to a world that has no place for him. but she had stepped back into her old defensive shoes and had so much as pushed him away from her and the weak spots in her armour. she may be trying to view him as the hero, but he will always be the villain in her story. ]

[ a past version of herself would've just given up at this point, shoved past him and walked out, tugging his track pants on as she stormed out of his apartment onto an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar neighborhood. but she isn't that girl anymore and he has her grounded here, his eyes keeping her situated here, in his apartment, staring at him like she wants to strangle and kiss him at the same time. clarisse is used to boys being frustrating, but this is a whole new level of it.

she knows she can't convince him of anything, at least not with words. she doesn't have skill over her tongue like some people she knows, she only knows how to threaten and intimidate — words of reassurance and comfort aren't in her playbook. she only has her actions, and they do say actions speak louder than words. she's grateful for that, at least. it makes pushing him into the wall behind him that much easier, her lips crashing into his like she crashes into everything else in her life. it's hard and angry, but there's a passion in it she never knew she could have for him.

her hands stay planted firmly on his neck as she pulls away, staring into his eyes with an intensity that has only ever harbored hate — but there isn't any hate in her eyes, there's only a desperate craving for him to understand, that maybe if she bores her gaze into his skull he'll finally get it. ]

Enough.

[ it's just one word, somewhere in between a command and a simple statement of fact, but it speaks volumes. he's changed enough for her or she wouldn't be doing this, and she's had enough of his pathetic self-deprecating shit. she doesn't even have any pity left to give him, she just wants him to shut up. and with just one word, she's telling him to stop and start all at once, though she has no idea if her message will be clear to him or not. ]

[ he'd been expecting a punch. ]

[ a nice, firm punch to the jaw, perhaps that to the nose, breaking the bone that's only just healed from his last bump in with her. she's always leaving her marks on him in the form of bruises or broken bones or tiny, little scratches that heal over time. she never quite stays, not like the rest of them, so he expects her to present him her usual gift and then scram. ]

[ but the old clarisse of months past seems lost within the depths of the shirt she wears of his. he feels everything — the wall at his back, her hands burning his neck, her mouth on his. luke's hands have moved of their own accord, curling on the bones of her hips in a bid to keep him astride whatever idea she has inside of her head. but he doesn't have time to react or even reciprocate. like a storm, she consumes him, and he has very little time to comprehend the danger the tornado her anger and resentment and grief and friendship presents. ]

[ he stares down at her, eyes open, maybe for the first time in a long time, with his fingers gripping her sides so tight. he can feel the bones of her hips, can feel it beneath the pads of his fingers; the heat of her body burns into his. it's the most real thing he's felt ever since he crossed the border of camp. he doesn't feel as though he belongs — he very much doubts the contours of clarisse will be as soft as she is right now, or fit him like the hands of both thalia and annabeth had so right in his own grip, but, for right now, luke can feel that the world is shifting beneath his feet. the glory in repeating what others have done — this is new, and while luke has been so desperate to lead his own path, he finds himself a little panicked at such a turn. ]

[ but his hands curl into the fabric of his own shirt, the one that she wears quite clumsily on her own shoulders, raising it just slightly as he ducks his own head to hers. where she had crashed into him like an angry wave bashing against the shoreline, he meets her differently — soft and slow, he tries to coax her mouth open with his. she has already split him in half, ripping him apart, that it's time he returns the favour. ]

[ he wonders what she means, though. enough as in enough, you need to get over yourself or that he's enough, simply just enough. ]

[ if clarisse were a weaker person, she might have melted the second luke's hands found themselves back on her hips. she's only felt one of them there before, but the weight of them feels familiar, natural, like they've done this a thousand times before. maybe it's chris she's thinking of, but right now all she sees is luke, all she feels is luke.

his grip is tight and real and it keeps her focused on the moment, focused on him. her brain is screaming at her to push him away, to raise all her shields against him, but fights the urge to run away yet again from something she started, and she pushes into him, her fingers digging into the hair at the base of his neck, tugging him closer to her as he initiates the kiss. he might start it soft and slow, but clarisse meets him with all her roughness wrapped in a silk package.

the noise she makes in the back of her throat isn't something she's heard in a long time, not even in the privacy of her own bunk when none of her siblings are around to walk in on her. sparring rarely even frustrates her to the point she needs to rub one out, anyway. not a lot excites her these days — but luke, luke is new, luke is something unfamiliar, unknown, something she wants to learn and explore and conquer.

she drags her teeth across his bottom lip, breaking the kiss only to breathe shallow breaths. the corners of her lips curl upward in a smirk, but this isn't a game to her. this is as real as everything else, as real as holding his hand for the first time, except this time she won't let herself let go. ]

Convinced?

