#love language: the way win's touch lingers on team's skin after it's gone

[she]

a touch so scorching you're surprised it doesn't leave a mark

[classified-bluerose]

put me back together - quentin beck x reader

a/n: (mild) spiderman: ffh spoilers ahead. probably a very OOC quentin but hey... the man got me clownin’.

quick notes: reader is an avenger, quentin is quentin, this is far too soft tbfh but it’s fanfiction so \_(0-0)_/. just suspend your belief & hope u enjoy!

a/n 2: unedited, unbeta’d. idk man. i’m just in love w jake gyllenhaal (gylenhaal?) and mysterio is hot as hell.

(GIF is not mine)

—

chapter one: breathless

—

quentin beck is a meticulous man - he planned every facet of his revenge plot down to the smallest of details. arranged contingencies and back-up plans and waited, with the patience of a saint, for the correct moment to strike. he ensured any and all top-tier avengers were MIA, left it just long enough for SHIELD to pull together some semblance of it’s former operation but short enough so they were still finding their feet in the aftermath of the Blip. getting around the kid, parker, would be easy enough. he’d been through a tremendous amount of trauma, and quentin could use that to his advantage.

the one thing quentin beck didn’t count on, though, was you.

you, an avenger - or a former avenger, at least - who fell somewhere in the middle of all the others. not by power level, simply by how known you were. the widow and the hawk were rarely spotted and little was known about either, whilst iron man and captain america owned the heart and soul of the entire nation. banner was known for his destructive capabilities and thor worshipped for his literal godliness and appearance.

how shallow the common folk can be, quentin always mused.

then you - powerful, but not plastered across billboards or tv ads. quiet and lowkey, but not quite invisible. quentin was aware of your existence but never paid much attention to it, having heard that, following stark and roger’s deats that you’d quit the superhero charade and disappeared into the ether.

so, the man of mysteries found himself more than a little surprised when fury showed up mexico, with you in tow.

a little bit of panic hits as he watches you appraise the scene - this could be a problem, he thinks to himself, scanning his brain for any possible solution. it is only when he begins to interact with the shield agents that he notices something.

although you are standing in his presence, alive, solid, real, it‘s pretty obvious you aren’t exactly there. haunted images flicker across an otherwise stoic face as shoulders bow from the weight of grief and guilt and trauma. glassy eyes stare through and not at, words mumbled in montone in response to fury.

okay, quentin thinks, hiding a smirk, i can work with this.

—

the plan changes ever-so-slightly before venice. it is simple but brilliant, even if he does say so himself. having already laid the groundwork for his tragic backstory, it is easy to weave your character into the tapestry he was creating.

pained glances, longing expressions, a hesistant greeting - all little, subtle clues hinting to the fact that quentin knew you in his alternate world.

fury picks up on it first, of course. the spy who’s secrets have secrets still has the eye for detail he’s famous for. you, on the other hand, are oblivious to quentin’s actions - obvlious to pretty much anything happening around you. you don’t speak unless directly spoken too, don’t offer insight or advice on how to defeat the elementals. it‘s almost like fury has dragged you here in a bid to convince you to return to the fold.

quentin learns as much as he can about you as he flies over the sea to italy; not much could be gleaned from online sources but he pulls out just enough information to put together a rough sketch of who you are, what you wanted, what you’d lost.

you’d worked with the avengers since 2012, sided with stark in the infamous civil war years later - the idea of you being close to that man was enough to set quentin’s blood boiling - and had fought in both battles against the mad titan thanos. your powers were certainly impressive - your ability to conjure and manipulate fire set off a fresh worry. the final elemental that mysterio would face off against was the one made of ‘’flames’’ - what if you decided your powers would help with the destruction of the molten man?

quentin files that thought away for later as he clicks on a rare picture printed on some trendy news site. he almost doesn’t recognise the girl in the photograph as you. you were younger, looked lighter, did not carry as many ghosts on your back. and you were smiling. wide and bright and shining and quentin struggled to pull himself away from the sight.

when he did, he itemised the information he’d gathered into what he could and couldn’t use to win you over. after all, every superhero needs a love interest to protect, right?

you were close to stark, that much was painfully, bitterly obvious. newsreports following the aftermath of the last battle hinted at an intimate relationship with the black widow, too. both those people were dead and gone and that meant there was something missing in her life. an empty space that quentin was certain he could fill. the battle had caused some damage to your powers - almost like a battery, the effort and strain of fighting thanos had drained your energy quite significantly. you were slowly returning to your original state, but right now you were weakened, hurting. vulnerable.

perfect for quentin.

he gathered his information, updated the team on this latest development, and braced himself for what would come next.

—

when he reaches venice, it’s clear that fury has mentioned to you that quentin has taken an interest. you seem slightly more alert, meeting his gaze for periods longer than a half-second. your body language changes minutely - your arms, usually crossed tight across your chest, now hang looser at your waist, fingers interlaced. it is by no means a huge shift, but enough for quentin to make his move.

after a meeting with agents, fury, and spiderman, he hangs around the base setup, lingering at consoles and waiting for the last of the people to trickle out. you have stayed on to keep an eye on quentin - fury is no fool and recognised that this stranger from some other world could turn out to be just as much a threat as the monsters he was fighting. quentin couldn’t surpress a smile as he thought, oh, you don’t know the half of it.

he quickly rearranges his face when he clears his throat and approaches you, slowly. you glance up. he took his time to savour this moment - this scene he was most excited for.

he smiles, softly. ‘’ hey. i was hoping i’d a get a chance to talk to you. ‘’

no verbal response; you simply gaze at him expectantly.

quentin let his eyes take in every inch of your face - not a hardship, in fairness, you were beautiful in every way to him. if any other world really did exist she’s the girl he’d approach at a bar and offer to buy her a drink.

focus, quentin, he reminds himself, and breathes out a short laugh. ‘’ it’s so good to see you. ‘’

again, no real answer. just a tilt of the head, confusion in the eyes.

he let his fingers fall to the simple silver band on his left finger, twisting the metal around. your gaze follows the movements and there’s a brief moment where quentin swears he can see the cogs turning in your brain.

the blank expression breaks - a frown furrowing your brow, lips parting in a silent ‘’oh’’. excitement brims low in his belly - it’s working. she’s already figured it out.

you take a breath and turn your head away. when you look back, your face is neutral once again. but there’s something there - a softness that’s new. a tiny chink in the armour, all that quentin needs.

‘’ i’m sorry for your loss, ‘’ you tell him, ‘’ but i’m not her. ‘’

he nods quickly, ‘’ i know, i know. it’s just ... you look like her. ‘’ he falters in his words and feels tears building behind his eyes. seeing his watery gaze you clam up and he curses himself for getting too into it. after a second, however...

‘’ i know how it feels. to lose the one you love. to feel like it’s your fault, like you could’ve - should have - saved them, ‘’ you sigh and rub your face, tiredly. ‘’ but that’s not gonna help you save this world, quentin. ‘’

the sound of your name leaving his lips sends a tremor through his heart. he freezes momentarily - what is this feeling? - but quickly shakes out of it as you continue.

