Hiii, I hope you're doing well. I discovered your acc a few weeks ago and read almost all of your works and THEY ARE SOOOOOOOO GOOD AND YOU WRITE SO WELL AAAHHH TAKE LOVE. This is actually my first request ever and I just saw that you're closing requests in 24 hours, that's why I wanted to request rn (I won't be available for the next two months T_T) ANYWAYS
I want to request a Rin x reader where reader is a celebrated tennis player (grand slam champion) and goes on WTA tours and olympics. Rin and reader were once academic rivals who later slowly became friends (with unresolved feelings huuhuu). BUT after both got busier with football and tennis as their fame increased over the years in their respective fields, they slowly lost touch (although they'd still support each other silently from afar, like whenever rin had a match she would keep tabs on social media or vice versa). Reader and rin unexpectedly meets 5/6 years later when both are in their prime in a retirement ceremony of a famous tennis player where many celebrities were invited. The two gets a bit awkward (maybe sad deep down as well?) but slowly catch up
“𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞-𝐚𝐥𝐥”
a/n: hiii, i'm doing well and i hope you are, too! THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH, MY HEART IS DOING BACKFLIPS 💞💞💞
thank you for requesting and for being so patient, i had a LOAD of requests to complete before getting to yours 😔 and thank you for the detail it helps a lot!
you don’t expect to see him here. not at the retirement ceremony of your childhood tennis idol – an event filled with WTA legends, tennis veterans, agents, a few carefully selected celebrities, and enough sports media to fill a stadium. you’re used to standing under lights now, dressed in something elegant and camera-ready, with interviews that ask you about your training, your shoes, your skincare routine. but this isn’t your night. you’re just a guest. just a presence. just here to honor the woman who made you pick up a racquet in the first place.
but across the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits, he stands.
rin itoshi.
he’s taller than you remember. hair a little longer, like he couldn’t be bothered to style it more than that. the black suit he wears is sharp, tailored perfectly to his lean frame. he doesn’t smile, he rarely ever did, but his expression is quieter now. older. and when he turns, maybe because he feels your gaze on him, his eyes find you across the room. you freeze.
for a moment, you don’t know what to do. your heart stutters somewhere between your ribs. five years. maybe six. it’s hard to count when you both stopped talking gradually, like a slow tide pulling away from the shore, until one day you looked down and realized the sand was dry. the last message you sent him had gone unanswered, not because he was angry, but because he was busy. and you understood. you were busy, too. it was easier not to follow up. easier to pretend the space didn’t matter when it grew so quietly.
but now he’s walking over, and you can’t look away.
he stops a foot in front of you. “you play tennis now?” he says. his voice is deeper than you remember, still carrying that signature deadpan delivery. you blink once, then smile, because something about that flat tone still makes your chest warm.
“no,” you reply, lifting your glass slightly. “just here for the free wine.”
his lip quirks, just slightly, like you said something vaguely amusing. it’s not quite a smile. but it’s not nothing, either.
you both fall into a strange silence after that, standing shoulder to shoulder while the ceremony continues on stage. someone’s giving a speech about legacy and inspiration, the crowd murmuring with polite awe. but you can’t hear much of it. your thoughts are too loud. he’s too close.
it’s strange. you’d spent years being side by side with him – rivals at first, two top students fighting for grades with the kind of stubborn pride that made teachers sigh and classmates groan. he was brilliant. distant. sharp in both mind and tongue. and you were the only one who could keep up. so naturally, you butted heads. constantly. one week he’d outrank you in calculus. the next, you’d score higher in literature. it wasn’t healthy competition, but it was real. and somewhere along the way, it turned into something else.
you’d find yourself studying together at the back of the library, sitting closer than necessary. exchanging flashcards and eye rolls, walking home after practice, quietly trading playlists without saying why. you can’t remember when you started thinking about him outside of school. when your heart began to jump whenever he leaned too close, or looked too long. but it happened. slowly, then all at once.
and then it stopped.
