NOVIO? || CA

Am I working on a Carlos childhood friends to lovers fic…..maybeeeeee

Is this not just the love island intros??

"READY FOR THEIR CLOSE-UP 😎"

ARYNA SABALENKA [BLR] • CARLOS ALCARAZ [ESP] • COCO GAUFF [USA] • TAYLOR FRITZ [USA] • ZHENG QINWEN [CHN] • JANNIK SINNER [ITA] • IGA ŚWIĄTEK [POL] • JESSICA PEGULA [USA] • DANIIL MEDVEDEV [RUS] • ONS JABEUR [TUN] • ELENA RYBAKINA [KAZ] • NOVAK DJOKOVIĆ [SRB] || INDIAN WELLS PROMO || 02 06 2025

I’ve started writing this carlos x pr manager fic and it has become enemies to lovers and I’m thinking it might also become a series……thoughts?

WIDE AWAKE || CA

summary: Carlos Alcaraz survived a gruelling five-setter to win his second Roland Garros title, he should be exhausted, but suddenly he has more energy and a few ideas on how to celebrate.

warning: smut, diabolical smut, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

a/n: He won. From two sets down. Three championship points saved. I've never been so in love. So a gift to everyone...Carlos x Roland Garros smut

Your hands were shaking. The heat in Paris had quickly faded with the afternoon, instead making way for a gruelling chill which left everyone around you to put on layers and pull out blankets.

But you were sweating. Every nerve ending over your body was alight, and every serve, rally and drop shot had you catching your breath.

Carlos was losing. The first set had been slow, but it was a decisive win from Jannik. The second, Carlos clawed back. No doubt the state that he'd never won from two sets down racing through his mind.

But it wasn't enough. After a painful tie-break, Jannik took the second set and Carlos was looking at a long and hard fight to taking back to back Roland Garros titles.

You were sat behind Juan Carlos, next to his parents. This was only your second slam, sat in Carlos' box, but it was your first final. Carlos glanced over between points, a quiet 'vamos' leaving his lips with each point won and soft murmurs to himself when he conceded.

You tried to conceal the diabolical nerves on your face throughout the match, putting on a beaming smile every time you caught your boyfriend's eye.

Then he won a set. The dream was alive again, and you watched as the energy shifted in the box. Juan Carlos sat up and alongside his parents you stood and cheered when hit the winner in the third set. But it was far from over.

Three championship points. Jannik had three championship points standing between him and a first Roland Garros title. But Carlos wasn't ready to give up.

Your chest was tight, the silence in the arena was suffocating. You were scared even to breath.

One championship point saved.

A sigh of relief, and cheers from the crowd.

A second championship point saved.

Waves of Carlos' name flooded the air, a soft grin making its way onto your face.

A third championship point saved.

He lived. The entire audience erupted, and you couldn't help but join them. On your feet, clapping for your boyfriend as if it would push him to the end of the match.

He looked up and grinned, his smile sending flutters to your stomach. He could do it, He nodded with his arm up and you both knew, this was his game now.

It wasn't easy from there, far from it. Dragging the final set to a tie-break.

A mini break. Carlos' mum grabbed your hand, her gaze a silent support as you both held your breath.

Carlos moved across the court like it was subconscious, like it would be more unnatural for him to stand still than hitting shots other players could only dream of.

9-2

You whispered prayers to gods you didn't believe in as Carlos dove on the court, reaching the ball like it was oxygen.

10-2. The crowd erupted and Carlos fell to the floor. Five and a half hours. Doing what the Spaniard had never done before, coming from two sets down to win his fifth grand slam title.

You jumped to your feet, immediately wrapped in the arms of his parents and brothers, jumping up and down as if it was you who had won the title.

You turned back to the court, Carlos eyes gleaming at his box, the smile on his face so large it looked like it might tear his cheeks.

Your hands covered your mouth, laughing with disbelief at the match you'd just watch, and only as your hands grazed your cheeks did you notice you'd been crying.

Tears were streaming down your face, blurring the sight of your boyfriend disappearing into the tunnel to come see his family. To come see you.

The second he emerged, Juan Carlos had him in his arms, your boyfriend folding into his coach as they jumped, both men unable to hide just how much this meant to them.

Carlos fell from JC's arms and turned to his family and team, each member being wrapped in a hug. Then his gaze set on you.