[ it's not mocking in the slightest, she just wants to know where they stand with one another, what page they're on, if they need to do anymore of this kind of catching up. she'd gladly shove him into another wall for the thrill of it if he still needs a little help getting it through his thick skull. ]

[ he thinks to say yes, but he knows that it'll be a lie. something has shifted within clarisse to make her see him for something that he's not — or someone that he is, that he simply can't spot when he looks in the mirror. luke's judgement is so clouded these days. he expects the worst from those he doesn't know, and expects the same contempt from those who he does. it's as if people can't change, as if he can't change, and perhaps clarisse's whirlwind of a personality is just what he needs to realise that things can shift and things can get better. ]

[ he gazes at her with heavy-lidded eyes, finding his heart beating quicker than he can run. he doesn't doubt she can't feel it. she's the daughter of war, even the goddess of it; there's no way she can't feel the ripples of her touch and the destruction she brings forth. his lip curls up, amused, and his blue eyes are bright. his fingers seem to shift, just slightly; he finds he doesn't particularly wnat to let her go. ]

Could do with a little more convincing.

[ one of his hands moves from her hip and grabs the fabric of the shirt at her back, pressing his knuckles hard into her spine there, trying to push her further into him. he drops his head to press his mouth against her collarbone, switching between kissing the delicate skin there and nipping at it. if he wants to be convinced, it seems as though he's got it all wrong; he's the one trying to convince her he's worth something. ]

[ clarisse is about to say something witty in response, but finds the words stolen out of her mouth, as only a child of hermes can, drawn out of her in a gasp that means nothing and means everything. she wonders why she keeps finding herself tangled in the arms of the sons of hermes, if this was her fate, if all along her heart was only meant to be stolen by the quickwitted and tricky — if this were a battle, she's already lost, just as she always seems to find herself when it comes to luke.

one hand still tangled in his hair, she guides him where she wants him to go. not just her collarbone, but her neck, too. she can imagine his lips there, and his teeth, and the bruise that might form there if he claims the skin as his own. she wants him to, anywhere, so she can wear it as a badge of honor, of pride, of change. this is a new step forward into something only they are apart of. there's no percy or annabeth or thalia or anyone — it's just luke and clarisse, and no gods could stop this now if they tried.

she turns her head, baring more of her neck to him, pressing her cheek to his, feeling that all too familiar warmth seep into her skin. her breath is shallow and warm against his ear and she tilts her head just enough to whisper one thing. ]

Bite me.

[ it's meant to be a joke, at first, a play on words for all the times they've snapped at each other and nearly bitten the other's head off — but she's also issuing him a challenge. she wants his teeth against her flesh, reminding her that she is still half mortal and that mortals can hurt and bleed and bruise and that it doesn't make you weaker or any less of a person if you do. ]

[ he tries to fight her at first, for only a mere second, when she tries to dictate where he's to go. but he finds that he likes how forceful she is, with how her grip is strong in his short cropped hair. he could fight her all day like this if she kept her fingers wrapped tightly there, nails scratching against his scalp. with her cheek pressed to his, luke shifts so his own lips barely graze the edge of her ear. at her words, he chuckles, something deep and low. he dips his head and slides his teeth down the slope of her neck, but never ones does he bite. ]

[ she may be a goddess of war, but luke will not simply comply like a soldier does to a lieutenant's words. if anything, he wants to be rebellious, if only to incur her wrath. and while he's been the target for so much of her wrath, something tells him he doesn't want to bypass this display of la rue rage. ]

[ instead, his hands move to grab her ass and haul her up against him, pelvis to pelvis, his arms swooping beneath her to hold her steady. it removes his mouth from her neck and allows him to look up at her for once. he ends up leaning his shoulders against the wall. he imagines his hair is mussed and his own eyes are a bright blue, face flushed and his neck red and hot. ]

[ luke smirks. his voice is husky, almost lost in how heavy his chest heaves. ] Was that an order or a suggestion?