‘’ you gotta move on, ‘’ your voice is nothing more than a whisper, ‘’ you have a chance, now, to win, and you can’t let bad feelings ruin it. ‘’

you meet his gaze almost shyly, and he feels physically drawn in to you, doesn’t even realise his feet are moving until he’s barely a breath away. startled by the sudden closeness you take a step back and harden your features once again.

quentin apologises, sounding sincere, ‘’ i didn’t realise ... you’re not like her, not entirely. she was ... she didn’t have powers. ‘’ he lets the ghost of a fake memory flutter across his face. ‘’ but she was still the strongest person i knew. ‘’ his voice splinters on the last word and tears slip down his face.

you hesistate, he senses the uncertainty, and moves to turn away as though ashamed.

his stomach does a victory flip when your hand comes to touch his armoured shoulder. from underneath long, damp lashes he peeks down at you. you look as though you’re hurting for him and something harsh twists in his chest. he doesn’t have time to think about it, though. not when your hand slides down the material of his costume and finds it’s way into his.

you squeeze it gently, the unnatural warmth of your skin almost burning against his palm. quentin finds himself feeling comforted, tries to climb out of the moment and remember that this isn’t real -

he slips a little bit when you squeeze his hand a second time, and say, ‘’ just make her proud, quentin. you can save this world. do it for her. ‘’

his breath leaves him and he’s silent for a long moment as he gazes down at your face. he feels cracked open, raw, vulnerable. eventually, he nods, waits for his voice to even out. squeezes your hand back, a little tighter than necessary.

‘’ i’ll do my best. ‘’

|| Part 1 of ? ||

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Cicatrix: Part 2

Masterlist

Valkyrie/Brunhilde X FEMALE Plus Size Reader

Part 1

Teamcap4bucky Challenge @teamcap4bucky​

Prompt: 27. “What are you doing? I told you not to follow me!”   “Yeah, I didn’t listen.” In bold.

Warnings: F/F SMUT! Inferred rape & violence to reader.

A/N: Reader is, sorry was a part of Thanos Black Order but there was trouble keeping her controlled, punishment often taking the form of ripping her apart to make her obey. Once she had wings but had them forcefully removed for lack of a better word.

Words: +2,900

The light to the bathroom clinking on to reveal the warrior standing in the middle of the bathroom, back bare & showing more scaring from the removal of her wings. Kicking out of the jeans to stand in thin bikini patties, light scaring on thick thighs but nothing like curvaceous back. The echo of a small gasp reaching keen hearing after having pulled the elastic band out of Y/H/C locks, looking over scarred shoulder realize Brunhilde was directly behind her.

“I'm sorry… I came to see what you wanted, & I didn’t mean to… I’ll just leave…,” the woman finally finished taking a step back to leave but pausing at the wounded look in chartreuse orbs.

“Or I can stay, if that’s what you want,” Brunhilde ventured watching muscles move under scarred flesh it had to have hurt, it looked deep into muscle that wasn’t even connected to the wings, taking a step into the bathroom to look over the marred flesh.

“Does it still hurt,” Brunhilde finally breathed out looking over thin flesh that was bright pink, fingers reaching out to touch over it but stopping, meeting Y/N’ gaze not wanting to hurt her.

“No, just phantom pain,” Y/N admitted, relishing in the feel of scorching fingers tracing the oddly smooth flesh, tanned hand running to the nape of clammy neck to feel more scarring, lacing into lose locks to tug gently to make Y/N turn to face her, obvious curvaceous warrior was proud of shapely body & all its scars.

“Just what I love to see, a woman proud of her body,” the Valkyrie spoke, tugging to pull pale lips to hers the thick warrior giving to allow them pressed together her own scorching hands falling to the Valkyries lithe hips.

Slowly the lithe warrior tugged Y/N back towards the shower, tanned hands gliding down ample curves to push the underwear to the floor before pushing curvaceous body back into the standup shower. The Valkyrie removing her own clothes quickly to hurry into the shower, gripping Y/N’ wrist carefully allowing her time to pull free if she wasn’t up for the rough play, shocked she was allowed to pin them above Y/N’ head as lips clashed & the Valkyrie leaned hard into the kiss. Tongues tangling as the thick warriors hands slipped the grip only to lace with tanned fingers that squeezed tight before releasing to slide over soft forearms.

Slowly the warrior released puffy lips to kiss over scarred skin, down lax jaw, over soft neck to suck harshly at the supple flesh to elicit a whimper from swollen lips as calloused hands made their way over ample curves to dig fingers into the plump flesh. Brunhilde knowing she left bruises as lips continued their trail over soft clavicle to pause over ample breast, hands leaving plump hips to palm both but taking a pert bud into scorching mouth while the other was rolled mercilessly between thumb & forefinger. The sensation enough to make Y/N weak in the knees, a long missed heat pooling in lower abdomen, thick thighs pressing together in efforts for some relief & arching out for more attention to ample breast.

With a quick look down Y/N caught the devilish smile of Brunhilde as one hand slipped from the nipple it assaulted to push between thick thighs, making them part to glide gingerly between juicy folds, hips bucking at the action & earning a quiet laugh at the woman’s neediness.

“Been awhile,” the Valkyrie spoke darkly, fingers circling aching clit in ways the woman had never had before, the only time she received any attention like this was if it was to benefit the one showing said attention.

“It has,” Y/N gasped out in surprise as legs almost gave out when two digits slipped in dripping cunt to curl in a way that sent chills along her spine head falling back to the tile as mouth fell open.

Calloused hands feeling for the lithe warrior to realize the Valkyrie had sank to her knees before her, Y/N lacing her fingers into soft ebony locks thinking of pulling Brunhilde to her feet but the curling of fingers in needy cunt had her enthralled. A shiver working its way through curvaceous body as free hand parted lower lips & a gentle suck to throbbing clit had Y/N letting out a breathy moan to the room as short nails scraped over the Valkyrie’s scalp.

Another glance down having more chills running up the warriors spine, the view of the tanned skin Brunhilde making it hard to think clearly especially when she realized the lithe warrior had placed her hand between her own legs & was working herself over. Thighs shaking as fingers curled & sank deeper in aching cunt that begged for more. All the scarred warrior could do to hold it together when a moan was released over aching clit tongue dipping to probe at clenching cunt, fingers tugging harder at the Valkyries hair.

“I… I…,” Y/N stammered out breathlessly.

The curvaceous warrior not having the right frame of mind to finish as walls griped tight to curling digits to make a cry of release escape heaving chest, making it apparent the undoing of Y/N drove the Valkyrie  over the edge. Tanned fingers pumping in & out of clenching cunt to finish the chase, ebony head falling to plump stomach as her own release washed over her.

Shivering legs no longer able to hold Y/N against the wall as slick coated digits pulled free of soaking cunt, scarred back sliding down the wall to plant her self on plump ass, the Valkyrie between her legs. Tanned hands going to Y/N’ face to pull her in for a bruising kiss tasting herself on Brunhilde’ tongue, lips parting to deepen the kiss as thick body continued to slump further to the tile as calloused hands found the lithe hips, rubbing over the flesh in gentle circles.

“You where beautiful coming undone above me,” Brunhilde spoke quietly on puffy lips, straddling thick thighs to pull the limp warrior up to wrap bronze arms around scarred shoulders in a gentle embrace.

“As you where before me,” Y/N panted out, looking up into coffee orbs that sparkled with an emotion she hadn’t seen in years smiling at the Valkyrie in a hazed bliss as soft lips fell to hers once more for a lingering kiss.

“How about a shower & you let me hold you tonight,” Brunhilde breathed hot across her lips, tongue shooting out to soothe over the rawness of the bottom lip as the curvaceous woman smiled up at her, pondering if she read her thoughts from earlier.

“I would love that,” Y/N sighed, head laying between tanned breast placing a kiss to the sweaty flesh as she wrapped shaky arms around lithe waist to sit with the Valkyrie on her lap a little longer to enjoy the tender moment that had been denied for so long.

“Have you not realized I am reckless,” Brunhilde scolded Y/N who looked at her in all the chaos surrounding them in the battlefield full of weapons fire, this was what the team had came up to fix the chaos Thanos had created, having the two women hunkered down, taking oncoming fire to draw attention away from the others.

“Yes, I have! And, have you not thought that is why I follow you so close,” Y/N snapped back, wiping green blood from busted lip thanks to the Valkyrie who had hit the thick warrior in efforts of making her stay put & not follow her into the thick of it.

