Who Is Iga Świątek Texting? Reader x Iga Świątek
Fluff/Soft, F/F, Tennis RPF
Notes: Hello, the lack of Świątek fan content inspired me to write this, wanted to write something about Iga's constant texting after her matches. I also shared it on ao3 but remember seeing some people who wanted a fic of her on tumblr so wanted share here too. DISCLAIMER, this is my first ever fic so please don't judge! I wish I could add some smut but well, I fear I might mess it. (If you'd like to check I just posted a fanart of Iga too, and will post another little sketch later)
You find it impressive that she is texting you in front of cameras, in the middle of hundreds of people watching her. People talk sometimes. A little buzz is going around, but it never gets too serious. Who is Iga Świątek texting to?
or; you're Iga's secret girlfriend waiting for her after her matches
Guess who just won the Cincinnati Open?
The text you've been waiting for hours. You don't know exactly when, but somehow, texting you right after her matches -especially after her finals- became a tradition between you two. Since you told her it was so overwhelming to watch her matches... You find it impressive that she is texting you in front of cameras, in the middle of hundreds of people watching her. People talk sometimes. A little buzz is going around, but it never gets too serious. Who is Iga Świątek texting?
You were never a big tennis fan. You couldn't even tell when the last time you watched a match was. You remember seeing her for the first time on a practice court as clear as day, though. Her blue eyes met yours, bringing to your mind the vast ocean, you fell in those eyes and never wanted to get out. That moment felt like eternity, but could eternity be this beautiful?
The first time you spent a day together, you knew that you needed to hold on to her and never let go. Her soft voice, blue gaze, smooth hair... Everything about her was just so beautiful and soothing that you knew you wanted her as your eternity.
You answer her messages, wasting no time.
No need to guess. Somebody was in fact watching it.
She responds as quickly as you to your immediate reply. A brief text, you know, she has a whole interview to handle. You can see her fingers moving hastily while thousands inspect her movements, sitting on their seats in the stadium or through the TV screen as you do.
When you first said it, you weren't afraid or ashamed. When she returned the words, nothing could explain the feeling, the butterflies in your stomach. You thought you'd get used to it over time, but every moment she repeated the same words, you always had a reaction. It was the passion and delight covering your cheeks, sometimes all around your face, and turning it red. Even now, the letters on your phone screen have managed to give the same effect.
You proceed to watch her celebration on TV. You wish they would zoom in on her gorgeous face more. Time flies by as you kill time on your phone, awaiting her. You may join her celebration of triumph, but you don’t want to display your relationship, as you know, it will cause her trouble. She rarely mentions this issue, but it is too obvious. Iga’s gayness would make great headlines. You already see lots of assumptions made by fans that she is dating her psychologist, her 14 years older, damn psychologist. Even though you want to kiss her in front of the cameras and shout at those people’s faces that she is your wife, you’re better than that. You wouldn’t give the Polish or any other media more things to criticize her. She is amazing because of her tennis, and she will be known with that.
You don’t know how long, but hearing the door lock’s click, you realize you’ve been sleeping for a while. While rubbing your eyes, trying to get up on the bed, you look at the door. Here she is, your princess. Her gentle voice fills your ears.
“Good morning! Am I bothering you?”
You don’t try to clear your raspy voice.
“Well, if we consider it’s 11 pm. now…”
Pursing her lips, she throws some of the stuff in her hands at you. “Shut up, you thought I forgot about you?”
“Oh, yes, I was so worried that you went to dance with your ginger boyfriend again!” You exaggerate the mocking tone as much as you can.
“Oh my God, seriously, stop saying that. It was a stupid tradition…” she imitates her sound like she is on the verge of tears. You love messing with her.
“And I guess you have to dance with the Spaniard now that he is the new champion…” You can’t finish as she grabs your face and joins you on the bed, or well, on you. Her kiss is so passionate that you don’t think about parting to breathe even for a second.
“You think I need a boy while I have this, right over here with me?”
You’re too high on the kiss, not sure what to say. Her eyes… her eyes mesmerize you. Even bigger, and bluer when she’s this close. You are drawn into them like a moth to a flame, all the time. Every time.
“You’re so pretty. Even after a match and a long day. It’s almost like, there’s nothing that could change that.” Your voice is low like a whisper, but you know she caught every word by the way she looks at you.
She keeps whispering as you do, like there's someone in the room and you're scared to wake them up.
"I'm just glad you're here, at the end of everything." You answer, "I'll always be here."
Kissing her is always a thing that makes your whole body weak, your head dizzy, and you almost feel paralyzed. It's special. She is yours, and with every inch of your body, every particle of yours, belongs to her as well. Nobody knows this little teeny tiny secret of you two, and maybe, nobody ever will. Your touches are never seen, your kisses and your words... they're all between you and her in here, behind the white, elegant walls of the hotel room that surrounds you. Whenever she's on the court, in front of a camera, or during an interview, they look at her, but they can't know her sweet voice with a pleasured tone in the bed beside you. Maybe, with her rare grunts during matches, they can only use their imagination.
She is still wearing her kit from the match and didn’t even bother taking her cap off. Those caps are like a part of her, another limb.
“Seriously, I cannot think of any person who would look this good with a hat. It’s ridiculous…” while you’re staring at her with complete admiration, she lets out an annoyed groan and takes her hat off.
“No,” you grab her waist swiftly, which kind of shocks her. You have a little staring session. “I want that on, I mean, please?”
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