[ her fingers dig into his scalp, tugging at his hair, as his teeth graze her neck. he's doing this on purpose, deliberately disregarding her command, teasing her with his laugh and his bite that isn't really a bite at all. she actually likes it a little better this way, him not listening to her, having a mind of his own. it makes things interesting, unpredictable, exciting.

he hoists her up and for the first time she's actually looking down at him instead of up, and she can't say she doesn't like the view. she almost expects him to shove her into the wall, but he doesn't, which is actually a little disappointing. where's the anger from before, the intensity? here is the raging inferno that nearly destroyed olympus reduced to only an ember. if he wants her to channel her rage, he'll have to meet her with the same level of intensity.

her legs curl around his hips, and she presses herself hard against him, the heat of him nearly searing her flesh beneath only the thin layers of fabric she wears. she thinks for a moment that it isn't fair that she's already half naked, but she's distracted by the way he looks at her, even just by the way he looks. it occurs to her she's never seen his face this close before and she takes a moment to stare at him, matching his expression with as much mischievousness but also with a hint of curiosity.

absently, she runs her fingers over the long scar under his right eye, almost with a sense of awe. she's no stranger to battle scars — they define her, scattered across her body, old and new testaments to her losses as well as her victories. they hold stories only scars can tell; some she wants to share, while others need no explanation. some she wears with pride, others with shame, though every scar is a victory in the end — proof that you're still alive to fight another battle, whether you win or lose.

she leans in, not to kiss him, just to tug at his lip with her teeth, breathing one word against his mouth. ]

Both.

[ his eyelids flutter when she touches his scar. it's not something many look at with fondness, not with the softness he can see so obvious in her intent gaze. luke usually flinches in a bid to cover up the reminder of his failure and his anger, but he finds that he doesn't want to jerk his face from clarisse's scorching finger. he finds himself taken off-guard, though, and his gaze and mouth softens, pliable beneath hers. ]

[ luke pulls his head back slightly to release his lip from between her teeth. his palm curves to the contours of her ass, a finger of his slipping just beneath the underwear she wears. ] I'll take it under advisement.

[ he's beginning to think he's not against her trying to seduce him anymore, not when she's like fire in his hands and all she does is burn him. she's almost naked to him, wearing his shirt with nothing underneath but a pair of panties that he could just so easily tear off and bare her to him. but with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the weight of her pressed against him, luke knows he can't accomplish what he wants while standing upright in his bathroom. ]

[ with another hoist of strength he didn't know he still longer possessed, he shifts her so she's a little higher than being hip to hip with him. pelvis to pelvis works, but if he's going to move, he needs to not have her distracting him with the friction of her right there. it's all about him gaining the dominance, not her; let her think she's steering the ship, but he's the one who is making it turn left and right and sink beneath the rocky waves of the ocean. pushing himself off the wall, he repeats the action by pressing his face against the column of her neck, his nose nuzzling at the warm skin there. and he begins to move them out of the bathroom he knows like the back of his own hand. rather than spin them so he can toss her onto the bed, he lets himself walk back, teeth grazing her skin lightly and not in the way she so intently wants, and lets himself drop back on the bed with his legs bent at his knees over the side. ]

[ while he kids himself into thinking they're both not going to fight for the wheel to steer, luke surrenders himself by dropping back and pressing a hand firmly against the working muscle of her lower back. ]

[ under normal circumstances, she'd hit him in response to him mouthing off like that, but this is not a normal circumstance. this is the farthest thing from a normal circumstance — and it's not like he's disrespecting her authority, because she doesn't own him and he doesn't have to answer to her. the way he so casually defies her — though isn't defiance second nature to him? — gets her heart racing, and she has to wonder if he can feel it, pounding against her chest like a war drum, and even harder between her legs. ]

You'd better.

