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k-nayee · 2 months ago

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Worship Challengers

wc: 3.9k a/n: just a sucker for men who stare at you like this😩

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You never really cared for tennis.

It was just one of those sports that passed you by—background noise.

If your cousin hadn’t begged you to chaperone her at the Junior Opening, you wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

She had her heart set on going and your parents were quick to agree for you with a look that made it impossible to say no.

So there you were: at a game you barely understood.

It was loud. The crowd, the energy, people cheering for players you never heard of before.

Your cousin, of course, was already vibrating with excitement. She didn’t even bother hiding her obsession—flipping through photos of Patrick Zweig on her phone and going on about his so-called legendary backhand.

��Look at him!” she said, shoving her phone in your face.

“Mhm,” you replied flatly, leaning away. “That’s nice. Real nice.”

You only half-listened as you mentally prepared to dissociate for the next couple of hours.

This was just a favor—a way to kill time. Nothing more.

Or so you thought.

That all changed when he stepped onto the court.

Art Donaldson.

At first you didn't know his name. Your cousin hadn't mentioned him once in her nonstop chatter.

She was too busy fawning over the crowd’s golden boy to notice the other player warming up on the opposite side of the net.

You noticed him though.

There was a quiet focus about him, an intensity that made everything else around him blur into the background.

While Patrick was already basking in the crowd’s cheers, this guy—tall, lean, with sharp focus—didn’t even look at the stands.

His eyes stayed locked across the net like nothing else in the world mattered.

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

After all you were stuck here for the next couple of hours—you might as well watch the match.

It wasn't until the game commenced did you realize it was more than that.

He had this steely gaze locked on the other side of the net. Even when his opponent scored, Art didn't falter.

He gripped his racket tighter, lips pressed in a firm line as if nothing else mattered but the game.

You leaned forward in your seat.

For someone who wasn't supposed to care, you found yourself caring—a lot.

Patrick was clearly the favorite; he was loud and brimming with confidence, waving and grinning after every point with an almost infectious energy.

But it was Art who held your attention.

His movements were sharp and precise like every moment was planned.

He didn't need the crowd's approval. He wasn't there to entertain anyone. He was there to play.

At one point Patrick sent a blistering serve across the court, a shot that would've thrown most off their game.

Art moved like it was nothing.

He returned the shot with a perfect backhand, sending the ball whipping past Patrick before he could even attempt to reach it.

The crowd fell silent for a beat and then the cheers erupted. Art didn't celebrate.

He simply reset, ready for the next point as if winning meant nothing.

And for the first time that day you actually cared about tennis (well at least his tennis).

Patrick might've been the crowd's favorite, but in your eyes there was no competition.

Art Donaldson had completely captured your attention and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were watching someone special.

The match went on point after point, but all you could think about was him.

As the final point approached you felt your heart racing. You knew how this would end—knew Patrick was going to win.

That didn’t stop you from silently rooting for Art, hoping against hope that he’d pull through.

When Patrick finally clinched the match cheers erupted with your cousin nearly jumping out of her seat in excitement.

All you could do was watch as Art stood there, breathing heavily, his racket still clenched in his hand.

He didn’t react—didn’t lash out in frustration or hang his head in defeat.

Instead he wiped the sweat from his brow with an unreadable expression and walked off the court with his head held high.

You felt your breath hitch, your chest tightening as you watch him disappear from the court.

And that’s when it hit you.

You had a crush.

A ridiculous, undeniable crush on Art Donaldson.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

You hadn’t thought about Art Donaldson in a long time.

Well...not really. Not since high school when he first captured your attention at the Junior Opening.

It had been years since that day and your crush on him had dulled over time. But not completely.

Fast-forward to now: Stanford University. You’d gotten in on an full ride academic scholarship—Business major, a time consuming program till the point tennis felt like a world away.

You weren’t involved in that type of scene, hell the only reason you thought about the sport from time to time was because of him.

Art was still there lingering on the edge of your thoughts even when you try not to think about it too much.

Then again, how could you when you saw him every now and then on campus?

You’d spot him walking across the quad or passing by in the dining hall with a distant gaze, lost in his own world.

He was hard to miss—still just as intense and focused as before but quieter now.

You tried not to let it affect you. It was silly to still have feelings for someone you didn’t even know.

Besides, you’d overheard the gossip—everyone had.

The whole campus seemed to know about the love triangle between him, his best friend Patrick Zweig, and Tashi Duncan.

Some said they were fighting over her; that their friendship had started to crack under the weight of it.

Others said it was only a matter of time before Art finally won her over after being in love with her for years.

