#it’s so bittersweet and i’m SO bad with bittersweet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noralia20 · 2 days ago

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okay so first of all i read your others sinner fics and they are chef’s kiss!! Could i request a jannik x fem reader who plays tennis but not like pro level, just as a hobby, but she has problems with low iron and low blood pressure so sometimes playing can be challening. So I was thinking maybe at Wimbledon (I’m obsessed rn) they are chilling after a match and just playing around a bit but reader isnt feeling well and maybe faints?

Heart made of iron

sum up : Sometimes what makes the body weak makes the heart harden. But that doesn't mean he can't break through.

Loved the idea, I'm a low-almost-deadly-iron-girly. So I know that feeling by heart

You’d stopped competing in tennis years ago, right around the time university and adult life started demanding more from you. You never quite lost the love for the game—your racquet still rested near the front door, and on free weekends you’d hit the courts for fun or friendly matches—but the edge of competition had long since faded.

Still, it helped. Dating Jannik Sinner, a world-class tennis player who lived and breathed the sport, sometimes came with pressures that not everyone could understand. But when his coaches spoke in numbers or techniques, or when he needed to vent after a match, you got it. You spoke the same language—even if your court days were behind you.

The relationship worked. You’d been together for over three years now, and though the time zones were hell and the airport reunions bittersweet, it never wavered. He was gentle and silly and just shy enough to make every “I love you” feel like a warm secret passed between two kids at a school dance.

But lately… something was off. You’d been tired. Not your usual end-of-day exhaustion, but something heavier, like someone had siphoned all your energy out through your bones. You woke up tired. You fell asleep tired. Your hair had started thinning around your temples. You joked it was the lack of sunlight in your apartment, but deep down, you knew something was off.

A doctor’s appointment, a routine blood test. You didn’t expect much.

Then the lab called. Not your doctor—the lab. That’s when it stopped feeling like nothing.

The screen lights up just as you settle into the couch, a blanket pulled over your knees and your body heavy from another day of doing too little, yet feeling like you’d run a marathon.

Jannik FaceTime Incoming

You hesitate. Just for a second.

You forgot you’d told him about today. The appointment. The test. You hadn’t wanted to worry him—he was across the continent, somewhere warm and loud, training or preparing for a match, living the kind of schedule that didn't need a tired girlfriend clouding it.

Still, your thumb slides across the screen.

The video connects, and his face fills your phone—a little blurry at first, then clearer. Damp curls, hoodie slung over one shoulder, the hint of a hotel bed in the background. His mouth curls into a smile the moment he sees you.

“Ciao, amore,” he says softly, voice warm with affection.

You smile without thinking. “Hey.” He leans closer to the screen, inspecting your face like he always does. “You okay?” You nod quickly, then yawn. “Yeah. Just tired.” He frowns. “You look tired.” You arch a brow. “Wow. Compliment of the year.”

“No, no!” He chuckles nervously and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean—you’re always… beautiful, ovviamente. Just more…” He flaps his hands awkwardly, then sighs. “Okay, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh—because he is, and because it’s endearing. “Sleepy-beautiful?” He perks up. “Yes! That one. I was going to say that.”

“Sure you were.”

He grins sheepishly. “So. How was it?” You blink, confused, your heart beating faster, though you were doing nothing. the feeling of being caught like a child stealing cookies. “How was what?” His eyes narrow slightly. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Then it hits you—the blood test. The results. The entire reason you’d gone to the clinic today. You make a guilty face, trying to busy yourself by cleaning the apartement while still holding the phone. “A little.”

He waits, expression soft but expectant. “Tesoro…?” You stop mid cleaning of the living room. You know you can't escape this, because he will push or you will feel guilty. And feeling guilty and anemic doesn't sound like a great combo. You reach for the little paper bag on your coffee table and hold it up to the camera. “Iron supplements.” You make a small grimace, as if it would make it all softer.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Anemia?”

“Very low iron levels,” you explain. “Not enough to send me to the hospital or anything, but the lab called before my doctor could, which apparently is a big deal... according to my mom...” You sound sheepish.

Jannik goes quiet. His expression changes—not panicked, but focused. Like he’s trying to take it all in without letting the concern leak out too visibly.

“I thought it was just winter blues,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “Or too many late nights. But turns out, no. My body’s running on empty.”

He only sighed, taking it all in at once. “Dio mio…” he mutters under his breath, then meets your eyes through the screen again. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You shift the blanket higher around your shoulders. Reaching down to pick up something but deciding against it when you moved too fast. “I didn’t want to stress you out.”

“That’s not your job,” he says, softly but firmly. “You’re allowed to tell me things. Even when they’re not fun.” Your lips part to respond, but he keeps going—his voice gentle, but determined. “We’ve been together three years. You don’t have to carry it alone, you know?”

Your chest tightens. “I know. I just…” You rub your eyes. “I didn’t think it was serious.”

