Under the Armour (part 2)
Summary: Clarisse La Rue has a strange way of showing interestânamely, by silently staring at you from across camp like sheâs planning your downfall. After a week of enduring her intense, borderline-creepy surveillance, you finally confront herâŚ
Pairing: Clarisse La Rue x Reader
Warnings: awkward social interactions (Clarisse has zero game), intense staring, perceived intimidation, miscommunication?
This is a work of fanfiction based on Percy Jackson and the Olympians. I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.
Part 1
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The second time you notice Clarisse La Rue staring at you, you try to convince yourself itâs a coincidence.
The third time, you start to think itâs a pattern.
By the fifth, youâre absolutely certain itâs on purpose.
Itâs not subtle, either.
Clarisse has never been subtle a day in her life, and apparently, whatever this is doesnât warrant a personality change.
Youâll be sitting at breakfast, halfway through your food, when the back of your neck starts prickling with that unmistakable feeling of being watched. You glance up, slow and careful, and sure enoughâthere she is. Across the pavilion, elbow on the table, staring straight at you like sheâs trying to figure out how easily youâd snap in half if she decided to test it.
The first time it happens, you freeze.
The second, you look away quickly.
By the third, you force yourself to hold her gaze for a second longer than feels safe.
Clarisse doesnât look away.
She just keeps staring.
Like sheâs waiting.
For what, you have no idea.
It continues like that for days.
At the training arena, youâll be practicing with a sword, trying to focus on your footwork, when the same feeling creeps up your spine. You glance to the side, and there she is again, leaning against one of the posts, arms crossed, watching you with that same intense, unreadable expression.
If you mess up, she clicks her tongue.
If you recover, she nods once, sharp and approving, before pretending she wasnât paying attention at all.
At the campfire, itâs worse.
Youâll be sitting with a few other campers, half-listening to whatever story is being told, when you feel it againâthat weight, that focus, that impossible-to-ignore presenceâand when you turn your head, Clarisse is there, standing just outside the circle of light, her face half-shadowed and her eyes fixed on you like youâre the only thing worth looking at.
Itâs unsettling.
Not because she looks like sheâs about to hurt you.
But because she doesnât.
Clarisse La Rue looks at most people like sheâs already decided theyâre not worth the effort.
She looks at you like she hasnât decided anything at all.
And somehow, thatâs worse.
You try to ignore it.
You really do.
You tell yourself sheâs just making sure you donât go running your mouth about what you saw in the Ares cabin. About the hoodie. At the moment, she didnât look like she had all the answers.
It makes sense.
Clarisse doesnât trust easily. Everyone knows that.
This is probably her version of a warning.
A silent, looming, ever-present reminder that sheâs watching you, that she knows where you are, that youâd better keep your promise.
Itâs intimidating.
Itâs effective.
And after nearly a week of it, itâs also incredibly annoying.
Because she doesnât say anything.
Not once.
No threats. No insults. No actual confrontation.
Justâ
Staring.
Watching.
Hovering at the edges of your space like a storm that refuses to break.
You catch her outside the cabins one afternoon, leaning against the wall like sheâs been there for a while. The moment your eyes meet, she straightens slightly, like sheâs been caught doing something she shouldnât be.
But instead of walking over, instead of saying anything at allâ
She just⌠looks at you.
Again.
Thatâs when something in you snaps.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just enough.
You change direction mid-step and walk straight toward her.
Clarisseâs posture shifts immediately, her shoulders squaring like sheâs preparing for impact, her chin lifting in that familiar defensive angle.
Good.
Let her brace.
You stop a few feet in front of her, close enough that she canât pretend this is accidental, close enough that walking away now would mean something.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Clarisseâs gaze flickers over your face, searching, cautious in a way sheâd probably deny if anyone pointed it out.
âWhat,â she says finally, her voice sharp enough to cut, âdo you want.â
You blink at her.
Then you laugh.
Itâs not mean, just disbelieving, a little breathless with the sheer absurdity of it all.
âWhat do I want?â you repeat. âClarisse, youâve been staring at me like youâre planning my funeral for the past week.â
Her eyes narrow instantly. âI have not.â
âOh, you absolutely have.â
âI donâtââ she cuts herself off, jaw tightening. âI look at people. Thatâs normal.â
âNot like that,â you shoot back. âNot like youâre trying to set me on fire with your brain.â
Clarisse scoffs, but thereâs something off about itâless confident, more⌠defensive.
âIf youâre scared,â she says, folding her arms like that settles the matter, âyou can just say that.â
âIâm not scared,â you reply immediately, stepping closer without thinking, because if sheâs going to push, youâre going to push back. âIâm annoyed.â
That gets her attention.
Clarisse straightens fully now, her gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. âAnnoyed.â
âYes, annoyed,â you repeat, gesturing vaguely in her direction. âBecause if this is your way of trying to intimidate me into keeping quiet about yourââ you lower your voice slightly, glancing around before continuing, ââyour soft side, itâs overkill.â
Her entire body stills.
Not in the way she does before a fight.
In the way something freezes when itâs been hit directly.