And each time you heard it, you felt that old familiar pang in your chest.

It was a sharp reminder that no matter how much your crush had dulled it wasn’t entirely gone.

Meanwhile Tashi was a rising tennis star herself. Beautiful and talented, she was the kind of girl people wrote stories about, who turned heads wherever she went.

You? You didn’t stand a chance. She was everything you weren’t.

How could you ever compete with her?

Hell you’d never spoken to Art—not in high school and not now.

To him you were just another face on campus, another student passing by.

Despite it all, you couldn’t stop the flustered flare-ups every time you saw him.

Especially when you found out he was in your Statistics class.

You remember the first day he walked in—your heart had skipped a beat just like it used to.

Art Donaldson—your Art Donaldson—was sitting just a few seats away. You hadn’t expected it.

Stanford was a big campus and you figured you’d only ever see him in passing.

But there he was, sitting two rows away in the lecture hall.

It was ridiculous really.

You were a grown woman at one of the best universities in the country, and yet here you were acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Of course you didn’t talk to him. You barely even managed to glance his way without feeling like a complete idiot.

Every now and then, though, you’d steal a quick peek in his direction.

You couldn’t help it though. There was something about him—something that had stuck with you ever since that first match.

Sometimes at night you'd lay there and wonder what it would have been like if things had been different.

If he’d noticed you instead of Tashi. If you had been the one to catch his eye, that maybe things would have turned out differently.

But that was just wishful thinking.

So you kept your distance; sneaking shy glances in class, trying not to get caught while doing your best to focus on your coursework.

After all, what were the chances that someone like Art would ever notice someone like you?

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Art had always been good at keeping his emotions in check.

After losing to Patrick at the Junior Opening he’d done his best to shove his feelings for Tashi aside.

It wasn’t easy—she and Patrick were always around, the three of them inseparable.

Patrick had won her over after all. And Art? Well he knew better than to dwell on it.

It was better this way. It had to.

So Art threw himself into his tennis at Stanford. The one thing that had always grounded him.

There were days where it worked, where the rush of practice or the sound of the ball smacking against his racket was enough to quiet his mind.

But then there were days where it didn't.

It was during a practice break, he was standing on the sidelines with Tashi who was texting Patrick.

Art stared off at the court as his thoughts wandered. He’d been trying—really trying—to move on and keep his mind clear.

Tashi was still with Patrick. He had no claim over her.

There was no reason to feel the way he did. She was happy.

̶H̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶t̶̶r̶̶y̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶b̶̶e̶

He sighed, taking a swig from his water bottle when he noticed something—or rather someone.

You were scampering across the far side of the courts to a couple of the other players, your yellow floral dress catching the light.

The way you moved, the way your dress flowed around you...it felt like everything around you blurred out.

He didn’t even register what you were holding—some kind of water bottles or equipment—too focused on the way you smile as you talked.

Art blinked. Hard.

He knew most of the regulars around the tennis practices (especially those involved with the team), but you didn’t fit into any of those familiar faces.

His gaze followed your every step, lingering on your retreating figure as his mind spined with questions.

Who were you?

“Art.”

He snapped back a little too quickly, blinking at Tashi as she looked at him with a raised brow, clearly unimpressed with his daydreaming. “Stop zoning out. We’ve got a lot to do before the next match.”

“Yeah sorry,” he muttered, forcing himself to focus as he jogged back onto the court.

But as they continued practice, Art found himself glancing back at the spot where you had been.

His mind drifted back to you. He found himself scanning the stands wondering where you’d gone.

He didn’t even know your name and you already caused a shift inside him.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

It wasn’t long before he started noticing you everywhere.

At first it was just in passing—seeing you on campus, weaving through the bodies of students in the quad or grabbing a coffee at the campus café.

Then it became more than that.

You were always around the tennis courts dropping off water bottles or extra gear (as he later found out, you were doing it for your roommate who was on a tennis scholarship).

Every time he saw you his pulse quickened.

There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way you always seemed to be in your own world.

He’d find excuses to look for you, telling himself it was nothing.

After all what were the chances you even noticed him?

You didn’t attend the big matches or the main events—he’d never seen you in the stands.

Maybe you weren’t even interested in tennis. Plus, why would you be interested in him?

He was Art Donaldson: the guy who’d lost the Junior Opening and spent most of his time in the shadow of Patrick Zweig.

You were just a passing face, someone he’d never get to know. Right?

Wrong.

Overslept from another night of late practice, Art rushes into Statistics class late—and there you were.

