leah

contains: nsfw 18+, mdni. 2.9k words, black mirror's hang the dj au, frank!art x amy!gn!reader, advanced technology, dystopian universe, groundhog day ahh dates, brief sexual content (penetration), lowkey its just a cute love story

notes: GAH holy fuck this was so fucking fun to write!!! i love this episode of black mirror and i feel like frank's character fit art really well. i loveee black mirror and i love challengers so this was incredibly fun and easy to write. it felt odd to format the ending bc i didnt know how to visualize the alternate realities so i may rewrite this. idc tho bc i love it!!

The ambient sound of cutlery clattering and glasses clinking surrounds Art, followed by chatter of other couples meeting and talking. 

“Coach? I’m at the right booth, yeah?” he asks his device, which glows in response.

“Yes. You are seated in Booth 16, which is where your match has also been assigned to sit.”

Art just nods a bit dumbly, sipping his wine as he waits, drumming his fingers against the table. He was early, he knew that, but he couldn’t possibly be that early-

It’s then that you walk in, and Art swears his heart stops. He doesn’t have to check with Coach, he knows that you’re who he’s supposed to meet tonight. It’s like he’s known you his whole life, memorizing the pauses you make and the smiles that you deal out like they’re candy. You’re a visionary, glowing even in the dim light of the restaurant, and you’re coming right towards him. 

You stop in front of him, holding out your Coach that’s displaying a photo of his face on it. “Hi. Art, right?”

He swallows, wetting his lips and nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s.. me,” he says, eyes glued to your every movement as you slide into the booth- the way your hair tickles the nape of your neck, how you check your nails for blemishes with a slight frown, the way you swish your glass around before sipping your wine.

“Is it your first time too?” Your voice jolts him out of his stupor, and he looks over to meet your gaze, nodding.

“Yeah. Sorta just.. gave up. My friends all have a Coach, so they got me one for my birthday…” he shrugs, nodding at you. “What about you? What’s your reason for blooming late?”

You mimic his shrug, making him laugh a bit. “I don’t know. I really don’t even think I should be here– I mean, it feels so much more real to find relationships without the help of tech, right?” There’s an awkward pause at your blunt answer, until you lean forward, sliding your Coach across the table.

“Should we check the expiry date?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with a coy smile. Art clears his throat and nods, pulling his Coach out of his pocket with fumbling hands and putting it next to yours.

“Revealing expiry date,” both of your Coaches say simultaneously. “Press down in 3…2…1.”

The two of you press the button at the same time, and the screen pixelates itself, revealing the number in bold hours.

Art coughs, pounding his chest gently. “Twelve hours, huh? That seems, uh… pretty short, no?”

You nod, furrowing your brow and taking your Coach back, slipping it into your pocket. “S’pose it is,” you muse, “but we can make the most of it, can’t we?” You beam up at him, and Art swears his heart just imploded.

“Y-Yeah. Heh, ‘course we can,” he chuckles, reaching his hand across the table to cover yours, squeezing gently. “I’ve got no qualms with that.”

The food arrives– fish smothered in sauce with greens on the side for you, and a pasta dish for Art. You wrinkle your nose, nodding gratefully at the waiter. “I hate fish,” you whisper to Art conspiratorially, who’s eyes widen. He switches your dishes despite your protest, already digging in.

“I’m an athlete, I could use the protein anyway,” he defends, looking completely serious about his need for protein, you can’t help but smile. This man… was just everything and more.

“Thanks,” you reply, and the conversation flows easy after that, talking like you’ve known each other your whole life. He correctly guesses your favorite color by just your smile, and you nail his top movie when he holds your hand. He’s like a book you’ve read a thousand times over, dog-eared and worn out, well-loved and never-ending.

When your meal ends, the cart outside is all ready to transport you to your house for the next 12 hours. It’s awkward once you get in, how the house makes it obvious that it just wants you to fuck. The countless packs of condoms in Art’s drawers speak multitudes by themself.

“Do you want to…?” you gesture to the bed and look at Art, whose face has flushed red as he looks away, shuffling his feet.

“I mean.. we should, shouldn’t we?” he murmurs, sitting down on the bed and bouncing, testing the firmness. “We’ve only got twelve hours, after all.”

You sit down next to him, taking your jacket off and tossing it aside. “We don’t have to do anything,” you remind him softly, meeting his gaze. There’s a hint of longing in his clear blue eyes as he looks back at you, lips parting to let out a quiet sigh.

“Can we just sleep?” he whispers, and you nod. The two of you get under the covers, opposite sides of the bed and not touching. After a few awkward moments of silence, he speaks up.

“This was fun, you know. Um. Goodnight.”

A soft smile graces your face as your hand travels under the sheets, tentatively interlocking with his. After a moment, he squeezes your hand gently.

“Goodnight.”

You’ve been paired with someone new this time, a big buff nobody who’s name you’ve already forgotten. He’s pistoning into you, grunting and moaning, and it does feel good, but-

Art’s smile flashes into your mind, his bright eyes and golden curls stuck behind your eyelids, his face being the only thing you can see even as this brute fucks into you.