[ he hoists her up again, and then they're moving, like only a child of hermes can. she hardly even notices the change of scenery, sinking her nails into the back of his neck and raking them across his skin in retaliation for the lack of pressure on hers. she clings to him as they move, eyes closed, breathing him in. there isn't the familiar scent of the outdoors anymore — he left that life a long time ago — but there's something else, something she can't quite pinpoint but wants more of because it's so distinctly luke.

the position they're in now, her straddled on top of him, isn't something she's unaccustomed to. how many times has she pinned someone like this in a friendly match of sparring? she can't even count on one hand, let alone both. this is a position she's comfortable with, the position that gives her the most control, but the way luke drops back like that, almost preemptively, not waiting for her to press her hands into his chest and shove him back — that makes her think he has a plan, that this position won't last long.

and while he doesn't give her the opportunity to shove him into the bed, he has given her this moment of opportunity, so she's going to take full advantage of it. she's as aggressive in bed as she is with anything else — for her, it offers the heat and the rush of battle but also the added gratification and release only sex can provide. she was always so much calmer when she and chris were dating — he subdued her in the only way he knew how; he became her outlet for all her frustration and he took it willingly, with as much understanding as he could (and when no one else was around, she let him fuck her into the pool table).

of course, luke isn't chris and she knows that. she isn't pretending or deluding herself into thinking otherwise — she was always in control with chris, but luke is a different story entirely. the power structure isn't the same; it's almost balanced, both of them pushing and pulling until eventually the scale evens out.

with a curl of her lip, she leans down on top of him, rolling her hips into his as her hands slide under the fabric of his shirt. her teeth graze his neck just as delicately as he'd been with her, her hands moving up his chest slowly, deftly, her words hot against his ear. ]

Are you going to take that off or do I have rip it off?

[ with a grip like hers and the strength of an army, it's certainly not an empty threat. ]

[ all luke wears is a dark t-shirt and jeans. he looks as though he's glancing down at himself, but he's merely dragging his eyes from the top of her torso to the bottom. his shirt exposes her to him, but not in the way he longs for. his own hips move in accordance to her, like a ship does when being tossed about by waves. in a way, he hopes a roll of his own hips will somehow, magically, make that shirt disappear. ]

[ but his head slams down against his sheets when she's leaning, pushing him to comply and bend to her will. but it's not as though he's going to complain — he grins, arching his own neck so she can have more field to graze. his hands climb the notches of her back, pulling the shirt up, not up and off. his nails scrape against the ladder of her spine, not hard enough to cut flesh, but hopefully enough to pull something out of her again. ]

Was never a big fan of this shirt.

[ he doesn't make a move to release his grip from her back and pull his own shirt up and off, nor does he gesture for her to use her hands and make war with the fabric. he's as neutral as he can be, waiting to see if clarisse will comply with either of her presented options or simply leave him to feel the coarseness of the fabric over the softness of her skin. ]

[ his heart pounds in the cage of his ribs. he knows she'd be able to feel it, especially if her teeth happen to graze over the pipeline of his pulse. he wonders if she likes it, the pounding of his heart, where luke's voice is husky and warm and doesn't hiccup at the mere roll of her hips. his hands slide back down her lower back before ascending once again, gripping the shirt she wears, pulling it up to no avail — it's not as though he can really see or feel her with his jeans as a barrier. and it's beginning to frustrate him, how she's so exposed and he's so covered, when, before, he much preferred it to be this way. ]

[ 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. ]

[ luke's breath gets caught up within a tangle in his throat when she rips his shirt in two. it shouldn't surprise him, this daughter of ares, that she's fully capable of breaking a tightly threaded thing apart as if it were wet and weak paper. as if to show her how much he likes it — her actions, not his shirt — he moves his hips unconsciously, but finds it painfully offensive that he's still wearing his thick jeans and isn't able to make her gasp in reply to how hard he already is. ]

[ he moves to push his now ripped in half shirt off his shoulders, settling all his weight onto his elbows, but only gets as far as his biceps before he finds himself distracted. the severity of the shape his mouth forms into a smirk slackens as his eyes seem to dry of all the mirth he'd been feeling. it's unsettling to him — like being smacked in the face with a large, heavy wave — of how hot he finds clarisse in his button-up shirt. with each roll of her hips, he finds his breath catch somewhere in his throat, a butterfly flutters somewhere in his chest and low in his stomach, and he wishes to move his own pelvis in reply, but she's such a heavy force to be reckoned with that he can hardly find the strength to fight back. ]