âMy what,â she says slowly.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair, the frustration finally spilling over now that youâve started. âThe hoodie, Clarisse. The fact that youâre not justââ you wave your hand, searching for the word, ââall of that all the time.â
Her expression does something complicated.
For a second, it looks like anger.
Then it flickers into something else. Something sharper. Something almost⌠panicked.
âIâm not trying to scare you,â she snaps, a little too quickly, like the words have been sitting just under the surface, waiting for an excuse to come out.
You blink.
ââŚWhat?â
Clarisseâs jaw clenches.
Her hands flex at her sides, like sheâs trying to grab onto something that isnât there.
âI said Iâm not trying to scare you,â she repeats, louder this time, like thatâll make it easier to believe. âI donâtââ she cuts herself off again, clearly irritated now, her gaze darting away for half a second before snapping back to you. âThatâs notâwhat I was doing.â
You stare at her.
Because that⌠doesnât make sense.
âThen what were you doing?â you ask, your voice softer now, confusion bleeding into it despite yourself.
Clarisse opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again, like sheâs about to say something measured, something controlledâ
Instead, what comes out isâ
âI like you.â
The words hit the air like a thrown weapon.
Sharp. Fast. Impossible to take back.
Silence crashes down immediately after.
Your brain stalls.
Completely.
Becauseâ
What.
Clarisse seems to realize what she just said about half a second too late.
Her eyes widen, just barely, and then her entire expression slams shut, defensive walls snapping back into place so fast itâs almost impressive.
âI meanââ she starts, voice rough, already backtracking, already trying to bury it, ââyouâreâuseful. You donâtârun your mouth. Thatâsâwhat I meant.â
You donât move.
You donât speak.
You just look at her.
Clarisse shifts under the weight of it, visibly uncomfortable now, her shoulders tightening like sheâs bracing for impact.
âDonât make it weird,â she mutters.
Thatâs when you reach out.
Itâs not planned. Not thought through.
Your hand just moves, fingers closing around her wrist before she can step back, before she can put distance between you and whatever just happened.
Clarisse goes completely still.
Not resisting.
Not pulling away.
Just⌠frozen.
Her gaze drops to where youâre holding her, then lifts back up to your face, something uncertain flickering in her eyes in a way that doesnât match anything else about her.
You step closer.
Close enough now that thereâs no space left for misunderstanding.
âClarisse,â you say, your voice quieter, steadier than you feel, âif you like someoneâŚâ
She tenses at the word.
ââŚyouâre allowed to just talk to them,â you continue, softer now. âYou donât have to stand across the arena and stare like youâre about to declare war.â
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
For once, Clarisse La Rue has absolutely nothing to say.
You can see itâthe confusion, the embarrassment, the unfamiliar territory of not knowing how to fight your way through something.
And for a second, she looks younger.
Not weaker.
Just⌠less certain.
You squeeze her wrist gently, grounding, not restraining.
âI wouldnât mind,â you add, a small smile tugging at your lips, âif you actually came over and talked to me.â
Clarisse stares at you.
Really stares.
Like sheâs trying to figure out if this is a trick. Like sheâs waiting for the moment you laugh, or pull away, or prove that this was all a mistake.
You donât.
You just stay.
And something in her finally⌠shifts.
Not all the way.
Not completely.
But enough.
You lean in before you can overthink it.
Itâs quick.
Soft.
A brief press of your lips against her cheek.
For a second, Clarisse doesnât react at all.
Doesnât move.
Doesnât breathe.
Doesnât even blink.
Then you pull back.
And just like that, the moment breaks.
Clarisse jerks like sheâs just been struck, her hand flying up to her cheek, her eyes wide in a way thatâs almost comical if it wasnât so her.
âWhatââ she starts, voice cracking slightly before she forces it steady, ââwhat was that.â
You grin, unable to stop it now.
âThat,â you say lightly, âwas me being less subtle than you.â
Her face goes red.
Actually red.
Not from sunburn, not from anger.
From something else entirely.
She scowls immediately, like thatâll fix it. âThat wasâstupid.â
âMm,â you hum, already stepping back, giving her space before she can panic and bolt. âMaybe.â
Clarisse glares at you.
But itâs weaker now. Less sharp around the edges.
ââŚDonât do that again without warning,â she mutters.
You raise an eyebrow. âSo I can do it with warning?â
Her brain visibly short-circuits.
âI didnât say that.â
You grin wider. âYou kind of did.â
She groans, dragging a hand down her face like sheâs reconsidering every decision that led her here. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd you,â you shoot back, turning to leave before you can say something worseâor betterââare terrible at talking to people.â
âHeyââ
You glance over your shoulder.
Clarisse is still standing there, one hand hovering near her cheek, her expression caught somewhere between annoyed and completely thrown off.
âYouâre improving, though,â you add, softer this time.
She huffs, but thereâs no real heat behind it.
ââŚNext time,â she mutters, almost to herself, âIâll justâcome over.â
You smile.
âGood.â
And as you walk away, you can feel it againâthat weight, that attention, that presence behind you.
But this time, itâs different.
Less like a warning.
More like something trying, awkwardly and stubbornly, to stay close.
And for the first time, you donât mind it at all.