“DO NOT FOLLOW ME! Go back to the jet & wait! You have already taken enough enemy fire! Do you understand,” Valkyrie snapped harshly making Y/N fall back to plump ass, well the warrior had gone toe to toe with Thanos himself & was having a Hel of time catching her breath but was playing it off well.

“I'm giving Thor your position, you wait here for him & do not follow! Understood,” the warrior spoke to Y/N this time a little calmer as she kneeled between splayed legs to place a kiss to busted lips, dirty hands lacing into disheveled dust covered Y/H/C locks, foreheads laid together as it seemed the fighting died away for a few seconds.

“I’ll come back… promise. You can’t go against Thanos again he will kill you, don’t follow me & stay put baby,” the warrior spoke to Y/N before hurrying to her feet without another word, rushing off in the direction Y/N knew the mad titan waited.

No, no way that she was going to sit on her ass & wait. The Valkyrie should know better than that, having an idea in muddles head as she got to shaky feet, ribs throbbed as she took a stand to look out across the battlefield getting the attention of the alien warriors. These where Chitauri, bloody hands shooting up over her head & hoping that this plan would work.

Swallowing hard, Y/N looked at the grotesque creatures hoping the command she was about to shout would work & would get her taken to Thanos. A command uttered in the creatures language had it puzzling at the bloodied woman, inching close weapon drawn as another circled around her back to push her forward to follow along behind one of the others.

The one at aching back forcing Y/N to throbbing knees behind the titan who finally turned to look at the ruined warrior, hoping it was buying time. A stuttering painful breath in as chartreuse orbs looked up at the titan in submissiveness before he spoke.

“What made you change your mind & makes you think I want kill you right here,” he began, taking a step to look down at Y/N who didn’t dare meet his gaze, keen hearing picking up on the cursing at her back that could only be descried as a irate Valkyrie that had taken all she could with the defiant lover.

“I made a mistake, I was stupid for thinking they were the winning side… I have information that will help you bring them to their knees,” Y/N began, getting to aching feet to meet his gaze timidly, unflinching as purple fingers took bloody chin to tilt bloodied face up to look it over, hearing catching more movement.

“I have all the information I need… runt,” he sneered as the hand on gored chin left to wrap around thick waist to squeeze the armor she wore around ample curves, hearing it creak as it molded around ruined torso, ribs cracking, losing breathe before being dropped to the dirt as a blast hit the titan in the chest.

It was a blur, the team rushing past ruined body as Y/N writhed in the dirt, clawing at the armor to rip it free to take in a shuttering gasp when it fel free but crying out to nothing at the pain it caused, sputtering blood. Green liquid splattering all over dirtied face as Y/N watched the sky cloud over with dust, eyes fluttering shut, but not long a harsh shake making them open & let out a cry of anguish to realize she was actually being lifted into someone’s arms.

“What are you doing?! I told you not to follow me,” snarled an irate Brunhilde as hazy chartreuse orbs opened to realize it was the Valkyrie that was carrying her, having forgotten just how strong the lithe warrior was as she rushed out of the chaos, boots stumbling over uneven ground before thudding on the metal grate of a Quinnjet.

“Yeah, I didn’t listen,” Y/N sputtered, broken body laid to the bench they had occupied not long ago, bloodied hands holding shattered ribs for them to be forced away & hearing fabric tear to shreds to find the source of bleeding.

“You never listen to me… you're stubborn,” the Valkyrie snapped at Y/N, hand pressing a gauze into the gaping hole in curvaceous side caused by the armor, it would heal quick or it should.

“You love me,” Y/N sputtered trying to catch a breath around green blood that was choking her, trying to breath as someone fell to her head to gain her attention, it was the one she met as Clint, not sure what he was doing as the archer forced a mask over gore stained face laying a ear to mangled chest.

“Chest cavities filling up,” he spoke his voice starting to sound as if he was in a tunnel as eyes tried to stay focused.

“Stay with us Y/N,” Clint spoke, getting to his feet to usher the Valkyrie to her head signaling the bronze warrior to distract Y/N while he did what he could to help her breath.

“Stay with me OK? I'm not mad…,” the Valkyrie smiled at Y/N who knew this was a distraction, puzzling at the tears she seen rimming cognac orbs.

“You're mad… I see it…,” Y/N tried to finish but a harsh stab & pinch had her trying to reach to push whatever it was away but strong hands held her own in the Valkyries lap, letting out a silent yelp as something made its way between shattered ribs to releave the collapsed lung.

“Hey! I'm not mad… not at you… you did a good job, glad you didn’t listen,” Brunhilde smiled at Y/N who was breathing easier but swore it was hard to keep misty eyes open.

Oh shit, it dawned on Y/N, the Valkyrie was having to watch another lover die, tears welling at the thought she was making it a living Hel on the warrior that was trying to talk her out of the panic attack that was taking over.

“Brune… I'm sorry baby… I'm so stupid… I should… sho… I…,” Y/N gave one last attempt before falling lifeless on the bench.

The Valkyrie collapsing over shattered body, pulling the lifeless warrior close to bury her face in blood-soaked locks, tanned fingers carding through tangled locks, telling Y/N is was OK she wasn’t mad, to just come back. Brunhilde ready to knock the hand on her shoulder away, snapping harshly at the archer that was trying to do all he could.

“She’s healing, it's slow… all we can do is wait,” Clint murmured into the warriors ear.

Brunhilde sat back in relief, situating Y/N on the bench, head on her crooked leg while reaching back to jerk ragged blue cape free to throw over the thick warrior to keep her warm. Watching shallow stuttering breathes raise & lower ample chest in erratic ways at the moment, looking up at the others began to board, fingers massaging over the unconscious warriors scalp.

A scorching weight on her left side made Y/N weary of opening tired eyes, especially with the ache in thick torso, making her recall the last time she woke like this was on Thanos, ship fresh from torture as the presence shifted, it was a person & they were sitting up beside her gingerly. Familiar calloused hand caressing over Y/N’ they laid on their leg while another hand rubbed over thick thigh as if to warm it but was sure it was a way of grounding themselves to assure she was alive as the hand on warm thigh twitched as eyes finally opened to the dimly lit room.

It took several blinks to focus on the tanned woman before her, dressed in a tank top & leggings, hair fuzzed as if she hadn’t left the bed that Y/N rested in for a while. Giving a faint smile to return the one Brunhilde graced her with, Y/N flinching as it made stitched lips sting.

“Hey baby… what did I miss…,” Y/N spoke as the warrior smiled before a pissed expression crossed her features & a harsh slap to bruised chest made the wounded warrior flinch.

“OW! What…,” Y/N’ gritty voice tried to speak before parched lips pressed to hers, tongue pressing past stitched lips to taste of a lover thought dead before pulling away to let Y/N get a breath.

“You missed a lot, but glad you're still with me,” the Valkyrie smiled taking one more kiss before straddling ample hips to sit over top of her, looking thick form over to pull the sheet off of plump stomach to show her the clean white bandage.

“Me to… sorry… I couldn’t just let you walk into the middle of a trap,” Y/N began before the warrior slowly settled over injured torso careful to not put any weight on the bruised flesh but hovering so bronze lips where a breath away the wounded woman’s bandaged hands going to the lithe warriors middle.

The Valkyrie shushing Y/N, for once not wanting to argue as she laced calloused fingers into lose Y/H/C locks, thumbs cherishing over supple cheeks as she smiled down at her both matching each other’s enthusiasm.

“Don’t want to fight…,” was all Brunhilde told Y/N, pressing another lingering but gentle kiss to injured lips falling back to Y/N’ side to prop up, the warriors tired head falling between the Valkyries breast to close her eyes & take in her scent.

