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green-typewriterz · 27 days

Text

Are You looking?

Art Donaldson x fem!reader

Ask: none

summary: the reader isn’t watching, and Art needs her to look. He needs to be near

Warnings: 2000s outfits, language, cringe if your easily embarrassed, kinda toxic but it’s challengers what do you expect

Words: 2066

Art was sitting on the side of the court, hands fiddling with the strings of his racket. He had been trying to get this same drill right for the past twenty minutes and had yet to succeed. You stared at him, smiling to yourself at how red his face got when he was annoyed. “I’m never gonna get this right.” He said, almost to himself.

You nodded and he looked over, irritated as you spoke, “maybe.” He stood, gripping his racket tight in his hand and went to walk away. “Go on.” You continued, “do what you think you want to.” Your voice was calm, face still and mocking. He stopped in place, still not facing you.

”Do you always treat people like this?” He asked, turning to face you now. You shrugged, not really offering a proper reply. Your eyes flitted toward the court then back to him. He sighed and moved toward the centre of the court, running the movement again.

The movements were much more fluid this time, the racket swishing easily and quickly through the air, but he wasn’t concentrating. Every so often, his gaze would flicker to you, he wanted to know that you were watching. You leaned back in your chair, a habit you picked up when watching Art play and stared upward, no longer focusing on his practice - something you knew he’d notice.

His movements faltered as he saw you look away, nearly stumbling over his feet. He groaned in annoyance and shook out his arms, going to try again, though he was more so trying to get your attention than get the drill right “Again.” You spoke, voice tired, you looked back at him for a moment, but only up until he started the drill.

He tripped up again, eyes drawing away from the footwork he was meant to be practising. Art’s focus is entirely on you, grip on his racket tightening. It was misstep after misstep at this point, something you had grown tired of. “Ok stop. You’re done.” He stops, sighing tiredly and turning to face you. How could you even know he had messed up, you weren’t even watching.

Without another word, you stood and walked away, leaving Art standing irritated in the middle of the court. He didn’t stay still long however and, after a moment of watching after you, followed. He stayed behind slightly, eye’s following your every move. You leaned against your car, pushing your hair away from your face gently.

”I can feel you lurking.” You said, continuing the same calm tone. It was almost eerie. His eyes were drinking you in, lingering on how your hip rested against the car, how the light created shimmers on your skin.

Art walked over, stopping just in front of you. “You heard me?” He asked, face lifting into a small smirk. He leaned on the car beside you, thinking about how it would feel to be near you. You got closer to him, eyes lingering on his lips for a moment.

”I’m not deaf.” You inched closer again, almost touching. His breath was hot against your face. “You don’t like control do you?” You asked, tone snake-like. You were winding your way around him, hands inches away.

Art stared into your eyes, trying his hardest not to fall into you. “I’m fine with control. I just prefer…others to be in it.” He said, so softly it could’ve been a whisper. You nodded, as if processing something important and leaned forward, lips centimetres from his neck.

With a spare hand you grabbed his waist, pulling him into you. “Happy?” You whispered. He nodded, eyes closed. But before he could get what he wanted, you pulled away again.

His eyes opened, confusion littering his gaze. He almost looked like a lost puppy. “Patience.” It was one word, but it sent a shiver through him. He didn’t have time for patience.

Art sighed, voice filled with yearning as he replied with a quiet, “please.” You smiled, moving further away now and opening your car door.

He was stuck in place, not knowing how to react and instead simply stared at you. You turned on the ignition, muttering another, “Patience.” You didn’t wait for his reply.

——

You played your matches with fury, screaming at your opponent far too often - something that had become a trademark of yours (which you had surprisingly never been written up for). Art watched the match, or rather watched you under the pretence of watching the match. He watched how you got close to your opponent, whispering something that made her face pale. Art found himself growing jealous, the way your figure moved was almost intoxicating.

The weather beat down as you continued to play, skin shining in the endless heat. The match reached half-time and you sighed in annoyance, walking over to the side of the court and arguing with your coach. Art tried to catch your eye from his place in the stands but you didn’t take any notice, instead turning to your water bottle and pouring it over your face. The water fell over your features in almost slow motion to Art, the droplets clinging to your skin and sticking your white tennis shirt to your body.

You met his eyes, anger and annoyance evident in your gaze and turned away, heading toward the centre of the court again. You wanted to get this match done. Each shot seemed to grow with intensity and, while fatigue picked at your opponent, the longer the match went on, the better you played - maybe it was the adrenaline.

The match was called and cheers erupted from the sidelines when you won, a proud smile on your face as you walked over to take the trophy. Now seemingly the face of niceties, you shook your opponent's hand, wishing her luck on her next games and walked off the court, heading back toward your dorm to get changed and celebrate. Art’s brows furrowed as he followed after you.

