𝓜𝐈𝐑𝐀

That’s dada man right there. Man I love long haired beefy Bucky 🤭🤭 #needthat

໒꒱ crush!clarisse who has a secret crush on reader, however clarisses interactions with reader tend to come of as rude instead of an obvious crush.

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. She hated the way her grip tightened on the leather strap of her shield whenever you stepped onto the field. Hated the way her shoulders locked, like her armor had fused to her skin. Hated how her brain the same brain that could track three opponents at once and predict their attacks went stupidly blank when you looked at her.

This was not how a daughter of Ares was supposed to function.

Crushes were weaknesses. Distractions. Soft things that got you killed. Clarisse was new to this. Not the fighting. Not the bruises. Not the winning. But this? This stupid, humiliating, heart-pounding crush on you. She didn’t even know when it started. Maybe it was the first time you didn’t flinch when she challenged you. Most people avoided her. Most people backed down. Most campers did. They laughed nervously, dodged eye contact, suddenly remembered urgent errands when Clarisse stepped into the ring. You didn’t. You met her stare like it was just another obstacle to clear, not a storm about to break.

She told herself it was respect. Just respect. It had to be.

You were smart. That was the worst part. You watched. You learned. You adapted. Clarisse prided herself on unpredictability brutal feints, sudden pivots, raw force used at the exact right moment. But you… you read her. Not like a book. Like a battlefield. You anticipated her strikes before she committed to them. Slipped out of traps she hadn’t even finished setting. Countered moves she’d spent years perfecting. You knew exactly when she’d feint left. When she’d lunge. When she’d get reckless.

It definitely wasn’t the way her chest did something strange and tight the day you were at archery practice and a curl slipped loose, falling across your forehead as you aimed. It irritated her. It fascinated her. And it definitely didn’t help that you were unfairly beautiful while doing so. she noticed the exact set of your shoulders when you drew a bowstring. Clarisse had stopped mid-step. Just stopped.

The world narrowed to the line of your arm, the steady inhale in your chest, the focus in your eyes.The arrow released. It split the center of the target. Clarisse forgot how to breathe. She told herself it was the shot. It was not the shot. She’d been watching you. She hated herself for it. The arrow you shot hit dead center. But from where Clarisse stood, it felt like it went straight through her chest instead.

The day it happened, the air was thick with late afternoon heat. Dust clung to her boots. The ring buzzed with noise from other campers, metal clanging, voices shouting, the usual chaos of training. She barely heard any of it.

Sparring had started like always aggressive, loud, competitive. She’d charged. You’d countered. She’d underestimated you for half a second. And that half second was all you needed. Next thing she knew, she was on the ground.

Air punched from her lungs. Staring up at the sky. No not the sky. You. It should have made her furious.Instead, it made her want to fight you more. To understand you. To beat you. To prove she could still win. To see you look at her the way she kept accidentally looking at you. For a second, there was no sound. No movement. No world. Just shock.

She stared upward, stunned, the sky bright and endless above you.

You stood over her, chest rising with controlled breaths, sunlight spilling around your silhouette like some ridiculous heroic painting. Dust floated in the air between you, glittering in the light. Clarisse noticed everything.

The shadow your lashes cast on your cheeks. The loose strand of hair clinging to your temple.

The way your hand flexed around your weapon, then relaxed when you realized she wasn’t getting up immediately. Her heart slammed hard enough to bruise. From that angle, the sun was right behind you. It looked like it was shining just for you. The world had gone weirdly quiet. Clarisse could hear her own heartbeat in her ears as she noticed everything the way your chest rose and fell, the way your brows furrowed, the small crease between them when you were worried.

“Are you okay?”

Your voice snapped her back into her body. That was the worst part. You weren’t laughing. You weren’t smirking. You weren’t bragging. You looked… concerned. You held your hand out to her. Clarisse stared at it like it was a trap.

Nobody offered her help. Nobody beat her and then checked on her. Most people would’ve celebrated. Teased her. Rubbed it in. You just wanted to make sure she could breathe.

That was worse than losing. You extended a hand toward her. No one did that.

Clarisse stared at your hand like it might burn her.

Her brain screamed at her not to take it. Pride clawed up her throat. Children of Ares did not accept help.

But her arm moved anyway.

Your grip was firm, steady, warm. You hauled her upright with surprising strength. For a split second she was close enough to see the tiny flecks of color in your eyes.

Too close. Way too close. Her face felt hot. Her ears rang.

Her face burned. She grabbed your hand and let you pull her up. Your grip was firm. Warm. Steady. For a second just a second she didn’t let go. She let go too quickly, dusting off her pants like the dirt was the problem and not the way her pulse was beating in her throat. Then the embarrassment crashed over her all at once. You opened your mouth. Probably to apologize. Which was ridiculous, because you had nothing to apologize for.

Clarisse panicked.

She stepped past you too fast, shoulder bumping yours as she stormed away. It looked deliberate.It felt like retreat. Her face burned all the way back to the Ares cabin. From your perspective, it probably looked like she was being a jerk. Like always.

From hers? She was fleeing.

Because if she stayed another second, you would’ve seen the red creeping up her neck. You would’ve seen how shaken she was. How completely undone she felt.

Other campers voices finally processing the situation could be heard.

“What's her problem?” readers sister muttered, stepping up beside you.

“I don’t know… I just tried to help her up,” you said, still watching Clarisse retreat.

“Well, that’s what happens when you try to be nice to a daughter of Ares. Especially Clarisse. I’m surprised she didn’t rip your head off.”

You gave a small huff. “Yeah. Me too.”

Clarisse didn’t turn around. If she did, you might see her expression. And that would be worse than losing. Because the truth was simple, humiliating, and completely unacceptable:

You’d knocked straight through her defenses.

And she had no idea how to fight something like that. But Clarisse wasn’t angry. She was wrecked. Because for the first time in her life, instead of feeling humiliated…she felt like she was falling for you.