Tanned fingers carding through thankfully tangle free hair as Brunhilde placed a kiss to the disheveled mess worrying over Y/N as she began to fall back to sleep in her arms & relishing in the feel of someone being gentle with her broken body.

“Love you Y/N,” the Valkyrie echoed down to the nuzzling warrior that was rubbing circles with a bandaged thumb laying on lithe hip.

“Love you Brunhilde,” Y/N mumbled filling it was necessary to voice the Valkyrie’s full name instead of part of it.

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[lxveille]

May I have Mingyu + 70 for the 100 ways to say I love you? Thank you!

100 ways to say i love you (requests closed)WC: ~ 2360 ; paranormal!au

It’s almost three in the morning when your phone goes off. You stumble out of bed and only just read Somin’s name on the screen before you answer wearily.

“You need to get down to the research center now,” she tells you, something electric and anxious in her voice.

“What’s going on?” you ask, still rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“They finally got one.”

That wakes you up.

You’ve been working under Dr. Nam at Central Research Center of the Preternatural for almost a year. Your department has long been underfunded and ridiculed quietly by others for its distinct lack of actual study subjects. You’ve run analysis of trace remnants of extraterrestrial activity and gone on numerous dead-end trips following calls reporting UFO sightings. But there’s never been a successful, proper study done an alien life form. It’s hasn’t been possible without any captured beings.

Now, evidently that has all changed.

You stand next to Somin on one of the upper walkways of the facility and stare down at the shatter-proof glass walls of the enclosement. You’ve passed it so many times, never sparing it a glance, because it had always been empty. Now that there’s a living creature inside, it looks smaller than you remember.

“It looks… human,” you comment in a whisper, unable to tear your eyes away from the unconscious form that lies in the middle of the sanitized, closed-in floor.

“I know,” Somin answers, “Dr. Nam says it might be some kind of cloaking adaptation. But look at the preliminary vital scans.” You force yourself to turn your attention to the chart your colleague is holding out. Your eyes widen at the information it contains. From body temperature and the double-pulse alone, it’s evident that whatever’s inside the enclosure is not native to this world.

“Certainly not human,” you murmur, and something about Somin’s smile in response makes you feel a bit queasy.

You’ll admit that work was less stressful and exhausting before subject A01 came in. Budget constraints mean most of your time on the observation deck is spent alone. It only takes a few hours of your first shift before the first time you find yourself speaking out loud to the extraterrestrial.

It’s a silly thing to do. A01 still seems a bit delirious from being knocked out during those first few hours after he comes to. He barely looks towards where you are, and seems more preoccupied with running his hands over the smooth glass that traps him in. He doesn’t seem to come back to full awareness until the second day in the facility.

Several hours into your second shift, you comment lightly, “A01, I don’t know about you, but I think the doctor’s got his hopes up a bit high if he thinks there’s gonna be an 02 or a B anytime soon.”

He shows his teeth; some of them sharper than a human’s would normally be. Then you realize he’s smiling. Almost chuckling even – at what you’d said, or at you, or something. You press your clipboard flat into your lap, staring at the alien with surprise.

So begins your working theory that A01 understands human language.

You run it by Somin first, who quirks her head and looks at you like you’re the one who ought to be in the enclosure. “I’ve never had A01 even respond when I’m doing linguistic runs,” she tells you.

It’s decided then it’ll be good to keep the observations to yourself. At least until you have more to go on, you tell yourself.

The worst is when you’re tasked with checking vitals or sample collection.

There’s a button on the panel beside the door into the enclosure that releases a gas into the chamber that renders A01 unconscious. Protocol says you should never open the door if the alien is awake. It’s too hazardous for the study, as well as for the security of the research center as a whole.  

But there’s a look of recognition on A01’s expression whenever you approach the panel that tugs are your sympathy for the being. And there’s a rough time he has coming back after the fact, the hazed and uncomfortable stares he gives at blank spaces of the glass, barely responding to any stimuli at all for many hours afterwards.

He’s been at the facility for two months when he comes right up to the clear wall just as you approach the control panel. He places one hand against the glass, looking at you imploringly, and you swallow thickly, fingers already position to release the knockout gas.

You move your hand away from the panel, and your gut twists when you see him smile softly in response from the other side of the glass. Tilting your head back, you scan the overhanging walkway for anyone else.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pressing one hand over your heart to try to emphasize your sincerity before it moves to push the button.

When he comes back too, freshly bandaged from the blood sample you’d taken, you’re still on observation duty. He stumbles over to the spot closest to where you’re sitting and sways slightly where he stands, steadying himself with one hand against the transparent walling.

“A01, do you understand what sorry means?” you ask; you’ve tried, since Somin first told you about her differing experience with him, not to speak so much to him. While your theory about his comprehension still lingered on your mind often enough, it seems like a bad idea to try to prove something the linguist on your small team already seemed convinced of.

But he nods, and mirrors your earlier gesture of place one hand over your heart. In his case, you realize, it’s only one of his hearts.

You stand slowly, leaving the clipboard behind on the bench as you come up to the enclosure. Standing toe-to-toe to him, with only several inches of industrial strength glass separating the two of him, you let yourself ask, “Do you call yourself anything? Anything different from A01?”

His eyes scan over you and you think you must have broken some kind of protocol when you hear a low voice answer, “Mingyu.”

Or if that hadn’t been against regulations, it’s certainly some kind of wrong when you leave the interaction out of your observation notes.

Two weeks later, you’re assigned to take vitals once more. Dr. Nam had recently put in changes to the nutrients being provided to A01 – to Mingyu – and is looking now for any changes in his system resulting from that.

Mingyu comes up to the same spot he’d been the last time, when you’d apologized before knocking him out. He gives you the same beseeching look he’d had last time, and this time you waver more than before. A few long minutes go by of you checking that there’s no one else in this sector before you place one hand on the glass of the door.

“If you promise to stay away from here, Mingyu, I don’t have to use the gas.”

He takes several long strides backwards, retreating from the door.

This is a bad idea, some more practical voice inside your head chimes in. It does not win out.

Mingyu seems taller, somehow, without the glass between the two of you. Anytime you’ve been this close to him before, he’s been unconscious, unable to watch you as closely as he is now.

You start with pressing the thermometer to his forehead, taking note of his usually cool temperature while trying not to meet his gaze. He doesn’t say a thing, standing still and cooperative as you listen to one of his heartbeats.

It’s just as you’re switching to check his second heart the Mingyu lifts one hand up to your cheek suddenly. You look up at him abruptly; practicality says you should get away now, but you stare at him instead, speechless as his cold fingers brush lightly over the skin of your face. There’s something almost gel-like in his touch, and you wonder how it is no ones taken note of his skin exuding any kind of substance before.

“You’re warm,” Mingyu notes, hand coming to rest on the side of your neck with fingertips still pressing lightly at the underside of your jaw. He’s smiling once again, and somehow you feel more like subject than scientist.

“Why don’t you verbally respond to Somin or Dr. Nam?” you ask, trying ground yourself back in the priorities of the study. He removes his touch from you, his fingers curling slightly as he looks at his own hand as if looking for something. “Mingyu?” you prompt him for a response, and he glances up from his hand to smile a little wider at you.

You think you might be in trouble.

Sometimes Mingyu will be the one to say something first now.

He asks, for example, if you’re still warm. If you’re tired. If you’re happy.

Most troubling is when he asks if you’re still sorry.

He peers at you through the glass, looking not at all like he meant for the question to send as strong a pang of guilt through your system as it does.

“This is my job,” you reply as steadily as you can. He may not know what jobs are, you realize only after you’ve already spoken.

“That isn’t an answer,” Mingyu says, hand coming up to the glass. It leaves behind a small smudge of something – perhaps the same secretion you’d felt upon your skin – when he drags his fingers down a few inches. It makes you nervous for a reason you find difficult to place. But it’s the same kind of nervousness you felt in middle school, back when your science teacher paired you up for a project with the class president.