Your tears were still falling when his arms fell around your waist, lifting you into his arms. Your hands cupped his face, pressing your forehead to his. "You did it. My god, you really did it."

He captured your lips in a suffocating kiss, his arms lowering you to the ground to find purchase on your neck. True to Carlos, his tongue slipped against yours, deepening the kiss and pulling a groan from both you and the Spaniard.

The crowed yelled around you, and you pulled away reluctantly from Carlos, a smile still stuck on your face. Just as you went to pull away from the Spaniard, he seized your lips for one final kiss. "Te amo" [I love you]

Carlos lasted half a millisecond once he stepped away from you before he was swarmed by his friends and family, all taking their turn in ruffling his hair and wrapping him in their arms.

You watched as he went back to the court, gazed with nothing but unadulterated love as you watched his hold the trophy.

Time blurred as Carlos was dragged from interview to interview, the smile on his face undeniable. Carlos' family and team joined Carlos on court for photos, the hugs still being shared and tears in his mums eyes.

You hung back, letting them soak in the moment, taking photos you know Carlos would enjoy seeing later.

When the photos were finally over, the Spaniard bounded over to you, his hands planting themselves on either side of your face as he pulled your lips to his.

You couldn't help but giggle at your boyfriend, his lips leaving yours as he peppered kisses aggressively all over your face.

"Carlos!" You laughed, pushing away the Spaniard's puckered lips, his face immediately switched to an overly dramatic frown,

"No puedes ser malo conmigo, gané." [You can't be mean to me, I won]

"This is not mean, we have plenty of time to celebrate," Your hand slipped into his hair at the back of the neck, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, "later...in our hotel room."

You pulled away to catch the glint of something cheeky in Carlos eyes, He shook his head with a smirk on his face.

"You'll be the death of me, Mi amor." His arm slinked around your waist, the heat from the match radiating from the six-foot tennis player.

But the club was calling and Carlos Alcaraz was ready to party.

...

Getting Carlos out of the hotel room and keeping his hands off you was near impossible, his lips meeting your neck, trailing down your shoulder as you put in your earrings.

"Carlos, everyone is waiting for you. We have all night." He groaned into your shoulder, his hips firm against yours, tempting you to fall back into his grasp.

"And if I want to spend all night right here?" His hand slipped between your thighs, the skirt you'd opted for doing nothing to stop his attempt to convince you to spend the foreseeable future in bed.

His fingers moved softly over your underwear, your head fell back against Carlos chest as a soft groan falling from your lips. Just as you were finding your self-control slipping, pushing your hips back against the Spaniard, a knock came at the door.

"Carlitos, Vamos!" [Carlitos, let's go] The familiar tone of Carlos' coach coming from the other side of the door. Carlos groaned, his hand falling from your thighs and finding your arm.

"Joder." [Fuck.] He pressed a kiss to your neck, a silent promise to continue what he started, "en nuestro camino!" [On our way!]

He pulled away from you, a shiver flooding through you at the loss of his body heat. He slipped on his trainers, and you slipped on your kitten heels.

Carlos slipped his hand in with yours, pressing his lips to your forehead and pulling him with you out of the hotel door.

...

The restaurant was packed, the private room filled to the brim with Carlos' friends and family for the second year in a row. The atmosphere was buzzing, and you knew from the moment stepping into the room, it was going to be a long night.

The champagne flowed and music blasted through the speakers as the room had shifted from a celebration room to a makeshift club. Carlos' laugh flooded the room, somehow cutting through the rest of the noise.

You'd be enjoying the music, swaying with some of your friends who had joined you on the trip when you felt heavy hands on your hips, Carlos pulling your hips against his as he moved your hips against his.

You looked back, your eyes catching his, the alcohol fuelled haze left a lopsided grin on the Spaniard's face as his arms slipped under your shirt, his warm hands sliding across your stomach.

You turned in his arms, smiling as the Spaniard immediately pulled you into a messy kiss. Your hands fell to his neck as his hands found purchase on your ass, deepening the kiss as you threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled.

For the first time that day, it felt like it was just the two of you, despite being in a packed room. His lips trailed from your cheeks to your ear, each kiss setting your skin alight.

His teeth grazed the spot below your ear, which had you tightening your grip around his hair and a soft groan falling from your lips.

Carlos tightened his grip, pulling you closer into his body, and whispered in your ear, "Nadie se daría cuenta si desapareciéramos." [No one would notice if we disappeared]

You let your head fall onto Carlos' shoulder, pressing a kiss to his neck. "This is your celebration, I think they'd miss you."

