ivykillua
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“Can’t you train at Justine Henin like a normal Belgian?” he’d once asked Alex during a dispute over bathroom access. “No. Zizou said I should train at Sinner’s,” Alex had said, throwing Jakub’s shorts into the hallway. “Can’t you go back to hockey and make your daddy proud?”
Bookmarked by ivykillua
07 Jun 2026
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Tears pricked his eyes as he realized just how foolish he was. The face on the screens, the one he didn’t recognize, burned at the back of his mind. Who would give a shit about that scrap-metal boy from District Six? He was not the District One golden boy, Roger Federer, born with a face worth more than a diamond mine and showered with so many sponsor gifts during his Games that the Gamemakers had to impose a daily limit. He was not Novak Djokovic, forged, sharpened, and steeled in the training academies of District Two, the crown fitted for his head before the canon of his first kill. He was not even in the league of last year’s victor, Iga Świątek, who disguised her genius with nervous, flittering smiles, as dangerous and unassuming as a live wire.
Who was he compared to Carlos Alcaraz, wunderkind? Nobody. He, Jannik Sinner, was going to die.
[Jannik Sinner, before and after The 71st Hunger Games.]
Series
- Part 1 of addendum to a pyrrhic victory
Bookmarked by ivykillua
21 Feb 2026
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Not even in a parallel world where Jannik might have grown up as a five-foot-seven Minnesota beauty-pageant princess with sequined sash and a tiara would he ever spend £28,000 on a weekend of strategic shopping and sixty bottles of pink champagne.
They once blamed the England WAGs for an entire World Cup meltdown; Jannik refused to be drafted into that level of delusion. No chance.
Bookmarked by ivykillua
12 Jan 2026
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“Can you not stretch my t-shirt?”
Carlos’ response is muffled from where he’s stretching out Jannik’s t-shirt.
“I’m not.”
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Bookmarked by ivykillua
13 Nov 2025
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Jannik Sinner is a beta. But, with his height, he could've been an alpha. There's strength in him, and sometimes, when he scores a good point, when Carlos knows Jannik feels in control, he'll shake the racket in his hand – as close to a celebration as he will usually allow himself to give –, and his eyes will look just dark enough. Threatening. Dominating.
Carlos doesn't let himself think about the other possibility. About the wide hips and the legs that go on for fucking miles, and the shyness and the awkwardness in interviews and the hard-won smiles. Because if Jannik were an omega – well, that would be a dangerous thought, wouldn't it?
Bookmarked by ivykillua
25 Sep 2025