Somin calls out sick the next day Mingyu’s due for his vitals checked.

He smiles when you tell him as much as you come up towards the door. He doesn’t come up towards the same area to meet you, and you presume he hopes you’ll still allow the same deal you’d given him last time.

Just as before, he stays still and lets you go about with all the measurements and procedures you need to do without complaint. Even when you go to take a sample of blood from his arm, he simply holds out one hand and watches as the syringe fills with the dark, thick fluid that runs through his veins.

“Can I touch you again?” he inquires as you’re packing up all your supplies. It draws your attention back to him immediately, your eyes widened with surprise that he’d ask such a thing. He smiles when your eyes fall upon his face, and you stand up straight to come back to your prior spot in front of him.

It’s for research, you try to reason as you nod. He brings both hands up to your face this time, eyes fluttering shut for a millisecond when he first makes contact with your skin.

“Can you tell me…” you start hesitantly, shuddering lightly from the chill of his touch and gel-like substance he smooths over your flesh as his fingers move from your cheeks to your shoulders and down to your arms. You aren’t sure if you’re glad or not that you’d worn a short-sleeved shirt to work today.

He gives a small, puzzled-sounding hum that reminds you to finish your inquiry.

“What is it on your hands right now?” you finish at last, and you feel a familiar flutter of nerves when he chuckles breathily.

“It helps to understand,” he says vaguely, lifting one hand back up to your jaw. His palm drags forwards slightly until only the very tips of his fingers are left on the underside of your chin, tilting your face up so you can’t avoid eye contact. “To be with.”

Your brow furrows. “I don’t understand,” you admit, as if it weren’t already obvious from your expression.

“I love you,” Mingyu tell you calmly, like it’s the same as saying he enjoys your company or commenting on the differences in your natural body temperatures.

That’s enough to make you stumble back from him, your heart suddenly thudding with a confused panic. This is wrong, impossible, and against every regulation there is in the facility.

“You don’t know what that means,” you accuse, and Mingyu frowns.

“I feel it,” he offers as if it will make everything clear. Long legs carry him across the space between the two of you easily. You ought to turn and run, lock the door to the enclosure behind you, and maybe even press the panic button. Mingyu raises one hand and lets it hover just over your cheek; not touching, but asking for permission to do as much. “I want you to believe me.”

He sounds saddened, hurt by how quickly you’d denied any meaning to his words.

You glance towards his hesitant hand and back to his eyes before nodding faintly. He doesn’t smile, his features too focused in on taking in every micro-moment of your reaction when his hand cups your cheek again. He rolls his lips together contemplatively as he watches your shoulder loosen slightly.

His feet shuffle a little closer to yours and his face comes in closer than he’d been before. He murmurs another I love you just before his lips press against yours. It’s different, almost inexplicably, from kissing a human. Something in the texture of his tongue and the taste in his mouth is utterly foreign. For a brief moment, it occurs to you that you ought to panic; that you don’t know if his species may be capable of salivating something deadly upon will.

The worry melts away when you feel his thumb brush against the juncture of your ear and your neck, rubbing a trail of something new that leaves an odd, warming feeling against the soft skin.

Mingyu releases your lips just when you think you might lose yourself entirely to the sensation.  He pulls back just far enough that he can take in your expression. His mouth quirks up into a curious smile.

“Do you believe me?”

You’re definitely in trouble.

[coeurdastronaute]

Essays in Existentialism: Polo

ok so, lexa is a polo player and clarke is one of those fancy girls who watch the game and clarke develops a crush on lexa when she sees her playing and then stuff happen (my idea finish there sorry ) but anyways thanks for your amazing fics i love you they make me happy

The drinks flowed for hours before the game even started. While the field occupied a large section of the estate, the tents and tables and mingling crowds of people in expensive dresses and hats swarmed around it all around the pitch. It was a sunny day with a handful of the magnificent, fluffy white clouds that took their time to get across the sky.

From her table, Clarke listened to the people around her talking and found herself utterly bored by the entirety of it. Not one thing was interesting to her. Not her mother droning on about some wedding a few weeks ago. Not her father talking business with a partner. Not her friends talking about their plans for the following day.

The sun sizzled and sang that summer song while the heat weighed down the day, and Clarke excused herself for a bit of air as the game started.

It was necessary for her, sometimes; to disappear from it all. These types of events were rarities, ones that she endured only long enough to make her father happy so that he didn’t cut her off. He was already more okay with her majoring in art history than her mother, and she liked spending time with him most of the time. He could appease him from time to time. He did pay for her school and bills and anything else she wanted. This was the trade, though deep down, she wagered he would never even hold it over her. She went so he didn’t have to ask.

On the pitch, the horses thundered by as she made her way toward the edge, watching the riders as they wove and nudged and raced around. Clarke paused there and sipped her drink, eager to take off her heels already.

Her parent’s divorce had been everywhere in the past two years. And that was hard enough. But what no one understood was just how difficult it was to see them sitting near each other at a table and hating each other from a distance. It was exhausting. Her world had been turned upside down, it shattered her worldview, and still, they pretended, sat there and avoided each other except for that show of friendship for the people to marvel at and appreciate their maturity. But their daughter knew the truth, and so she stood on the edge of the pitch and held her breath, hoping someone would score so she could scream.

But no one did, and she returned to the table to the quiet battle that remained and felt herself going absolutely insane, and the day had just begun.

It wasn’t that game wasn’t fun. It was always fun, always felt like a drug, with pure adrenaline and a high that didn’t last long enough and left her chasing the next one eagerly. Games were always enjoyable. Games of a certain caliber were damn near close to sex, in her own opinion.

But this game.

This game was not a game of true importance. It was a dull high. A weak release that had moments, but wasn’t enough of a challenge. It was a vanity game for the person who paid her. It was an exhibition in which the team owner participated to feel like their money was well spent. And Lexa found herself to be a dancing clown for more coppers.

“Well done,” she cheered as she passed off an easy goal for herself in favor of an assist.

The owner bought her a new pony. The owner let her travel and play and train and live, and for that, she sold her soul, played in pointless games where people sipped drinks and didn’t watch, and she gave away points to make sure he gave her spending money.

“Great block, great pass,” Kane circled back around after the whistle.

Three nodded politely and lined back up for the next round.

It was a normal game, the regular game that was routine. And before it, she showed off horses and charmed investors. After the game, she would shower and mingle after taking the time to check on her ponies. And she would be just as bored as she was in this very game. But she would have more money hopefully, and she would get to play in a cup next month. And this was how she sold more and more of her soul.

Thoughtlessly, or at least primarily very distracted, she went through the motions and was still better than everyone else on the field, even the other two or three players who were also at half-effort and selling their souls.

She sprinted down and tried to bump someone after the ball before a movement caught her eye and she jerked hard on the reins, losing part of the play. A stock of blonde bounced along the sideline, half cutting across the field on Lexa’s side having made it most of the way around. Not even a horse thundering toward her made the raging princess move, and the player yanked the reins before she felt herself tumble over her horse’s head and onto her back.

The familiar feeling of the wind being knocked out of her lungs made her grumble, and as she quickly got up, she looked toward the stranger that broke her stride, and noted that she didn’t even look back.

“Head over heels?” Kane teased as she tapped the dust off of her uniform.

With a scowl she climbed back on as play was whistled live once again.

The game wasn’t fun, she decided, back and shoulders aching, pride wounded. Not fun at all, and her soul was clearly on sale.

“You’re a pretty fellow,” she cooed at the nose that jutted out of the stall.

