Fr Why Am I Even So Invested

only jannik sinner could’ve made me sit for 5 and a half hours in front of tv looking at a ball going back and forth

a tear fell down my leg

...this was unnecessarily attractive😭

rome is so pretty

im fucking obliterating myself into pieces bye

the fits are fucking ass

masterpiece

In Sync - Part 2

Jannik Sinner x Reader After getting in her head about ruining her dynamic with Jannik, reader actually does ruin her dynamic with Jannik. On court, it’s obvious… And painful to watch… and play. But maybe the damage to their energy isn’t irredeemable… and maybe it’s actually non-existent?? Warnings include... smut, spiraling, extensive description of terrible match, 13k words Catch up on part 1 here!!

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You spotted him from the end of the hallway.

He was standing by the entrance to the practice courts, a towel around his neck, cap pulled low, arms crossed. Jannik Sinner—tall, unmistakable even from a distance. The same figure you'd played beside in near-perfect rhythm just days ago. 

He looked exactly as you remembered him—not that much time had passed at all—sharp profile, relaxed posture, that worn-in cap he never seemed to replace. But something about the air around him felt different that day. Stiffer. More measured. And you were already too in your head to decide whether it was coming from him or from you.

Your sneakers had squeaked slightly against the hallway floor as you approached. You had tried to steady your breathing, even though your heart was thudding in that annoying, traitorous way that it seemed to be doing when he was near. Your palms were a little too clammy on your water bottle. You hated that you cared this much.

He glanced up a second before you reached him. Offered a faint, polite smile. It was the first time you'd seen each other since that press conference. 

Since the hard and soft catastrophe… and the hitting it from the back one…

Since your words escaped your mouth before your brain could catch them. Since the internet caught fire. It was hard to believe that was just the other day, your mind had run a lifetime worth of circles since.

You’d rehearsed your greeting the night before in front of your mirror like an idiot. You’d played it casual. Light. Maybe something self-aware and dry about the press thing. Maybe something that made you seem confident and nonchalant enough to laugh about it.

But when your eyes met his—just for a flicker—you froze.

He nodded first. Gave a soft, neutral, "Hey."

And that was all it took to derail everything you had planned.

You mirrored it. "Hey."

Your voice came out quieter than you meant and when he bent down to adjust his laces with more focus than they required without another word, you reached for something to say. You tapped the heel of one shoe to the pavement twice before finally saying, "Good play in the quarters."

You swore in your head right after at the way your words came out sounding forced and shaky, and you trailed off with uncertainty even in the routine expression of congratulations. And—like he picked up on it, like he didn’t want to startle anything already on edge—his voice was low and careful when he responded. 

"Thank you," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile but decided against it and you followed the flicker before quickly looking away again. "You too. Straight sets again, right?"

You nodded once, "Yeah."

That was it—you figured curt replies would save you from digging yourself into a deeper hole. You moved towards the reserved court without checking to see if he was following after you.

You dropped your warm-up bag beside the bench, moving slower than usual, too methodical in unpacking your bag. You pulled off your hoodie, grabbed your water bottle, then carefully unzipped your racquet sleeve, avoiding looking in his direction. But you could feel his gaze flicker your way, brief and cautious, almost like he was checking to see if you would ever look over to meet his eyes.

You refused to, for your own sake, kneeling to stretch your hip flexors instead and he moved near the fence to roll out his shoulders and stretch out his calves. You weren’t quite close enough to collide, but there was nowhere you could go on court without being close enough to feel his presence in your peripheral vision. So you turned to grab your water bottle again, you did catch his eyes—only for his eyes to dart away to his towel.

Your coaches then gathered you both, laying out quick reminders about formations, serve direction, and signals. You nodded, eyes locked on your coach’s shoes, only moving to move the hair the wind whipped into your face. You thought you felt Jannik’s eyes on you when you lifted a strand caught on your lips, but, even when he spoke to reference a specific poach from your previous singles match, you still didn’t glance his way.

And when you answered some question, something about Jannik’s backhand coverage, you did so without referring to him at all. You didn’t say his name, didn’t gesture toward him, didn’t do anything that might invite eye contact or another opportunity for you or him to be put face to face with your press slip-up.

You only felt some relief when the briefing finally broke so you could go and hit some balls, and you eagerly backed out from the teams’ huddle—ready to use the drills as another means of avoidance—but the fans and onlookers that had piled behind the fences at the far end of the practice court had other ideas.

As with any court that Jannik graced, a crowd had already started to form as soon as he’d entered—spectators and credentialed pass holders gathering just to get a glimpse of his warm-up. Phones were raised, signs and balls held high. The occasional shouting and cheers had mostly become background noise, but one jeer pierced through the court and seemed to reverberate through the court.

You signaled for Jannik to take the baseline as you walked up to the net, not even looking in his direction as you did so, and someone cheered Jannik’s name louder than the rest. The yell was immediately followed with an equally loud cry teasing, "Yeah! Hit it from the back!"

You looked back just in time to see Jannik stiffen mid-serve toss, and you faltered where he stood. The line seemed to echo, and your worries of the perception of your comments washed over you once more, as if they weren’t already a constant shadow in the forefront of your mind, as you picked on his reaction.

Chris coughed into his fist to hide a laugh and Simone outright chuckled. Darren clapped Simone lightly on the back, murmuring something that only made him laugh harder. You saw Jannik looking over at them just as you were, and caught how he shook his head and glanced up at the sky. You swallowed hard, looking down at your feet. 

Kill me, you thought to yourself as you turned to face the net once more and bent your knees in ready position. It seemed you couldn’t act like you’d never said those words even if you wanted, but you didn’t know how else to confront the situation other than sticking to the tactic you’d already chosen—you’d already committed to the avoidance. 

You allowed yourself a look back at Jannik when you crouched for his practice serve and immediately regretted it when you caught his eye just briefly—darting your gaze back to the court. He looked as pink as you felt.

And even after the moment had passed and the warm-up continued, it still continued to haunt you. Witnessing the reactions that seemed to affirm all the worst-case scenarios of Jannik’s reception to your media debacle.

So when you’d feel his attention graze you, you imagined his expression to be a sneer of disgust—though you couldn’t bear to look and confirm. You traced the subtle tilt of his head in the corner of your eye when you adjusted your visor. There was the faintest shift in his footing as you lifted your shirt to dab some sweat off your lip. 

And he had to have been looking when you tucked two extra balls up into the hem of your shorts, the heat you felt must have been from his gaze flicking over you. The action was automatic for you—hooking your thumb beneath the elastic, sliding the first ball in, then the second. His eyes followed the shift of your hand, the stretch of fabric at your hip, the subtle indent it made in your skin. His gaze lingered at the spot where the fabric met the curve of your thighs, tracking the movement with a kind of focus you didn’t dare meet with your eyes though you felt the charge in a way that prickled at the base of your neck. 

The feeling of him watching forced all your usual, unconscious motions up to your attention, because they so clearly seemed to be in his.

He hates me. He can’t stand to look at me, you thought. You shook your head at yourself for what must have been the dozenth time that day. Of course you just had to go slip-up and say that… You really are too much.

You couldn’t help but be just as aware of him, lasering into all of his movements, though you could hardly say it was for the same reasons as his. 

Your eyes followed the stretch of his arm as he adjusted his sleeve, the way his fingers flexed and relaxed around the handle of his racket. When he brought his hands to his face and blew air into his palms to cool them—a gesture you’d seen him do in the countless matches of his you’d watched—you caught yourself staring. The breath left his lips in a slow, practiced stream, and for a moment, your eyes fixated on the shape of his mouth, the slight purse, then the drag of his thumb over his palm, and the flex of his fingers afterward. You couldn’t look away, caught by the intimacy of witnessing it so close, entranced by the small ritual. Your throat dried. Your eyes traced the veins on the back of his hand, the way they shifted when he flexed and relaxed.

Then you blinked, shook your head subtly, and forced yourself to look away, jaw tight, trying to breathe past whatever that was. Don’t give him more reason to be freaked out, please, you reminded yourself. God.

You were so in your head that, as you danced around the court for different warm-up strokes, the disconnect remained and heightened—bleeding into your game play. You went through all the necessary motions—rallies from the baseline, quick volleys, light serves—but nothing quite clicked. When he offered you a ball, you took it with a muttered thanks, eyes cast low, your fingers brushing his for a half-second longer than they needed to. You blinked hard and turned away before your face could betray the warmth creeping at the tip of your ears.

When your shoulders brushed passing each other at the net, neither of you said a word. But you both stiffened, and then pretended not to. It wasn’t outright cold, but it was careful. Like you were now both trying so hard not to overstep that you ended up stomping out your joint rhythm along the way.

That quick chemistry you both held just a couple days before now seemed to be snuffed out with this weight on top of it—it wasn't heavy with resentment, though it felt like it was to you, but it was heavy with caution.

And then, before you knew it, before you could even hope to resolve it—whatever it was—you were standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik walking towards your first mixed doubles semi-finals, yet you felt entirely outside of yourself.

It should have been familiar ground by now—your third match together in the tournament. You had done this walk before not long ago at all. But this time there was a layer of static between you. Something unspoken that neither of you seemed willing to touch. The lightness that had once sat between your conversations had dissolved into the kind of silence that amplified the smallest of sounds. The way your shoe tapped faster on the floor. The way you cleared your throat and instantly regretted it.