[ his hands move to her hips before sliding to her back in a bid to help pull himself up. his hands grip the hard muscle of her body for purchase, nails digging in, trying to find the chips within her that he can hold onto. pressing his face to the flesh above her breast, luke's teeth bite lightly at the skin as he mouth opens to suck there. he growls, but finds half of his roar is lost within his throat: ] You're a tease.

[ clarisse is gloating and she knows it. the sway of her hips in time with the last button is her own personal victory, and for now, nothing can wipe the proud smirk off her face, not even the momentary twitch of her abdomen when luke digs his nails into her skin, his teeth grazing at a much more sensitive part of her body. she finds a hand in his hair again, kneading at his scalp and pressing him closer. with the buttons undone, the shirt falls loosely off one shoulder with just a shrug.

she laughs, low and breathy, and almost forgets what she was going to say. he's being very distracting and it shouldn't be fair that him growling at her should be that hot. it speaks to the carnal part of her and she almost growls back, but it gets mangled in her throat, twisting into something that's almost a moan but not quite. luke can be good with his mouth when he wants to be. ]

I know.

[ she manages to focus long enough to remember that luke is still in his jeans, and those really need to go. there's too much material between them, too much getting in the way — and despite the fact that she could just dry hump him into submission, that's really no fun. maybe it's fun when you're teenagers and trying not to get caught and too scared to take everything off but still so desperate — but that isn't them or this and they've both been with people before, both know what it's like to feel someone's whole body beneath you, tensing and quivering beneath someone's touch.

her free hand reaches down toward the waistline of his jeans, fumbling one-handedly with the button and not having very much luck. she could bring her other hand down to help, but she likes it better in his hair, tugging at his hair like reigns. ]

Am I going to have to do all the undressing or are you going to help me?

[ luke lifts his shoulders, but the shrug is lost in the way his head dips and his shoulder-blades push against his flesh as he kisses his way across the expanse of collarbones now open to him. he thinks to lean back and watch the show, the revealing of herself to him, but luke is greedy and impatient and finds himself much preferring the tactile contact than one of him gazing upon her helplessly. ]

You're going to have to get off me if you expect me to help. [ or be of any use. while clarisse very much thinks dry humping is of the past, luke really doesn't care as long as she keeps grinding herself against him. if he bothers to move, he'll be able to flatten their chests together and feel her heart beat right beside his, rather than by his cheek or beneath his hungry mouth. he bucks his own hips, but finds the position a little difficult in doing so. she can grind against him all she likes, but he has to lie there and take it, hardly able to strike back as though this were a spar of swords. she's sitting on him, caging him in, and luke wants her to lift herself up and bare some of the weight,but he finds it hard pressed against his upper thighs. it's then he realises he'd like to be able to feel his effect on her, rather than simply hear it, but his hands can't free themselves of their hard grip on her hips and go exploring; he finds himself liking gripping onto the bone there. ]

[ reluctantly, though, he removes one hand grudgingly from her hip, sliding it down her thigh, before dropping it to his own pants and his joins hers with looping the button out of the hole. he's removed his face from her collarbones, his eyes glancing down at where their hands are. he thinks to look up at her, but luke has a feeling that he'll lose this little game they've found themselves playing if he does so. ] Still gonna have to get off.

[ clarisse pushes herself up onto her knees instead of leaning back on them, giving luke a little room to breathe before her hand dives downward, shoving past coarse fabric and elastic into coarse hair and luke. she squeezes hard, but that's all she does before she removes her hand and grinds down into him one more time, grinning wickedly. if he thinks this isn't going to her head, he's dead wrong. ]

I think that can be arranged.

