Archive of Our Own

Carlos didn’t do it on purpose. Not the first time, anyway.
Not in Madrid, when he grabbed a towel from the shared physio table after a brutal practice, dragging it across the back of his neck, still hot and dump with sweat. He hadn’t even looked to see whose it was—until the faintest trace of cedar and green apple curled into his lungs, sharp and impossible to ignore, clinging like a second skin. Jannik. Cold, clean, relentless. It ghosted over his senses like a dare.

He hadn’t meant to press his face into it after. Hadn’t meant to breathe so deeply it left him dizzy, body tightening as though he’d been caught. He definitely hadn’t meant to swipe it under his jaw, just once. Just to see.
But he had.
And Jannik must’ve noticed.

Because in Rome, weeks later, Carlos opened his bag to find his favorite wristband—his lucky one, white with the faded blue logo—heavy with scent that didn’t belong to him alone.
It was them, tangled together: the golden warmth of his own ambered musk and figs, now threaded through with something sharper, cooler. Sweat blurred it into something new, something heady and territorial, so thick his chest tightened just inhaling it.

It wasn’t just a mark.
It was a claim, a reminder that Jannik had touched what was his—and left himself there, coiled up in Carlos’s scent like a secret no one else would ever smell.
It made his pulse jump. Made something curl low in his gut.

If Jannik were an omega, Carlos could have dismissed the reaction as instinct, biology doing what it was meant to do. That would have been easier—natural, expected. Normal. But Jannik wasn’t an omega. He was an alpha. Sharp, unyielding, territorial. Just like him. Carlos’s body had no excuse for the way it flushed hot, for the way his lungs pulled in every thread of that scent like it needed it.

This wasn’t instinct.
This was worse.
This was personal.

It didn’t stop there.

In Hamburg, Carlos found Jannik’s spare grip tape on the stringer’s table, rolled neat and waiting. He’d picked it up, dragged it once along the side of his neck, and left it back exactly where he found it—warm now, heavy with the sharp tang of him. When Jannik used it the next day, Carlos couldn’t look away, every flex of his hand on the racket setting something tight and restless in his chest.

In Paris, Jannik tugged a cap low over his curls before stepping onto the practice court, only to wrinkle his nose faintly at the brim. Carlos had rubbed it along his scent glands earlier, just enough to make it smell of him by the time Jannik wore it. Watching him tip it back between serves, scent clinging stubbornly to the fabric, had felt like its own kind of victory.

At Halle, though, Jannik wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. Carlos walked into the locker room one evening to find his racket handle carrying the imprint of sweat that wasn’t his. His skin prickled just gripping it between his fingers, the leather tacky as though Jannik had pressed himself there on purpose—heat stamped into every inch, waiting for Carlos to wrap his hand around it. He could’ve set it aside, reached for a cleaner frame, but his hand closed around this one all the same, and when he stepped on court the next day it was still there, the faint reminder of Jannik clinging to his palm with every swing.

And at Wimbledon, it went too far.

One of Carlos’s match shirts— waiting folded with the rest of his gear in the locker—wasn’t his anymore. The moment he tugged it over his head, the fabric clung heavy, drenched in a scent that didn’t belong. Not faint, not accidental. It was everywhere, soaked deep into the collar and seams until he felt wrapped in it, Jannik pressed against his skin without ever touching him.

For a split second, Carlos inhaled. Reflex, instinct, the need to know. The sharp edge of cedar and apple hit the back of his throat, cold and clean, layered over his own musk—and his chest squeezed tight before he even realized he was breathing it in. For a heartbeat he let it happen, let himself drown in it—until awareness hit, sharp as glass.

He yanked the shirt off so fast the fabric twisted in his hands, breath coming rough. His pulse hammered against his skull. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt. What the hell was he doing, standing there like some bonded partner, wearing Jannik?

He wanted to rip the shirt apart, to grind it into the tiles, to storm straight to Jannik and demand what the hell he thought he was doing. What they were doing, playing this stupid game.

Because for months it had been a rhythm between them, as steady as the tour itself—finals, semifinals, trophies traded back and forth, the number one spot shifting between their names. Rivals on court, friendly enough off it, at least as far as rivalry allowed. Their banter had always edged on sharp, competitive, but there had been something else threaded through it too.