He wasn’t saying anything. His hands stayed tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes stayed forward. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye—just long enough to catch the angle of his jaw, the familiar curve of his cheekbone. But he didn’t glance down, and you should have been glad for it.

And you, despite your usual nature, didn’t try and make a joke. Didn’t break the silence. You were past trying to alleviate the stiffness you yourself had instigated that morning—and you hadn’t felt like yourself in the past day and a half anyways.

You tried to fill the space in other ways. Tried to fill the space to keep you from opening your mouth and inevitably saying the wrong thing. 

You adjusted your bracelets beneath your wristbands, fixed the bill of your visor, unzipped and re-zipped your jacket—fidgeting movements that were more about self-soothing than anything else. You shifted your grip on your water bottle at least three times, even pretended to check something on your phone before tucking it away again. Each gesture felt painfully deliberate, and shamefully pointless.

And Jannik must have noticed. You could tell—you’d learned to spot his subtle shifts in attention. Though he never turned his head, you caught it in the flicker of his eyes when you played with the hem of your sleeve. In the way his jaw twitched slightly as you adjusted your hair for a second time, even though there was nothing to fix. Again, you didn’t dare look at him full-on, but you could feel him observing—and it was even necessarily out of spite or disgust in the way you were quick to hypothesize, it didn’t even seem to be out of curiosity. He just seemed to be taking mental note of all the little ways you were unspooling beside him.

Now, standing idle beside you as the announcer rattled on, you had nothing to focus on but him and the way he held himself. He kept his expression neutral, but his posture had that quiet sort of alertness—like maybe he was trying not to react, trying not to escalate something that was so clearly fraying beside him. Like he thought that maybe if he held his body still enough, kept his quiet enough, you wouldn’t sink any deeper into whatever headspace you’d fallen into. 

But that stillness, and that silence, only made it worse. The more careful he was, the more formal his energy became, the more you read it as distance. As discomfort. As quiet confirmation that you'd said too much, too wildly, and now he was just trying to save you both from the fallout.

And every second you waited to step out onto the court made your thoughts spiral harder. He’d definitely seen the clip. So now, with him, you suddenly felt completely, absurdly exposed. Like everyone in that tunnel could see every inch of embarrassment pressed into your shoulders.

And even if he hadn’t seen it—maybe you were broadcasting enough awkwardness for the both of you. You were overcorrecting. You knew you were, you had been since before your warm-up. You were standing straighter, arms crossed like a schoolgirl trying to be taken seriously. When you did speak, your voice pitched slightly upward, tight and rehearsed.

"Good luck out there," you said, too formally, as though you weren’t about to play together.

His eyes shifted toward you, briefly. "You too."

His tone was soft. Polite and measured again. Just like the first day you'd met. And somehow, that recognition made the distance feel worse.

And it wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. No teasing lilt, no hint of the warmth you’d built just the other day underneath. Just default civility. He looked back forward immediately after, as if even he was beginning to realize that holding eye contact with you for too long might veer things into dangerous territory. Like if he acknowledged you too much, it would leave an opening to confirm something in your dynamic had regressed.

And maybe it had. It felt like it had.

But maybe that was you. Or maybe now it was him reacting to you reacting to him... You were in too deep to know where it started—a mess of mirrored restraint. 

You hated how aware you were of the space between you—how you held yourself like you were trying to be smaller. How your jaw ached slightly from how tight you were holding it. How you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, and how every tiny movement from him—whether it was the casual tug of his bag’s strap or the way he shifted his feet—felt like something you had to interpret.

When the call of your names came, you finally felt like you knew what to do with yourself, but when you stepped out together, it didn’t feel like you were arriving as a pair. As a team.

Cameras flashed. The crowd buzzed. You waved with a smile you hoped looked natural. But even as your hand lifted, it felt like it didn’t belong to you.

You still didn’t glance at Jannik, and he didn’t glance at you. You were both looking forward, performing your roles as expected of you. Pros stepping onto a court—you felt like strangers again. And, worse, you felt like it was your fault.

So the match started off jagged, and the first set dragged on.

Not because the opponents were overpowering—far from it, which was your only saving grace—but because you and Jannik were uncoordinated. Out of step. One pace behind where you should’ve been. His timing. Your footwork. His shot placement. Your reactions. All of it was just wrong.

The first few points were pure disasters. 

The first play, you called for the switch at net too late. Jannik moved behind you but didn’t have the angle, and your opponent crushed a clean winner right between you. You muttered a quick, "My bad," as you adjusted your strings.

He shook his head, tucking in some hair beneath the side of his cap. "No worries. We’ll get it."

And then, too soon after, he jumped the line early, cutting off a ball you had clearly settled in position for. It floated high and long.

He turned, lips already parted to apologize.

You gave him a tight smile. "It’s fine."

It wasn’t. Not really, not compared to how you had been playing the match before. Not compared to how you should’ve been playing, then.

The first promising rally came too deep into the set—Jannik served a deep, heavy ball to the body, and the return floated just enough to give you time. You were already moving up to cut it off when he darted left to take it with a backhand instead. Your rackets nearly collided mid-swing. The ball careened off the frame of his string bed and smacked directly into the net. You heard a loud sigh from someone in the stands. Jannik muttered something under his breath and turned away. You blinked at the baseline, your jaw clenched. At that point, neither of you acknowledged the mistake, one of many made in the little time that had passed in the match, nor did you even bother to come together for a cursory fist bump.

Worse still was after, when a short ball that hung in the center of the court after a weak return. You were at the net, ready to finish it. Jannik called for it—just a sharp, low "Mine"—but then hesitated for a fraction too long. You hesitated too, backing off. In that heartbeat of indecision, the other team closed in. The volley came down the line, and Jannik reached too late. Another lost point that should have been an easy grab.

You could hear Chris exclaim in equal parts disbelief and disappointment from your box at that one, and you looked down to shake your head at yourself. Across your side of the court, Jannik did the same.

Luckily, somehow, you’d scrape a few points together every now and then. One came off of pure chaos—a long, ugly rally where your footing slipped twice, where Jannik had to backpedal into the doubles alley to even reach the ball. You lobbed defensively, buying yourself time, and your opponents misjudged the bounce, letting it drop behind them. You barely believed it had landed in. Neither did Jannik. You tapped rackets—your knuckles brushing just barely, though your eyes never met—and said nothing.

Another miracle point came off a sliced drop shot from Jannik that accidentally clipped the net cord and dribbled over. You were even moving in the wrong direction when the ball fell dead on the other side. The crowd applauded out of what felt like pity. You exchanged a barely-there look, a tired shrug, before moving on. Neither of you had meant for it, but it had worked. And you needed the points and, at this stage it didn’t matter how you got them.

Still, you made it to the first half with a narrow clinch of the first game. There was no celebration, there wasn’t a need for one. The points you won weren’t earned—they just happened. Scraps of instinct. Dumb luck. The match wasn’t falling apart so much as it was unraveling slowly, thread by thread.

As you sat down during changeover, towel over your head, your chest tight with effort and frustration, the silence beside you was somehow louder than the stadium noise. The bench felt all too small—and not in the way that had made you feel giddy at the proximity the day before.

Jannik sat down next to you, his own towel slung around the back of his neck, the water bottle in his hand barely touched. His elbows rested on his knees, gaze fixed forward, brow furrowed like he was already replaying the disappointing course of the game that had only just ended. You both sat angled slightly away from each other—not completely, but just enough to emphasize the distance felt.

You uncapped your bottle and downed your gulps too fast. The water sloshed in your throat and nearly made you cough, but you swallowed it down. Your hands were shaking a little more than you wanted to admit. You couldn’t even be sure if it was from exertion, from the sheer frustration and shame at the way you’d just performed on court, or from the stifling air between you and Jannik.

You could feel his presence beside you take up more space than it should have. Not just heavy, now—it was loud, too. Loud in the way every movement he made still drew your attention.The way his fingers tapped once against the bottle. The way he wiped his forehead with the edge of his wristband. You still couldn’t bring yourself to really look at him, but your body seemed to note every shift he made, like a reflex you couldn’t shut off. One that had come to feel fun and enthralling in the days prior, but now you wished you could will the awareness away—a distraction was the last thing a match going as poorly as this one needed.

“I think, uh…” he started suddenly, his voice a little rough, like he hadn’t used it in too long. You turned your head halfway toward him, more reaction than curiosity. He cleared his throat and tried again, “That point in the second game? That ball that came to the middle—we both hesitated. I think one of us has to claim the center more.”

You blinked at him, the words landing sharp despite how gently he’d said them—you’d lost that point because of your lack of initiative. You knew he wasn’t wrong to point it out, but it still made your chest tighten.

“Okay,” you said, voice clipped. You reached for your towel, wiping your forearms because it gave you somewhere else to look. “I got it.”

He nodded and waited as though he expected you to add more. When you didn’t, he offered some words of encouragement. “Trust your read and go for it if you feel it.”

“Noted.” You replied, short and rough. 

You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that and he didn’t say anything more. He just gave a small nod, lips pressed together like he regretted speaking.  

Okay, really? Now you’re just being an asshole, you thought to yourself. You glanced down at your shoes, toes tapping absently against the court floor.

It was so different from before, though you tried not to think of it. That tension from the first match, the one that sparked with potential, with something unspoken but electric—that had hummed like a secret shared. But now, the tension was brittle. That charge still buzzed, but it didn’t feel like a current pulling you closer. It felt like a sort of static interference. Distracting. Disruptive.