Carlos grinned, the type of smile that had your stomach fluttering and your thighs clenching out of instinct. His hands, pressed against your skin, travelled up your torso, his thumb brushing the lace edge of the bra you'd slipped on.

"Quiero probar esa teoría," [I want to test that theory] He grabbed you in a bruising kiss, whispering in your ear, "Nos vemos en cinco minutos." [See you in five minutes]

His hand tapped your ass as he pulled away, disappearing into the crowd in what you could only assume was the direction of the bathroom.

Your heart was pounding, the feeling of his hands on your skin burning into you. It wouldn't be the first time Carlos and you had disappeared into a bathroom for a few moments of peace. But it would be the first time next to a room of people celebrating him.

However, you couldnt find it in yourself to stop yourself from moving in the direction of the bathroom, waving off your friends and focusing your mind on the image of Carlos on his knees looking up at you with those big brown eyes.

Not even four minutes later you pushed open the bathroom door, the sight of Carlos leaning up against the sink bringing a grin to your face.

You twisted the lock, and immediately as the click sounded Carlos made a move towards you. His hands reached for your face immediately, kissing you like a man starved.

Your hands slid around his neck and that was all the Spaniard needed, he pulled away, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin drawing a whine from you.

His hands slid down yours body finding purchase on your ass and lifting you onto the counter. He wasted no time pushing your skirt up your thighs exposing you lacy underwear that had Carlos swearing under his breath.

"Joder," [fuck] his hands slip up yours thighs, lips meeting the soft skin previous covered by the skirt. He brought his lips back to yours the desperate kiss sending shivers down your spine.

Carlos' hand slipped between your thighs, tracing his fingers softly over your core. "Please Charlie." You whined, his touch bringing out a new kind of desperation.

"What do you want, mi amor?" Your head fell back against the mirror as carlos moved your underwear to the side running his finger through your folds.

"Your hands, please Carlos." As if your words were confirmation his fingers dove into you, curling at the perfect angle.

Your arms shot out bracing themselves on the Spaniards shoulders, gripping his shirt as his fingers moved at a pace which had you back arched and your vision blurring.

"Thought about this since the second I won. How good you'd look falling apart on my fingers, tongue and cock."

You moaned, the words the spaniard uttered going straight to your core. His forehead rested against yours, messingly kissing your boyfriend as his thumb moved lazy circles on your clit.

Every thrust of his fingers pushed you closer to the edge. Carlos added another finger diving deeper with each thrust and capturing your lips between each movement.

The stretch was perfect but nothing compared to how Carlos felt. He sped up his movement over your clit, your moans rising with each brush as you teetered towards the edge.

"Please Carlos, I'm so close." Your begging met with Carlos' fingers curling and hitting the perfect spot.

Carlos attacked your neck with kisses, no doubt leaving marks across them which would result in a turtleneck in the coming days. But he groaned into your ear, "You're going to cum on my fingers like a good girl and then im going to fuck you in this mirror."

His words pushed you over the edge, his name falling from you lips like a prayer as your legs shook around his waist and your vision went white.

Carlos continued moving his fingers through your high, letting your head fall to his chest as sighs racked through your chest as you came down.

But there was no time to recover has Carlos lifted you off the counter, spinning you round to face the wall of mirrors over the sinks.

Carlos stood behind you his hands immediately getting to work on moving your skirt futher out of the way and getting his trousers out of the way.

He kissed your back, "Eres hermosa," [You're beautiful] You turned your head to catch Carlos' lips the angle awkward but worth it. You pushed your hips against Carlos begging for the Spaniard to do something.

"Carlos please, don't tease me." The Spaniard laughed behind you, Lining himself up against you. You whined, and Carlos took the words to heart, pushing into you with one swift thrust.

His forhead fell to your back as you moaned at the feeling of him deep inside you. Carlos allowed you to adjust for a moment before he began moving at a blistering pace.

"Oh fuck, Carlos please." Your begging only incentivised the Spaniard, his hand making harsh contact with your ass, a yelp drawn from you.

"Dios, te sientes tan bien. Podría morir feliz enterrado dentro de ti así." [God, you feel so good. I could die happy buried inside you like this.] Each word egged you on, your stomach pushing against the counter.