“Do you feel sick?” he asks. “Like, really?”

“Honestly? Kind of. Everything’s heavy. Even holding the kettle earlier felt like lifting weights.” you look into space, remembering about you trying to make a simple task : making tea. Though your body made it seem like a workout.

He runs a hand over his face. “Okay. Alright. So what now?”

“I take the pills,” you say, lifting the bag again. “Every day, with vitamin C. More daylight, better meals. My doctor was very kind about it. She said it’s fixable.”

He nods slowly, still worried. He knew how stubborn you could be, and out of nowhere. Like a tantrum you wouln't listen to something simple but obey when it's difficult. “And you’re going to listen to her?”

“Yes, Jannik, I’m going to listen.” You roll your eyes affectionately. “Good. Because I’ve already started Googling iron-rich recipes.” You now noticed how his face was moving while he tipped on whatever research blog the diet changes. You blink. “Seriously?”

He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Did you know dark chocolate has iron?” He scans the screen, probably searching other benefits.

You snort. “Yes. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Okay, but—dark chocolate and spinach? That’s like… the perfect combo.” He scrolls again. You cringe a little at the two ingredients. “Are you suggesting I eat them together?”

“No! I mean… maybe? I don’t know.” He laughs. “Google says oranges help, too. Vitamin C and all that.” He's really proud with what he's finding. “So now I’m eating spinach, oranges, and dark chocolate in the same meal. Sounds delicious.”

“You’ll be strong like Popeye,” he says, proudly. Then he pauses. “Wait, do you know Popeye?” You scoff, slightly offended but not holding it against him. “Yes, Jannik, I know who Popeye is.” He smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Just checking. He’s very famous in Italy.”

You roll your eyes again, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously helpful,” he corrects. “Do you have any chocolate at home right now? You know, maybe from the last time you got your periods.” You glance at the drawer. “Probably.”

He nods. “Go get it. I prescribe one square every ten minutes.” You were already mid-step when you froze at what he was saying. “That’s not how prescriptions work.”

You could see a laugh bubble in his chest but he held it, trying (and failing) to lift a brow. “I’m Italian. We do things with more love.” You pause, then burst out laughing. The weight your bones seem to carry feels less heavier for a few seconds. After calming down a little, you manage to mutter quietly, “Thank you. For making me laugh.”

He softens, it's like for a moment his green eyes changed colors. You don't know if it was because of the lightening or out of love. “Sempre.” There’s a moment of stillness. You’re both quiet, just watching each other through your screens. Then he adds, “You know I love you, right?” You nod, throat tight. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he says. “Even on bad days. Even when you’re tired. Even when your iron’s at zero.” You bite your lip, trying not to cry. “Well if it is at 0, I'd be dead. But I love you too.”

Early july- Wimbledon

The London sun had decided to overperform that day, casting a stubborn golden glow over the Wimbledon grounds. While the crowd clustered around the courts to soak up the rare warmth, you lingered beneath the shelter of a side awning, your back leaning against the cool metal support beam. The slush of melting ice clinked softly in your plastic cup, the only sound beside the occasional pop of a ball being struck.

You tilted your drink back, catching another half-melted cube between your teeth and crunching it slowly. It was oddly soothing—a recent comfort you hadn’t expected to adopt. Chewing ice wasn’t exactly normal for you, but lately, it calmed the static in your chest, the lingering fatigue, the haze that hadn’t quite cleared since the anemia diagnosis.

The medical update a few days ago had been cautiously optimistic: your iron levels had finally started creeping up. Not great, but better. You could feel the difference. The crushing exhaustion had dulled, your limbs felt less like wet towels, and your hair had finally stopped shedding like you owned nine cats. It wasn’t over, but it wasn’t as scary anymore—and Jannik… well, he had finally stopped watching you like you might disappear if he blinked.

You could still feel his eyes on you sometimes, though—like now.

Out on the grass court in front of you, Jannik was clearly in his element, or at least pretending to be. His coppery hair stuck up in every direction, slightly flattened by his backwards cap, and his shirt clung to his back in places where sweat had soaked through after his earlier match. He was playing around now, laughing with Aryna Sabalenka while Novak Djokovic lounged nearby, calling out teasing commentary for the cameras lined up beyond the court.

It was a rare media-friendly moment after a match, a lighthearted interlude where players could be silly and charming and less like warriors. Aryna thrived in this kind of spotlight, grinning brightly, her voice carrying across the court like summer thunder. Jannik wasn’t as flashy, but today, he looked relaxed. Comfortable. A little shy, maybe, but happy.

You watched him pivot on his heel during a footwork challenge, swinging his racquet with an exaggerated motion before hopping sideways—too wide, too clumsy for his usual form.

You couldn’t help it. The words slipped out before you thought.

“I’ve seen tighter pivots at an amateur doubles match.”