Far away from the tents and the hats and the people who all said one thing and meant another, the stables were quiet and a refuge. Worse than her anger at her parents, her anger at needing to be their show pony, worse than feeling so tired and overwhelmed, Clarke felt the sick kind of burn of being nothing more than a cliché. The girl with the parents who gave her whatever she wanted, who still asked for more and was unhappy. It was exhausting, and she was stuck in a game that would never let her out or let her win.

And so she rubbed the soft skin of the horse’s chin and she caught her breath.

The thing that she got good at, during these types of events, was always finding a moment to regroup. Ever since she would sneak out on the roof at the McMillan’s annual Christmas party, or down to the basement at the Company mixer, where she was expected to be polite and smile and be the pretty, picture-perfect family for her father’s firm, she had a knack for finding herself eventually.

In just a few minutes, she’d be gone, back to the party to fulfill her parent’s wishes. It wasn’t hard to do. It was just plain phoney. But she gave herself until the applause of the match. She could have that much time alone without raising suspicions.

The hands in the barn didn’t say anything to her, didn’t see her at all. She knew well enough it was because she was in that stupid dress her mother sent over, and they were afraid of her. She took it though. It helped with the illusion of complete anonymity and--

“You!”

Dumbly, she glanced around before looking toward the stomping and the bellowing voice, as if she could see someone else accepting that kind of accusation.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here after that stunt?”

The voice was angry and came from an angry player who tossed her helmet on the ground with her gloves as she tugged them off and glowered at the stranger to the stables. The uniform was muddy, and there was dirt on her cheekbones. Her eyes were pure fire as she started to tug at her uniform top from her pants, freeing the stiffness somewhat into an organized and planned chaos of after-game disrobing.

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” she spoke with her hands waving. “Walking across the pitch during a game? Of all of the-- the--” the words that followed were in a different language as lips moved faster than human speed and hands waved emphatically.

All Clarke could do was watch the absolute hurricane of a person approach her landfall, and she didn’t even have a moment to brace for it. All at once, green eyes were closer, and a belt was tugged off to accent the words.

As frightened and indignant in equal measure as she found herself to be, Clarke couldn’t shake the feeling of being slightly turned on by the crazed girl with strong forearms and the pretty face and the sweaty thing. It was absolutely not appropriate, but there it was, and she didn’t know how to turn it off despite herself.

“And now you’re in here, with my ponies,” she scoffed. “Go on. Speak then. What is your problem?”

“Currently? Being yelled at in Spanish by a crazed, sweaty woman,” Clarke sassed, standing her ground as soon as she was given the chance. “What’s your problem?”

“Haven’t you heard? You don’t think I have enough of that to worry about, and now killing one? Do you have a death wish?”

The polo player pressed close and furrowed so deep, Clarke was certain her disapproval was etched permanently on the bone of her forehead. She stood taller as well until both were almost touching. There was a familiar air to the player. Clarke had seen her face before, or so she thought, that tiny hint of the known lingering just enough, hidden right beneath the anger and frustration.

“Do you have any manners at all? What did I do to you?”

“My manners might be missing because of an entitled princess putting me on my back because she thinks she can cut the pitch during a game!”

“If I wanted you on your back, you’d be there!”

Both with chests heaving they stared and glared and waged a war despite the blush that crept into Clarke’s cheeks at the suggestion and the proximity.

“Is that so?” the stranger cocked her head, a smirk hidden beneath the overwhelming anger. “Not on your life, ticket holder.”

“What, is that an insult?”

“Just don't walk on the pitch. Okay? It’s not that hard. I know you think you can do whatever you want, but not out there,” she muttered, brushing past the partygoer.

Still stunned, Clarke wondered how her day had turned into this. She hadn’t cut the pitch, she was almost certain. But it was a blackout blur of the need to escape. She must have. She must have done something to be remembered by a player. A player that she knew but didn’t.

“Oh, is that it?” Clarke asked, wheeling around and stomping after the player. Woods was blazed across her shoulders. “Scream at someone, insult them, and walk away?”

“Yes,” she shrugged and turned toward the showers.

They approached a restricted area, but nothing was deterring Clarke from this battle. She had many to fight today, and this wasn’t one she could afford to lose, though she was certain she already has. She would take a pyrrhic victory if offered at that rate.

“I don’t know what you think you know about me, but you don’t know shit--”

The sight of a shirt being pulled off made her mind fail. How could it not. Two minutes after meeting a gorgeous girl, and she was suddenly near a shirtless hot girl. With the muscles. And the body. And the… just all of it.

“I have to shower and look nice so people like you will give me money so I can play,” she put her hands on her hips.

The mud streaked down the side of her neck and over her collar. There was a streak of bruises already forming on ribs and hip and Clarke looked, despite herself.

“Yeah, well me too,” she snapped, hands on hips, ready for another standoff like boxers before a bout.

Maybe she didn’t understand, and the confusion was evident on her face, but the polo player slacked slightly, the tension on her shoulders and face diminished just enough to notice. Maybe it was because she was amused, maybe it was because she was tired, but she searched the blonde’s face and nodded to herself.

“I’m going to shower now, so unless you’re going to take off that pretty dress--”

“You wish,” Clarke sneered, looking her up and down and silently begging her to make that wish. Make it. Just a little bit. Tempt away.

The smirk was still angry, still defiant, still there and infuriating. The polo player unbuttoned her pants before her hands moved for her sports bra and Clarke turned around immediately.

“Stay off the pitch during a game, princess!” she called as Clarke stomped out of the shower room.

“Be a better player!” she taunted before finding fresh air.

Back to where it started, just ten feet from the showers, Clarke stood stark still and evaluated what had just transpired, and for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what or how or even who she’d been before it. But here she was, in the now, and painfully aware that a specimen like that existed in the world and had a temper.

It wasn’t the worst fact to mull and distract herself with as she decided to seek out her parents once more for another round of earning her keep.

In under an hour, she was showered, cleaned, and put in a pretty dress for all to see, smile permanently affixed and brain decidedly shut off as she made the rounds and talked shop wit weekend players and observers who followed but couldn’t play.

Those were conversations she could have. She liked talking about the state of the league and the projections for the cups. She liked talking about projected ponies and trainings.

What she didn’t particularly enjoy was talking about how she modeled to pay the bills. About how she was on billboards and in magazines for perfumes and such, because it made her blush, and her father raised her to be modest.

He also raised her to be humble, but she was working on that part.

“We play in California in a few weeks, and then Kentucky,” Lexa explained to a few people.

“And my team is going to win. Hands down,” their benefactor regaled the group, raising his glass joyously.

Marcus Kane was richer than rich. He had money that was comparable more to a small country rather than another person. And it wasn’t that Lexa disliked him for it. In fact, she actually almost enjoyed him as a person. If he hadn’t spent twenty years of his life building an empire, he might have even been a professional player.

Lexa had been on teams with overbearing owners, and she was fortunate that her’s genuinely just enjoyed the game. It was a blessing, and one that she knew. Even he didn’t enjoy the pomp that came sometimes, but still, she didn’t let him know how uncomfortable it made her.  

“You gave us a run, that’s for sure,” the owner of another team nodded, offering the winners another round of drinks.

“A good play all-around,” Lexa politely agreed before excusing herself to mingle.

It wasn’t terrible. She was good at it, good at turning her head off and pretending. She loved the game, loved what she could be, and if this was just another part of it, then she was okay with that. She’d resigned herself to it.

The food wasn’t terrible. She liked the little sweet lemon cakes. They reminded her of home, and for an instant, the moment it hit her tongue, summertime.

She circled back around, carefully following the cakes back into the large country home that operated as the hosting house for the tournament. The garden party now covered the lawn, ebbed and flowed and moved through the expansive state. As the sun began to set, the party just got better, got bigger, got more elite.