The Spaniards hand gropped at your chest, every touch adding to the overwhleming stimulation throughout your body.

Carlos ploughed desperately into you like his life depended on it. Your moans reaching a volume which threatened to draw attention to you.

"Need you to be quiet, mi amor. We don't want JC interupting us." The thought of Carlos' coach catching you like this, bent over a counter being detroy by his star player ignited something in you.

Carlos' hand fell around your mouth, the only way to lower your volume as every thrust seemed to hit deeper inside you.

Carlos' other hand slipped over your stomach tracing tight circles on your clit which had you quickly seeing stars.

"Carlos, shit, fuck, I'm so close." Carlos took your words as a challenge, speed up his thrusts.

"Joder, me too," His hand left your mouth and lifting your chin and gaze to the two of you in the mirror, "I want to see you when you cum."

His words sent a rush to your core, the band that was already so tight, tightening even further.

You watched carlos' brown eyes, His hair tousled and his grunts going straight to your core.

He moved his fingers over your clit faster and you grasped the Spaniard's arm, a warning through your helpless moans that you couldn't hold on much longer.

"Cum for me." His voice was desperate and rugged, and with it you fell over the edge, your second orgasm racking through your body, you hands falling to the counter you body following suit.

You felt Carlos stutter behind you his thrusts faltering as he finished inside you, his hands finding your hips to steady himself as he groaned against your shoulder.

You stayed just like that for a moment, fucked out and in each other's company. Carlos refused to pull away instead grabbing your face to connect your lips. "You're better than any trophy."

He pulled out from you both whining at the loss of contact. He fixed his appearance and fixed your skirt, spinning you back round to face him.

His hands slipped into your now messy hair, a smile beaming on his face.

He may have won Roland Garros but he also won something far more important.

————————————————————————

masterlist

THE DEAL || CA

———————————————————————

part 1 of ??

summary: Carlos hated having a PR manager especially one who was his age. Convincing her to leave was the best plan he'd ever had, but what happens when he realises he doesn't want her to go when it's too?

pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

warnings: enemies to lovers, kind of asshole Carlos

a/n: this is going to be a series, I’m excited about it!! Let me know what you guys think and if you want to be on the taglist!

MASTERLIST

Being Carlos Alcaraz's PR manager was not for the weak. The job description seemed like it would be a breeze and when your boss had suggested switching F1 drivers for tennis players you really believed you’d be getting the quieter deal.

You’d occasionally watched tennis and it seemed the biggest issue you’d face was a broken racquet.

Carlos should’ve been even easier, he didn’t have a girlfriend and never seemed to be pictured with any women so the most frustrating part of the job was gone.

But Carlos didn’t want a PR manager. He certainly didn’t want a PR manager that was his age telling him what to do and how to act.

The first time you met you thought you’d caught him on a bad day not recognising the cold brown eyes stare watching you.

You’d prepared for your job, watching interviews and clips of Carlos before you started and the arms crossed man that soon in front of you was not the ball of sunshine from the videos you’d seen.

You had to admit you’d been looking forward to the job at first, a funny, charismatic, attractive tennis player should’ve been fun. You’d seen the way Carlos treated him like family and you were expecting the same attitude.

But quickly things turned. You’d watch training frequently, observing from the sidelines picking up the terms and technical parts of his game for notes and interviews.

Carlos would be laughing with Juan Carlos or his brother or one of the other members of his team when his eyes would meet yours.

In a second his eyes would go from lighting up to narrowing in on you, his laugh disappearing and posture going rigid.

At first, it was manageable, your job could mostly be done from a distance and you could deal with hardened stares.

You thought it would be temporary, that once he realised you were here to stay you’d finally get to meet the Carlos everyone else did.

But it seemed with every interaction his facade grew. A team dinner after Turin you just so happened to be on the furthest end of the table, and while Carlos took the time to talk to his entire team you found yourself left out of the conversation.

Juan Carlos spent months reassuring you that Carlos would get over it but the winter break was ending and with a new season on the horizon you didn’t know how much more you could take.

You were starting to get exhausted by Carlos constantly making your life more difficult.

You were missing deadlines because he wouldn’t give you answers to questions, doing damage control when he posted near nudes on the internet and made sure reporters didn’t piss him off with dumb questions.

Every week that went by you slowly lost the confident attitude the team had got used to seeing, quietly sat in the corner working away rather that trying to involved.