It was barely above a mutter, more to your melting cup of ice than anything. But Jannik’s head jerked slightly, and his shoulders paused mid-turn. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked over his shoulder, straight at you.

“What was that?” he called, eyes narrowing with faux indignation.

You raised a brow and crunched louder on your ice cube, offering him an innocent shrug.

Aryna turned too, following Jannik’s gaze. Her grin widened. “She just roasted your footwork, Sinner.”

“Oh, she does that all the time,” Jannik replied, swinging his racquet casually over one shoulder. “She’s a retired competitor. Brutal. No respect.”

You grinned from behind your cup. “Hey, I’ve played. I know what good footwork looks like. That little scissor-hop you just did? Bambi on ice.” Aryna howled, nearly dropping the can she was about to set up on the baseline. From the sideline, Novak’s laugh boomed across the court. “Better come back from that one, mate!”

Jannik squinted at you, placing a hand on his hip and pointing his racquet directly at your lounging figure. “You’re brave, sitting over there with your cup of ice.”

“And you’re bold, thinking that was a proper recovery step,” you fired back, adjusting your sunglasses with theatrical flair.

He paused. You could see it in his face—that glint, that calculating little flicker in his eyes. He was plotting something. “You still know how to hit a target, right?” he asked, voice light. Your brows pinched. “Jannik…”

He turned fully now, his weight shifting onto one foot as he gestured to you with his racquet like a conductor signaling your solo. “Come on. If you’re going to criticize my technique, let’s see yours. Hit the can.”

You sat up straighter. “No. Nooope. Not doing this.”

“You scared?” His voice dropped playfully, low and teasing. A grin began creeping onto his face—soft, crooked, and smug. You crossed your arms. “Don’t you dare.”

“I mean, it’s okay,” he said, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re a little out of practice. And with your energy still low…” He gave you a dramatic wince. “No need to prove anything.” Your mouth opened slightly. A slow, dangerous breath filled your lungs. “Excuse me?”

Jannik didn’t respond—just turned to his side and walked backward a few steps, facing you with a mock-sympathetic smile and hands spread in surrender.

Sabalenka tilted her head and looked between the two of you, visibly amused. “Oh, he absolutely is geyting you back for all this.”

“Jannik…” you said again, warningly this time.

But the truth was, your feet were already shifting. Your free hand was already tensing, nails curling slightly against your palm. Your pulse picked up—not with irritation, but with something that felt suspiciously like excitement. It had been a while since you’d felt that snap of competitiveness. That thrum in your chest.

You knew it was stupid. You weren’t fully better. You still tired easily. But God, you wanted to wipe that smug little half-smile off his freckled face. He tilted his head. “You used to be able to hit a ball with your eyes closed,” he said with a faintly nostalgic sigh. “But I get it. Iron levels, long bench rest, early retirement…”

Your eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh, sei morto.” ("you’re dead")

You pushed off the bench, your sneakers scraping against the pavement, and with a defiant crunch of the last of your ice cube, you tossed the empty cup in a nearby bin and crossed onto the court.

The moment your foot crossed the white line, Jannik lifted his chin slightly, watching you approach like a cat sizing up a rival. You moved with quiet confidence, the sun casting long streaks across the court, outlining your figure as you stepped onto the grass and stretched your arm once overhead.

You rolled your shoulders back and rotated your wrist out of habit, letting your fingers ghost along the frame of his spare racquet, which he’d left propped against the bench like bait. You picked it up, feeling the familiar weight of it settle into your palm.

It wasn’t your racquet—yours had a thicker grip and was strung a little looser—but this would do. You spun it once in your hand, gauging the balance.

Jannik was already at the opposite end, walking backward toward the baseline, that slow swagger in his step like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Alright,” you called. “If I hit the can in five shots or less, you buy me those stupid matching couple shirts.”

He paused mid-step, blinked. “The ones with the little cartoon fruit?” You grinned. “Yes. You’re the peach, I’m the strawberry. Very romantic.” He groaned, throwing his head back. “They’re hideous.”

“But they’re hideous together,” you said, settling into position near the service line. “Just like us.” He exhaled a laugh and rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying not to smile. “Fine. Five shots. But if you don’t hit it…”

“I will,” you said firmly. He raised a brow. “But if you don’t—you wear my old junior training kit for a whole day. The one that still has the huge red sponsor patch on the back.”

Your nose scrunched. “The one that smells like teenage sweat and ego?” He smiled innocently. “It builds character.”

“Deal,” you said, tossing the ball once and catching it. You walked toward the baseline and set the can yourself, placing it right on the corner of the line. It was dented already from earlier hits, slightly crushed on one side, but still standing proud. You backed up slowly, eyes on the target, calculating the angle.

Jannik stood with his arms crossed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, like he was watching a fireworks show with a personal stake in the finale. “Take your time,” he said lightly. “I’m just worried about your stamina, you know. Don’t want you fainting mid-swing.”