You glanced over at him again then, briefly. Just for a second. His jaw was clenched. His grip around the bottle a little too tight. And you knew—he felt it too.

When your knees brushed as you shifted to stand, and the moment your legs made contact—barely even a graze—you both recoiled. Not dramatically, but enough. A startle. A flinch. He muttered a quick "Sorry," almost under his breath. You shook your head, fast, too fast, already moving to step onto court.

He followed a second after. You walked back to the baseline with the same pace, the same gait, but no cohesion. The crowd cheered, still hopeful despite witnessing the trainwreck that was the first game, but whatever was sitting rotten between you two wasn’t going away after just one break—you were just carrying it back onto the court with you. You didn’t have many expectations for the second half of the match, and the audience quickly started to feel the same way.

The second set was truly hard to watch—and that was putting it lightly. 

It went by faster than either of you expected, which was maybe a small mercy. If the first had been clunky, then this one was pure dissonance—ugly in a way that couldn’t be ignored or masked by luck. The rhythm—already tentative, if there at all—dissolved completely.

The points you did win over only came when one of you carried it entirely.

When you held serve once in the set, it was because you took four straight rallies on your own—serving wide, chasing every return, and finishing each point with aggression. Jannik hadn’t moved past the service line once in the whole exchange. 

He muttered, “Good one,” once, but you didn’t quite respond so the words just floated before dropping, lifeless.

He won several points over with that ace of his and a pair of forehand winners that were so textbook the crowd had to clap. You didn’t even pretend to move for those plays of his, and he didn’t look your way after sealing it. Just walked back to the baseline, head down, expression unreadable, though it wasn’t like you’d praised him like you maybe should have.

And any moment where you both had to work as a team—had to rely on timing, and joint instinct—that’s when it all fell apart. Every time you moved forward, he stayed. Every time he gestured for a poach, you were already backing off. A long rally ended with both of you standing at the baseline, neither daring to approach the net. A soft drop shot from your opponent drifted over, completely uncontested.

One of the worst came late in the set—at deuce, on your opponent's serve. The return landed awkwardly at Jannik's feet and he scooped it back with a lunging forehand that floated mid-court. You saw the opportunity and rushed in to cut it off, only to misread the spin entirely. You overran it, your racket swinging at air, and then you stumbled. Fully stumbled. Your foot caught near the edge of the service box and you tripped forward, barely catching yourself from going down. The ball, untouched, fell well inside the court. Jannik stepped toward you instinctively, maybe to help, or to check in, but you were already upright and turning away, playing it off with your back to him, pretending to fix your strings.

And later, when you were returning serve on the ad side, you had just nodded to each other—a half-hearted, barely there cue that you were staying back—and the serve kicked wide. You lunged to cover it, barely managing a looping return. The opposing net player volleyed it hard and fast right down the center. Jannik, mid-shift toward the sideline, realized too late and you were too far out. He managed to turn back, but the ball clipped his frame and rocketed towards the base of the umpire’s chair. There was a gasp from the crowd when the metal rang out from the contact. Jannik rubbed his temple once in irritation as he gestured an apology to the umpire, gave you a brief shake of his head—more to himself than at you—and reset.

There was just no read, no trust, no rhythm between you. You’d both lost it all, it was clear as day to anyone watching. To you two most of all.

It was transparent in the way he gripped his racket tighter after every misstep, in the way your frustration showed in every slammed serve or overly aggressive swing. You weren’t playing to win together—you were each trying to salvage all you could alone.

But doubles had little tolerance for such dysfunction, you could only get by for so long. So you both scraped by as best as you could. Even in all the disjointedness, you made headway winning points—still out of sheer luck or muscle memory. 

In a point of pure chaos, you misread the opponent’s return so badly that you all but chased Jannik out of his position while trying to get after the ball. Your racket managed to connect with the ball right as you crossed over where he stood, and it shot off your strings at a sharp angle, slicing behind the opponent. They scrambled, got a frame on it, and the ball popped up. Jannik volleyed it down, clean and out of reach.

You tapped rackets after that one, but it was a little delayed and though the gesture was more than what you had done throughout the match, it held little warmth. 

And on one back and forth, after a string of poorly timed backhands from you that Jannik kept scrambling to compensate for, the opponent finally dropped a lazy shot at the net. You sprinted in, completely off balance, and scooped it with a desperate flick that smacked onto the tape of the net before teetering to the other side. A stunned silence hit the court as the ball dropped limply, without much bounce, onto the opponent's side. You looked over at Jannik when the crowd cheered, mostly because it felt like you had to. He only gave you a small nod and you took it on the chin—it wasn’t exactly a point to feel proud of. 

Then came what should have been match point… It was fitting—one final, spectacular miscommunication.

Jannik served and the opponent’s return came fast and low, and you both reacted at the same time.

The ball came to the center, a tight, straight shot to the middle, and you remembered what Jannik had said on the bench. Your instincts screamed at you to get after the ball. Go. Take it. You pushed forward hard, fueled by equal parts discipline and ego, committed to trusting your own read.

You figured he would hang back, or at least hold off, so you sprinted for the shot. You darted inward from the service line just as Jannik moved in behind you from the baseline, both of you angling for the same flick—your forehand coiling at the ready as his backhand lifted high. You caught his shadow in your periphery, but you were too late, too close to pull away. The second after your racket lifted, your shoulder slammed into the solid line of his chest.

He grunted as he stumbled, arms instinctively catching around your waist to absorb your fall, but your momentum didn’t stop and you took him down with you. His back met the court with an audible thud. Your racket clattering from your fingers as you collapsed on top of him. Your forearms landing on his chest, one knee grazing his thigh before your hips settled across his. Your breath escaped in a sharp gasp, tangled with his, as your bodies landed flush together. 

And—for a breathless, suspended moment—you couldn’t do anything but stay that way.

The only thing you could feel was the thrum of his chest beneath yours, the air between you thick, close, and impossibly charged. The scent of sweat and sunblock lingered in your nose, but underneath it—him. Clean, warm, faintly sweet in a way you hadn’t been close enough to notice before. Your hips were nestled squarely over his, one of your legs still slotted between his, his body firm beneath you. You were close enough to feel the low burn radiating off his core and sink into your skin, through damp and thin layers of fabric. The sharp line of his sternum pressed just beneath your hand, his chest hard and unrelenting against your palms, rising in fast, shallow breaths.

Your gaze locked with his and held—dilated pupils, the faint hitch of his breath, the flush climbing his neck. There was this raw wonderment in his stare, and it was he’d forgotten where you were. His lips parted slightly, and his breath hit yours. The brim of your visor of his cap brushed off the top of his cap, and you could see bits of his tousled hair beneath. His eyes were wide and you could see them darting between yours. Your noses almost touched. That close.

Your hands shifted slightly against his chest, fingers digging in on instinct. Your palms flattened and you lifted your thigh up and away so both your legs were snug around his hips—intending to push off, maybe. But he was solid and warm. And it distracted you. It kept you there.

You could feel the slight tremor in his ribs under your palms, or maybe it was your own hands shaking. The muscles of his thigh twitched under your weight. His fingers at your waist flexed again, firmer this time, and you swore you felt him exhale onto your cheek. The slide of his thumb at your side, grazing just under the hem of your top. The motion subtle, but not accidental. And the feeling of it lingered.

And then there was the heat—concentrated where your hips pressed into his. An impossible awareness that made your skin tighten. Your stomach fluttered. The ache low and slow. The way his body had shifted beneath you meant you felt every inch of him—aligned, taut, restrained. His legs had spread just slightly, and you could feel the tension in the way he held himself still, like he was afraid that moving even a little might cross a line neither of you had drawn but both of you felt. 

You felt his gaze track the line of your face—quick, then careful. The ridge of your brow, the slope of your nose, the shape of your mouth. You even think one of you leaned in, though you couldn’t be sure who—or if you imagined it.

You’d spent the day deflecting any contact with him, avoiding any closeness to a fault. But you couldn’t ignore him now. Not like this. Not with your hips straddling his, your legs bracketing his body, your hands still splayed across his chest. Not with the way he looked at you like he wanted to say something. You wanted to say something. You still couldn’t trust your voice, though. Especially not now.

Because it was dizzying. You could’ve stayed like that. You almost did.

But then reality surged in. The crowd. The court. The match.

You scrambled back with a rush of mortified adrenaline, brushing at your skirt, at your sleeves, anything to avoid the fact that you’d just practically mounted him center court.

"Shit—sorry," you said, not meeting his eyes.

Jannik sat up slower. He didn’t say anything for a second, but he took your hand when you reached out with a silent offer to help him up. He let go of you as soon as he was up on his feet.

“No—" he said finally, voice quieter than before. “It’s... fine.”

"Are you okay?" You asked, still avoiding his eyes.

He looked at you then, dropping his head a bit as if he was seeking your eyes. When you continued to look past him, his brows drew just slightly together. "Yeah. You?"

You nodded once, reaching up to tighten your visor with a decisive yank. And then, before you could stop yourself, your voice came out a touch too sharp, too soft. "I thought we agreed I’d cover the center, remember?"

The words hung there between you. It wasn’t quite an accusation, but it sounded like one, and you regretted it all the same. You heard him take an even breath to reply, but the umpire’s voice cut him off.

You both looked over to gesture that you were alright, and hastily made your way back to position as the umpire called the score: deuce.

Jannik rolled out his shoulders once as he walked back to the baseline. His face was as unreadable as ever, but you heard the way he exhaled hard through his nose. You followed suit, crouching at your spot at the net, your legs and chest still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fall. 

