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dragon-kazansky · 3 years

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Dangerous | Helmut Zemo

AU! Race car driver Zemo 😎

Gender neutral reader

Collage by @realremyd

I am once again apologising for what you're about to go through.

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Part 10

You wipe down the counter. It was quiet today, not many customers. Everyone was at home waiting for the race to begin. Today was the fourth race of the season. If Zemo won today, he would tie with Stark.

Zemo... you hadn't gone back. You hadn't called him, text him, seen him. You had returned to work, telling your boss things had changed. He welcomed you back, but he looked at you with pity sometimes.

He was currently standing in the doorway behind you, watching you. The race would be starting soon, he had the TV set up in his office, hoping you would come watch it with him. He would happily close up shop for this. For you.

You had worked at The Redwing for several years, a loyal worker to him. You would good with the people, you made wonderful coffee, sometimes bringing s cup to his office, and you knew how to make work fun.

You had this amazing opportunity, then something unexpected came out of the blue and ruined it.

You could do so much better than this little job. He wanted that for you. Plus, he was very much aware, just by the way you had been these past few days, that you were utterly in love with his favourite racer.

He saw the images from the last race. That photo of you and Zemo kissing after his win was all over the place.

Behind him, the commentators are talking about Zemo's win. He flashed up on the screen, a replay of his car gliding over the line. The moment Stark lost to him.

You put away some clean cups, stacking them gently by the machine. You liked having a tidy working area. You knew where everything was, getting what you needed for an order was second nature.

You swung a towel over your shoulder and decided to organise the new tea flavours that came in. Cherry blossom tea had just come in, apparently it was nice. As the shop was empty, you could make one. You grabbed a tea bag from the box and put the box back on the shelf. Your boss watches you go about making your drink.

"Are you going to watch the race with me?"

You pick up your mug and look at him, shaking your head softly. He sighs and comes over to you. He doesn't have to say anything as you begin to cry. He hugs you.

"Why didn't you go?"

"What would I have said?"

"Anything. You don't believe he did it, do you?"

You shake your head.

"Then why are you here with me when you can be there with him? I remember the accident, you know. Saw it on TV back then. There is no way Helmut Zemo would sabotage a race like that."

"What was I suppose to do?" You look up at him and watch as he grabs a napkin to hand to you. You wipe your tears gently.

"You were suppose to go. I'm suppose to be seeing you on screen today, supporting him. You're suppose to be there when he wins today," he speaks softly.

"It's too late."

"You could still go down there. You'll miss the race, but you'll be there."

You shake your head.

"He told me, he said if I still loved him I should be there at the race. If I don't go, he'll leave me alone. I think this is best."

"Now look here, you're a darling and I adore you, but my God, you're a silly liar. You're so in love with him it hurts. You're just torturing yourself by being here."

You wipe at your eyes gently, sipping the tea. It was nice. Zemo would like it.

You sigh and put the cup down.

"You go watch the race. Just... let me knows if he wins."

He looks at you with those pity filled eyes again. When you don't say any more, he leaves, heading back into the office. He keeps the door open a crack.

You stand there. No customers in sight. You feel absolutely awful.

Zemo sits outside by his car. Sam, Bucky, and Sam's sister Sarah, were all there with him. Zemo hadn't said a word to them since he arrived. Bucky had tried to talk to him about what happened, but he didn't get a response.

You weren't here. You didn't come.

He still held onto hope you would make a last minute appearance, that maybe you were right outside, but you weren't. He knew deep down you weren't coming.

You were afraid. He couldn't blame you, but he had hoped that maybe, just maybe, you would believe him. Still, he should have expected this.

Sam and Bucky glance at each other.

"Just leave him be. He'll focus up for the race," Sam said, glancing at Zemo.

Bucky looked across the way.

Stark and his little witch were smooching for the cameras. Behind them, Pepper Potts. Bucky never understood how Pepper could deal with Tony. After everything.