he left for europe. you got your first grand slam wildcard. and everything became interviews, flights, press, training, more training, loneliness, and headlines. the texts grew shorter. the calls more spaced out. and when the silence settled in, neither of you broke it.
you wonder now if he missed you.
he speaks before you can. “you’ve done well,” he says quietly, eyes still on the screen where highlight reels flash behind the speaker. “grand slams. olympics. number one in the world.”
you glance at him. “you kept up?”
his gaze flickers to yours. “you trended every time. wasn’t hard.”
there’s a beat of silence. your throat tightens. you don’t know why it hurts to hear that he was watching. maybe because you were watching, too.
“you too,” you whisper. “champions league. world cup. i watched.”
he doesn’t respond right away, but the shift in his expression is subtle – just a breath of emotion in the stillness of his face. you look away before it can feel like too much. there’s something old and aching sitting between you now, like a book you never finished but kept on the shelf anyway. you tell yourself it was the right choice, the silence, the distance. it was practical. you had your world, he had his. it would’ve been too hard to hold on.
but seeing him now – older, sharper, successful in all the ways the world measures – it feels like you both lost something that had nothing to do with tennis or football.
“do you ever miss it?” you ask suddenly, not sure where the question even comes from.
“miss what?”
you swallow. “being unknown.”
he’s quiet. so are you.
“… yeah,” he says after a long moment. “sometimes.”
and you both fall quiet again, but this time the silence feels different. not empty. just heavy. like it carries too much.
you glance at him again, searching for something familiar. “you still suck at texting?”
his expression doesn’t change. “horrible,” he admits, pulling out his phone anyway. “but give me your number.”
you blink. “you still have it.”
“just checking it hasn’t changed.”
your phone buzzes. a message.
[ don’t ghost me this time. ]
you snort under your breath, tapping back.
[ only if you don’t disappear first. ]
he finally, finally smiles. it’s small. barely there. but it’s real.
you don’t know what this means. you don’t know if this is closure or a second beginning or just a quiet moment borrowed from the past. but when the night winds down and people begin to leave, you and rin are still sitting in the corner of the ballroom, side by side, knees brushing beneath the table. he’s talking about how much he hates post-game interviews. you’re laughing about the time you accidentally cursed in three languages during a press conference. and it feels easy. right. like the world stopped being loud just long enough to let you both exist in it again.
when you lean your head on his shoulder, he doesn’t move away. and when he tilts his head to rest lightly against yours, you pretend not to notice the way your heart stumbles.
Okay, so apparently I’ve accidentally acquired a tennis shipping starter pack. Didn’t think this would be me, but here we are.
✨ Carlos/Jannik — the obvious one. Rivals, friends, whatever-it-is. Sparks flying across the net, the winks, the "I wake up in the morning thinking about him". (They make it too easy.)
✨ Federer/Nadal — the epic. The mythology. A ship that’s basically its own religion at this point.
✨ Berrettini/Sinner — domestic-core. Sunshine Matteo with serious Jannik. It’s all pasta dinners, grounding hugs, and “I’ll pick you up from practice.”
✨ Murray/Djokovic — grumpy old married couple energy. They’ve been bickering since they were kids and somehow never stopped.
✨ Federer/Wawrinka — the bromance so blatant it barely counts as shipping, but come on.
✨ Grigor/??? — the wildcard. The man gets shipped with everyone at some point—Federer, Murray, Novak… he’s basically the fandom’s free square.
✨ Vagnozzi/Cahill — I swear Tumblr just handed me this one. I didn’t go looking, but suddenly there it was, and now I can’t stop laughing at how oddly entertaining it is.
What I’m realising is that each ship scratches a different itch. Some are about intensity, some are about history, some about softness or chaos. I don’t think I’m ever going to be the type who needs to “prove” anything is real—it’s more that I like the what if, the vibe, the story potential.
So yes. Somehow, I’ve become a shipper. Different matches, different dynamics, same sandbox. 🎾