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, you adjusted your stance. Left foot forward. Shoulders square. You bounced the ball once, then twice. Calm. Stay calm. Tennis wasn’t just movement. It was rhythm. Precision. Control.

And mind games.

“You’re chewing the inside of your cheek,” Jannik called across the net. “You always do that when you’re concentrating. Come un piccolo criceto.” (Like a little hamster)

“Shut up,” you muttered, shaking your head but grinning. You threw the ball up. Your first hit—crack—was clean. It soared across the net and clipped just past the can, maybe a hand’s width to the right. Close.

Jannik whistled. “Oooooh. So close. Too bad close doesn’t count.”

You inhaled deeply, nodding once. Not biting. You knew his tactic. He’d try to distract you, throw your rhythm, tease you until you tensed your grip or rushed your toss. It was how he won a lot of points in smaller matches—poker-faced, slightly irritating, totally unreadable unless you knew him.

And you did. Second serve. You rolled your wrist a little more this time, adjusting your grip ever so slightly for a curve. The shot went wide. Not awful—but not good. “Two down,” Jannik sing-songed. “Pensa alle camicie…” (“Think about the shirts…”)

You didn’t look at him. You bounced the ball once, twice, paused, and stared down the can like it had personally offended you.

You threw the ball up, swung—

Third shot. This one hit the net. Too low.

Jannik clicked his tongue, mock-concerned. “Is it the sun? The ice withdrawal? I can get you a new cup if that helps.” You glared at him, lips twitching at the corners. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re cute when you’re losing,” he replied, barely able to keep the smile off his face.

Fourth shot.

You threw it a little higher this time. Let the arc give you time. You planted your feet and twisted your hips into the swing.

The sound echoed just a little louder. Ping.

The ball hit the can dead center, sending it skidding sideways and tumbling to the ground in a little metallic spin.

Silence. A single beat of stillness. Then—

You lifted your arms in a mock victory pose. “BOOM!” Jannik let out an exaggerated groan, his head dropping into his hands. “No. Noooo. Not the fruit shirts. Anything but the fruit shirts.”

“You agreed,” you said, striding forward with the confidence of a Wimbledon champion. “I expect them printed and wrapped by the finals.”

Aryna’s voice rang out from the other court. “She hit it?! I missed it!”

“Dead center,” Novak said, shielding his eyes to look over. “It was surgical.” Jannik dropped his racquet dramatically on the ground and collapsed onto the grass, arms spread like he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ll never recover from this.”

You stood over him, nudging his leg with your foot. “Come on, sore loser. I want the strawberry shirt to say ‘serving looks.’”

He squinted up at you through one eye. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you said, crouching beside him, “you’re in love with me.” He groaned again, softer this time, but there was that smile—the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and tugged unevenly at his mouth. The smile that betrayed how proud he was. How impressed. How utterly smitten.

And then he reached up and tapped your nose. “Alright,” he whispered, “You win.”

Just as Jannik rolled onto his side, still sprawled on the grass in defeat, you leaned down, elbows resting on your knees, and said softly, “Hey. Play one set with me?”

He blinked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “Now?”

“Just a short one,” you said quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Like a warm-up. Nothing crazy. You don’t even have to go full power.”

He searched your face for a moment. You knew he was checking—scanning you the way he always did lately. Since the diagnosis, since the low iron, since all the scary unknowns, he’d become hypersensitive. But now, you smiled, light and coaxing.

His expression softened. “You’re sure?”

“Promise,” you said, already turning to grab a few balls and toss them into the air with a flick of your wrist. He rose to his feet with a sigh, brushing off grass from his shirt and shaking his head. “You’re lucky I like you.”

From the adjacent court, Aryna called out, “I’ll be your referee! But only if I get to mock both of you equally.”

“Deal,” you and Jannik said in unison.

You both moved into position. The rhythm came back quickly—your grip tightening naturally around the racquet, your body falling into the familiar choreography of serve and return. The first few minutes were light, easy. You danced across the court, laughing as Jannik hit a wide slice that made you scramble to the far corner.

“Oh, come on,” you panted. “You said warm-up!” He grinned, bouncing slightly on his toes. “This is warm-up.”

“Not for someone with half a liter less blood in her system,” you muttered, but you were smiling, and he caught it. You hit a clean forehand, placing it just along the baseline with a drop in your wrist—his signature move. He stopped mid-step. “Did you just copy my technique?”

“Maybe,” you said, innocently. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, then turned to Aryna. “That was clearly out, right?”

“It was in,” she sang. “By a whisker. And also way cleaner than your version.”

The three of you burst into laughter, the kind that echoed across the court and made a few heads turn. Jannik ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, mock-offended, and you wiped your brow with the sleeve of your shirt, heart racing from the volley.

You didn’t notice right away, but your breath started hitching in a different way. Not from fun. From fatigue.