“Oh, yeah, you like that?”  he moans into your ear, sucking a sloppy kiss onto your neck. You can imagine Art saying that, grinding into your core gently instead of pounding relentlessly, asking that question out of genuine concern, not just to fan his ego.

“Ohhh– hnnnnh, yes!” you squeal, faking everything to get an excuse to push him off of you. You squeeze your thighs together, pushing his cock out from inside you, as you turn over to the nightstand, grabbing a cup of water. “Well, that was…” awful. “exhilarating! I’m pooped,” you say, pecking the man on the cheek and setting the glass back onto the nightstand. You’re under the covers and fake snoring before he can even react.

You miss Art.

The next time you see him is at a wedding with a girl. Tall and lean, dark skinned. Most likely an athlete like him, you guess from her figure. She’s got an arm wrapped around Art’s waist, and they’re laughing together– happy, joyful, in love. You look to your side to see your current match, making small talk with the happy couple, and judging from their shocked expressions, he wasn’t saying anything good.

“Hey, you!” Art’s at your side now, his girlfriend having left to give the couple a gift. You immediately feel warmer inside, like he’s given you the gift of the sun with just his presence.

“Sorry, who are you?” you joke, making him laugh and bump your hip playfully. It’s funny because you both know the truth. You’ve never forgotten about each other, not since that first night. You nod towards his girlfriend, all long legs and radiant smiles. Fuck. “Is she your match?”

“Hm? Oh, Tashi! Yeah, yeah.. she’s not my ultimate pairing or anything, but… yeah. I mean, she’s my girlfriend for now,” he shrugs. “It ends tomorrow, so…”

You nod slowly, trying not to let the smile break free from your neutral expression. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. He shakes his head, a smile on his face.

“Don’t be. Happens to everyone.” He looks around the bustling afterparty, both Tashi and your match out of sight. “D’you wanna take a walk?”

You’re nodding before you can even process it, grabbing your bag and jumping up to your feet. “Please.”

The two of you stumble your way down to the lakeside, the peaceful scenery calming both of your jitters. You stand by the water, searching for rocks to skip as he watches you.

“Can I say something weird?” he asks, and you nod, not looking up from your scavenging. “I feel like I’ve known you forever. That you’re just an old friend that I fell out of touch with.” Art exhales heavily, shuffling alongside you.

“Is it weird if I say the same thing?” You counter, skipping the rock. It floats across the water, beating one, two, three, four times until it sinks beneath the murky blue. You turn to look at him, his eyes reflecting the sky above. “And is it weird that I really wish you could cheat on your match?”

Art laughs at that, his curls flying through the sun-soaked air. “Only if it’s weird that I’m wishing the same thing.” You find another rock to skip, tossing it– one, two, three, four, and it sinks again.

“Maybe we’ll be each other’s final pairing,” you suggest, looking up to gauge his reaction to that idea. “Would you want that?”

He looks down at you, a shy smile playing at the corners of his lips, as if he’s afraid to let his secret out. “Yeah. I want that.”

You’re not each other’s final match. You end up being matched with someone from months ago. You remember his face, hovering above yours and panting like a dog. His breath had smelled like onions.

“You are permitted one 24 hour day with a past match of your choosing,” your Coach chimes cheerily when you climb out of the pool, practice laps completed. “Who would you like t-?”

“Art,” you hurry to say, drying your hands off with your towel and pushing out of the pool. “Art, I choose Art. Please.” You’re desperate, saying his name like it’s a prayer, like if you say it three times he’ll appear.

There’s a whirring noise from your Coach, before a happy ping! can be heard. 

“You have selected: Art Donaldson as your final meeting. Please meet at Booth 16 at 8 o’clock PM.”

You sigh, sitting down at the edge of the pool and letting your feet dangle into the water, making small ripples appear. “Coach, can you count to four?”

Your Coach glows, and you pick it up, readying your aim and throwing. The blue light from the Coach shimmers along the glimmering blue of the pool as it begins speaking.

“One,” skip, “two,” skip, “three,” skip, “four,” sink.

You watch as your Coach’s light fades out, robotic voice glitching as it sank on the fourth skip, like always.

He’s early again. Sitting at your table with a nervous smile on his face, as if he’s still worried about impressing you.

You sit down next to him in the booth and immediately kiss him– you’ve learned your lesson, and you’re not going to lose any more time than you already have. You kiss like you’re starved, your tongue slipping past his plush lips to meet his, cupping his jaw and leaning close to him. You’ve never kissed him before, but something about it feels… familiar. Like this is the millionth kiss you’ve shared already.

You pull away, eyes raking over his flushed face and parted lips. “...Hey,” you whisper, tracing your thumb over his cheek gently.

He swallows thickly, a shy smile spreading across his face. “Hi,” he replies, his voice equally quiet, reverent like you just gave him everything he’s ever asked for.