He served again—this time with even more force. It kicked up near the opponent’s shoulder and they could only manage a stretched return that floated high back to your side. You anticipated the ball's trajectory quickly, stepping forward to angled a forehand volley just out of reach. It landed inside the line. A quick nod passed between you and Jannik as you circled back. Not exactly a fitting cheer, but the sliver of acknowledgment more than you’d allowed for most points.

Then came a tense, looping rally. You stayed back again, grinding through the long exchanges alone, striking deep cross-courts, pushing angles as far wide as they'd go. Jannik remained planted near the service line, barely moving. He didn’t offer a signal. Didn’t step in to cover. He just watched, waited, letting you handle it on your own—it seemed the damage came when one of you tried to intervene.

And you did handle it. A solo effort where your backhand shot down the line to seal the point, and you walked back with just a glance and slight lift of a hand in Jannik’s direction.

It was only when the crowd roared did you register that was the winning point.

You barely reacted at first. You just stood, blinking up at the umpire when they called the match yours and Jannik’s. Jannik was already connecting with his box, racket hanging loose in one hand as he gave a nod and a firm fist towards his team. 

You walked toward him slowly, unsure of what to say or do. When you reached him, you raised your hand and he met the gesture halfway. A muted high-five, hands pulling back apart before they brushed for even a second too long.

You turned to the net together, shaking hands with your opponents in silence. Dazed and not quite triumphant.

Because though the match was over, though you had won, the air between you felt far from settled.

And no part of the day, on court or off of it, felt deserving of any celebration.

---

After the match, you and Jannik had all but bolted in opposite directions.

The disaster of your teamwork punctuated by the stiff post-match interview—if it could even be called that. You stood beside him at the service line with the mic waving between you, answering questions in stilted, fragmented sentences while barely meeting the reporter’s eyes, let alone each other’s. Jannik kept his arms folded the whole time, nodding at the appropriate moments, saying little. You picked at the cuff of your sleeve and answered every question with the minimal amount of words possible. When it was over, he muttered something to you that felt like it was a congratulations, though it was relayed in an almost disappointed tone. He nodded to his team and the cool down area as a goodbye, and you didn’t stop him, already leaving him for your own without so much as a glance back. 

Since then, you’d barely spoken to anyone. Most of the day had passed with you in a despondent haze. You’d coasted through media obligations half-heartedly and even skipped the recovery session your physio had booked, ignoring the texts from your trainer checking in on your whereabouts. When they did track you down, you ate your dinner with them in silence, responding to questions with noncommittal shrugs and nods before they stopped asking things altogether. 

But you knew you could only get away with your huffy mood until your usual post-match meeting with your coach. It was part of your routine—post-match debriefs, no matter how the match went. And Chris was never one to hold back, but this time, the tone was sharp from the moment he entered.

The door to your suite cluster’s common living area creaked open behind you—Chris didn’t wait for your cue. 

“Okay, that was rough,” he said, folding his arms. “Technically, tactically—that was one of the sloppiest matches I’ve seen you play in months. Ever, actually. You were two steps behind in everything. No anticipation. Footwork was hesitant. Reaction time? Non-existent. And your shot selection was straight-up irrational at times.”

Your gaze dropped, nodding but entirely unmoving otherwise. You knew he was right.

“Your read on serve placement was late, your depth disappeared after the third game, and don’t even get me started on the return positioning—you were guessing, not adjusting. And I know you know better than that.”

He paced a few steps, raking a hand through his hair.

“You let your fundamentals slip because your head was somewhere else. You’ve been playing the best tennis of your career these past few weeks, and today you played like someone who didn’t even want to be on court.”

That made your eyes snap up.

“Chris—”

“You were stiff,” he continued, just slightly redundant but clearly on a roll. “Jumpy, all over the place. You kept second-guessing and waiting, and when you did move, it was late... And there was no communication—that’s what doubles is all about, kid. It looked like you’d never met each other.”

“Yeah, well,” you spoke at that, allowing a dry quip under your breath. “We did only meet a few days ago.

“Shouldn’t matter.” Chris answered, quick and decisive, shaking his head. “I mean, clearly—just looked at how well you two played the last two matches…”

“You think I don’t know that?” you said, sharper than the usual you took with him—still controlled and not quite yelling, but heated and piercing. “You think I didn’t feel every time I was late to a shot? That I didn’t realize I kept hesitating? That I didn’t realize I was delayed for nearly every point?”

You threw your hands up in exasperation, letting it out all at once now. “I tried to adjust. I tried to push through it and read the court better, but—we weren’t syncing up at all, Chris. It was like we were playing two separate games at once—how am I supposed to fix that mid-rally?”

Chris blinked at you. He was quiet for a second, registering the edge in your voice. All that you’d said, it was rational, technical. All true. But underneath it… He recognized something else cracking through. 

“Hey,” he said, his face and voice softened immediately. “I don’t mean to pile more on and stress you…

He waited a beat and, at your lack of response, added even more gently, “What’s going on? This isn’t like you, none of today was.” 

You hesitated, jaw tightening.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, voice small now. Honest. “I really don’t.”

He sat beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Look, you’ve got the semi-finals tomorrow evening—your first ever. That’s a big deal. And you’ve got the mixed doubles final right before. That’s two career milestones. Two chances you can’t afford to fumble. You’re too good to let anything—whatever it is—get in your way now.”

You said nothing. Just watched your fingers as they fiddled at the drawstrings of your shorts.

Chris sighed, and you saw him shake his head with a knowing look out of the corner of your eye. “You need to work it out with him.”

“With Jannik?” Your eyes flicked up. “Work what out?”

“Exactly. If you don’t even know, then you need to figure that out,” he said. "Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, turning back to look towards your lap, and muttered. “He’s not the problem.”

“Then you apologize… Clear the air.” Chris set his hands on his thighs before hoisting himself up, final in his advice. “I don’t care if it’s awkward. Or weird, or personal—just do what you need to so you’re not dragging this weight behind you into tomorrow."

You swallowed hard, allowing a reluctant and slow nod.

"Because you’re too close to something great to let it fall apart like this."

He gave your shoulder one last, light squeeze and walked out, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of the hotel room.

You sat there alone for a long whole, picking at your fingernails, because what was it, exactly? What was it that had gone so wrong?

It wasn’t just the bad communication on court or the misread of plays. It wasn’t just the technical slip-ups or the awkward press conference or the stilted body language. It was maybe all of it combined—or none of it…

You didn’t know what you would even say when you did go find him. You kept circling the same questions in your head, asking why it even mattered—why you felt so affected about a dynamic fractured with someone you’d only met a handful of days ago. Why this one match, this one person, had left such a mark.

And yet, the answer was already there, in the fact that you cared at all. In the fact that it did get under your skin. Your tangle of frustration and discomfort that stayed constant ever since seeing Jannik wasn’t just from the game falling apart. It was from you. From him. The way you acted with him, and around him.

It was from your aversion to confronting what it was that laid between you too—the root of why it was you worried so much about his reaction to some stupid, accidental innuendo.

You’d always prided yourself on maintaining a level mental state, on inflating yourself and your confidence, especially when you were so naturally prone to overthinking. On and off court, you were all heat and fire. Your theatrics during play—the fist pumps, the grins, the crowd-rousing flair—it was a sort fuel that doubled as a protective wall enveloping around you. People came to expect a performance from you, always awaiting something shocking and forward from your appearances, and so you leaned into it, reveled in it. You felt more like yourself when you could be on display like that, bold and unabashed—and you couldn’t help but feel knocked down when you got in your head like this. It wasn’t like you—or it was, you just tried your best to cover it when you could.

And this—this mess between you and Jannik—was past just being in your head. It was in your game. It bled into your hands, your movements, your reactions. And you hated that, you couldn’t believe you let that happen. Couldn’t believe you’d let it stay that way.

But you hated how badly you wanted to fix it even more… It felt like a blow to your pride—that you cared as much as you did.

Still, you knew Chris was right. You couldn’t go into tomorrow like this—foggy, clamped shut, trying to muscle through it alone.

You had to talk to him.

Even if you didn’t know how the conversation would end, or where it would even start.

You pulled your phone from your bag, fingers hovering for a moment before tapping out a message to Simone, the only contact from Jannik’s team you had. You rush out a quick text asking for Jannik’s room number, and if he was around, before standing and pulling on a hoodie. You pulled on your slippers and grabbed your key card, gearing up to leave with the momentum, not allowing yourself a moment to back out.

You were already out the door, ready to aimlessly wander the halls at the very least, when Simone’s reply came—short and to the point. He confirmed Jannik was in for the night and gave you his room number, mentioning that he’d let Jannik know you were coming.

You stepped into the elevator soon after, pushing his floor level quickly before you lost the nerve. The ride up felt slow, the lift humming quietly as you leaned against the back wall, staring down at the numbers as they lit up one by one. You adjusted the sleeves of your hoodie, then pushed them back up again. You fidgeted with your hair, chewed on the the strings, caught yourself tapping your thumb against your thigh in rhythm with your breath. 

As you walked down the corridors, turning the corners, you kept getting lost in the rehearsal of your poorly strung together script. Should you start with an apology? Ask what the hell had happened? Ask if he felt it, too? Would you talk about the match, about the weight of tomorrow, or about the charge between you?

You just couldn’t start out with something stupid. Blurt out something awkward or sharp or too soft. Or start a sentence without knowing how to end it. 