"I'll kill him."

"Bucky, don't."

Sarah pulls Bucky back and tried to get him to calm down. Sam, watches Stark for a lite while longer. He felt sick to the stomach just looking at them.

The racers were called to the line.

You finished up the last if the tea and put the cup to the side. You would take it up to the kitchen shortly. You refilled the water tank and reorganised the spoons for the third time that morning.

The door opened. A young woman enters, a man and two children behind her. You put on your hospitality smile and turn to her.

"Welcome, are you sitting in with us or taking out today?"

The woman smiles, though a lite awkwardly.

"Actually, I am looking for Y/N," she says softly. Her accent, it sounded so much like his.

"That would be me, what I can I do for you?"

She glances at the man she came in with, who nods at her. Licking her lip quickly, she turns back to you and speaks.

"My name is Wanda Maximoff, six years ago my brother died in a horrible accident. I know you have been made aware of this incident. I came here to tell you that I testified about what happened, but no one believed me. They took Stark's word against mine. Helmut Zemo did not kill my brother."

You stare at her.

"You're probably wondering how I know about you and how I come to be here. Stephen Strange is a racer too. Stark had called him a few nights ago. Apparently Zemo had paid him a visit and caused quite a fuss."

"Helmut went to Stark?"

"Yes. Over you. I don't know all the details, only what Strange had told me. I thought it best I come to you and tell you what I know. My brother died in an accident. He was not killed by Zemo."

You hear the low sound of engine revving from the office. The race was about to start.

Wanda watches as you dart into the office quickly. She smiles softly and leaves with her family.

Your boss looks up as you enter. He smiles at you and waves you over. You sit on his desk and watch the TV.

That beautiful purple car appears on screen. You almost want to cry again as you see Zemo sitting there.

You would close your eyes and listen to that sound, even if it is through the television, but you didn't want to look away for a second. That handsome man on the screen, you loved him beyond belief.

Then they were off.

Your breath caught in your throat. You tended up. Your boss placed a hand on your arm, reminding you to breathe. You couldn't. Stark and Zemo were neck on neck. If he won today, he would tie with Stark.

And you would go to him to be there for the final race.

The cars sped around the first corner. You had long since blocked out the commentator. The only sound you could hear was those engines.

Zemo's car glides down the track.

Stark is a hair width away from him. They are so close they could collide any moment, but they don't. Both of them are very skilled and talented drivers. They were born to do this.

They reach the second bend.

You grab your boss's hand, needing something to hold onto. Those two cars are so far ahead from everyone else.

You're filled with anxiety. Everything feels too much.

The third bend.

It all happens so quickly. In the blink of an eye. You're not even sure what had happened.

You weren't even aware you were screaming until your boss had his arms around you. He was so quick to try and tear your gaze away from the screen.

Zemo's car collided into the barrier. It was up in flames. Moments later there was an explosion.

It's just like that day. Six years ago.

You cling to your boss, crying into his shirt. He scrambles with one hand to grab the remote and turn it off.

You had seen enough.

The office fills with your cries. Your agony filled screams are enough to break anyone's heart. What the Hell just happened?

He didn't turn.

He didn't make it around the bend.

And now?

Your boss holds you for a while longer. It's all he can do to help you right now.

At the racetrack, there is chaos. Sam and Bucky were booking it down the sidelines, desperate to reach that corner. Stark zoomed past them going at the speed of light. He would soon cross the finish line and win his third victory, successfully beating Zemo at this point.

Sirens go off in every direction. All ambulances are heading the same way.

An eerie silence falls over the crowd, even after Stark finishes.

Sarah grabs her phone. She has to make a call.

Sam and Bucky manage to reach the wreck. The car is totalled into a burning pit. They can't make heads or tails of what's happening.

And where was Zemo?

This isn't how things were suppose to go.

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#helmut zemo #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #marvel #AU

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coeurdastronaute · 7 years

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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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