The tennis player nearly tripped over his own feet when he spotted you.

You were in his class? How hadn’t he noticed you before?!

Brain scrambling the college athlete finds his seat, luckily it was a perfect distance away for him watch you without being obvious about it

Every time you did something small—lips pouting when you didn't understand a part of the lecture or tilting your head in concentration—he couldn’t help but notice.

His eyes kept wandering back to you, sitting so close just a few seats away.

Art knew it was a risk of getting caught staring. Especially when he noticed something else—you were looking at him too.

At first he thought it was his imagination.

It wasn't. Glancing up from his notes, he'd meet the sight of you quickly looking away.

Art felt like he couldn’t breathe. His heart stuttered in his chest and he quickly pretend to focus on his notes.

Heat creep up the back of his neck, his skin tingling with the realization that you’d seen him.

After that, each time you glanced his way, he'd felt a spark—something electric.

He’d try to play it cool, but inwardly he was thrilled.

This wasn’t someone rooting for him from the sidelines or asking for an autograph.

This was you.

The girl who had somehow slipped under his radar and then completely overtaken his thoughts.

You knew he existed. You saw him even if it was just for a second.

It wasn’t much, but for Art it was everything.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

You weren’t much for parties. In fact you actively avoided them whenever you could.

So when your roommate begged you to come with her to some party—because she didn’t want to go alone—you found yourself reluctantly agreeing.

You figured you’d make a quick appearance and leave early without making a fuss.

The moment you stepped into the house you knew this wasn’t your vibe.

Nursing the same plastic cup of watered-down beer, you hung out by the edges of the room trying to stay as invisible as possible.

Time seemed to pass slowly. You check your phone; two hours passed.

You perk up at that revelation, finally deciding it's time to head back to your dorm.

Just as you could make an exit your roommate finds you.

“There you are!” she shouted over the music. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

You force a smile. “Yeah I was just about to head out actual—”

“Whaaaat? No way!” she cuts you off, grabbing your wrist. “You have to come with me!”

You barely had time to protest as she dragged you toward a smaller dimly lit room in the back of the house.

The sight of about twenty people sitting in a circle makes you hesitate.

It wasn't until you spotted the empty glass beer bottle in the center did you realize what was happening making your heart sink—Spin the Bottle.

“I’m not playing,” you start backing away but your roommate was already pushing you into the group.

“There’s way too many people for it to land on you,” she assured you with a wink, her voice light with mischief. “Besides it’s the last round. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You reluctantly joined the circle, sitting awkwardly on the floor. 'She's right...what's the worse that could happen?'

As soon as you sat down someone immediately offers you the bottle.

“Here newbie! Your turn!” someone shouted and the room burst into cheers, all eyes suddenly on you.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you glared at your friend who was now avoiding your gaze, clearly sheepish about getting you into this situation.

You could’ve left. You should’ve left. But here you are.

Sighing you accept the bottle to avoid making a scene.

The glass felt cold against your sweaty palms. Your heart race as you avoid looking directly at anyone.

You were embarrassed, self-conscious. This wasn’t your thing. You hated the attention.

And the pressure. It felt like your entire body was vibrating with anxiety as you mentally prepared for the worst.

You gave the bottle a spin; your nerves turned into outright panic as the world seeming to slow down around you.

Your mind raced with a thousand insecurities: What if they thought you were ugly? What if the person you kiss someone hate it? Or worse—what if they wanted more than just a kiss?

Your chest tightened at the thought, stomach twisting in knots. 'What if my breath smelled weird? What...what if their breath smelled weird?!'

The bottle slowed, spinning less and less until it teetered to a stop.

Time stretched unbearably slow and you clenched your fists, hoping, praying it would land on someone random—someone who wouldn’t care.

Then it stopped.

And you looked up.

It was Art.

Art Donaldson.

'What...the...fuck?' the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You blinked thinking maybe you’d somehow imagined it.

He was here? You hadn’t even noticed him in the crowd, let alone expected the bottle to land on him!

There was no way right?

Art stared back at you eyes just as wide as yours.

He looked as shocked as you felt, frozen in place as the room erupted around you in whoops and cheers.

Someone shouted something you didn’t catch and you saw a couple of guys nudge Art, grinning like idiots as they clapped him on the back.

Your body went numb. A weird tingly sensation spread through your chest as you try to process what was happening.

'This can’t be real. I must be dreaming.'

You barely heard the teasing shouts or the laughs that followed.

All you could do was stare at him, your mind spinning faster than the bottle had.

Art still looked a little shell-shocked as his friends shoved him toward the closet.