Eventually, her teammates found her and formed a safe circle. It was what they did after all requirements had been met.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dismounted,” Lincoln teased.

“I did it to myself, so it doesn’t count,” Lexa countered.

“It sure as hell does.”

“Kill someone or hit the brakes,” she argued. “I think it’d look bad if I trampled someone.”

“Sure.”

Surrounding the small table and with celebratory drinks, the team devolved into discussing the game and the pretty wives that wanted to sleep with them. It was their normal talk, and they chattered while Lexa sipped her champagne.

For some reason she hadn’t thought about seeing the girl from the stables. Her temper had gotten the best of her, her rashness, her disregard for the old count to ten method. She blamed it on her mother and those genes and the adrenaline of competition.

And as caught of guard as the stranger had been, when she stood up and glared, Lexa felt a little intrigued, a little bad about the yelling until her body would ache and then she remembered she could have killed her.

But to see her in the party was another sight completely. She was the prettiest girl there, and she wouldn't even bring it up to the table because they would try to debate it, and she knew the truth. Sullen and bored, the blonde princess looked like she was as miserable as anyone else.

“Lexa, I’ve been looking all over for you,” the familiar tug of Kane’s hand around her waist shook her awake again, and she lost her in the crowd.

“Just accepting a brutal thrashing from the team.”

“Not too sore from that?” he pressed as they navigated through the crowd.

“Not a bit,” she lied.

His personality was catching, his enthusiasm was overwhelming and she did like him as a person. Honest and good and a kind man, and though she had bouts of melancholy about selling her soul, she was happy.

“I want to introduce you to someone. I’m sure you’ve seen her at practice, but I haven’t been able to articulate my thoughts about it, or we’ve been very quiet. You know how these people are,” he shook his head, as if he weren’t part of the machine that kept lining his own pockets with the people who all did the same.

“Holding out on us?” she elbowed him slightly.

“Yes. I don’t want to hear what they have to say,” he chuckled.

“We’ll mock you later.”

Before he could give her a look, he paused and let go of her and reaching out for a brown-haired woman on the opposite side of the pitch.

While the lights all burned and created a galaxy, the night crept it and loosened the people, let them enjoy the skyline in the background and the feeling of being rich and well lubricated.

“Honey, I want to introduce you to one of the best players in the country. Hell, the world.”

The woman who turned around was beautiful, for her age. But Lexa knew the secret of love, and she looked to her boss as he smiled and looked adoringly at the woman, and she knew how important this woman was to him in an instant.

“I’ve heard so many stories,” she nodded politely. “Alejandra Woods?”

“Lexa is fine,” she smiled, toothy and wide as she shook a hand.

“This is Dr. Abby Griffin,” Kane smiled as he kissed her temple. “Genius and beautiful savior of people’s brains.”

“And cringer while watching the game. Thank goodness you wear helmets.”

“He’s got a hard head,” Lexa assured her, earning a laugh. “And he’s not half bad.”

“I was impressed,” she agreed, placing her hand on his chest as the meshed together.

To Lexa it was very honest and very cute. She loved love. She loved seeing love, and she loved seeing people she liked when they were in love. It was like sunshine and rain and all manner of goodness mixed together for her to steal.

“Lexa has been my favorite investment of all time,” Kane boasted proudly. “Fills my halls with cups and humors me enough to still teach me a few things.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Well don’t overwhelm me with compliments,” he chuckled.

“That was a compliment.”

“I like her,” the doctor nodded, amused and enjoying the polo player. “I have a daughter about your age running around here. And an ex husband who might not like you on principle, so I apologize in advance.”

“Who doesn’t have a few of those, right?” Lexa tried.

“Actually, I think I see her. Clarke?” Kane called while Abby asked Lexa something about her family back home.

“You were in those ads, weren’t you? You model sometimes?”

“I do. It helps pay the bills.”

She was everything Lexa would imagine Kane would like in a woman. Articulate and polite, just distrustful enough to be prudent but also that fake kind of warm while she sized someone up. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful, for a woman of her accomplishments and age.

“And this is my daughter,” Abby smiled as Kane waved her over. “I apologize in advance for her. She just found out about Marcus and myself.”

“Clarke, I’m glad you’re still here. I want you to meet my star,” Kane referenced Lexa yet again. “Lexa, this is Clarke Griffin.”

And that was why the cutting the pitch happened. And that was why she was angry. Lexa recognized her yet again. The girl in the purple dress with the blue eyes and the anger.

“We’ve met,” she pursed her lips.

“Glad to see you’ve managed to avoid the pitch,” Lexa taunted, satisfied with her dig.

“That was you?” Kane put it all together.

“I didn’t realize. But I just found out that you’re fucking my mother and couldn’t get away quick enough.”

The entire conversation died down before Kane ran his hand along his beard and looked at the doctor. Lexa shifted her gaze from the girl to the distance in hopes of melting away, in hopes of having someone rescue her.

“If you’ll excuse me, I see some alcohol with my name on it.”

With that, she was gone as quickly as she came, and Lexa was left oddly intrigued by another clichéd problem of people who gave her money.

The best option was to leave. Clarke knew it, and yet, she couldn’t pass up the drinks that existed, nor could she leave without her best friend who was currently networking for her tech startup, and thus, she let her devotion overrun her urge to flee at all costs.

That was how she met Kane in a new way, as her mother’s boyfriend. That was how she saw her father’s face fall and grow tight until he excused himself and busied his night with the rest of his firm, drinking and smoking cigars and playing cards in some parlor tent. That was how she had not one, but two awkward encounters with a hot polo player. That was her night, and there was no escaping it.

So she elected to ride it out.

“Perhaps we should properly introduce ourselves,” a newly familiar accent slid across her shoulders and made her gulp.

From her spot at the fence, she surveyed the pitch and the dancing and the band and all gaiety of the tournament’s final night.

“I don’t know. I like our rapport,” she finally turned to see the player.

“It seems our paths may cross often at this rate. You should know my name.”

“I don’t think they will.”

“Your new papa is my boss,” Lexa offered, leaning against the bar near the fence. “I’m sure you’ll be around from time to time. And I should also maybe apologize for my temper.”

“You should.”

“Clarke, it was?” she asked, innocent and awfully cute for someone Clarke knew to have a wrathful kind of anger when provoked.

“Yes.”

“Lexa Woods,” she extended her hand and waited. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Clarke didn’t look at her when she dropped her hand, just drank and stared out at her mother laughing in a crowd. For her entire life, she’d watched her mother fake it, and for some reason, this looked real. She dusted Kane’s jacket and she smiled when he whispered in her ear, and Clarke wanted to be happy, she truly did, but she was not that big of a person yet. She needed time.

Unbeknownst to her, the player beside her searched her profile and smiled into her drink before helping herself to another lemon cake. When she was satisfied with figuring out how gorgeous the blonde was, Lexa followed her sights to the newly outed couple.

“My mother said she’d been in love with him since the first time she saw him back in college, before she even knew my father.”

“That is a good story,” Lexa nodded to herself.

“Time and life and pride kept them apart, she said. But everything is finally lining up.”

“Felicidades.”

“I don’t know how people fall in love at first sight,” Clarke sighed and watched her mother dance her with her new boyfriend. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree,” the polo player murmured as she sipped from her glass. “I need at least one conversation.”

That was what it took for Clarke to finally look at Lexa, who was not the same person who yelled in the showers, who was someone who seemed at peace and relaxed. It was infuriating that it was so catching.

“Just one?”

“If it’s stimulating enough. Lust and love are linked.”

“But not interchangeable.”

“But necessary in good measure.”

They debated and grew closer without meaning to until Lexa pulled away to signal for a water, and another for her new friend and patron.

“You would rather have lust, wouldn’t you?” Clarke accused as she caught her breath and waited “The quick and easy and simple thing that it is. Love a bit too complex for someone who hits a ball around with a stick while riding a horse?”