Juan Carlos had noticed the shift in demeanour but he feared there wasn’t much he could do. It was between you and Carlos to figure out.

...

It was the weekend before the Australian Open when you were ready to snap.

The time difference was rough, with your eyelids feeling heavy but sleep escaping you. You sat surrounded by work that you needed to done, while your room called your name.

The day had already been too long, landing in Australia at seemingly the crack of dawn when you realised your bags hadn’t made it to Australia with you.

You’d spent three hours arguing with airport staff when you decided to give up and hope they found their way to the hotel.

You went straight to watching Carlos train, taking media photos and organising some content for the day. That in itself was excruciating as everything you asked him to do took ten times longer than it should’ve.

But now you were sat in your hotel, tired and drained and desperately needing a change of clothes.

You were trying to organise Carlos' media plan for the first week of the tournament, but trying to get him to respond to any of your messages was infuriating.

You needed his answers to the pre-planned questions so you could check them over and give him some nice talking points about off-season but every time you checked your messages you were met with 'delivered'.

It wasn't late, but the jetlag was beginning to hit you which was feeding into your anger. Every second that Carlos ignored your messages was a second you were missing sleep.

Just as you were ready to give up assuming he’d gone to sleep, you received a notification that he’d posted on his Instagram story. That was your last straw.

You audibly groaned, slamming your laptop shut and storming out of your room with it under your arm. You marched yourself to the elevator angrily tapping your foot as the elevator seemed to move at the slowest pace ever.

The ding echoed in your brain, and as you stepped out you were hit with a new wave of anger. You heard his dumb laugh echoing through the walls. This dumb, annoying, stupid tennis player was laughing while you had been begging for him to respond to a simple message.

You stormed down the hall, your chest angrily pounding. You were at the end of your tether. You were so tired of dealing with this man baby.

It had been months of being ignored, ostracised and treated like you had some kind of contagious disease and you were over it.

You stood before his door and knocked repeatedly. You heard him call out that he was coming and you prepared yourself to greet him.

The door swung open, a cheesy grin on his face as he turned see who was at the door. The second he clocked you it faded and was replaced with a nonchalant stare.

He opened his mouth no doubt to ask why you were here but you pushed past him into the hotel room. Juan Carlos and a few other members of the team were in the room and immediately as they saw you they went silent.

"if you wouldn't mind. Alcaraz and I need to get some work done and clearly, he can't handle any distractions." A few of the guys snickered and they didn’t waste any time standing up and heading for the door.

You heard Juan Carlos wish the Spaniard luck as he walked past. Laughing as he patted him on the back. The door closed and Carlos scoffed as you situated yourself on his sofa.

"¿Qué carajo?" (What the fuck?) The Spaniard's tone made you laugh, a dry, fed-up kind of laugh.

"What the fuck indeed. Sit down, shut up and only talk when I tell you to." He looked at you utterly bewildered.

"You know you're supposed to work for me? not the other way around." God you wanted to kill him. You stood up angrily turning to face him with fire in your eyes.

"Funnily enough, that is what I'm trying to do. That is what I have been trying to do for months but for some reason you want to make that as hard as humanly possible for me. Frankly, I'm fed up so sit the fuck down. please."

"No." He stood his ground and crossed his arms as you really considered attacking him.

"I'm sorry what?"

"I don't want to." He turned to head to the small kitchenette, turning on the coffee machine that sent an infuriating buzz throughout the room.

“I don’t want to be stood here, but because you can’t answer a simple text, I am. So please let me do my goddamn job for once.” He scoffed, and leaning against the counter,

“Maybe I didn’t answer your text because I don’t want to answer the questions, ever thought about that?” His stupid grin made you want to throttle him.

"Well Carlos Alcaraz, the almighty. Unfortunately for you I need those answers so how do I get you to sit there and answer these dumb questions." your sarcasm permeated the room.

He paused for a moment, a slight hesitation as he reached for the mug on the side. He turned slowly to face you, a look of pure genius on his face.

"Quit." He moved around the counter calmly, standing in front of you. You hadn’t been this close to the Spaniard since the day you met him.

The invisible 3 feet rule seemingly being implemented by him after the first day.

"What?" Your confusion clearly entertained him as he smiled an evil, sort of confronting smile.

"I'll do what you want for the entire tournament. But at the end of it, you quit." You paused, the tension from the last few months piling up on your shoulders. Did he really hate you that much?