You barely registered the few people nudging you as well, urging you forward.

Next thing you knew you're shoved into a small cramped closet with Art right behind you.

The door shut with a soft click sealing you both inside the dim space.

It was silent. Awkward.

You could feel the tension between you two thickening as though the walls were closing in.

The reality of the situation crashed down on you all at once: you were in a closet. Alone. With Art Donaldson.

The Art Donaldson who you’d been low-key crushing on since forever.

Your heart continued to race and your mouth felt dry.

You weren’t sure what to do. From the way Art fidgeted you could tell he was just as nervous.

His eyes flicked between the floor and you, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

He was...cute. Not just cute, handsome even.

His tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and the nervous look in his eyes gave him an almost boyish charm—and you found yourself growing more flustered the longer the silence dragged on.

“Hi,” you finally managed to say in a soft voice. “M-my...my name is—”

“I know,” he interrupted making your brows furrow in confusion.

Art's face paled realizing what he’d said and started backtracking. “I-I mean I know because we’re in the same class. Statistics! I-I see you in there sometimes. Not like watching you or anything! I just...noticed. Not in a weird way! I’m not a creep I promise.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his nervous rambling, some of the tension breaking.

He lets out a breath he must have been holding visibly relaxing at your response.

“Yeah,” the faintest laugh escape your lips. “I’ve noticed you too.”

Before either of you could say more, there was a sudden knock at the door making you jump.

“Ten more minutes guys!” A muffled voice calls from the other side, “Make 'em count!”

The reminder of what you were supposed to be doing—what everyone out there expected you to be doing—made the tension snap back into place.

Art shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the floor before slowly lifting to meet yours.

But this time when he looked at you his expression was different.

His half-lidded dark eyes lingered on you in a way that made your heart stutter.

He wasn’t just looking at you—he was studying every inch of your face as if memorizing each detail, not wanting to miss anything.

You felt heat crawl up your neck and spread across your chest from the weight of it.

His stare wasn’t overbearing but it was enough to send your nerves into overdrive.

Unable to handle the intensity of it anymore, you take a shaky breath “So...s-should we start kissing...?”

As soon as the words left your mouth Art doesn't hesitate.

His hand shot out, grabbing your waist and pulling you close in one swift motion.

His other cupped the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was filled with a pent-up almost desperate energy.

You could feel the way his breath hitched, his body trembling slightly as he leaned into you.

It was like he couldn’t believe this was happening. As if you'd disappear if he let go.

And just as quick the kiss began, it ended.

His chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths, but his eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

Reverence.

He looked at you like you were something delicate...something sacred.

You weren’t just a girl in a closet—he made you feel like the only person in the world.

You were taken aback, your mind scrambling to catch up with what had just happened.

The heat from the kiss lingered on your lips and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, stunned.

But then without thinking you reach up and pull him back to you.

Your fingers tangle in his blond locks as you crash into him; kissing him harder, like you need him as much as he seems to need you.

Art groaned against your mouth, the sound sending a thrill through your body.

His fingers brush against your cheek then down to your neck like he was memorizing the shape of you.

His hands then found your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer to deepen the kiss.

The tension had finally snapped and suddenly you were both lost in it; grasping at each other like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

Body pressed against his, Art’s hand slid down your hip before tugging at your thigh to wrap your leg around his waist.

The movement pulled you even closer.

You could feel the heat of him, his heart racing in time with yours, his breath hot and ragged as his lips moved down to your neck.

His kisses trailed slowly from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, then lower until his lips brush against the soft skin of your neck.

Each one was deliberate—almost worshipful, like he was savoring every inch of you.

Feeling his mouth against your pulse made you shiver causing your body to respond instinctively as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He lingered there for a moment as if savoring the way you trembled beneath him before continuing on.

“Art” you breathed out, barely able to find your voice as the sensation of his lips on your skin overwhelmed you.

He made an almost needy sound in response, his hands gripping you tighter like he couldn’t get close enough.

All that existed in that moment was him—his touch, his kiss, the way his body felt against yours.

His mouth moved back up to yours and when his lips found yours again, the kiss was different—deeper, more intense.

Just as the passion between you began to swell there was a loud knock on the door, jolting you both out of your haze.

“Time’s up!” someone shouted from the other side followed by teasing laughter.

Art breaks away from the kiss with a heavy breath before leaning his forehead against yours as he blinked, trying to regain some composure.

Your bodies were still pressed together in the cramped space, neither wanting to move.

“I...I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admit quietly almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud.