[ she wanted to say something like you can get me off, but she settles for that instead. she's never been a huge fan of dirty talk, anyway; she doesn't want to end up sounding like an amateur porn star. she has more dignity than that.

she pulls his face to meet hers, her lips crashing into his once again, though not as violently as before, and she doesn't break it, doesn't breathe, until she's dragging her teeth across his bottom lip as she pushes herself off of him — only this time she actually removes herself from his lap fully, crawling over him to splay herself on his bed. his shirt is still half hanging onto her, loose fitting on her arms, but she likes it that way. she wants to keep some part of it on her, so when she returns it to him it won't be his anymore, but his with her scent on it, of pine and sweat and sex. ]

Come on, Castellan, it's not like we have all day.

[ except they do, and she could do this all night. she beckons him with a wave of her fingers, as if she's curling them around some invisible rope that's attached to him which will pull him back over to her. ]

[ luke finds himself leaning back on his hands, breathing hard, face flushed and chest red. he thinks he's been stunned, too caught up within the tornado of clarisse la rue — and a part of him doesn't give a shit if she throws him around like a rag doll and does whatever the hell she wants to him as long as she continues to keep her fingers gripped so tightly in his hair. but the sensation is lost and luke feels as cold as the ocean. she crooks her finger towards him, but it only draws a slow forming smile from him. his eyes rest appreciatively on how his shirt looks on her, as red as her rage and almost like that of his neck. ] Fine. [ he smirks and begins to bounce himself off of the bed. with his back to her, he sheds himself of his shirt, dropping what is now a victim of war to the floor. he turns so he can face her; with his head dipped slightly, he glances at her, then, through his lashes, his eyes tracing up and down her figure, from her long, powerful legs, up that torso of hers that contains so much rage. ]

[ his button may already be undone, but luke feels his mouth curve upward as he places his hands on his hips, loops his fingers into the waistband, and pulls his jeans down purposefully slow. she says they don't have all day, but doesn't she know they could have eternity if they wanted? a part of luke wants that — eternity of warmth, of being caught up in a whirlwind that bites and snaps and slaps at him, and pulls him from deep within the tartarus pit of self-pity and self-loathing he had found himself in. underneath his jeans he dons dark boxer briefs, pulled tight across his hips — and it's obvious to her naked eye what kind of a hard bargain she seems to drive. ]

[ but luke doesn't pull them down, despite hooking his fingers into the waistband teasingly. he takes the step he needs to drop his knee onto the bed, before he's crawling up it slowly, as if he's a panther and she's now his prey. ] You got somewhere to be, La Rue? [ underneath me, he thinks, even though he's certain he'll be on his back while she sits upon him as if she is a throne and he is merely nothing but wood. ]

[ from her position on the bed, she can see nearly all of him standing there, watching his shoulder blades work as he sheds himself of the remains of the shirt she had so inspiredly tore in half. it's almost a religious experience, watching him at the foot of the bed, taking in every detail of him she can — the curve of his mouth, familiar and tempting; his broad shoulders that once carried so much weight she isn't sure how he bore it alone; his fingers, impossibly long digits that hold in them so much power and persuasion; his hips she wishes she could reach, to grab him and pull him into her, offer him the release he so clearly needs.

a thousand butterflies fill her torso, a wave of heat and pleasure washing over her just from looking at him. her leg shifts slightly, bending her knee just so that she can attempt to calm the beating of her heart between her legs. he could just stand there and she could give him a show, press her fingers hard between her legs and moan his name for him until her whole body quivers and she's reduced to the mess he made of her — if he'd taken any longer returning to the bed, she might have. ]

I will if you don't get over here.

[ she's not actually threatening to leave, but he is too far away and she needs the weight of him on top of her, needs to leave the mark of clarisse la rue on his back when he fucks her and she claws at him for more. despite being in his domain, she will claim his territory as her own and the marks she gives him will be reminders of that. this will be her victory but she will share with him its glory. ]

Uh huh. [ he doesn't believe her — and it's quite obvious in his tone. he does think of taking his time, merely perching himself at the edge of his bed to see how patient the ever so impatient clarisse la rue is. is she as sharp as she is on the battlefield? he thinks so, having expected someone soft and pliable to wait for him in his bed. he wonders if she'd give him a show, spread her legs further apart, reveal even more of herself to him if he had kept her waiting and had any sort of control over his own impatience. if he did, he knows he couldn't simply stand there, still as a statue and just as unmoving; luke's no stranger to his own hand, but he'd much prefer clarisse's. her fingers are such powerful weapons, after all. she'd used them to pull him into her little vicious web with the way she'd pulled at his shirt on her lithe body. it'd been her to unbutton his shirt, not him, in a bid to bare herself to him in a way that he thinks should've won her the battle. ]

