Exactly

In your orbit

Jannik Sinner x Model!Reader

Synopsis: Reader sets her eyes on someone. A certain red-head, tall athlete. She's only ever seen him in the ads, on TV. But tonight, reader is set to put him in her orbit.

a/n: helloo!! 1/3 of fics finished today! i had an amazing match, and i also didn't expect to advance through another round so updates may be a bit delayed :( but i write every time i get free time (if i'm not tired), so yeah! hope u enjoy this little blurb i have. i really tried my best, hope this isn't too cringe or clichè. as always, comments and asks are greatly appreciated! i love reading your feedbacks, don't be afraid to request! ♡

You step out of the car with the kind of practiced ease that comes from years on runways and in front of flashing lights. Silk clings to your hips like it was made for you. And it was. Archival Gucci, deep emerald, low at the back, dangerous at the slit. Your heels click against the rooftop tiles like punctuation marks. Eyes follow you. They always do, you learn to adapt to it quickly.

But you’re only looking for one. And you find him.

Jannik Sinner, parked near the edge of the bar like he doesn’t quite belong. Fingers curled around a glass, jacket unbuttoned, hair still slightly damp like he ran his hands through it just before stepping in. He’s speaking with someone. Doesn’t matter who, but his eyes cut sideways when you walk in.

Bam. Bullseye.

He watches you the way you’ve seen men stare at cars they can’t afford. Like touching would be a luxury. You smile like you don’t see it, but you do. You always do.

You wait until he’s done glancing, then head straight for him. No detours. No small talk.

“You’re taller in person,” you say when you stop beside him, tone light, amused, like you’re commenting on the weather. “Not that I’m surprised.” You say casually, a smile adorning your lips.

His brows lift just a little, a smirk twitching up to the side of his lips. “You knew who I was?”

“I’d have to be blind not to,” you reply smoothly. “You’re everywhere. Ads, matches, press. And on my Instagram explore page every time you so much as breathe.”

That gets a soft laugh out of him, quick and low. One that makes you bite your lip, but you conceal it with a smile. He looks down for a second, a little shy, brushing his hand along the back of his neck like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“Do you always open with flattery?” he asks, glancing back up, voice dipped in that unmistakable South Tyrolean lilt.

You shrug, eyes flicking to his collarbone peeking beneath the shirt. “Only when it’s true.”

There’s a beat where you don’t say anything. You just look at him. Let him feel the weight of your attention. It’s intentional. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“I follow you,” you add, sipping your drink. “On Instagram. Not, like, in a creepy way.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with narrowed eyes, amused. “No?”

“No,” you smile, leaning in, letting your perfume fill the space between you. “Though if I were going to stalk someone, I’d probably pick you.”

His ears flush pink.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. You always catch the small things, the way he shifts his stance, how he glances at the guys across the room, the way his thumb drags across the condensation on his glass like he needs something to do with his hands.

“I saw you earlier,” he murmurs. “Before you saw me. All the guys looking at you…”

You raise a brow, amused. “Jealous, Sinner?”

He hesitates. Just long enough.

You smirk. “It’s alright. I get it. I’d be jealous too.”

His expression flickers, like he wants to say something in Italian but bites it back.

You step in a little closer, like it’s natural, like you’re just adjusting your clutch, but your shoulder brushes his chest.

And he stiffens slightly.

“I saw your Rome match last month,” you say, casually now, eyes still on his. “You play like you’re chasing something.”

“I am,” he says, too quickly.

You blink, surprised at the sharpness, tilting your head. “Oh?”

“I play better when I want something.”

“Like?”

He looks down at you, quiet, his gaze dragging slow. “Like now.”

Oh.

Oh.

You chuckle, amused and smirking. You let the small silence settle before pulling your phone from your bag, licking your lips. Tap. Unlock. Hold it out.

He blinks, raising his brows in surprise. "Oh? What is this?"

“Put your number in.” You tap the phone casually, not breaking eye contact.

He stares for a second.

“C’mon,” you add. “I already follow you. Might as well make it official.” You smirk, tilting your head. You know exactly what you were doing, and it was working. Mamma Mia, it was making Jannik go feral.

His fingers skim yours as he takes it with an amused smirk. His skin’s warm, calloused but gentle hands, knuckles slightly pink from the drink. When he hands it back, your name is already saved on his phone.

You peek, another smirk plastered on your soft lips.

“You added a heart?” You quirk a brow.

“Accidentally,” he says, completely lying. His accent thickens for a second. Accidentally. Cute.

You laugh and shake your head, shameless. “Right.”

You send him a text before you even step back.

His phone buzzes.

When he reads it 'don’t be shy tonight, golden boy.' you watch his throat work as he swallows.

You turn to leave, giving him one last look over your shoulder. An innocent smile.

“Nice meeting you, Jannik.”

He’s still standing there when you disappear back into the crowd.

Orbiting.

Just like you planned.

rome is so pretty

finally finding a masterlist with the characters ur interesed in and click in one // “None yet”

STOP I CANT HANDKE ANOTEHR TIEBREAK

it's my birthday today!🥳🥳🥳🥳

"I am well rested, so I'm happy. Everyday I feel better mentally and physically. I'm doing a lot of different things. Of course if I could choose I would play tennis but on the other hand I'm not even thinking about tennis too much right now"

everything reminds me of jannik

jannik is soooo fucking back

One Love

Jannik Sinner x Tennis Player!Reader

Summary: You're WTA World No.1. He's ATP World No.1. Everyone assumes you'd hate each other; too competitive, too intense. And you did. At first. Until you were both stuck doing mixed-doubles promo for a sponsor in Rome. Until you got paired for a charity match. Until you accidentally won… and didn’t stop texting afterward.

a/n: i recently rewatched challengers today because i couldn't practice tennis today.. i got inspired. atleast i got something good out of a sprained ankle, i hope you guys like it! (im cooked i got a tournament next week)

You barely look at him as you step onto the court, eyes locked on the lines, the crowd murmuring qnd cheering in anticipation. It’s hard to ignore the tension in the air, everyone’s been waiting for this match. You and Jannik Sinner, the World No. 1 ATP, and the World No. 1 WTA, forced to team up for a mixed doubles charity event in Italy. How ironic is that?