You smile, your cheeks warm and heart still pounding in your chest. “Me too.”

The closet door swings open but neither of you pays attention.

You’re still wrapped up in each other, lost in your own little world.

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larissa-the-scribe · 1 month ago

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Tell Me About This Time Loop, Again?

And so it begins... @inklings-challenge

Day 12

In Zo's mind, it never felt like the day was properly begun until Lyn woke up, looked around at the room they'd been staying in, frowned, and said—

Day 13

"Where are we? And why does it feel so... familiar?"

"Well you see," Zo replied, as he always did, peeking at the underside of the egg he was frying, "we're stuck in a time loop."

Day 14

"A time loop?" Lyn swung her feet over the side of the bed, seeming to realize for the first time that she was in one.

"Don't worry, it's clean." After confirming they were, indeed, in a time loop, one of the first things he had suggested was finding a comfortable place to set up camp. Somehow it had worked, and they had ended up there every time things reset. "And there doesn't seem to be anyone around, so I don't think we're stealing or trespassing."

Lyn raised an eyebrow.

Day 15

"Well, we might be, but no one minds. It's a ghost town. Everyone seems to have disappeared." And since it was a time loop, they never ran out of cooking gas. Or food supplies. That, at least, was convenient.

"Disappeared?" Lyn stood up, adjusting her shirt from how it had gotten scrunched up in the night. Despite her attempts to look bright-eyed and alert, he could see the sleepiness that still hung from her eyes.

Day 16

"Our best guess so far is that it's connected to the time loop." Zo flipped the eggs. If this all persisted, he could open up a fried-egg restaurant once they got out; he was getting an absurd amount of practice flipping eggs.

"That makes sense." Lyn padded over to the window, still barefoot, and pushed the shutters open. "Do we have any evidence, or is that just, well, a guess?"

Her gaze swept the view, which he knew without looking was nothing more than the empty lines of blocky, one-story buildings and the too-smooth black-top of the streets. The neighborhood was pressed together as if sheltering from the plains beyond the town, with such a veneer of newness covering it all that each house might have been churned out of a factory yesterday. They hadn't been, though, considering the subtle signs of wear and tear inside the houses.

"Eh, a bit of both. Something weird is clearly going on with the area, and we know time is affected, too, so it's a logical guess that the two are connected. Whether that means some psycho wiped the town out before setting up their experiment, or just that their timey-wimey dealybob messed up physics in general is still up for debate. Do you want toast?"

"Yes, please."

Day 17

"Good. We have to finish the bread before it goes stale." Zo left the 'in case we get to the next day' implicit.

"I'm surprised we still have butter. I thought it would have gone bad in your pack."

"It smells a bit odd, but so far we haven't been affected by it."

Day 18

"Okay, but how do you know we're in a time loop?" Lyn asked, setting the table.

They were in a ground-level studio apartment, so the dining room, kitchen, and bed were all in the same space. No couch, which Zo took to mean that the owner was either poor or a cheapskate. Either way, it was disappointing. Still, the carpet wasn't bad. He'd slept on worse.

"Because you've asked me that so many times I've lost track of the number," Zo said, "and you seem thoughtful every time, like you're not as surprised as you thought you'd be."

She nodded and set a fork down carefully, wearing the expression she always did just then, brows squeezing down over far-away eyes.

"In all fairness, though," Zo clarified, "I mostly lost track because I wasn't really counting, and then it seemed pointless to start. It's been over two weeks, though, I'm fairly certain."

Day 19

She smiled, and the tension in her brows eased a bit. "This all does feels familiar. Like, I don't remember the other days, but all of this feels like I should, somehow, know what happens next. But I don't."

"I do know," Zo replied, "and it's getting a bit tiresome."

"Fair."

Zo nodded, slotting toast into the toaster. "Very. Whoever owned this place pretty much only had eggs in their fridge. I'm not sure how many more days in a row I can eat those without losing my mind."

Lyn looked up sharply.

Day 20

"Relax," he said, waving his spatula, "they respawn every day, so I don't think it's even technically stealing. If it is, we can pay them back later. There's a fully-stocked but unmanned convenience store down the road, one which we have very nobly not taken anything from, every single day."

"Good," Lyn sighed. "After all, if we get out today, we wouldn't want to be rewarded by jail for petty theft." She tacked on a fierce look at the end of the sentence.

Zo shrugged, and let Lyn interpret the gesture as she would. "Eggs are almost done."

Day 21

"Good. I'm weirdly hungry. Also, thank you for breakfast."

"Don't mention it," Zo smiled. "It's nothing I haven't done many times before."