You worried about his reception to your words. Maybe he’d be cold. Distant. Maybe he wouldn’t even open the door.

The hallway felt quieter than it should’ve. Carpets muffled your footsteps, and the fluorescent wall lighting made everything glow a little too warm and folding in too bright around you for the hush of the late evening. You moved slowly, passing each door with your heart knocking harder in your chest the closer you got. Every few seconds, you rechecked the text for his room number, mostly to give yourself something to ground yourself with.

You didn’t notice you were already standing in front of his door until your hand was halfway raised.

And then, before your brain could catch up—before your thoughts could interrupt again—you knocked.

The door opened faster than you expected.

Jannik stood in the doorway in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair slightly damp, just starting to curl at the ends. His expression was mostly neutral—neither surprised nor particularly guarded. Maybe a little tired. And even curious, you thought.

"Hi.” You blinked, not quite looking at him even with him standing right in front of you. “Um—hey. I hope Simone warned you I was coming. I mean, I assumed he did, he said—but I’m sorry if I;m disrupting you—"

You paused, already hearing yourself spiraling.

"Sorry. Okay. I just wanted to say—about the press panel? You know.. The ‘hard and soft' and the… Yeah, you know... I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Obviously. And I should’ve just said something about it right away instead of... pretending it didn’t happen and then acting like you were radioactive or something. Which I wasn’t trying to do, by the way. I was just—"

Your hands fluttered vaguely. "—avoiding you. Which you definitely noticed. So... yeah. I’m sorry."

You took a breath but didn’t stop.

"And I’m sorry for how I acted before the match. And during. I was off, and I was quiet, and I didn’t really give you much to work with—and we were supposed to be helping each other, and it’s all super new and I just made it harder. And, I don’t know, I got in my head and it felt like you were avoiding me, too? But maybe you were just—"

“Wow,” he said finally, with a soft huff of disbelief. “...You think too much.”

That shut you up. 

And, he sounded almost amused, so you looked up at him then. And it was the first time you really allowed yourself to look at him all day.

He seemed... relaxed. Calm in a way that made your frantic energy feel almost comedic. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides, hoodie slightly rumpled, the curve of his mouth just barely turned up at the corners like he couldn’t quite decide whether to smile.

His eyes, clear and steady, held yours like they weren’t weighing anything at all. No frustration. No resentment. Just a kind of quiet observation.

It made you feel both stupid and seen all at once. 

You blinked once. Twice.

Then he stepped back and tilted his head toward the room. “You want to come in?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you weren’t expecting how light he was acting. You’d imagined some sort of push back, but he just casually moved aside, like your flood of words hadn’t overwhelmed him, like none of it was quite as heavy as it felt in your chest.

It made your face flush all over again. Because clearly, clearly, he hadn’t been carrying this the way you had. And that realization made your insides twist with embarrassment—like maybe you’d built a whole story around something he hadn’t thought twice about. That the disaster that was this morning could have been so easily prevented if you hadn’t gone and assumed the worst.

Still, you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

And then you stepped inside.

---

You settled onto the far end of the couch while Jannik crossed the room and took the other side, angling towards you. It wasn’t a big couch, but the few inches of space that were between you felt intentional—a comfortable, safe distance. Safe from what, you didn’t know.

He sat back and propped his feet up, arms resting loosely on his knees, watching you with that same easy steadiness.

You exhaled slowly, anchoring yourself in his quiet. For the first time all day, you weren’t buzzing. You let his calm wrapped around you and settle into you—stilling the rounds your mind had been on all day. Somehow, just being near him settled your shoulders, slowed your thoughts.

“I, uh—okay,” you started, a little more measured this time. “What I was trying to say earlier, in between all that babbling, is just… I didn’t expect any of this to matter so much. I didn’t think a one-off mixed doubles pairing would get me off the way it has.”

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve.

“But when we played those first couple matches and actually synced up—you know, like really synced—it meant more to me than I thought it would. I guess I didn’t realize that I’d... care that much about whether we kept that rhythm or not.”

You looked up at him, and met the steady gaze he held on you before continuing. “So after the media… debacle, I thought I’d gone and messed that rhythm up and—Well, I think in thinking that I actually did, sort of stunt that dynamic of ours… And, I’m sorry.”

Your voice trailed off, unsure if that was the end. Unsure of how else to finish.

Jannik picked it up for you.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “I felt that, too.”

You glanced at him, and he gave a small shrug like it was obvious. "To be honest, I was surprised. Playing with you feels natural—Like we’d done it before."

You blinked.

“I’ve watched you for a while,” he added, with an almost sheepish laugh. “Before this tournament. Not just match highlights—l watch your full matches. You’re… hard to miss.”

His delivery of that made you laugh—a sort of quiet, self-conscious thing.

“I like your energy,” he continued. “Your fire—the showmanship. You make people feel involved when you play, I was excited to be on the same side of that.”

“And it is fun… Today, maybe not so much…” He laughed when he continued, but looked over at you as if to reassure you that he didn’t mean it with any malice, his expression soft. “And with the press? It just made me laugh. I didn’t think anything bad from it. I know you say these… Some things like this to media before, no? Funny things—bold things.”

You smiled, relief flooding you. “So you weren’t offended?”

“No? It is a bit different, for sure, but that’s kind of your thing, right?” He chucked before raising an eyebrow, amused. "Should I be offended?”

You bit your lip. A beat passed. Then, emboldened by the return of your footing, you leaned back with a grin. “I mean... I would even argue the average person should get an ego boost if someone says they hit it well from the back on live broadcast, so…”

Jannik blinked. Then his head fell forward with a laugh, high pitch at first before trailing off into a silent shake of his shoulders.

“Ah… ” he said, glancing up at you, eyes glinting. “Now you’re back.”

Something in you flushed warm—at the words, at the way he looked at you when he said them. Like he saw you. Like he liked what he saw.

And then his eyes dropped, just for a second, to your mouth. Neither of you moved right away, but you felt yourself leaning in. You heard your breath catch, though it could have been his. 

Your noses brushed—an awkward, human bump—and you closed your eyes, just hovering by his lips for a moment. That breathless stretch of stillness collapsed soon after when your mouths met. It was firm, steady. His lips were soft but sure, warm and tasting faintly of mint. Your breath hitched again. Your hand moved before thought, fingers knotting into the collar of his hoodie as the kiss shifted quickly, deepening as he angled toward you. His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, his thumb at your throat. When you tilted your head, your teeth caught the edge of his lip. You felt the small pause in his breath before his other hand came to your waist and tugged you closer.

When your knees bumped, his moved between yours without hesitation, and your thigh rose against his side as he leaned you back. You adjusted beneath him without breaking the kiss, one hand planted firmly on the outer side of his rib cage, the other now under his hoodie, knuckles grazing the ridges of his stomach. His skin was hot. Tense.

He groaned low in his throat, you swallowed it.

He followed you down, bracing a forearm beside your head. His hips settled between your legs, his body caging yours in. The air felt thick. Your fingers pressed against his side, his hoodie rucked up to his ribs, the scratch of fabric against your palm and the firmness of his stomach beneath it making your thoughts scatter.

You arched against him slightly and felt the shift in his breath—saw it in how his hand slid down your thigh. The kiss broke once—just enough for a breath—but your noses stayed close, and your lips brushed again before you both dove back in.

When you kissed him again, harder, he pressed in closer. His thigh moved deliberately between yours—the contact caught you off guard, the pressure direct and immediate through the thin layers between you. You inhaled sharply against his mouth, and he responded with a soft grunt of his own, as if the sound alone had done something to him.

His hands held your hips loosely, not quite guiding or rushing—just giving you encouragement to move against him. And you did. Slowly at first, your hips tilted forward, seeking more. He stayed there, letting you grind into him. The fabric dragged just right against the seam of your shorts, igniting that sharp, coiling heat low in your stomach. You gasped again, this time less startled and more desperate.

Jannik’s fingers tightened at your waist. His breath hitched audibly when you moved again, a fuller roll of your hips against the line of his thigh, purposeful now. Your head dropped back to the cushion, breaking the kiss when the friction pulled a soft, near-whimper from you—quiet and needy, and he felt it against him when he leaned over you to wedge his leg deeper between yours, as your mouth brushed his collarbone.

His thigh flexed under you, just slightly, when you rocked again, more insistently. He dipped his head down so his lips could find your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth again, as if he wanted to be as close as possible to the sounds you made. He kissed you slower this time, open and deep, and he hummed every time you gasped into him.

One of his hands slid lower, gripping under your thigh, holding you up as your rhythm against him escalated—as you chased the contact of him against you, your bodies rocking in tandem, clothes still on but breath already breaking at the edges. You gripped the fabric at his back and let your chin fall back before lifting up to part your mouth against the base of his neck. He smelled clean, warm. The line of his collar was soft against your cheek. Your fingers moved on their own, slipping under his t-shirt now, higher and bolder. His hands moved too—raking under the hem of your shirt, thumbs at your waist. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, your faces only inches apart, still breathing heavy. Your eyes met his. He looked flushed, pupils blown.

"All good?" he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, breathless. "Yeah, you?"

He smiled a little. "Definitely."

And then his mouth was on yours again, hungrier, your hands pushing his hoodie up over his shoulders as he helped you out of yours too. 

You nudged his nose against yours when you came up for air again, breathing hard, your voice hoarse with heat and all things warm underneath. "Bed?"

He nodded and kissed you once more—quick, solid—before standing. He offered a hand. You took it with a laugh.

