Under the Armour (part 2)
Summary: Clarisse La Rue has a strange way of showing interest—namely, by silently staring at you from across camp like she’s planning your downfall. After a week of enduring her intense, borderline-creepy surveillance, you finally confront her…
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
{----------------------------------------------------------------------------}
The second time you notice Clarisse La Rue staring at you, you try to convince yourself it’s a coincidence.
The third time, you start to think it’s a pattern.
By the fifth, you’re absolutely certain it’s on purpose.
It’s not subtle, either.
Clarisse has never been subtle a day in her life, and apparently, whatever this is doesn’t warrant a personality change.
You’ll 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 enough—there she is. Across the pavilion, elbow on the table, staring straight at you like she’s trying to figure out how easily you’d 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 doesn’t look away.
She just keeps staring.
Like she’s waiting.
For what, you have no idea.
It continues like that for days.
At the training arena, you’ll 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 wasn’t paying attention at all.
At the campfire, it’s worse.
You’ll be sitting with a few other campers, half-listening to whatever story is being told, when you feel it again—that weight, that focus, that impossible-to-ignore presence—and 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 you’re the only thing worth looking at.
It’s unsettling.
Not because she looks like she’s about to hurt you.
But because she doesn’t.
Clarisse La Rue looks at most people like she’s already decided they’re not worth the effort.
She looks at you like she hasn’t decided anything at all.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You try to ignore it.
You really do.
You tell yourself she’s just making sure you don’t go running your mouth about what you saw in the Ares cabin. About the hoodie. At the moment, she didn’t look like she had all the answers.
It makes sense.
Clarisse doesn’t trust easily. Everyone knows that.
This is probably her version of a warning.
A silent, looming, ever-present reminder that she’s watching you, that she knows where you are, that you’d better keep your promise.
It’s intimidating.
It’s effective.
And after nearly a week of it, it’s also incredibly annoying.
Because she doesn’t say anything.
Not once.
No threats. No insults. No actual confrontation.
Just—
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 she’s been there for a while. The moment your eyes meet, she straightens slightly, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
But instead of walking over, instead of saying anything at all—
She just… looks at you.
Again.
That’s when something in you snaps.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just enough.
You change direction mid-step and walk straight toward her.
Clarisse’s posture shifts immediately, her shoulders squaring like she’s 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 can’t pretend this is accidental, close enough that walking away now would mean something.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Clarisse’s gaze flickers over your face, searching, cautious in a way she’d probably deny if anyone pointed it out.
“What,” she says finally, her voice sharp enough to cut, “do you want.”
You blink at her.
Then you laugh.
It’s not mean, just disbelieving, a little breathless with the sheer absurdity of it all.
“What do I want?” you repeat. “Clarisse, you’ve been staring at me like you’re planning my funeral for the past week.”
Her eyes narrow instantly. “I have not.”
“Oh, you absolutely have.”
“I don’t—” she cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “I look at people. That’s normal.”
“Not like that,” you shoot back. “Not like you’re trying to set me on fire with your brain.”
Clarisse scoffs, but there’s something off about it—less confident, more… defensive.
“If you’re scared,” she says, folding her arms like that settles the matter, “you can just say that.”
“I’m not scared,” you reply immediately, stepping closer without thinking, because if she’s going to push, you’re going to push back. “I’m annoyed.”
That gets her attention.
Clarisse straightens fully now, her gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. “Annoyed.”
“Yes, annoyed,” you repeat, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “Because if this is your way of trying to intimidate me into keeping quiet about your—” you lower your voice slightly, glancing around before continuing, “—your soft side, it’s overkill.”
Her entire body stills.
Not in the way she does before a fight.
In the way something freezes when it’s been hit directly.
“My what,” she says slowly.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair, the frustration finally spilling over now that you’ve started. “The hoodie, Clarisse. The fact that you’re not just—” you wave your hand, searching for the word, “—all of that all the time.”
Her expression does something complicated.
For a second, it looks like anger.
Then it flickers into something else. Something sharper. Something almost… panicked.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” 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.
“…What?”
Clarisse’s jaw clenches.
Her hands flex at her sides, like she’s trying to grab onto something that isn’t there.
“I said I’m not trying to scare you,” she repeats, louder this time, like that’ll make it easier to believe. “I don’t—” she cuts herself off again, clearly irritated now, her gaze darting away for half a second before snapping back to you. “That’s not—what I was doing.”
You stare at her.
Because that… doesn’t make sense.
“Then what were you doing?” you ask, your voice softer now, confusion bleeding into it despite yourself.
Clarisse opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again, like she’s about to say something measured, something controlled—
Instead, what comes out is—
“I like you.”
The words hit the air like a thrown weapon.
Sharp. Fast. Impossible to take back.
Silence crashes down immediately after.
Your brain stalls.
Completely.
Because—
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 it’s almost impressive.
“I mean—” she starts, voice rough, already backtracking, already trying to bury it, “—you’re—useful. You don’t—run your mouth. That’s—what I meant.”
You don’t move.
You don’t speak.
You just look at her.
Clarisse shifts under the weight of it, visibly uncomfortable now, her shoulders tightening like she’s bracing for impact.
“Don’t make it weird,” she mutters.
That’s when you reach out.
It’s 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 you’re holding her, then lifts back up to your face, something uncertain flickering in her eyes in a way that doesn’t match anything else about her.
You step closer.
Close enough now that there’s no space left for misunderstanding.
“Clarisse,” you say, your voice quieter, steadier than you feel, “if you like someone…”
She tenses at the word.
“…you’re allowed to just talk to them,” you continue, softer now. “You don’t have to stand across the arena and stare like you’re about to declare war.”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
For once, Clarisse La Rue has absolutely nothing to say.
You can see it—the 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.
“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, a small smile tugging at your lips, “if you actually came over and talked to me.”
Clarisse stares at you.
Really stares.
Like she’s trying to figure out if this is a trick. Like she’s waiting for the moment you laugh, or pull away, or prove that this was all a mistake.
You don’t.
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.
It’s quick.
Soft.
A brief press of your lips against her cheek.
For a second, Clarisse doesn’t react at all.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
Doesn’t even blink.
Then you pull back.
And just like that, the moment breaks.
Clarisse jerks like she’s just been struck, her hand flying up to her cheek, her eyes wide in a way that’s almost comical if it wasn’t so her.
“What—” she starts, voice cracking slightly before she forces it steady, “—what was that.”
You grin, unable to stop it now.
“That,” you say lightly, “was me being less subtle than you.”
Her face goes red.
Actually red.
Not from sunburn, not from anger.
From something else entirely.
She scowls immediately, like that’ll fix it. “That was—stupid.”
“Mm,” you hum, already stepping back, giving her space before she can panic and bolt. “Maybe.”
Clarisse glares at you.
But it’s weaker now. Less sharp around the edges.
“…Don’t do that again without warning,” she mutters.
You raise an eyebrow. “So I can do it with warning?”
Her brain visibly short-circuits.
“I didn’t say that.”
You grin wider. “You kind of did.”
She groans, dragging a hand down her face like she’s reconsidering every decision that led her here. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” you shoot back, turning to leave before you can say something worse—or better—“are terrible at talking to people.”
“Hey—”
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.
“You’re improving, though,” you add, softer this time.
She huffs, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“…Next time,” she mutters, almost to herself, “I’ll just—come over.”
You smile.
“Good.”
And as you walk away, you can feel it again—that weight, that attention, that presence behind you.
But this time, it’s different.
Less like a warning.
More like something trying, awkwardly and stubbornly, to stay close.
And for the first time, you don’t mind it at all.