The sun pressed harder on your back, like it had grown more intense in just seconds. Your vision blurred slightly at the edges, as if someone had turned down the contrast. But you pushed through it. Just a little longer.

You rallied another point—quick footwork, hard return. The court blurred slightly underfoot, but the ball was still visible, still spinning in the air like a magnet for your focus. You chased it down, feet pounding the grass, muscles working on instinct.

The laughter faded. You became quiet.

Jannik noticed first. His shoulders lowered, gaze narrowing. “You okay?” You nodded quickly, even managed a breathless “Yeah.” He served again. You met him with a solid backhand. It clipped the line.

Aryna whistled. “This is getting tense. Should I actually keep score?”

But you barely heard her. Your brain had tunneled into one single channel—keep playing. You weren’t even registering the heat anymore. Or the slight sway in your stance after long runs. Or the way your breath had stopped catching up between points. Your skin prickled as if the heat had crawled under it.

You shook it off.

Another serve. Another point. Jannik slid low to return it with a grin—he was enjoying the competition now, pushing just a little harder, confident you could handle it.

You didn’t even swing.

The ball flew past you.

You stood still, eyes locked on it as it bounced once, twice, and rolled into the back net.

Jannik froze. “Amore ?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. There was something strange about the light. It was brighter than it had been seconds ago. Or maybe everything else had dimmed. You opened your mouth to say something. Your legs felt wrong. Trembly. Like standing on stilts made of wet paper.

The ground swayed beneath you.

You looked up at the sky—blue, blinding. Then a hot wave rolled over your chest like someone had cracked an oven door in front of you. Your heart skipped. Your fingers twitched.

Then everything tilted. Jannik’s expression shifted in an instant—from confused to terrified. “Wait—hey!”

But your knees were already giving out. You dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, your racquet slipping from your hand as your legs buckled under you. Your head hit the grass with a thump, not loud, but final.

Gasps erupted from the sideline. “No—NO!” Jannik’s voice cracked as he sprinted forward, the sound of his shoes ripping through the grass sharp and panicked.

You didn’t hear it.

All you felt was heat, then nothing.

Jannik barely registered the moment your body hit the ground.

It was the way your knees buckled—like the tendons simply let go—and the way your racquet fell from your hand without resistance that made his stomach lurch. One second you were upright, flushed with motion and sunlight, and the next… gone. Collapsed into the grass like a puppet with its strings abruptly severed.

He sprinted toward you, his shoes skidding slightly on the soft Wimbledon turf as he dropped to his knees beside your unmoving body.

“Amore,” he gasped, voice jagged. He reached for you with trembling hands, palms hovering before finally pressing to your cheeks. Your skin was clammy, and far too warm. “Tesoro, hey—hey, look at me.”

You didn’t move.

A heavy silence rang in his ears despite the sudden stir of voices around them. Someone in the crowd gasped. Aryna’s footsteps approached fast behind him. Somewhere to the left, Djokovic’s voice called out sharply, but Jannik couldn’t understand the words—everything had blurred into static.

He tilted your chin toward him gently, brushing your hair back from your face. The tiny crease between your brows broke his heart.

“Guardami,” ("look at me") he whispered, more broken this time. “Please.”

Aryna dropped to the ground on the other side of you, her hand going to your wrist as she checked your pulse. “She just dropped. Her legs—she didn’t brace the fall. I think she hit her head.”

Jannik sucked in a breath like it hurt. “She was fine five minutes ago. We were just—she was teasing me, she was laughing—”

“You don’t always see it coming,” Aryna said, calm but serious. “Exhaustion creeps up. The heat’s brutal today.” You made a faint sound then. Not quite a word, more like a groan pushed from somewhere deep. Your eyes fluttered open.

Jannik’s chest squeezed painfully. “There you are,” he breathed.

Your eyes opened.

The light hurt a bit. It filtered through the tent roof, soft but too white. You blinked. Slowly. Everything was blurry at first, like you were underwater. Shapes formed. A person leaned close. A hand—warm and familiar—curled around yours.

Jannik.

His eyes were so wide. Wider than usual. A little bloodshot. His curls clung to his forehead, damp with sweat.

You blinked again. His lips moved, but you didn’t quite hear him the first time.

“Jannik…?” The word was featherlight. You sounded confused. Small.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” he said quickly, cradling your head in one palm, his other hand squeezing yours. "Stai bene, amore. Stai fermo. Non muoverti, okay?" (“You’re okay, amore. Just stay still. Don’t move, okay?”)

Your breath hitched. You looked around, your gaze flicking over Aryna, over the court’s edge, the crowd, then back to him. “I’m… I’m fine,” you whispered, as if to convince yourself. “No,” Jannik said, firm but tender. “You fainted. Hard. Don’t try to sit up.”

“But I—” You made a weak attempt to lift your arm, but it shook, useless. “You’re burning up,” Aryna murmured again, pressing the back of her hand to your jaw. You turned your head slightly. “Just felt hot. That’s all.”