He looked down in the few paces over to his bed and chuckled to himself, before gesturing at the wet mark you’d left on the thigh of his sweatpants. You let out an embarrassed, half-laughing groan and covered your face with both hands.

“Oh my god,” you muttered through your fingers. “That’s so…”

But he just grinned and grabbed your wrists, gently pulling your hands off your face. He stole a kiss just as you reached the mattress, stumbling backward onto it with you catching yourself over him.

“I don’t mind.” He said, teasing, and he looked too happy about it so you scoffed. You gave him a mock-glare and shook your head, cheeks warm, and your hands came down to snap the elastic of his waistband.

You rolled your eyes when his grin widened at your silent demand, but he lifted his hips just slightly to help as you tugged his sweatpants down. He let out another chuckle at your expression, quiet and genuine, low in his chest as you crawled over him again.

The rest of your clothes came off in pieces, haphazard and breathless. His fingers slipped under your own waistband as he eased you out of your shorts. There was this shared urgency, but also patience in the way your hands explored each other. He only paused when you pulled your hands back to reach up and put your hair up. Beneath you, he gazed up, letting out a little, shaky exhale as he followed the motion. A hand of his floated up almost unconsciously, tracings over your hairline and tucking some forgotten strands of hair behind your ear. You stilled for a second at the tender, watchful gesture, before shifting to fully settle above him.

You were straddling him now, your palms flat on his bare chest, fingers spread, dragging slowly over the curve of ribs. You could feel how stiff he was beneath you—tension humming under every inch of his skin. His hands didn’t go to hold your waist immediately. They started by skimming your thighs, then traced up the curve of your hips, settling just beneath the hem of your top.

He sighed a little when you lifted it off for him—his thumbs brushing over your lower belly, fingertips dragging up your sides and over the swell of your chest. He was watching for your every reaction as he felt all around you, attentive in a way that made your breath stutter.

When he found the places that made your breath catch—just above the creases of your hips, the side of your neck, the dip between your collarbones. Each touch pulled a different sound from you: a sharp gasp when his thumbs dragged beneath the curve of your breasts, a broken inhale when his mouth brushed that one sensitive spot just below your ear. Your body answered each one without hesitation—hips shifting, chest arching into his hands, breath falling apart in small, uneven bursts.

You squirmed when his fingers ghosted your lower back, a soft whine escaping you before you could help it. He chuckled—low and pleased—one hand settling with possessive weight on the small of your back, keeping you flush against him. He rocked into you a little and the steady drag of your core against the firmness beneath you made your thighs tense and your breath stutter, and your eyes fluttered closed at the slow-building heat curling low in your stomach. Your reaction earned a low, satisfied sound from him, and the heat pooled deeper.

Only after you shivered and shifted above him did your own hand move lower, beyond the dip of his stomach. You felt him tense in anticipation.

Your lips met again, kissing deeper now as your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, curling lightly around him. He jerked slightly into your touch, his breath breaking hard against your mouth. You stroked him slowly, and the way his hands gripped your hips in response—tight and needy—made your stomach twist.

He tried to keep kissing you through it, but his rhythm briefly faltered. His jaw clenched. His breath stuttered out into a shaky groan, and his fingers dug harder into your skin.

"Wait—" he murmured suddenly, voice strained, his head dropping against the mattress. "Wait, I’m—fuck, you have to stop."

You stilled immediately, a question of what was wrong on the tip of your tongue until he shook his head with a breathless laugh.

"Too close," he muttered. "I’m too close."

You blinked down at him, lips twitching up, flushed and a little wide-eyed as he composed himself again. He took a deep breath, sitting up on his elbows to kiss your jaw—then your shoulder.

"My turn," he said, voice lower now. He flipped you gently beneath him before you could react, his mouth already tracing a line down your collarbone, his hand sliding down between your thighs with practiced intent.

You gasped when he skimmed over you, one hand fisting the sheets by your hip. He didn’t rush. His fingers teased around the insides of your thighs—grazing closer and closer before making full contact, before your hips rolled into his hand, a soft sound leaving your throat that made him groan in return.

"There," you said, voice husky and barely audible. "Right there."

His fingers stayed gentle at first—circling, coaxing, teasing that spot over and over until your thighs were trembling and your every breath was just an uneven gasp. He watched your face, the way your eyes fluttered, how your lips parted with each inhale. Every subtle shift in your body drew a new adjustment in his hand, his mouth finding your skin again and again—shoulder, collarbone, the base of your throat.

Your hips started chasing him. Every time he paused, you whined softly, breathless and desperate, and he only smiled faintly against your skin when you murmured something incomprehensible into the air that he felt more than he heard. Your hand found his wrist, squeezing, not to stop him—but to keep yourself tethered. And only then did he slide a finger inside, slow and purposeful, and your body arched toward him, a sharper sound slipping from your lips.

He pressed in closer, curling right and deep. His wrist angled again, hitting that soft spongy roof, watching you unfold under the pressure of it. His breath fanned your jaw as he listened to your every sound—low, sharp, broken—and let it guide him.

You felt the build cresting, that coil winding so tight you could barely breathe. Your back lifted from the bed, and his free hand pressed lightly to your stomach, grounding you.

“Jannik—”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know. I’ve got you.”

And he did—always steady and sure.

He continued to work you exactly how you liked—fingers sliding in this perfect rhythm that made your legs shake. He alternated pressure with precision, slipping from deep and slow to quicker, shallower pulses—before grounding you again with a deliberate, dragging curl that sent heat spiking through your limbs. Each shift in tempo he used to pull you back from the edge just to push you closer again.

He moved between a hard and soft touch with perfect timing—one moment coaxing, the next commanding—always reading you. Reading every shift of your hips, every broken inhale. Adjusting each time to get you closer, before taking it away again.

When your breath hitched especially sharp, he murmured something again—low, near your ear—and doubled down right there. The tension in your body built tight under his touch, but he didn’t quite let you get you over the edge. He held you right there, on that precipice, until your body couldn’t decide whether to plead for release or more of the same.

And still, his hand didn’t falter. Like he was content to keep you there, to watch you in a constant state of unraveling, to hold that rhythm he’d learned from you.

And, as you writhed in it, you decided you needed even more.

Your hand slipped up to his forearm, fingers pressing lightly. “I want you,” you breathed, throat tight. “All of you.”

That pulled something from him—a guttural sound from deep in his chest. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and searching, and for a moment he just stared down at you, panting as if he wasn’t the one leaving you breathless.

Then he leaned in, kissed you soft, quick. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

He sat back just enough to shove his boxers down, breath stuttering as your hand helped him. You watched each other through it—eyes locked, the air heavy and electric between you. When he leaned back over you, his weight came down gently, his mouth brushing yours again as his hand guided himself to you.

And when he sank into you, slow and full, your breath left you completely.

He slowed for a second, forearm braced by your head, his face buried in your neck. You felt him breathe you in, felt a shudder roll through him, before he started to move—deep and steady and close.

You adjusted beneath him instinctively, legs winding tighter around his waist as your hands gripped at his back—first for balance, then for grounding. Every inch of him filled you, each thrust controlled and patient, perfectly paced.

His forehead dropped to yours for a moment, his breath syncing with yours. You moved in that rhythm you discovered together, for each other.

He groaned when your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, pushing him even closer and deeper. His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you through another slow roll of his hips. You clung to his shoulders, fingers flexing with every drag and retreat. Each thrust built on the last—you tilted your hips to meet him in the middle, finding fuller angles together.

His mouth never strayed far—brushing yours, your jaw, your throat. And you were anything but quiet. Every gasp, every broken cry of his name pushed him further, his grip tightening at your hip.

“You feel—” he muttered, cutting off with a harsh breath. “You feel so good.”

You could barely respond, too caught in the press and pull of his body, but your hands said enough—sliding down his back, urging him closer still, like you didn’t want even air between you.

Moving in perfect sync, the tension was rising fast now—the rhythm only beginning to falter with the pressure building in both of you. You could feel it coming on too quickly. The heat curling tight and sharp, everything bracing inside you.

You pushed at his chest and he paused immediately, startled.

He blinked down at you for a moment, trying to gauge if you were okay. You didn’t say anything at first, just shifted underneath him, still breathless and flushed. Then you rolled up with a coy smile, pushing up onto your elbows first as he sat back before turning onto your hands and knees. You took your time with you—Letting your back arch slowly, a feline stretch. Your hips tilted high, swaying side to side one, then twice. 

Jannik stilled behind you.

He was breathing hard, and staring. Stunned. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a flicker of something wicked in your smile, your hair that had come undone now fell to one side. You caught his gaze with a growing grin that was equal parts challenge and invitation. A grin that said, yes, you’re lucky, and you better keep up.

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand down his face while sucking in a breath, like he had to physically gather himself.

“Let’s see just how well you hit it from the back,” you quipped, voice low but steady, with a ghost of a laugh underneath, the line landing with that characteristic glint in your eye.

“God," he said low, voice equal parts amused and in awe. "There you are."

And something in you clenched at that, the way he said it—it felt like being seen, and wanted, all at once. You arched a little deeper for him, letting your hips shift back just enough that your body grazed his. That contact—bare and teasing—made him move fast, snapping him out of his stupor.

His hands found your hips, firm but careful, thumbs dragging along the curves of your waist as he positioned himself behind you. When he pushed back in, it was with a quiet groan, even deeper now, the angle hitting you just right.