It was easy to think of the scent-marking the same way—provocation, alphas needling each other for the fun of it, mischief. A joke between competitors too proud to admit they enjoyed each other’s company.

That was what it had been, or at least what Carlos told himself. A quiet game they never spoke about, only played. He would find Jannik’s scent laced through his things and answer in kind, and neither of them ever said a word. They just looked. Watched. Carlos had caught Jannik tipping back a water bottle that had carried his scent along the grip, jaw tight in a way that was almost funny. He’d felt his own mouth twitch, satisfied, when Jannik stepped onto court with the faint trace of Carlos’s musk clinging to him. It was childish, maybe. Ridiculous. But it had made sense between them, folded into everything else—the rivalry, the competition, the endless keeping score.

And it had stayed that way. Until now.

Because this wasn’t mischief anymore. Not some petty back-and-forth.
And Jannik—Jannik had pushed it further, knowing exactly what it meant.

Towels, wristbands, even rackets—you could brush those off as petty games between alphas messing around, too proud to back down. But shirts were intimate. Shirts held close to the skin, soaked up body heat, clung to the curve of a spine and the hollow of a throat. To wear one heavy with another’s scent was something else entirely.

It was what lovers did when they were apart. What mates did to remind the world—and each other—who they belonged to. A shirt marked like that was a brand, a declaration you carried on your body for everyone to smell.

And for an alpha to do it to another alpha? That wasn’t just taboo. It was unthinkable. It blurred the line between competition and possession, between defiance and desire. It said: you’re mine, even if you won’t admit it.

His gut clenched at the thought of Jannik putting his scent there deliberately, his hands curling into fists around the fabric.

It was Jannik’s fault. All of it.

Making him feel things he shouldn’t.

He cornered him after his match that night, in the dim Wimbledon locker room that smelled like sweat and chlorine and them. It was late—most players gone, only the distant hiss of a running shower and the hollow echo of their breathing filling the space.

Jannik was toweling off, back to him. Golden skin flushed from victory, damp copper curls clinging to the nape of his neck. His muscles were strung tight, the clean planes of his back glinting faintly under the overhead lights.

He didn’t even flinch when Carlos stalked up behind him, jaw clenched, his scent spiking hot—amber and figs, laced with the faint bite of adrenaline.

“What the fuck did you do to my shirt?” Carlos snapped, voice rough, scraped raw from holding this in too long.

Jannik didn’t turn. His voice was calm, almost lazy. “You started it.”

Carlos’s blood spiked. “No.” He grabbed his arm and spun him around. The towel slipped from Jannik’s hips and fell soundlessly to the floor. “You crossed a line when you put your scent all over my shirt. Like you own me.”

Jannik finally looked at him, and the room shrank to just that stare. His eyes were steady, glacial, like the Alps he smelled of—but there was a tick in his jaw, a heat rising under his collarbones, a pulse in his throat that Carlos saw. His pupils were wide, hungry.

“I did,” he said quietly.

Carlos’s stomach dropped. Every mark, every stolen trace, every push and pull pressed down on him at once and burst at that single admission. His own scent spiked, coiling like smoke between them.

“Why?” he asked.

Jannik’s hand shot out, rough palm clamping around the back of his neck with a strength that left no room for doubt, no room for breath, heat searing into Carlos’s skin. His thumb pressed deliberately over the swell of his scent gland, a slow, claiming pressure that made Carlos’s pulse stutter.

“Maybe I do want to own you,” Jannik said.

And then he drove him back, slamming him against the lockers with a clang, one arm braced beside his head. The air between them cracked open—scent and heat bleeding into something sharp and alive. Too much. Too fast.

Carlos exhaled shakily. “You think you can win this? You think I’ll submit to you?” he spat, the words jagged with defiance.

But his body betrayed him—spine bowing, throat baring in spite of every ounce of defiance still clawing through his voice. The pressure of Jannik’s hand at his neck only made it worse, every nerve alive to the contact, every muscle torn between bristling and yielding. He could feel the thrum hammering under his skin where Jannik’s thumb pressed close, could feel how exposed he was, how wrong it should have been—an alpha showing his throat—yet the heat rising through him told another story.

Jannik’s mouth brushed along his jaw, not kissing—tasting, testing. His breath was hot against Carlos’s skin when he murmured, low and steady, “Puoi dirmi di no. Puoi dirmi che non lo vuoi.” You can tell me no. You can tell me you don’t want this.