You weren't a quitter, you believed in working hard and figuring out issues. But Carlos had been treating you like an outcast for months and if it meant never having to deal with him again you were seriously considering it.

"One question?" Carlos raised his eyebrow and he zoned in on your focused demeanor.

"seguir." (go on.)

"Why do you hate me so much?" His calm demeanour faltered slightly, something flashing through his gaze that you couldn't quite decipher before it was quickly replaced with indifference.

He grabbed the mug, and moved to the sofa, lazily sitting down. His arm rested along the back and he glanced up at you.

"I don't need a PR manager and I'm sick of you treating me like a child when you're my age." The answer nipped at the back of your brain. You rarely treated him like less that he deserved and if you did it was only ever in retaliation.

"Maybe if you acted your age I wouldn't have to." He scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance.

"It's clear you don't want to be here either, just take the deal." You dropped yourself onto the sofa. Your laptop sat beside you and you let your head fall into your hands. You were defeated.

"I wanted to be here." You didn’t look up but if you had you would’ve seen Carlos’ gaze soften, a pang of guilt hitting him before it was quickly shoved away.

You thought back to your previous job. Travelling the world with F1 drivers had been difficult but those guys had become your friends, you loved your job and you had fun. You wanted this to be like that but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen.

Maybe it was time for you to find something else.

“Fine you win.” You let your hands fall to your sides, your gaze lifting and meeting the brown eyes that made your life a misery.

"I'll quit at the end of the tournament, but you have to give full energy to everything and I need a pair of pyjamas, my luggage got lost.” His eyes lit up with some sort of amusement. At your troubles or you’d you were sure but you needed a solution and he offered one.

Carlos smirked, the first time he'd even remotely smiled in your direction. He moved himself within touching distance of you, reaching out his hand for you to shake.

You interlocked your hand with his, his eyes baring down on you.

"Deal."

————————————————————————

taglist: @champagnecoastca

Monte-Carlitos! VAMOS!

Any suggestions go ahead :)

Okay ate ✋🏻🙂‍↕️

Breaking point 𐙚

Carlos Alcaraz x Reader

nsfw [18+] warnings! oral (f receiving), dirty talk

summary, the sun isn’t the only thing burning on the court. After a frustrating practice session, you hit your breaking point, the pain, pressure, and expectations all threatening to undo you. But Carlos is right there, steady and unshakable, reminding you what it means to let someone in, and what it feels like when someone really wants you, both on and off the court.

The sun is ruthless on the practice courts, baking the green turf to a near shine, making the sweat cling to your skin. You toss the ball into the air, twist, and send your serve spiralling—

Right into the net.

Again.

“Fuck!” you curse, the racquet cracking against the ground louder than you intended. Your shoulder aches, the pain dull at first, but angry now after an hour of pushing too hard. The brace beneath your shirt is too tight. Your patience is gone.

From across the net, Carlos watches you silently. You can feel his eyes like heat on the back of your neck, calm and steady, as if he’s waiting for you to implode. Maybe you are.

“Let’s take five,” he says gently, grabbing a towel and walking to the bench.

“I don’t want five,” you snap, grabbing another ball. “I need to get this right. I'm not gonna be the dead weight on court just because my fucking shoulder doesn't—”

The next serve is even worse, the pain flashing white-hot this time, sharp enough that your knees buckle slightly. You breathe in through your nose, trying to will the sting away.

“Hey.” His voice is closer now. Too close.

You didn’t hear him walk over, but Carlos is standing just behind you, towel slung around his neck, shirt dark with sweat. “You’re pushing it.”

“Don’t do that,” you mutter.

“Do what?”

“Treat me like I’m fragile.”

“You’re not fragile.” He sounds too calm. Too understanding. “You’re pissed off. And hurting. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” you spit, turning around too fast, shoulder flaring again. You regret it instantly, biting back tears. “You’re Carlos fucking Alcaraz. Golden boy. You don't get injured. You don't lose your rhythm. You don't get benched and watch everything you've built fall apart.” You let out a groan, fingers pulling at your hair tie. “I’m not letting you down after you’ve risked a lot just to do this for me.”

His brows pinch just slightly, dark eyes scanning your face, your shaking hands. He steps forward carefully. “You think that’s why I’m here? You think I’m doing you a favour?”