You gasped, your elbows dropping slightly as the force of it rippled through your spine. He steadied you with a palm at your lower back, other hand gripping your hip tighter, using it for leverage as he began to move.

That rhythm returned quickly—sharp and clean. You met him stroke for stroke, the wet sounds between you barely drowned out by your breathing and the low, broken things he muttered under his breath.

"Fuck, you’re—" he bit down on the words, cut off by the sheer depth of the next thrust. You cried out softly, head bowing, your hands scrambling for more of the sheets.

You kept rolling your hips into him, meeting each push with just as much force. He slid a hand down, fingers finding that sensitive spot again and working you in time with his movements. The pleasure was starting to pulse in full waves now, your body shaking more and more. You knew he could feel it—how tightly you clench around him, how your body was starting to meet him with a sort of fervency.

He kept moving into you with equal vigor, kept giving, hands tightening at your hips as his pace sharpened. And you took it, breath hitching every time he bottomed out, your moans dissolving into the pillow as your fingers twisted hard into the sheets. His fingers flexed, steadying you, his thumb dragging lightly along the curve of your back between strokes—an unspoken encouragement, a reverent kind of worship.

The rhythm was almost relentless, now. And it was so right.

The perfect depth. The perfect sync.

And you couldn’t hold back the sounds that poured from you—not with the way he filled and stretched you.

He leaned in, his chest hovering over your back, the heat of his skin brushing yours. His mouth found the back of your neck, your shoulder, your spine, trailing heat with every panting kiss. 

"You’re unreal," he murmured, voice ragged and low. "You’re—fuck, you’re everything."

You could really feel it then—how close he was, how close you were. His hand moved between your thighs again, his fingers finding you without pause, stippling his touch as his hips drove into you harder. You dropped your face completely, moaning into the pillow, your whole body tensing as the wave of sensation built fast now.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice barely audible over your breaths. “Give it to me.”

And then everything crested. Your body tightened, shook, clenched around him as the pleasure ripped through you—intense, shuddering, unstoppable. You cried out, the sound fragmented and raw, and he groaned at the feeling, his thrusts faltering.

He followed soon after, gasping your name, hips driving deep one last time before he let go with a quiet, whimpering sound against your shoulder, his hand clutching at your waist.

And for a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved.

Jannik leaned forward, his chest lowering over your back, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder. His breath was hot and heavy on your skin, his heart pounding against your spine. He stayed like that for a beat, just breathing you in, his palm smoothing up your side in a slow, grounding stroke.

Then, gently, he eased out of you with a soft groan—more from overstimulation than anything else—and carefully shifted to your side. His hand lingered on your hip as he laid down next to you, close but not crowding, eyes still fixed on you with a dazed kind of reverence.

You stayed on your stomach for a moment, catching your breath, your cheek turned to face him. When your eyes met, neither of you spoke right away. You just looked at each other, flushed and still coming down, the quiet between you full and content and easy.

You broke it first, playfully nudging his thigh with yours, voice still hoarse but teasing. “So… Safe to say, I can confirm the double-meaning from that press panel now…”

He blinked before letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh, catching your wrist and brushing a kiss over your knuckles. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, but his voice was low and fond.

You laughed, reaching out to trace a slow finger along his arm. “Seriously though—that was…”

Your voice trailed off softly and he cupped a hand over the one you had brushing against him. He nodded, meeting his gaze. “... Yeah.”

There wasn’t much more to say. Not right then.

So you just let yourselves rest there. Tangled in the residual sweat and laughter, and in each other.

You shifted closer, legs brushing. He lifted the sheet with a lazy hand to pull it over you both. His arm slid beneath your neck, drawing you in until your head tucked beneath his chin. And you just layed there, letting your fingers ghost lazy patterns across his chest, while his thumb moved up and down against your hip.

You felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. You smiled into his collarbone.

Neither of you moved to let go and the hush of the room wrapped around, your breath still slowly syncing in the weight of each other’s presence. With your leg hitched over his thigh and his arm warm around your waist, the comfort of it eventually tipped you both over the edge of consciousness. You dozed like that for a while—not into full sleep, but into a soft, half-dream state, where the rhythm of his breathing against your temple had you drifting off.

At some point, an indefinite amount of time later, you stirred. His grip reflexively tightened for a second before easing again. You shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to his chest.

Jannik hummed sleepily, and you smiled at his resting face, but the reality of the late hour was on your mind—with all that the next day held for you. You push yourself up, swinging your legs off the bed.

Jannik murmured something, his fingers reaching out to brush at your hip. "What’s wrong?"

“Nothing.” You looked down at him, reluctant but practical, offering a small smile despite his eyes still being mostly closed. “But I should go.”

He blinked, slowly coming more awake, propping himself on one elbow. “You’re not staying?”

You shook your head, standing to gather your clothes. “Our match is before noon tomorrow, and my semifinal isn't much after that. If I don’t come home tonight—if Chris realizes I never came back after he sent me to go make nice with you—I’ll never live it down.”

He watched you for a moment, still tousled and warm in the sheets. “You won’t go cold on me again?”

You paused at that, glancing back at him. His smile was teasing, but the contents of the question felt too real to answer with just a light quip. So you crossed back to the bed, leaning down to kiss him once—slow and sure.

“I promise.” When you pulled back, you grinned and shot him a wink. “... I promise I’ll be just as good on court as I was in bed.”

“Oh, god.” He let out a laugh, throwing an arm over his face like he couldn’t take it. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”

You chuckled, tugging your hoodie back over your head as you reached the door, leaving him with one more of your lines. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jannik. You did just fine tonight.”

And his laugh followed you into the hallway.

---

Guess Jannik is so chill that he can calm a crazy down. 'A crazy' being reader…

Also literally had such a hard time trying to make the mention of the schedule of the singles matches and the mixed doubles ones realistic. Tournament planners are cracked, like how do they do it?? I could barely manage writing the hypothetical in passing... the passage of time is hard.

Speaking of, there's going to have to be a part three, because the smut took up so much of the writing that I barely progressed the plot... in fact, I might've lost it... lol… Like, somehow this is 13k words and even longer than part 1... hello??

It’ll be out tmr for sure, and it's just comprised of a happy ending/beginning to this Jannik-reader duo. I'm already mostly done with it! xx

Settle Down

Jannik Sinner x Reader Blurb where Jannik visits a school and greets eager students in all their... enthusiasm. Reader is a school teacher, and she catches his eye. Her students approve.

---

The air buzzed with a particular kind of energy that only an auditorium of children could generate, even aside from the anticipation of the visiting guest. Every hallway in the small school building had been overtaken by handmade decorations—cut-out tennis balls, paper rackets with glitter glue, and triumphant declarations like "World No. 1!" scrawled in looping kid handwriting. It smelled faintly of glue sticks and unbridled excitement.

You had spent most of the morning trying to stop your students from bouncing off the walls—both figuratively and literally. Even the usually mellow kids were nearly vibrating with energy.

"Did you know he serves at like a hundred miles an hour?" one whispered. 

Another chimed in, "My dad says he’s better than Federer." 

“No way—there’s no way.”

You smiled at their awe, not even trying to hide your own. Because, yes—Jannik Sinner, the actual world number one, was coming to your school today.

You had tried to keep things together—your class schedule, your classroom, and yourself. You spent the earlier half of the day trying to get through lessons as usual, trying to reign your class in to act like it was a school morning like any other—except, of course, it wasn’t. Even you lacked the needed enthusiasm and focus to corral your kids into getting excited about the difference between odd and even numbers, and all the other curriculum meant for seven year olds, and eventually started teaching exclusively with tennis analogies. It was the only thing that got through to them that entire week.

And now, the long-awaited assembly finally underway, you lined up your class. You straightened one kid’s collar, reminded another to not to chew on her hair, and gave your resident trouble-maker the look.

Your students were easily the loudest of the bunch, and not by a small margin. They whispered too loudly, tugged on each other’s sleeves, and broke into spontaneous applause when they saw the banner at the entrance. It was a storm of giggles and eager chatter, and you were in the center of it all, gently calling names and guiding them with practiced patience.

The gym had been transformed. Some staff members had laid out fake turf down the middle, mimicking a tennis court. There were paper posters waving with hand-drawn rackets and clay trophies. And there, up on the stage, standing beside the principal, was Jannik Sinner himself.

He was taller than you expected—tall in that long-limbed, graceful way you recognized from watching countless matches late at night, sometimes rewatching rallies just to admire the control in his footwork. His face was softer off camera, though. Off court. His expression—open, warm, and just a little amused—made your breath hitch.

The principal stepped up to the podium to begin the introduction and you looked back at your class to make sure they were all seated and quiet. 

"Let’s all give a warm welcome to someone we’ve been waiting weeks to meet—Tennis World No. 1, Jannik Sinner!"

The gym burst into cheers, claps, a few high-pitched squeals. Jannik gave a bashful wave, blinking at the reaction, murmuring a thank-you into the mic. He stepped back and tilted his head to focus on the principal's words of gratitude, her excitement about the visit, the sportsmanship, the role model message—but his eyes strayed to the audience at a sharp interruption in the crowd.

You were standing off to the side of the student audience, your class fidgeting and shifting. The cry had come from a boy in your class who’d begun to whine, tugging at the sleeve of your top and asking something in full volume. You crouched beside him, whispering something only he could hear, and then the kid solemnly nodded. You placed a hand on his head and said something more, and smile grew on the student’s face. Laughing at his reaction, you quietly handed him a small sticker from your pocket and he happily settled back cross-legged on the floor. 