The Nike kits cling to you both in a matching, almost absurdly coordinated way. You can feel his presence beside you. Sharp, composed, intense; but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. This is all for the sponsors, nothing more. You aren’t friends. Not now, not ever.

He’s the last person you’d choose to be paired with. You’ve fought on the court against him on practices, never yielding an inch. You know how competitive he is, how he thrives in the heat of rivalry. And yet, here you are, standing shoulder to shoulder, forced to play as a team against Aryna Sabalenka and Ben Shelton. The moment the ball is served, you’re both in motion, racing across the court with sharp precision, silently competing to outdo one another. Your hands brush as you both reach for the same shot. Your heart skips, your breath hitches, but you don’t acknowledge it. Not yet.

The crowd cheers as you win the first point, and you catch a glimpse of Jannik out of the corner of your eye. He smirks at you, just barely. You hate that smirk, that confidence. It’s too much like your own. You give him a half-hearted nod. "Nice shot," you mutter. He doesn’t respond, but his eyes linger on you a second too long, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air. There’s more between you now than just competition. A strange, undeniable chemistry. You try to shake it off, but the match is far from over, and neither of you is ready to stop playing.

You don’t expect it, that effortless rhythm. It’s like you’ve trained together for years, not met awkwardly thirty minutes before warm-up. Every crosscourt shot you angle, he’s already there, anticipating it like clockwork. You find yourself moving in sync with him, not because he tells you to, but because your body just knows. At one point, you catch his eye after a clean volley, and he gives you the smallest nod, that same unreadable expression he wears when he’s locked in during finals. It should be infuriating. Instead, it sparks something warm, something dangerous.

The crowd starts getting louder, caught up in the surprising electricity of your teamwork. You don’t even notice the scoreboard ticking upward, too focused on the way Jannik moves; fluid, precise, like a language your body suddenly understands. Aryna’s grin sharpens when she realizes you and Jannik are actually a threat, while Ben just shakes his head, laughing under his breath after another brutal rally. Still, no words pass between you and Jannik. Just glances. Just breathless seconds between points where you could swear he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. And maybe that’s safer. Because if either of you speaks, you’re not sure you’ll keep pretending this is just tennis.

A series of volleys, and backhands go by in a blur. You both won straight sets, now it's the final set. And the final point. And it's your turn to serve.

You bounce the ball, you toss it. And the ball leaves your racket with a clean, vicious snap. You know it’s good the moment it cuts through the air. Fast, flat, brutal. It kisses the service line, untouched. Ben doesn’t even move.

Silence, just for a beat. Then the umpire’s voice cuts through the tension:

“Game, Sinner and—”

Your name, sharp and clear.

The crowd erupts.

Jannik doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, really looks at you. Hus chest rising with the effort of the match, sweat clinging to his hairline. Then, in that quiet, charged pause before your teammates approach, before the photos, before the sponsor reps swarm in with cameras and high-fives, he reaches out. Not for a hug, not for show. Just a brief touch to your back. Warm. Grounding. The kind of thing you’re not supposed to feel anything from.

But you do. And judging by the way his fingers hesitate before falling away, so does he.

And for a second, you swear you could see his boyish smile, barely there, just enough to catch the light before he wipes it off, turning it into a quick flick of his towel against his forehead. But you saw it. Just for a moment.

You smirk at the thought, the coolness of his touch still lingering on your skin, even as you pat his back lightly. Your hand lingers a second too long, just enough for the feeling to settle between you before you turn away. It’s not much. Nothing serious. But it’s something. And it means a lot more than either of you will admit. You head up to the net, shaking hands with Shelton first, exhanging thank you's and congratulations', then Aryna. She raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the dynamic she just witnessed.

“Nice teamwork, you two,” she says, voice dripping with amusement.

You return her smirk. “Same to you, Sabby.” Her hand feels solid in yours, a rival’s handshake, but you’re too caught up in the lingering heat of your own victory to care.

The umpire’s call fades into the background as you all exchange pleasantries, preparing for the obligatory PR photos. The media teams and sponsor representatives rush in, pushing cameras and microphones into your face. You’re forced into the carefully choreographed smiles, standing side by side with Jannik as the photographers capture what feels like an entire lifetime of perfect moments: smiles too tight, poses too polished. You keep your eyes steady, even when you feel his presence next to you, too close for comfort. You wonder if he’s feeling it too, the strange tension that lingers in the space between you.

The session drags on, but finally, it's over. You escape to your hotel, the silence of your room welcoming you as you collapse onto the bed. You scroll through your phone, your feed already buzzing with highlights from the match, the photos, the reposts. You share your own, a subtle but confident caption. The whole world knows you’ve won. The whole world knows you’ve had this strange, unspoken moment with Jannik on court. Your phone buzzes again, this time a message from an unexpected source: Jannik.

You hesitate for a moment before opening it.

“Good match today.”

It’s simple. It’s cold. But something in the way it’s worded makes your heart skip. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the fact he’s reached out at all. You type back slowly, keeping it casual.

“Yeah, not bad for a forced teammate.”

The dots appear, then disappear. Then a reply, as brief and sharp as the last one:

“Not bad at all.”

And just like that, the door to something else creaks open.

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