“Hot is what you say before you pass out on grass courts in front of everyone,” Jannik said, his voice straining to stay calm. You tried to smile at him—half-hearted, apologetic. “Didn’t want to stop playing…” He stared at you, heart crumpling. “That’s the problem with you,” he whispered. “You don’t stop.”

A bottle of water was passed down from Novak, who knelt beside Aryna. “Ambulance is coming,” he said quickly. “Medical’s been alerted. They’ll check her vitals.”

Jannik helped tip the bottle to your lips as you took a shaky sip. You winced and turned your head, clearly dizzy. The effort alone seemed to sap you. He gently patted your cheek with a damp towel Novak handed over, wiping away sweat.

“She needs fluids,” one of the medical staff said moments later, already crouched beside Jannik. “And full cooling. We’ll set her in the shade, get her on a stretcher just in case. Probably heat exhaustion, compounded by low hemoglobin. The fainting is a red flag.”

Jannik’s voice was immediate. “She’s been dealing with severe anemia. Diagnosed months ago. She’s been recovering, slowly, but she’s still low. The doctor said it’s not critical—but…”

“But this can happen,” the medic confirmed, already working efficiently. “She likely didn’t notice the signs because she was pushing through them.”

“She does that,” Jannik muttered, eyes still glued to your face.

The medical staff started organizing transport to the tent, gently shifting you onto a stretcher. Jannik was at your side the entire time, gripping your hand tightly, brushing your forehead with the back of his fingers.

Once under the large parasol in the shaded tent beside the court, they laid you down with a thin sheet across your legs. The light filtered softly through the canopy above, dull and yellowish. You blinked slowly against it.

Jannik sat beside the cot, elbows on his knees, watching you breathe like it was the only thing holding him together. You were pale. So pale. You stirred faintly, your lashes fluttering again. Your view came back in slow, blurred fragments: the soft flapping of the tent’s canvas in the wind. The dull throb in the back of your skull. A warm pressure on your fingers.

You turned your head slightly—and there he was.

Jannik, hair messy, curls stuck to his temple, his t-shirt damp with sweat. His eyes were locked on you with unspoken panic. His grip on your hand tightened the moment he saw you move. "Mi hai spaventato oggi," (“You scared me today,”) he said, softly.

You tried to swallow. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he murmured. You blinked again. “Do I still get the fruit shirts?”

It took him a second to react. Then he let out a sharp, choked laugh—half-relieved, half-wrecked—and dropped his forehead to your hand.

“Yeah,” he whispered, lifting it to his lips. “You get the stupid shirts.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile, even as your eyes fluttered closed again. He kept holding your hand, rubbing soft circles into your wrist, grounding you with touch, with presence.

There were still checkups to come. Monitoring. Maybe more tests. But for now, you were safe, and he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

dividers : @strangergraphics

#jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner x yn #jannik sinner fluff #jannik sinner imagine #jannik sinner x you #tennis imagine #jannik sinner

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foodiegoogie · 3 days ago

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the first fight | 2.38k

final part of two people met once | a remus lupin x fem!reader mini series

summary: under streetlights, and on the sidewalk, you and remus reveal to each other things you didn't know you had in common.

cw/tags: heavy angst, curse words, reader and remus get into a slightly heated argument, reader-centric pov, and inspired, again, by one day (the series). lmk if i missed any <3

taglist: @jamesweather @loveyouprongs

note: this part in particular was also inspired by anything at all (stripped) by julip and party 4 u by charli xcx <3 also i kinda feel bittersweet abt this series ending finally like is that weird <///3 hope u enjoy!

You’ve always been praised for your patience.

“Remus, stop.”

But you had heard enough of the mansplaining.

“I–I was gonna, anyway....” He stutters, flustered by your interjection.

“No, just— just stop.”

And so he does stop, but you don’t start talking afterwards. Not right away, at least. You’re too busy searching his face for an answer to your question: what was the fucking point of all this?

You take a deep breath before you ask, “Remus, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he answers you, honest-sounding.

A scoff leaves your lips as you roll your eyes. “Bullshit.”

“It’s… it’s not bullshit.”

“No, it is! It is, Remus,” You emphasize, taking one step closer to him subconsciously. You take two steps back to remind yourself of the matter at hand. “You just don’t realize it.”

“Alright, so—” The pitch in his voice goes a little higher, almost like he’s trying not to cry. “So help me then.”

You poke your tongue in your cheek, mulling the thought over. Did you really want to spoon feed Remus his own mistakes? His own bullshit that he claims isn’t really bullshit?

Eventually, you come to a decision. You’ll take the reins of this conversation and steer it accordingly to your will.

“Alright, fine! We’ll be… at work. We’ll be in a briefing, in the breakroom, hell— even in the bloody elevator. And then I’ll be glancing around and suddenly— I see you giving me ‘the eye’ like the broody dog you are.”