Jannik watched the whole exchange with quiet appreciation, smiling to himself before directing his attention back to the speech. He looked back just in time for another round of applause that marked the end of the introduction, and classes of students began to line up at the base of the stage to get ready to meet him—dutifully ushered by their respective teachers.

As he crouched to meet the first group of kids, Jannik was already smiling, thanking them for their drawings with gentle, focused attention. But then a sharp peal of laughter erupted from your direction once more. His eyes landed on the source of the commotion—your class, by far the rowdiest, and you, standing in the middle like a lighthouse in the storm.

It seemed a child had tripped over their shoelace, a result of some trick the rest of the class was also attempting. Your voice cut through the noise—calm, kind, and only a little exasperated—and something in it made Jannik glance stay up.

At first, it was just a flicker of curiosity and admiration. But as he watched you herd your energetic group with both authority and warmth, it turned into something else. He watched as you knelt to help a kid tie their shoe, gently redirected another away from picking at the decorations, and all the while, you smiled like you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Jannik found his eyes drifting back to you more than once. There was something magnetic about how you appealed to your students—not with any rigidity or lecture, but with an unshakable kind of grace. So when you laughed softly at something one of your students said, after they all huddled around you, clearly adoring of you, his chest tugged just a little.

He shook it off, glancing down with a smile as he accepted another drawing, and leaned in to hear the student describe his dream of becoming a tennis player. But even as Jannik replied, his thoughts pulled back to you.

He'd always found teachers to be impressive, but the way you moved in the middle of all this chaos—with patience, care, and a little sparkle behind your eyes—was endearing. More than.

And then it came to be your class’s turn to file in. You stepped forward to shake Jannik's hand, along with the other second grade teachers. You offered him a sweet smile along with your name, and his eyes stayed on your face even as you stepped back to make way for the next teacher. 

As he made his way around shaking hands, someone in your class screeched, stealing your attention away for a moment. He watched as you turned back to your class to settle them down.

One of the older teachers, noticing his attention on you, said with a grin. "She's the youngest teacher in our school. And the one with the most spirited class, as you may have noticed."

""She gets the wild ones. But somehow, they always adore her." Another teacher laughed, nudging you gently as you rejoined the conversation. "It’s a gift."

You smiled, cheeks warming. "They're a handful, but worth it... Most days."

Jannik’s gaze flickered over to you again, a fond smile making up his expression. "They’re lucky. It’s not easy to keep that kind of energy in check."

You gave a modest shrug. "It’s just barely controlled chaos, honestly."

"You make it look easy."

Your heart skipped at the praise, but before you could reply, a group of your students broke out of line and approached him, clamoring and excited, and you gently excused yourself back to your role.

Jannik knelt to greet the children, his expression turning gentle as he accepted crayon drawings and clumsily glued greeting cards with sincere thanks. A few of your students gasped when he said their names back to them, as though he wasn’t just reading it off of the corners of their pages. One kid asked if he could see Jannik’s forehand in slow motion. Another asked if he liked dogs. A group of three tried to teach him their cheer—"Sinner is a winner"—but sang it just out of unison.

He laughed, charmed and endlessly patient.

Then, at their request, he held out his racket, letting a few of the kids touch the strings. One of your students ran his fingers across the taut surface and asked, "How many do you have?"

"A lot," Jannik said, smiling. "I go through them fast, to be honest. We play a lot."

“How many? Three?” The kid asked eagerly, and you giggled at his enthusiasm from behind.

“More than that.” Jannik replied, chuckling.

The kid let out a dramatic gasp and, in awe, whispered. “Four?”

Now you were full on laughing, and Jannik couldn’t help but do the same. Looking up, he caught your eye with a glint in his as you both came down from the hilarity and innocence of the question. 

"Whoa," another breathed, staring at his wrist before grabbing at his watch. You immediately stepped forward, gently peeling her hand off and mouthing a sorry towards Jannik.

He silently shook his head with a smile in response to your apology, and the girl soldiered on, unperturbed by the intervention. "Is that a real diamond in your watch, is that why it’s so sparkly?"

Jannik chuckled and held it out a little for her to see. "I don’t think so. But it's a nice one."

“Diamonds are for rings for weddings.” A nearby boy corrected matter-of-factly before squinting at Jannik’s hand, eyes narrowing. "You don’t have a ring."

Jannik blinked, a little surprised. "No, I don’t."

"Do you have a wife?" He asked bluntly.

Jannik’s smile widened with amusement. "No, no wife."

“You’re not married at all?”

Brows raised in humor at the disbelief in the question, Jannik shook his head.

"What about a girlfriend-boyfriend?" Another chimed in quickly, clearly emboldened.

You stepped forward quickly, a calm hand raised to briefly gain their attention. "Okay, okay—remember what we talked about. We don’t ask guests personal questions."

It was too late though, the floodgate had opened. They all rushed him with questions that couldn’t have been more personal, the only mercy being that their loud, tiny voices blended together too much to make out any one question.

But one student, your trouble-maker whose voice could carry across a football field, grinned wickedly. He tugged at Jannik’s sleeve fervently before pointing at you. "She loves tennis! She watches all your matches. She said you’re one of her most favorites ever!"

You stilled just slightly.

“Okay—” You tried to get ahead of the thread you were afraid the students would all latch on to, but paused to shoot Jannik a sheepish smile when you saw he was already looking at you.

The kids, too smart for their own good, immediately seized the opportunity, all the little gears in their little minds clicking at the same time. 

"She should be your girlfriend!" Someone shouted gleefully. "You should kiss her!"

You fully froze this time. Again, all the voices came in at once, but it seemed every line came out with ironic clarity this time around.

“Yeah.”

“You should kiss and marry!”

The stage exploded into giggles. Several kids clapped. Someone even tried to start a chant. You just wished for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“Yes or have babies!”

“You can’t have babies if you’re not married.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, you can’t”

“Yes, you—”

“But they should do both.”

“Yeah! All of it!”

“Be boyfriend-girlfriend.”

“My mom said you go on a date first.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when you have a fancy coffee with wine and kiss on the cheek after.”

“Oh yeah, I saw that in a movie once.”

You put your hands on your cheeks, trying to cool the warmth while herding your class away from Jannik. "Alright, that’s enough, everyone. Our time’s up. Let's give the next class a chance, okay?"

You risked a glance at Jannik and saw he was laughing throughout it. Head bowed, shoulders shaking. And then—then—he looked up, and you caught it. The glint in his eye. That flicker of something warm, something intrigued. Far from offended, and something a little more than just amusement.

You felt your face get warmer still as you stepped off the stage, feeling his eyes on you as you followed your still-jeering class.

---

Later, as the gym cleared for recess—the only part of the day that could outshine any guest—the activity finally quieted down. 

And that was when a voice, soft but unmistakable, found you.

"Hey."

You turned. Jannik stood a few feet away, holding a folded poster one of your students had made. He looked more relaxed now, still wearing his warm smile from earlier.

"They’re very enthusiastic," he said, nodding toward the last few of your students running out of the door towards the playground.

"You have no idea," you murmured, managing a chuckle. "Sorry about the interrogation—and the… yeah. They’re usually more subtle."

“Really?” Jannik waved off your apology, but questioned you all the same. “They don’t seem like the type.”

“Yeah… No, actually. I was just saying that to say that.” You covered your face a little while smiling. “They can be even more intense if they want. They were relatively well behaved today, if you can believe it.”

"They were sweet. And funny. ” He smiled, then hesitated, shifting his weight slightly. “And what they said, about you watching matches… that was nice to hear."

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Mortifying, but… yeah. I do. Like to watch, I mean."

He nodded slowly, glancing down at the poster in his hand, then back at you. His voice dropped just a touch, quiet and sincere. "I’m here for some more days… maybe, if you want, we can get a coffee, or lunch or something like this..."

You blinked, caught off guard by how direct but unassuming it was. "Are you asking me out because students told you too?"

"No. I’m asking because I want to." He gave a small, almost bashful laugh. “But they do seem very convincing.”

You smiled, biting back the extent of it with a nod. 

"Well. I do like coffee," you said softly.

"Okay." His grin widened. "Okay."

And somewhere near the gym doors, barely out of earshot, a small voice rang out in triumphant whisper.

"See. I told you so!"

---

Short one to start us back off. Happy to be back and home, and am vigorously editing a series and fics that I'm excited to get out to you!

Kids are merciless and forces of nature to be feared and I've worked with them long enough to know that, and never did they once set me up with someone as a thank you, so.

Enjoy xx

thought u guys would enjoy this

No safety. No food. No aid. No water. No healthcare. No education. Is this what it means to live? Is this what world accept as life?

If a group of animals were trapped, starved, and cut off from the world like this, people would be outraged. But because it's us—human beings—somehow, the world looks away.

These are unbearable days. Everything feels heavy. Each hour presses on my chest like I’m being suffocated.

My family needs urgent help.

Basic survival has become nearly impossible. Bread—just bread—now costs over $25 a day to make.

We are not asking for luxury. We are begging for life.

Please, if you’re reading this: help. Reblog this post. Talk about us. Donate if you can. Even a small act can mean everything right now.

#crisis #humanrights #emergency #donate #pleasehelp #tumblrcommunity #survivestories #reblogtohelp #signalboost

STOPPPPPPP THIS IS SENDING ME

we're dying and he's aura farming i hate his ass

jannik is soooo fucking back