You don’t answer. The lump in your throat is thick and ugly, and it’s all too much, the sun, the pain, the eyes on you, his eyes, kind and searching and infuriating.

“I just—” Your voice breaks. “I used to be good. I used to be great. And now I can’t even fucking serve.”

Carlos nods slowly. “Okay. Come here.”

You shake your head. “Carlos, I don’t—”

But his hands are on your waist before you can protest, firm but gentle as he guides you off the court. You resist at first, pushing his chest, but he doesn’t let go.

“Stop fighting me,” he murmurs. “Just let me take care of you.”

That’s when the tears come. Silent at first, then harder. You crumple against him, his chest warm and damp under your hands, arms wrapping around your back like he was built for this, for holding you up when everything else is falling apart.

He says nothing, just rubs slow circles into your spine as your frustration breaks open between you.

Minutes pass like that.

“Fuck,” you whisper into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, fingers in your hair now, brushing it back. “You’re allowed to break sometimes.”

You pull back to look at him, cheeks flushed and wet. His gaze drops to your lips, then your shoulder.

“You need to rest that,” he says.

You nod, but don’t move.

“You’re always so calm,” you say quietly. “How?”

“I’m not. I’m just good at hiding it.”

A beat.

Then another.

And then you say it, the thing that’s been there since the first time he agreed to partner with you. “Why did you say yes?”

His eyes flicker. “Because I wanted to.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re Carlos Alcaraz. You could’ve—”

“I wanted you,” he interrupts, voice lower now, rougher. “Not just as a partner.”

Your breath catches.

The heat between you shifts, subtle but unmistakable. His hand is still at your lower back. Your palm is flat against his chest. The sun is hot, but his eyes are hotter, burning into you like a match.

“Carlos—”

“You drive me crazy,” he says, almost like it’s a confession. “Even when you’re pissed off and yelling at yourself. Especially then.”

Your heart is hammering now. “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably,” he murmurs. “But I don’t care.”

And then he kisses you.

You taste salt on his lips, but the sound he makes, a low groan when your teeth graze his bottom lip, makes your knees weak. Carlos presses into you, all lean muscle and burning skin, his hand sliding up the back of your shirt to splay against your spine.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this for weeks,” he mutters into your mouth.

“You should’ve,” you whisper, tugging his shirt up and over his head in one rough pull.

Your palms roam his torso, golden, taut, slick with sweat, and he hisses when your nails scrape lightly over his abs. His hands are greedy now, cupping your ass through your shorts, pressing you flush against the hard line of his arousal.

The fence scrapes along your back, but you don’t care. Not with him kissing you like this, hungry, desperate, like he needs you to breathe.

“I want to taste you,” he says suddenly, voice wrecked. “Let me.”

You nod, too breathless to speak, and he sinks to his knees, worshipping you, his hands hooked in your waistband.

He peels your shorts and underwear down slowly, eyes flicking up to watch your reaction as he exposes you inch by inch. He presses a kiss to your hipbone, then your inner thigh, then lower still, until his mouth is hovering right where you need him.

And then his tongue is on you, warm, slow, deliberate. He starts with lazy licks, teasing your folds, before his mouth finds your clit and sucks gently, then harder, his hands keeping your thighs spread.

Your fingers knot into his hair. “Carlos…”

“Mmm?” he hums against you, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

“Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

His tongue is expert, unhurried but thorough, licking and sucking in all the right places until you’re gasping his name, your hands in his hair, body arching toward every touch.

He flattens his tongue, dragging it through your folds, then circles your clit with infuriating precision. One hand leaves your thigh to slide between your legs, and his fingers, long, talented, and confident, tease your entrance before slipping in.

You cry out, back arching, and he moans softly at the sound.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, voice low and full of awe. “So fucking perfect.”

He crooks his fingers just right, stroking deep and slow while his mouth never relents. It’s too much, too good, too intense; your legs are trembling, and your body spirals toward the edge fast.

“Carlos—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he says, voice dark and commanding, and then he sucks your clit just right and you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing over you with enough force to make your vision blur. Your hips stutter against his mouth, and he keeps going through every last aftershock, kissing you gently now, soothing you down.

When he stands again, his lips are slick, eyes blown wide, chest heaving like he’s the one who just came.

5 heart attacks, 20 swear words, and 50 pleads later. CARLOS WINS!!! thank god for that.

Carlos’ face when they mention Juan Carlos hadn’t managed to win this tournament 😂