You chest heaves up and down, catching your breath after spilling out what you had been repressing for so long. Probably since you and Remus started this thrilling yet toxic dance of tango. A dance you should have refused a long, long time ago if only you knew it’d turn out like this.

“I’m—” Remus sighs heavily, eyes closing for a brief moment before glancing back up at you. “I’m not broody.”

“No, you are!” Your voice rises. He flinches, and for a split second, you almost feel bad.

You gulp, your throat suddenly feeling dry. But you continue, “And you always call me or text me in the middle of the night, and I do come over— I don’t deny that, but then I’m out of your place just like that—” You snap your fingers to prove your point.

And as you continue to speak, your eyes never leave his face. “No small talk, no good morning’s or leftovers for breakfast. We—” You interrupt yourself with humorless laughter. “We just fuck around and do nothing after.”

Admittedly, but not aloud, you’re starting to feel a bit cruel in front of Remus. Cruel, because you’ve done all this talking and he only got to respond with a few words in his defense. While they clearly pissed you off, you’ve always told yourself to fight fair fights. But this fight particularly did not seem fair from Remus’ place.

“But isn’t that what you want?” He finally speaks after a heavy moment of silence. “To do nothing with me?”

A knot forms between your brows at his accusatory tone. “That isn’t what I said—”

“In fact,” Remus cuts you off, gaining new confidence stemming from, perhaps, his quiet anger. “Why do you bother coming over? Why do you answer all my calls and texts?”

You’re caught off guard with this sudden burst of his. For a moment, all you do is stare at him, and all he does is stare back with a resentful sort of look on his face.

So before you respond, you take a deep breath in, and let it out softly, calming yourself. There’s no use in fighting if you’re both going to stay angry at each other.

“Think about that question for a minute.” You say, voice considerably lower in volume than earlier. “Why do you think I still do all those things in spite of your behavior, Remus?”

The man in question exhales through his nose. “I know what you’re trying to get at, but it isn’t true.”

You shut your eyes momentarily, sighing in exasperation. “I want you to say what you think, Rem. So say it.”

All of a sudden, gone is the frustration on his face. Instead, Remus struggles, saying, “Y/N, it can’t possibly be true—”

“You know—” You pause because your voice is starting to shake.

“All this time…” A crack in your voice, now smaller-sounding. “Ever since uni, I thought that I was the only one who felt something. Like what we had… was leading up to something...”

Your pacing in speech slows down significantly. As if, somehow, the unshed tears in your eyes were weighing heavily down on your shoulders.

“But then you started being off and distanced and I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” You continue. “And I just went with whatever you wanted to do just for the sake of us staying together.

“But if only I had known that we’d end up like this? Just as stunted, just as distant…” You trail off, glancing up at him and feeling pathetically helpless.

You chuckle, albeit a bit sarcastically. “Honestly, Remus, I’m tired.”

“This is exactly what I was afraid of happening. So I left. But I know that it wasn’t the right thing to do at the time. So I’m sorry.”

Under your breath, you mutter, “That doesn’t justify everything you did to me. I was hurting, Rem. And I… I missed you so much.”

“What?” He asks in quiet disbelief.

“You heard me right. I know you aren’t deaf. I did miss you—“

“No. It’s just… you should be mad at me.” he eventually decides to say.

“I am.”

“You should resent me.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t even be talking to me right now.”

“I shouldn’t,” You admit honestly, a teary smile on your face. But then it crumples as you fight back the waterworks.

“So help me understand why I still am. Because I am so unbelievably tired of this, Remus—” Unfortunately, you could only handle so much all at once. The tears finally come running down your cheeks, and you hurry to cover your weeping face from Remus’ eyes.

You sniffle, sob, and try your hardest to sober up. “I’m sorry…”

When you look back up at him, he’s closer to you than he was just a few seconds ago. Almost as if he had anticipated himself to do something about your crying… like hug you, amongst other things.

But he was just standing there, with a face so overcome with guilt, heartache, and helplessness all at once. So with another deep breath in, you let your eyes shut close again for a brief moment. Gaining momentum to speak again, you open your eyes—

“I was scared, okay?” Remus tells you, voice sounding just as broken as yours was. “I was afraid that you’d see how pathetic I was that you’d end up leaving me, anyway. And I didn’t want that, so I made things easier for myself—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You plead weakly.

Almost instantly, your eyes well up with fresh tears all over again. But the sobs don’t take over you. The tears just… make your vision blurry over time until they drop, leaving proof of your desperation running down your face.

Tears of desperation… for Remus to prove himself to you once more. Maybe even for the last time.

Remus’ shaky exhale makes you return your attention to him. He lifts a trembling hand, wiping quickly at the corners of his eyes before flicking the tip of his nose with his pointer finger. A habit he does when he’s anxious about something.