His lips dragged higher, teeth grazing the hinge of Carlos’s jaw. “But your heart,” he whispered, voice rough, “is racing. And your scent—mi dice l’opposto.” Is telling me the opposite.

Carlos shivered.

Then Jannik’s teeth grazed his pulse point. His scent flooded Carlos’s nose. Wild, cold, intoxicating.

“Tell me you don’t feel it too,” Jannik said.

Carlos pushed back, not out of fear, but fury—need.

He twisted them around, slamming Jannik into the lockers this time, their chests colliding hard enough to knock the breath out of both of them. Heat roared in the narrow space between their bodies. Carlos’s mouth hovered a hair’s breadth from his, each inhale tasting faintly of cedar and adrenaline.

“You want to prove something, cabrón?” His voice cracked under the weight of it. “You think I’ll roll over for you?”

Jannik’s smirk was pure hunger, slow and devastating. “I think you already are.”

Carlos spat a curse, low and sharp. His fingers tangled in Jannik’s curls, yanking hard until he forced his chin up, the long line of his throat exposed to the locker room light. For a moment Carlos just held him there, savoring the strain, the way Jannik’s jaw tightened under his grip. And then Jannik bent down suddenly, closing the distance with brutal precision, and sank his teeth into Carlos’s neck, just below his jaw.

A jolt of heat-pain shooting straight down his spine. The bruise bloomed almost instantly, hot under Carlos’s skin.

He gasped, his knees threatening to give. His grip on Jannik’s hair tightened, not to pull him off, but to keep him there, mouth pressed to his throat.

Jannik’s presence engulfed him now—seeping into his pores, threading through his breath, until it felt like he was breathing nothing but him. His head spun. Carlos couldn’t think past it. Couldn’t think past the way his body was already surging forward, chest to chest, cock hard and aching in his pants against Jannik’s naked hip—and the rigid press of Jannik’s own length pressed against him, hot and unyielding.

“Fuck—” Carlos managed, before shoving his face into the curve of Jannik’s neck, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe with his tongue before biting down just under his ear. Salt, sweat, the metallic edge of adrenaline—it was enough to make his head swim.

“Your fucking scent,” Carlos hissed against his skin. “Hueles como mi maldita ruina.”
You smell like my damn ruin.

Something in the air shifted. The push-pull of dominance bled into something hungrier, more desperate. Jannik’s tongue traced the bruise he’d left, slow and possessive, and Carlos felt the moan drag out of his own chest before he could stop it.

Jannik’s mouth wandered with ruthless intent—skating over his jaw, down the tendon of his throat, into the hollow of his collarbone. He devoured him like a man starved, as though every inch of Carlos’s skin was a dare he had to conquer. Teeth grazed, tongue soothed, breath burned, never giving him space, never letting him forget who was on him.

Carlos’s shirt hit the floor without him noticing. His shorts followed, Jannik’s callused fingers hooking under the waistband and pulling them down slow enough to make him shake. Those same fingers lingered at the grooves of his hips, tracing them with almost cruel patience, before slipping lower.

The last barrier—thin, damp fabric clinging to him—was peeled away slowly. Jannik didn’t rush it. He dragged the briefs down over the swell of his ass, down his thighs, until Carlos was bared completely, skin prickling in the cool air. The sound of the elastic snapping free of his ankles felt obscene in the silence.

Jannik sat back on his heels for a moment, gaze raking over him like he’d earned the right to look. Carlos burned under it, breath stuttering, every muscle taut and waiting.

“You’re trembling,” Jannik murmured, voice low, like it was his favorite thing in the world.

“I’m not,” Carlos shot back, though his breath hitched in betrayal.

“You are,” Jannik said, leaning in to press a deliberate kiss over his heart. “Ti piace.” You like this.

Carlos opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out—because Jannik was already dropping to his knees.

The sight of him there—broad shoulders, golden skin flushed, eyes blown wide with want—made Carlos’s legs feel unsteady. His body wanted to give, to offer. Somewhere in the haze, Carlos realized he couldn’t hear any other noise in the locker room anymore. The distant sounds of running water, shifting bags, voices—gone. He hoped whoever had been there had left. Not that it mattered now. Not with Jannik looking at him like that.