“That might be the third time you’ve insulted my intelligence in the very short time I’ve known you.”

“You missed the other two?”

There it was. She earned a laugh and smile, not a smirk, a pure smile. And it changed the set of the players face, it changed the slope of her cheeks. It wasn’t the worst to look at, for the most part.

“You are so very wrong about me, princesa,” Lexa shook her head and nodded a thanks for the drinks. “You dismiss lust as if it were something bad.”

“Not bad, just not enough. Not a good foundation. Lust passes quickly. It’s a shot, taken back and felt for a second. Leaves a bad hangover.”

“I think a good love is possible to be passionate. It’s necessary, actually,” she insisted. “A good conversation will stimulate passion and lust. That’s easy. A great conversation is when I will fall in love.”

“You seem to have strong opinions on it.”

“I do. We all should have opinions about love. It is inevitable.”

“But you don’t believe in love at first sight?” Lexa asked again.

“I don’t even believe in love at first conversation,” Clarke decided, turning away from the couple on the dancefloor again.

She stared at the polo player in the pretty dress, with the pretty face and the pretty muscles and the pretty smile and challenged her once again.

“Well, then when do you believe in love, hermosa?”

The battle raged once again, a quieter, toned down version of their match in the stables, though the stakes felt just as high, just as different and just as necessary. Clarke couldn’t help it, though she wanted to very much look away. She watched Lexa take a sip from her glass.

“I don’t know if I do,” she confessed.

“You don’t believe in love at all? You’ve never felt it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t believe in stimulating conversation?” Lexa tried.

“I don’t believe you can meet someone and know that you are deeply, madly, mythically in love with them. Not in a look, not in a conversation, not in a lustful night.”

“How long will it take for me to get you to fall in love with me?”

Clarke thought about the question as she sized her up politely. She had been drinking all day, but she wasn’t drunk. She’d learned from a young age to pace herself. Lexa didn’t appear drunk, and she didn’t even seem too bothered by the question, though it was hard to determine if that was just because she lived at two extremes, either a fiery temper or a cool peacefulness were her only settings, or because she just like taking the piss when she was drinking.

But Clarke thought about it as she looked at the beautiful face and the smile that made her head spin.

“I don’t even lust you.”

“So a while?”

“A while,” she nodded. “You were just yelling at me earlier.”

“Passion is passion. Love and hate are so close.”

“And how long would it take you to fall in love with me?”

She watched the grin spread as the player suddenly turned bashful and looked at her watch before back at her.

“Whenever this conversation ends.”

Many disappeared from the party. Many left and bled into the night, following the veins back to the heart of the city after a well-spent day doing absolutely nothing but eating and drinking at someone else’s expense.

Lexa was still there though, long after her normal curfew she imposed on herself because she still could not figure out if a certain beautiful blonde hated her or was intrigued, and the only true way to celebrate a win was with a beautiful woman. Everyone knew that.

There was no end in sight to the conversation though, and it had been a joke, but now she wasn’t so sure she wasn’t falling in love with the idiot who walked across the pitch and laid her out on her back.

“I guess I just like real people. Sometimes these people don’t seem real. Sometimes a lot of people don’t seem real,” Clarke explained as they strolled through the stables.

“And that is why you left?”

“And the divorce was messy. They didn’t notice me quietly disappearing.”

“You’re the same as me then,” Lexa nodded as she paused at a stall and ran a hand along a nose that poked out at her.

“How so?”

“My father isn’t rich, but he taught me to play with ponies he took care of for a richer man,” she explained as she ran her hand along forehead and earned a nudge. “And he said he sold his soul to play. That was the price. Kane buys me horses, he buys our uniforms and he pays us to work here, train him. The only reason I get to play is because he says I can. If I wasn’t as good as I am, he’d drop me.”

“He seems to like you.”

“He likes winning.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Gently, Clarke held out her hand and felt the lips searching for sugar before they snorted in her palm at the absence of a treat. She relegated herself to watching Lexa push away hair and kiss the patch of white on the black horse’s forehead.

“But you’re the same. You come to these things because your father pays your rent, and your mother pays for school.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not so bad, if you don’t think about it,” Lexa grinned. “But sometimes I think about it too much. Especially on days like today.”

She wasn’t accustomed to so many words coming out, but she said them and she knew that Clarke understood. So she looked at her in the dim light of the stable and watched her watch back.

“I don’t know which you I like,” Clarke pondered. “The thoughtful, kind one now, or the angry, half-naked one from earlier.”

“I get that a lot.”

There was a quiet now, between them. And there was the woozy kind of blur to the night, where the memories were tinged on all sides, all laden with alcohol and commiseration.

“Did you fall in love with me?”

The question came with a bit lipped and a shift in bodies. It came beneath eye lashes and in, Lexa’s opinion, the most sultry gaze anyone could muster. And she as damn sure that Clarke knew it, too.

“Is this the end of our conversation?”

“It might be.”

“Then I might have,” she decided, stepping a little closer to the daughter of the people who stomped her divots.

It was bold, but she was known to be. She placed her hands on Clarke’s hips and pressed her against the door to the office.

“Do you do this often?”

“Never.”

“Me neither,” Clarke swallowed as Lexa hovered close.

“Do you want this?”

Lexa waited for a response and only got a kiss. Her hands gripped hips tighter as she caught up and felt tongue. Her own hips pinned the relative stranger against the door. That was all of the response she needed as she opened the door and they slammed against the inside.

“I can certainly call it lust,” Clarke decided as she was lifted to a desk and the door was kicked shut.

Just like that, the hall where the horses were was quiet again as they disappeared to the dark office. She tugged the player closer again and wrapped her legs around her thighs. Things were digging into her back. A stapler fell to the ground with a cup of  pencils.

“You think too much about things that do not matter.”

“What matters?” Clarke challenged, her nails scraping along back.

“You, me, poetry, horses, wine, and sunshine,” Lexa recited, dragging her lips over neck as she spoke, earning arching back.

Lexa stood between Clarke’s legs as she laid on the desk. She ran her hand down her chest, over her stomach and back up again toward her neck where she held her jaw. There were many things her hands could do, and this was one of them.

“Are you going to fuck me or write me a poem?” she taunted.

“Can’t I do both?”

“Have you been planning this since earlier?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I hated you this afternoon.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m indifferent.”

Clarke chuckled and pulled her closer, catching onto the dry  humor that seemed to emanate from the polo player. She bit her lip and she moaned into her mouth as she ground against her.

“Te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega,” Lexa whispered as her hand slid beneath the dress.

“Oh God,” Clarke moaned, clinging to her shoulders, breathing hot against her ear.

Lexa wanted to slide lower. She wanted to pull down the dress and kiss everywhere, to do it properly, to do it well. But she had those noises and she wanted more of them or else she was certain she would die.

“Pero si cada día, cada hora, sientes que a mí estás destinada con dulzura implacable, si cada día sube una flor a tus labios a buscarme,” Lexa whispered as she fucked the beautiful girl on the desk. “Ay amor mío, ay mía, en mí todo ese fuego se repite.”

“Fuck. I’m--”

She didn’t stop. She whispered poems to her and she earned arching back and a long moan followed by a body that relaxed into itself and jolted as she moved her fingers. Still, Clarke clenched around her, and still, Lexa enjoyed it.

“You can admit that you love me now,” Lexa smirked.

“Shut up.”

“While you’re collecting your thoughts and your panties,” she decided as she began to straighten herself up a bit. “I should tell you that I studied for my degree in literature while playing for my school’s team. I have degrees. I’m not a brute.”

“Show off.”

“For that, I am keeping these then,” she teased, waving lacy black fabric  around her finger.

“You earned them.”

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