He caught up, seemingly trailing like some sort of lost puppy. “Where are we going?” He asked, voice lilting with confusion. You stopped, turning to meet his eyes as you ran your hand through your hair.

“I’m home, then to a bar. You can do whatever you want, Art.” You replied calmly, crossing your arms as he stared back in some sort of pleading. He seemed downtrodden, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment until he walked closer, seemingly begging.

His voice was quiet as he spoke, “You’re not staying for my match?” He wanted you to see him play, to potentially see him win. There was something about you that made Art crave your attention - he needed to know you saw him.

There was silence, nothing but the hum of a crowd and the hot sun. Then, “I’ll see you after.” Art had been given the chance to reply, but he didn’t take it and so another silence cut through the conversation in an isolating way. He watched you walk off, uncaring and victorious.

—

The bar was thick with noise, bodies pressed against another moving to harsh music and air damp with the smell of cheap alcohol - it was a preferred place of the Stanford students. You sat at the bar, head leaning on your palm as you spoke idly with the bartender. You had switched out your tennis clothes for a darker ensemble, specifically a shining leather skirt with a white tank top and the most aggressive stilettos you could find. God bless 2000s fashion.

Art had walked in a few moments ago, spotting you almost instantly in the crowd of people. As he passed by endless bodies to get to you hands reached out in congratulation - he had won his match. He sat beside you, knowing he’d have to be the one to start the conversation. “I won my match.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “I heard.” That was it, that was all you said…though it seemed to mean something to Art - a message you had gotten across. You had been talking about him and, by the drink that was just placed in front of him, you had been waiting for him too. “You weren't…distracted?” you asked now, a small smirk building on your face, twisting your glittering lips.

Art seemed confused, then he thought back to your practice sessions, you hadn’t been watching when he needed you to and you weren’t there when he wanted you to be. “It did weigh on my mind, your absence. Though clearly I didn’t let it get to me.” (this was a lie).

A smile graced your features and you leaned forward, “I’m touched you were thinking of me.” it was a whisper, a soft breath that smelled like passion fruit cocktails. His eyes fluttered - very much involuntarily - and he smiled back, his hand gliding over the rim of his cocktail glass.

He felt almost confident now, his smile matching yours in something that could only be described as want. You couldn’t ignore the prettiness of the image, how his blonde hair fell in small curls, the amber part of his eye that drew you to his gaze, the amused look that graced his blushed lips. Maybe it was why you made the decision when you did.

You stood, walking away with a sure smile on your face. Art stood, suddenly much less confident (though still smiling) and you spun on your heel, eyes meeting him instantly. “Come on.” That seemed to be all it took and he followed you, eventually speeding up to walk by your side as you walked back to your dorm room.

It was odd how quiet the night seemed in comparison to the bar. Usually there were immature college students everywhere, getting drunk under trees or thinking they were football stars when they were just drunk (something neither of you were).

The quiet continued into the dorm block, the whole campus seemed to be in the bar, celebrating your wins. The air was still humid from the summer sun and as soon as you reached your room, the windows were swung wide, allowing any residual noise from the bar to seep through into your bedroom.

This was how the two of you sat, quiet and listening. If there was any conversation, it wasn’t meaningful enough to be particular to the moment - or to be memorable. Art had turned to face you, his hands gently resting on the duvet in front of him like he was leaning forward to breathe you in.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question was posed softly, simply. You smiled - he had been waiting. Art had been waiting since the moment he had first seen you on the court, though he’d admit that he had been waiting a bit more impatiently after he felt your soft hands on his waist those few days ago. Your response was almost painful to him, a word he never wanted to hear:

“Wait.”

You stood and left the room, though you didn’t do much. Instead, you stared into the mirror, brushing your hair away from your face and thinking about what he had said. It wasn’t something you’d say no to, not in any world, but you found that the longer you made a person wait, the better it would be.

When you walked back into the room his eyes were wrought with impatience, hands begging for you. You sat back down again as if you had never left and smiled as he looked through his eyelashes at you. You placed a gentle hand on his cheek and he leaned forward, almost pleading with you. You answered his question softly, placing a deep kiss to his lips. He was almost feverish in his response, hands wrapping themselves into the beach of your hair as he pushed into you, deepening the kiss as much as he could.

You smiled against his lips, hands moving from his face to his waist as you pulled him tighter against you. It seemed as though neither of you needed to breathe as his body wrapped itself around yours and he found himself sighing when the two of you lay down, finally pulling away as you wrapped your arms around him. You lay there, him in your embrace and smiled as he kissed your forearm. You were what he wanted (the same could be said for you).

#fic #fanfic #one shot #writing #mike faist x reader #mike faist #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers #art challengers #hes a yearner

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