Jannik’s hands slid up the insides of his thighs, firm and sure, until he was close enough that Carlos could feel his breath exactly where he needed it. He leaned in and inhaled, slow and deep, at the crease of his thigh.

“Joder,” Carlos breathed when Jannik groaned softly against his skin.

“You’ve been dripping for me since you walked in,” Jannik said, tone flat with certainty.

Carlos’s vision blurred. The air between them was molten, charged—like breathing static, like sparks waiting to catch. Heat rolled off Jannik in waves, pressing into his skin, winding through his chest until it hollowed him out. There was nothing left but the closeness, the hunger pinning him open.

And then Jannik licked him.

A single stroke, from root to tip, slow but merciless, tongue broad and slick, leaving Carlos’s cock shining in the low light. No prelude, no teasing—just a mouth that opened like it already knew what it wanted. His knees gave a dangerous shake.

Carlos’s skull hit the lockers with a dull crack as he gasped, the sound ricocheting off the empty room. His hands shot up, palms splaying against the cool metal behind him, needing to anchor himself, fingers curling hard until his nails scraped. His hips betrayed him immediately, jerking forward into the wet heat of Jannik’s mouth, seeking more. “Jannik—” The word was a ragged moan, caught between disbelief and surrender.

Jannik hummed, a vibration that curled down Carlos’s spine and seized the base of his cock. He pulled back, lips wet and glistening, tongue circling the head in slow, deliberate arcs, painting him with saliva. His breath brushed hot against the slick skin as he whispered, “You taste so good. Come se fossi mio.”

As if you were mine.

Carlos’s laugh broke into a groan, thin and strained. “I’m not yours—” But it carried no weight. The denial rang false, both of them hearing it.

Jannik’s fingers bit into his hips, bruising him into stillness. And then he took him deep.

Carlos felt the slide all the way down, felt the convulsive grip of a throat around him. It was molten, impossibly tight, Jannik’s jaw straining, lips stretched red and obscene. He sank until his nose brushed Carlos’s skin, until his gag shuddered against him—and stayed there, swallowing, swallowing, like he was trying to brand himself with the taste.

Carlos’s vision snapped white at the edges. His thighs trembled, his grip slipping against the locker. “Hostia—” His body jerked, hips twitching against the hold that pinned him in place.

The sounds were obscene—wet gulps, slick suction, the faint choke in Jannik’s throat—but he didn’t let up. He worked him with a rhythm brutal in its steadiness, pulling back to hollow his cheeks and drag hard on the head before driving down again, saliva spilling over his chin, strings catching the light.

It was too much, all of it—the heat, the noise, the sight of freckles disappearing against spit-slick skin. Carlos could feel it building, hot and violent, curling deep in his gut. Every thrust of Jannik’s mouth pulled him closer to breaking, until there was nothing left but the iron grip on his hips, the relentless wet heat, and the dizzying thought that he wouldn’t survive if Jannik stopped.

“Mierda—” Carlos’s legs shook, and his hand shot down, threading into Jannik’s curls.

Jannik didn’t stop. He found a rhythm quickly—long pulls up, swirling his tongue just under the head before sliding all the way back down until his nose brushed Carlos’s pelvis. The pressure, the heat, the slick sounds echoing in the space—they wrapped around Carlos until it was all he could hear, all he could feel.

Jannik drew back slightly, lips flushed, eyes blown wide as he rasped, “Say it again. Say you’re not mine while I’m making you fall apart on my tongue.”

Carlos’s mouth opened, but no words came—just a broken moan as the coil of heat inside him pulled tighter. His hips tried to move, but Jannik held him still, forcing him to take exactly what he gave. Every drag of his tongue felt like a stripe of fire, every swallow a pulse of control he couldn’t fight.

Jannik alternated now—deep, slow swallows that had Carlos biting his lip to keep from crying out, then rapid flicks of his tongue that made his stomach clench and his vision blur. Carlos’s thighs trembled, muscles locking and releasing with every pull. He could feel Jannik’s breath, his low hums of satisfaction, the faint scrape of teeth that had him gasping.

And then—Jannik sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks, and Carlos was gone.

The orgasm tore through him fast, too fast, ripping a moan from his chest as his back arched and his fingers fisted hard in Jannik’s hair. His whole body locked, every nerve lit white-hot, until he was spilling down Jannik’s throat, shaking with the force of it.