The food comes, fish and pasta, and you switch dishes again, like it’s a habit you’ve drilled into your body. Your conversation flows as easily as the wine pouring into your glasses, and soft kisses accompany every word. It’s perfect.

The house you two stay at for the night is the same one as your first date, and it feels like home to you. The feeling of his arms around you as you stumble to the bed makes your chest warm, even as he slips your jacket off your shoulders. The way you two collapse onto the bed, kissing every inch of skin feels practiced, like a ritual. Like this isn’t the first time.

Every thrust and moan comes out naturally, as if this was meant to be. Like you two were made for each other. His sweaty curls dangling in front of your face, soft breaths escaping his lips as his thrusts increase in speed, his large hands roaming over your body lovingly.

“You’re so– goddamn gorgeous,” he whispers, kissing you softly to silence your moans. You don’t need to say anything back, your orgasm consisting of pure ecstasy and filth, back arching and hips pressing against his.

It feels like the thousandth time you two have made love– not fucked, for that would have less feelings involved. You two were in love. The two of you lay side by side in bed, hands intertwined like your first time sleeping here. It’s safe and practiced, his fingers pressing against your skin gently, grounding you.

“I feel like we’ve done this before,” you whisper to him, voice worn out. “I think… I mean, you knew me too well for that to be our first.” He presses a finger to a mark left on your neck, right where you’re especially sensitive. He knows that, somehow.

“I’d remember you,” he whispers back, voice low and gravelly as his finger swipes over your skin, gentle and loving, like he’s memorizing the softness of your supple skin.

You prop yourself up on an elbow, facing him. “Art, really. Think about it,” you murmur, your eyes dark and serious. “This feels right. It’s like… shit, it’s cheesy, but we’re like two puzzle pieces.”

His eyes soften and he nods in agreement, his hand dropping from your neck. “I know,” he replies, unsure of where you’re going with this.

“I can’t remember anything before our first date,” you continue. “Not– getting ready, or driving to the restaurant. It was like I just spawned in there, ready to meet you.”

Art furrows his brow, the gears in his brain turning as you keep speaking. “...Yeah. Like I just happened to… appear in that booth.” He cocks his head, glancing over at you. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

You’re out of bed already, putting your clothes on haphazardly. “Do you have your Coach with you?” you ask, and he nods, getting up as well and pulling it out of his jeans pocket.

You take the small device and hold it in your palm. It’s cool, the metal clashing against the heat of your body. It’s so small, the size of a cookie, yet it held so much power over you. Over everyone. You storm over to the window and crack it open, smashing the Coach against the windowsill before tossing it out. You turn to Art, who looks shocked, but not unsurprised. Like this isn’t the first time this has happened.

“Let’s go on a walk.”

You’re tripping over your feet in the darkness of the night, giggling as he catches you and presses a quick kiss to your cheek. “For safety,” he insists solemnly.

You’re walking to the border of town, your reasoning being that there was something greater past the borders, outside of the world you’d grown up in. Supposedly. Though Art looked like he doubted you, he followed along obediently anyway, as if he’s had it programmed into his body that you know the way.

It’s a struggling trek, dirt and dust flying into your eyes as the night goes on, storms passing overhead and wind blowing against you, as if trying to reason with you to not leave. It doesn’t deter you, only gripping Art’s hand tighter as you forge ahead, turning around occasionally to check if he’s still there. You don’t want to lose him, not again.

You reach the large wall that borders around your town, a flimsy ladder leaning up against it, like they want you to escape. You go first, moving your hands and feet slowly until you get the hang of things, looking back to make sure Art’s climbing up behind you. And he is, like a determined puppy, gritting his jaw as sweat drips down his temple.

The two of you reach the top of the wall, Art grabbing you by the waist to steady you. His eyes gleam beneath the stars, meeting yours. “What do we do now?” he whispers, his voice hard to hear in the whipping wind.

You look out, past the town, past the wall. It’s all inky blackness and shimmering stars, a future unknown past the wall you’ve lived within all your life. There’s a sense of excitement, pounding in your chest as you take a step, loosening your grip on Art’s arm.

“Now… we’ll see each other later.” You say it with a sense of finality, turning to face the sky as you bend your knees and jump, letting yourself fall into the endless darkness. 

You land. Eventually, you do, in a bar, loud and noisy. You’re not sure when it happens, when you stopped falling, but you’re grateful to find respite, even if it’s in a shitty bar. It’s raucous, the air smelling of tobacco and sweat, yet it feels so much more comfortable than the bars back home– all refined and quiet, no music or chatter, just fancy cocktails that were 10 dollars a glass. Here it’s dirty and overwhelming, but in a good way. You can’t help but smile.

Something familiar starts playing from the jukebox– Panic by The Smiths. As the song starts playing, your eyes lock with a familiar face from across the room, innocent blonde curls and a leather greaser jacket, hunched over the bar. He looks back at you and grins knowingly.

Your heart flutters like you’ve known him your whole life, and you get up from your seat, approaching him and stopping right across from him. Your lips part and words come out before you can even process them.

“Hey, you.”