[ luke crawls up the bed at the pace of a snail, his eyes on hers, smile still pressed against his face. when he reaches where her toes are, luke thinks to simply climb over her and straddle her, to press himself against her and grind himself into her, but his arm comes out to reach for her leg, sliding his palm from the back of her ankle right up to where her knee bends. his other hand remains pressed hard against the bed between her legs. he shifts with the gradual sliding of his hand, shuffling on the bed, pressing to settle himself not quite at the vertex of her legs. and he finds himself bending, arm pulling her leg up and over his shoulder as he nuzzles his nose into the soft, meaty flesh of her inner thigh. ]

[ he stretches out gradually, back arched as he moves his way from the bend of her knee and up further until his nose brushes the line of her underwear. he ensures to keep it there, brushing, but not quite pushing, in a teasing touch like that of the fluttering butterflies that press hard and wild against his lower abdomen. it'd be so easy to have her come undone with just his mouth — the one thing she seemed to loathe back when they were two people pressed against the world, where riling her up was the best way to get off — but he thinks of her earlier request — demand — and opens his mouth wide against the skin, sucking it in, clamping his teeth gentle down on it, and letting it pop from his mouth before he soothes it over with his tongue and begins it all over again. ]

[ clarisse had about half a mind to just sit up and meet luke halfway, shoving him back into the sheets as he denied her before, but she remains patient, curious, a respite before the battle that is yet to come. the war she wages with luke for control is at a standstill, both of them refusing to back down — clarisse may not be actively asserting herself, but she has been dictating the rules and direction of this little encounter since the beginning, silently or otherwise.

as luke's hand moves up her leg, she thinks it's a good thing she decided to wear a dress today. they aren't her normal standard of beauty; they come with so much other pressure to look beautiful — makeup, accessories, shaving — but she'd glad she chose today, of all days, to uphold the societal standard. silena never pressured her or tried to convince her that her natural body hair wasn't beautiful, but even clarisse, one of the boys, understands that sometimes it's okay to be a girl, and the amount of hair on her legs doesn't change who she is.

today, her legs are smooth, though she has a feeling luke wouldn't really care either way. he expects her to be one of the boys, hard and tough with none of the feminine qualities her genetics have gifted her. but today she is strikingly feminine, all her roughness concealed behind smooth legs and full breasts.

his breath on her thigh makes her inhale sharply, but she grins down at him approvingly, the arch of her hips when his nose brushes so close enough to tell him, yes, keep doing that. she doesn't realize she isn't breathing until something escapes her mouth that sounds almost like a whimper, the muscles in her thigh tensing when he bites her. she throws her head back, squeezing her eyes shut, and she raises a hand to her mouth to bite down hard on her forefinger, her other hand clenching hard at the sheets next to her. ]

[ it's a pity luke doesn't have snakes for hair, or else he'd continue what he was doing, perhaps cover her entire leg with the markings of his teeth. he'd always noticed clarisse was a girl — one who prided herself in being more masculine than feminine, never afraid to get down and dirty with the boys. dirt would cake beneath her fingernails and she'd scrape and scar her knees proudly. but luke had always known that, despite all her sharpness and desire to be as blunt as a boy, she was always as curvaceous and soft as a girl beneath. ]

[ he smirks against her skin when he hears that whimper escape her. with one last bite and soothe over with his tongue, luke pulls himself away from her thigh, despite wanting to simply trail bites along the path that'll lead him to something sweeter. but if he stays between her legs, he won't be able to see her — and one of luke's favourite thing is to watch her. when she spars, when she climbs the lava wall, when she's simply commanding the attention of her house by her mere presence — clarisse had always been something of a beacon to him, his eyes always trailing after her in some way. today's no different, even though there's no wall to climb and ugly, bright orange shirt to hide the way her powerful shoulder-blades and the muscles in her back move. ]