Jannik took every drop, swallowing around him in a way that made Carlos twitch and gasp, until he finally pulled back with his lips wet and his scent flaring dark and ravenous.

Carlos barely had time to catch a breath before Jannik was on his feet again, crowding into his space, pressing him flat against the lockers. His eyes were black with hunger, his mouth slick, and Carlos’s body, wrecked and still shivering, was already answering a question Jannik hadn’t even asked yet.

“I’m not done,” Jannik growled against his ear, voice rough and certain, the heat of his breath sliding down Carlos’s neck. “You’re going to take me. Tutto.” All of me.

Carlos’s body jerked at the words, shivering with leftover pleasure.

He’d meant to fight—had meant to bare Jannik’s neck, to remind him he wasn’t someone to be owned.

But his alpha wasn’t fighting at all. His alpha was silent, drowned under the flood of scent that filled every corner of his lungs: cedar, apple, that biting Alpine sharpness curling around him until his head spun.

It should have felt wrong—this, bending under another alpha, giving in when everything he’d been taught said he shouldn’t. Some part of him still whispered that. That it was weakness, a betrayal of what being an alpha was supposed to mean.

But the rest of him was wrecked, dizzy, too far gone to care. Jannik’s voice undid him. Jannik’s hands steadied him. Jannik’s cock pressed hard against his abs was proof of how much he wanted him, too. And God, the way Jannik had just made him feel—like every nerve in his body existed only to be touched, teased, consumed—Carlos couldn’t remember why he was supposed to keep resisting.

His mouth fell open on a sound he barely recognized as his own, raw and needy. “Then… get me ready.”

That made Jannik pause, just for the length of a breath. Long enough for Carlos to notice it, to feel the air tighten between them.

It wasn’t hesitation so much as recalibration, like Carlos had handed him something unexpected, something Jannik hadn’t thought he’d get.

And then the stillness broke. Carlos was pushed chest-down onto the bench, his body guided like Jannik already knew the map of him. Strong hands spread him open, one on each hip, until he felt completely exposed to the cool air and the hotter weight of Jannik’s gaze.

There was no teasing now. Just the sharp, wet sound of spit hitting his skin, sliding warm down the cleft of his ass. Carlos bit back a moan that still managed to leak out anyway, shivering as Jannik’s palm spread it over him with a slow, possessive drag. It felt filthy, intimate, and right—the heat of it making him press back just to feel more.

The blunt press of a finger breached him a heartbeat later, slicked by that makeshift lube. Carlos gasped, his hips jerking forward instinctively—only for Jannik’s arm to hook under his belly and hold him steady as his finger worked slow, steady circles inside him, the pressure deepening until Carlos’s breath caught on every exhale.

“Shh,” Jannik whispered, leaning down to press his mouth to the ridge of Carlos’s spine. Each kiss was deliberate, punctuating his words. “Let me stretch you. You can take it. Lo vuoi.” You want it.

Carlos’s face pressed into the crook of his arm, a low moan vibrating against his own skin. He hated the sound of begging, but his body didn’t care—it was already relaxing for Jannik, clenching and opening, aching for more.

Jannik withdrew without warning, and Carlos made a frustrated noise that earned him a quiet chuckle. Then Jannik was moving away, the sound of a zipper opening in the background. When Carlos twisted his head, he caught sight of Jannik crouched by his duffel bag, pulling out a bottle of lube.

The sight alone made Carlos’s stomach drop in anticipation.

Jannik came back to him, cool slick coating his fingers before pressing into him again—this time with purpose. The glide was easier now, deeper, the stretch blooming wider as a second finger joined the first. Jannik curled them deliberately, brushing against his prostate in a way that made Carlos’s eyes slam shut and his teeth sink into his own forearm to stifle the sound.

“Don’t hide it,” Jannik murmured. “Let me hear you.”

By the time the third finger pushed in, Carlos’s cock was leaking freely, thighs trembling, his breath coming in uneven bursts. The slow scissor and curl of Jannik’s fingers had his muscles fluttering around them, a burn giving way to a pull of heat so deep it felt dangerous.

When Jannik finally pulled out, slicking himself, Carlos’s back arched involuntarily at the loss. His chest was heaving when the question came, quiet and certain:

“You ready?”