“I didn’t—” He starts, but stops himself for some reason. His eyes squeeze shut before opening again, and now he looks just as tired as you’d always seen him in. “I couldn’t tell you. I… I couldn’t do that to you…”

“Couldn’t do what, Remus? Ask me for help?”

“Be a burden to you,” He answers, the words leaving his mouth like it was a weight he’d been carrying for ages. Remus pauses for a moment, looking away from you, off into the distance, before he returns his gaze to you.

“You already carry so much, Y/N,” He continues. “And you’ve always carried a lot of things— yourself included, with so much grace and composure. I couldn’t— I told myself I couldn’t ruin that for you. So I did what I did.”

You turn your eyes to the ground, looking at the tips of your shoes. You blink away the tears and let them fall to the ground.

You knew Remus well, even if he might deny that somehow. You knew how he’d rather give his place up for someone else more deserving of it. How he’d rather keep quiet than be honest about whatever mischief his friends were up to.

But you never knew he’d been feeling like this… to a certain degree.

“And you didn’t think that I wanted to help you, Rem?” His nickname leaves your lips in a broken whisper. If you weren’t careful enough, it might have been lost to the wind. But it seems like Remus hears it.

“N-No, I did—”

“Just be honest. Please.”

You look up at him, and maybe you look a little more pathetic by the second as this conversation progresses. You have this thought in mind, because Remus answers—

“I didn’t.”

And that’s when you break down crying again.

“Fuck—” You inhale sharply, trying to repress the oncoming slaught of sobs deep in your chest. You’re restless in your stance, desperate to get sober again for the sake of preserving your pristine image in Remus’ eyes.

“I loved you so much, did you know that?” You struggle to say in the midst of your anguish. “And— fuck, I still do.”

A few minutes probably pass in silence while you’re still crying, and Remus is still helplessly watching you.

It will always go without saying—love hurts. It hurts because of a lot of factors that poets and authors always write about in their creations. For instance, love hurt Orpheus and Eurydice when the former looked back at her while trying to lead her out of the underworld. Love also hurt Romeo and Juliet when they chose their tragic fate blindly, motivated by love.

But in your case?

Love hurt you because in spite of all the pain Remus had “unintentionally” given you… you held out for him anyway. Loved him, anyway. You ultimately let love be a hurting experience for you because Remus ceased to leave your heart and mind completely.

But you couldn’t have known that love would bring you here—not quite back with him yet, but reunited all the same.

Your sobs have quieted down in their volume, and you were slightly convinced that at this point, you were just crying out of pity for yourself. Or out of blaming yourself for not noticing Remus’ plight after all these years. The floor drifts in and out hazily in your vision. You’re desperate to stop crying, but you can’t stop the tears from falling.

Until you feel arms wrap around you slowly, hesitantly. Like someone’s trying to shield you from something dangerous but they aren’t sure if they’re doing it right.

“I’m sorry,” Remus breathes into your hairline. You squeeze your eyes shut again, fresh tears running down your cheeks. “I’m sorry…”

By then, your hands go on autopilot—at least, it feels like it—wrapping around Remus’ waist to return the embrace. And you tighten your arms around him as he does the same. Soon enough, you’ve both gone from just embracing to actually holding each other upright—it’s familiar and strange at the same time.

Being in Remus’ arms again after so long, in a manner so tender like this moment...

It feels like walking into the house your childhood belonged to. But now there's strangers treating it like it was always theirs.

“I still love you, too,” He whispers, sharp and honest. Loud. “I always have.”

You visibly deflate against him, sighing heavily out of relief. You’ve finally managed to stop crying. Now, you’re just holding onto Remus tightly, face buried in his shoulder. You’ve lingered there for so long you’re sure you’ve left tears and snot in his dress shirt.

But knowing Remus, he probably didn’t mind that.

To look at the bigger picture, there’s more than tears and snot left behind on Remus’ previously pristine dress shirt. There’s unresolved emotions, lots of it. There’s the elephant in the room that’s begging to be addressed—how and why your previous hookups did nothing to improve your relationship. And this list will get longer, without a doubt.

But who knows what the future will have in store for you and him, anyway? There’s always the high chance that Remus will pull back for his sake again, and you’ll be there to pull him back in. Rinse and repeat.

Yet, there’s also the possibility of a different outcome now. You’re not young anymore, but you’re certainly a lot wiser than before. And with Remus holding you—warm, familiar, and caring—you decide right there and then that you were willing to see things out with him. A fresh start of sorts, not just for him, but for the both of you individually.

Life’s too short to dwell on past grievances and hold grudges against ex-somethings, anyway. And love… love will always hurt. There’s no doubting that.

But the thing about life is… it goes on amidst these experiences. Thus, that should be enough reason for you to keep going, too.

You and Remus stay in each other’s embrace long enough that you start swaying slightly to an imaginary song. There’s no one but the both of you, and the peace and quiet of the night, to witness it.

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