[ pulling himself back onto his knees, his hair isn't as mussed as it would be if her fingers were still in there. he breathes hard as his eyes travel from the hard, strong muscles of her abdomen and up the valley between her breasts. luke's never been a particularly good swimmer — even when fighting percy on the surfboard of a wave, he hadn't been able to gain his bearings as well as he can in the air or on the battlefield — but he figures it's about time he tries out his strokes against clarisse. she has always been like water to him, able to be caught in between his hands, but she escapes through the open seams. he wonders if he'll be able to trap her now, or if she'll simply escape him again. stretching out like a cat, he places his hands on either side of her torso, and sweeps into her, mouth diving for hers with a bite to his kiss and his hips crashing into hers like that of a wave against rocks. ]

[ clarisse would have been more than happy to let luke suck and bite and massage her thigh with his mouth until she couldn't take it anymore, unraveling at the seams like she had so easily done with his shirt before. with every flick of his tongue and every scrape of his teeth, she can feel herself coming undone, one sensation at a time, and she wonders if this is what it feels like when he wills locks open with only his hand.

she stares at him, almost in a daze, when he returns to his knees, and a part of her questions if this is even real — for a moment, she feels the overwhelming sense of being trapped in the labyrinth again, never quite knowing the difference between what was real and what the labyrinth wanted you to think was real. chris was the realest thing she had when she could no longer trust her own mind — after he had already lost his.

now, luke is her sense of reality as much as he is the thing she keeps finding herself lost in. he is a maze of anger and passion and wit, but there is so much about him she has yet to find, always coming to the same dead ends again and again and again. perhaps it's because she finds herself taking a new route through the labyrinth of luke castellan, that she finds herself more lost than ever, that she needs him to guide her — and shouldn't that be an easy job for the son of the god of travelers? he's already guided her here, through the murky depths of the past, or maybe she just found herself here, a secret entrance she never knew existed, to a man she never knew could exist — all he had to do was take her hand.

her hands come to meet him as he crashes into her and she drops back into the sheets, dragging her nails across his neck and over his back to match the ferocity of his biting kiss. her legs move of their own accord, drawing themselves closer to her abdomen and locking him between her legs while her hips rock up into him. she gives a little grunt, and tries to focus on words, something witty like is that all you've got? but all she can manage between biting at his lips and pulling his hair, burying her face in his neck and clinging to him for all dear life so she doesn't lose herself entirely in him, is: ]

Gods, Luke...

[ when she's not taking possession of his mouth, it's his neck — luke finds his nose pressed hard against her scalp as he breathes heavily, finding his heart dancing to an incredibly violent rhythm. it'll pop out of his chest if they keep it up, if he allows her to possess him much like a titan — but luke doesn't doubt that he won't mind this possession, where he had once deteriorated into a skeleton of his former self, he has a feeling that whether he's above or beneath or in clarisse that he'll somehow find himself soaring higher than the heavens zeus resides in. isn't the point of a titan to possess power? they were the first, the gods the second, and the demigods the third — clarisse may be less powerful than the god she descends from, but she has prowess when dealing with the warfare of affection. luke's lost, but he has an inkling that he's finally been found. ]

[ one of his hands remains flat on the bed, fingers gripping the sheets for purchase, while his other grapples at her shoulder; his fingers massage into her flesh just as his hips continue to rock into hers. he'd meant to take it slow, agonisingly enough to make her plead for mercy, but he finds himself within the throes of another war where his hips move of their own accord as he tries to thrust into clarisse despite the barriers preventing him from doing so. luke grunts in reply, not quite hearing her, rather intent on listening to her breathing and the little sounds that a goddess of war shouldn't even be capable of making. she is not meant to be soft or pliable within his hands, and while the nails on his back suggest otherwise, she lets him lay on top of her when a child of war would think it a slap to the face. ]

[ moving the hand from her shoulder, he skims it down her side and presses the heel of his palm hard against the bone of her hip. it lingers there, the movement of his own jarring what he wants to do, if he can even think the thoughts through. dragging his face down hers, he tries to steal her mouth again with an open kiss. he doesn't understand why she's hiding within the safety of his neck. ]

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