Carlos’s nod was barely there, his voice rasping. “Do it.”

The first push stole all the air from Carlos’s lungs. Jannik eased in slowly but without hesitation, the thick stretch making Carlos’s hands clutch at the bench until his nails scraped the wood. His head dropped forward, eyes squeezing shut as his whole body tensed under the weight of him.

“Mio Dio, Carlos—” Jannik groaned against his nape, his voice shaking. “You’re so tight…”

“Shut up,” Carlos hissed, his voice shaking too. “Just—move.”

Jannik did.

Not gentle, not punishing—just deep, measured thrusts that forced Carlos open with every slide forward. Each time he bottomed out, Carlos could feel it in his stomach, the heat building with every drag against that tender place inside. His own scent was sharp and heavy now—musk and figs, tangled with the cedar rolling off Jannik—filling the space until the air felt thick enough to drink.

A small part of Carlos wanted to push back, to fight for control, but Jannik had him anchored. One arm was clamped tight around his waist, the other buried in his hair, tugging his head back until his throat was bared. His pulse pounded under the shadow of Jannik’s teeth, every graze leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the tiles, mixing with the wet drag of him moving in and out. Carlos’s cock hung hard between his legs, untouched, dripping against the bench with every thrust.

“Dio, Charly,” Jannik breathed into his ear, the nickname breaking on his tongue. “You’re taking me so fucking well.”

Carlos’s answering moan was strangled, his fingers gripping so hard the wood creaked. His thighs trembled under the steady force, pleasure winding him tight until every muscle in his body was straining.

And then—he felt it.
A swelling, a deeper stretch, the way everything inside him shifted as Jannik’s knot began to nudge him wider with each thrust.

“No—” Carlos gasped, twisting his head. “You’re knotting me?”

“You said you’d take all of me,” Jannik’s voice cracked, his thrusts heavy and unrelenting. “Lo hai detto tu.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Stai zitto.” Shut up. It came like a command, sharp, a growl pressed to his ear. But then Jannik’s hand was at his jaw, turning his face, and before Carlos could drag another breath their mouths crashed together.

The kiss was nothing like Carlos expected. Messy, raw, desperate. Jannik caught his mouth hard, teeth grazing his lower lip before tugging it into a deep, lingering suck that made Carlos’s knees weaken. Then his tongue traced the sting he’d left, a slow lick over swollen flesh, as though he couldn’t decide whether to hurt or soothe.

Carlos gasped into him, and Jannik took it, tilting his head, catching his mouth again—this time slower, deeper. He kissed like he meant to unravel him piece by piece: tongue stroking against his, retreating only to press back in, deliberate, unhurried, until Carlos was dizzy with it. He could taste himself there—his own musk salted on Jannik’s tongue, obscene and intimate—and it only made him groan harder.

His fingers clawed at the bench, searching for an anchor, while Jannik’s mouth kept working his, relentless in its possession but unbearably tender in its detail—biting, licking, sucking until Carlos’s lips throbbed. It was too much and not enough all at once, every drag of his mouth leaving Carlos more open, more gone.

Jannik kissed him like he wanted to mark him from the inside out, like every scrape of teeth and sweep of tongue was a brand—and Carlos let it happen, trembling under the weight of it. Relentless, hungry, like this was the first and last kiss he’d ever get.

Jannik pushed all the way in, the knot swelling thick at the base, brutal and unyielding, sealing them together. An alpha’s body wasn't built to take another’s knot, wasn't meant to stretch and hold the way an omega’s could—yet Jannik’s fit inside him felt devastating, perfect, pressing everywhere that made the pleasure spike tenfold. The stretch tipped Carlos over the edge in an instant—white-hot, shattering. His vision burst into sparks, the world narrowing to the pressure inside him, to the breath stolen from his lungs.

The orgasm tore through him without warning, violent in its intensity. He spilled hard against the bench, untouched, cock jerking helplessly as if it had no choice. Every muscle locked, his whole body seizing, back arching into Jannik’s chest. The cry that ripped out of him was swallowed straight into Jannik’s mouth, devoured like the last piece of him to give.

But Jannik didn’t stop.

One hand slid down Carlos’s chest, fingers wrapping tight around his cock, stroking him even as he twitched from his climax. The overstimulation made him shake, eyes rolling back, but the kiss dragged him under again, Jannik’s tongue hot and possessive against his.

