Amazing

amazing

Bone-Tired

Jannik Sinner x Reader Steamy, super-brief blurb where Jannik is down bad... And by that, I mean horned up and so tired... So... Warnings include... smut, as in dryhumping, (Bone-tired = Bone tired = Bone whilst tired)

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Jannik was exhausted. You could see it the second he stepped through the door, his shoulders slumped, his hair damp from a shower he probably took in the locker room. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, but his eyes were locked onto you.

"Long day?" you asked, pushing up to sit from where you had been laying on the couch, but before you could stand to greet him, he was already in front of you. His hands came down to cup your face and he planted a sweet, ghost of a kiss on your forehead before guiding you back to lay down once more.

"Missed you." He all but collapsed on top of you and nudged his face into your neck, his voice a rough and low murmur.

"Missed you too, Jan.” You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You look dead on your feet—The team really put you to work today, huh?"

Jannik only hummed in response, and just laid against you for a second. You chuckled at his state, freeing a hand to gently smooth up and down the expanse of his back. At the contact, he stirred a bit, lifting off you just enough to tilt his head down and press his lips against yours.

It was slow at first, like he was savoring the warmth of your mouth, but then his hands tightened on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin, and the kiss deepened, turned desperate. His body sagged slightly against you, his weight pressing you deep into the cushions as he exhaled shakily.

You let him escalate to where he needed to be—matching the urgency with equal want, your hands slipped under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the tension coiled in his muscles. He groaned into your mouth when you scratched your nails lightly down his back, his hips pressing forward instinctively, grinding against you.

You gasped, gripping his shoulders as the friction sent a jolt of pleasure through you. "Jannik."

"Don’t have energy but—" he panted, swearing a little as he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. "—need you."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly as he rocked against you again, still fully clothed, the heat and pressure of it making him shudder. His body was pliant, muscles loose with exhaustion, but his desperation only added to the heat, the way he was letting himself melt into you.

"Yeah?" you murmured, moving with him, teasing. "Like this?"

“Don’t—” He whimpered—actually whimpered—as he buried his face against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “I can’t—"

But he bucked into you, and so you rolled your hips again, pressing closer, feeling the hard outline of him against you. He choked out a moan, his fingers flexing against your waist, his body tensing as he lost control little by little.

His breath came in uneven gasps, each slow thrust against you making him unravel further. His hands gripped the fabric of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto, his moans muffled against your shoulder as his rhythm against yours turned erratic.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice breaking as he rocked against you again, the friction pushing him closer and closer to the edge. "I’m—"

His entire body trembled as he came, still fully dressed, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening like you were the only thing keeping him conscious. He moaned your name, muffled against your skin, the sound wrecked, desperate, as he gave into you completely.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, his weight pressing back against you, his body warm and shaking slightly as he came down. His fingers twitched against your sides, his breath still shallow as he tried to collect himself.

Then he let out a breathless, embarrassed chuckle, pulling back to look at you, his cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. "That was—fuck… Sorry…"

“No. Are you kidding?” You grinned, brushing a stray curl off his forehead. "That was really hot."

Jannik groaned, burying his face in your neck again. "You’re never letting me live this down, are you?"

"Not a chance."

He laughed against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to your collarbone before murmuring, "Give me a few minutes. Then I want you properly."

And from the way he looked at you, you knew he meant it.

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Wanted to get something out to get be back in the groove, and came up with this... I love a little desperate, I-came-in-my-pants moment. Finishes fast, I know. The fic and Jannik, yes So hot.

What's not hot? My schedule. Literally so swamped. Also? Went on a date with this guy who I see play tennis often on the courts near me and, uh, I was hopeful because tennis, and it did not live up... Bizarre weekend, but, trying to salvage loose ends.

Speaking of, planning to get In Sync Part 2 out in the next couple of days. Like, for real this time. Literally totally lost the plot, so I'm rewriting the ending tbh. Stay tuned for that... xx

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.