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—
“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.
“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.
“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’re always so calm,” you say quietly. “How?”
“I’m not. I’m just good at hiding it.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.
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