“Dios—no puedo—” Carlos tried to protest, but it melted into a moan as Jannik’s thumb circled the head, smearing Carlos’s come across sensitive skin.

“You can,” Jannik growled against his lips, then broke away to mouth at his neck, right over his scent glands. His teeth grazed the skin there, not biting to mark, but threatening, promising, kissing hard enough to bruise. Every press of his lips sent fire straight through Carlos’s spine.

Carlos gasped, arching back into him, his cock jerking helplessly in Jannik’s grip. His body couldn’t keep up with the flood of sensation—his ass stretched wide around the knot, his cock dragged relentlessly to the edge, Jannik’s mouth on his throat, breathing him in, teeth grazing over his scent glands, close enough to claim but never breaking skin.

And then it happened—he came again. Harder. Sharper. His cry echoed against the tiles, body wracked as his release spilled over Jannik’s fist. His thighs gave out, trembling violently, but Jannik held him up, chest flush to his back, knot keeping them bound together.

Carlos slumped forward, ruined, his mind blank, his body wrung dry. He had never come twice like that, not in such quick, brutal succession, and it left him shaking, overstimulated but euphoric.

Jannik kissed the side of his throat again, slower this time, his tongue soothing the tender skin. “Così,” he murmured, breath ragged. “Just like that.”

He kept moving, hips rolling deep and unhurried, drawing out the rhythm even as Carlos sagged against the bench, overstimulated and shaking. Every thrust sent another tremor racing through him, his body clenching reflexively around the knot swelling thicker inside.

And it was then Jannik came, finally, with a guttural groan against his throat. Carlos could feel it flood him, each hot pulse inside, deeper than deep, locked there by the knot. He should have been spent—he was spent, wrung out and trembling after not one, not two, but three releases, his balls too empty to give anything more. Yet the pleasure still rolled through him, sharp and dizzying, every throb inside him dragging another shiver out of his overstretched body. Jannik clung to him, chest plastered to his back, one hand still cupping his softening cock as though he couldn’t stop touching, couldn’t stop having. His scent flared darker and triumphant, close enough to taste on the back of Carlos’s tongue.

Carlos collapsed, panting, his body trembling and locked to Jannik’s in a way that felt both unbearable and perfect. The ache between his thighs, the fullness, the damp heat—every part of him screamed overused, stretched, taken.

The knot kept them joined, no choice but to stay there, tangled on the narrow bench. There was barely room for one body, let alone two, but Jannik shifted them anyway, careful, deliberate, arranging their limbs so Carlos didn’t have to bear his full weight. It left him half on his side, half sprawled beneath Jannik, held together by the awkward press of wood and muscle and the unyielding knot still deep inside him.

And still Jannik stayed pressed close, chest rising and falling in sync with his, their breaths uneven, never quite in step yet bound close—just like everything else between them.

Minutes passed in that heavy, suspended quiet.

Then Jannik’s nose was in the curve of his neck again, scenting him, not with the earlier hunger but with a slow, almost soft touch. A whisper of breath along his skin, a barely-there nudge like he was memorizing him.

Carlos blinked at the floor, still dazed. His voice was hoarse. “This doesn’t mean you won.”

Behind him, Jannik’s breath stirred warm against his skin. “I did,” he said, quiet but certain. “You gave yourself to me.”

Carlos swallowed hard, heat crawling under his skin. “I chose it. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t.” Jannik’s lips brushed his shoulder. “I know it must have been really hard.”

Carlos shut his eyes.

Hard.

The word didn’t fit.

There had been a part of him that fought—of course there had, the part that refused to yield, that bristled at the thought of bending for anyone, least of all another alpha. That part had clawed and strained, even as his body betrayed him.

But the rest of him? The rest had drowned in it. In the scent pressed into his skin, in the weight of Jannik inside him, in the mouth that had taken his and left him dizzy. He hadn’t felt stripped or broken. He had felt… full. Claimed without being marked. Opened and remade until every nerve sang.

Submitting should have burned, should have tasted of defeat. Instead it had left him shaking, wrecked, desperate for more.
It hadn’t been hard at all. It had been terrifyingly easy.

And Christ, it had felt incredible.

Not that he’d ever give Jannik the satisfaction of knowing that.

Jannik’s hand slid from his hip to his stomach, palm wide and warm, holding him like something worth keeping. Carlos didn’t move away.

The knot took longer to go down than he’d expected. Every minute stretched heavy, their bodies still joined, sweat cooling on their skin while his own scent mixed with Jannik’s—apple and figs, amber and cedar, woven so tight he didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Carlos lay limp against the bench, muscles gone to water, his face pressed into the crook of his arm. His thighs were shaking, his spine feeling hollowed out, raw in a way no match had ever left him.

Jannik hadn’t moved. Not even a little.

His chest was pressed to Carlos’s back, one hand still sprawled over his belly, the other curled lightly around his wrist in an absent hold. His nose—his fucking nose—was still behind Carlos’s ear, breathing him in like it was the only thing he needed.

Carlos told himself he should pull away, remind Jannik he was still an alpha, that being knotted didn’t mean he had to lie here and take more. The thought flickered, sharp and insistent—but his body stayed loose, pliant, his skin sparking under every breath Jannik drew at his neck. Something in him still thrummed at the contact, traitorous and deep. His voice came out rough. “You don’t need to keep scenting me. You already got what you wanted, you know. Ya ganaste.” You already won.

No answer at first. Just the slow drag of Jannik’s cheek along his neck, the warm press of skin to skin.

Then, soft, almost quiet enough to miss: “Non è per vincere.”

The words snagged at Carlos’s chest, left him off balance.

With Jannik, everything was about winning—number one in the world, the best, always reaching higher, never yielding. That certainty clung to him on court, in life, in the way he carried himself. Headstrong. Untouchable. The kind of alpha who didn’t break, who didn’t yield for anyone.

So what did it mean, here, for him to say it wasn’t about winning? Why was he still breathing Carlos in like this, holding him close, knot still locked tight? If it wasn’t about savoring the fact that Carlos had submitted, if it wasn’t about victory, then what was left?

Carlos’s thoughts stumbled, unsettled.

Jannik’s breath stirred at his ear, low and uneven. Then, barely above a murmur: “Do you really want me to stop?”

Carlos swallowed, lips parting, but no answer came. The truth was there in the silence, in the way he didn’t pull away. Instead, his voice scraped out low, uncertain. “I didn’t think you’d…” He trailed off, searching. “You didn’t have to… hold me like this. After.”

“I know,” Jannik said. “I want to.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They fell quiet after, though nothing about it felt simple. Silence pressed in close, thick with their mingled scents, leaving Carlos too aware of every place they still touched. It wasn’t comfort that filled the space, but a strange recalibration, as though something inside him had been knocked loose and was slotting back in ways he didn’t yet understand.

When the knot finally eased, it was a slow, stretching pull followed by a wet slip that made Carlos flinch. He gasped softly, biting back a sound that wasn’t quite pain.

Jannik’s hands were on him instantly, steadying him. “You okay?”

Carlos nodded, but didn’t move. His thighs trembled too much, and the locker room still felt like it was swaying.

Jannik eased back only to crouch beside him, still bare, still flushed. Then he stood, reaching into his bag for a towel. Carlos watched him walk away, heard the soft pad of his steps across the tiles, and then the hiss of water turning on somewhere out of sight.

The absence hit harder than expected. Without Jannik’s body behind him the air felt colder, every drop of sweat on his skin cooling to a shiver. For the first time since it began, Carlos felt the silence of the locker room—broken only by the rush of water and his own uneven breathing.

It wasn’t long before Jannik returned. The first touch of the towel, damp and chilled, made Carlos flinch, the shock running up his spine. Jannik’s hand followed, steadying him, and the careful pressure of the cloth against his thigh was almost reverent.

His touch was gentler now, almost shy, as though the man who’d just snarled and knotted him on top of a bench was a different creature entirely.

“You don’t have to…” Carlos started, the words thick.

“I want to,” Jannik said again.

The towel moved between his thighs with slow, careful sweeps. When Carlos twitched at the contact, Jannik pressed a kiss to his hip, his lips warm and unhurried.

“You’re sore,” he murmured, apologetic.

“Obviously.” Carlos shifted onto his side, propping himself on one elbow to watch him through heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re hung like a fucking stallone.”

Jannik smirked faintly but didn’t answer. He kept working, quiet and patient. At last, he tugged one of his shirts from his bag. Soft, worn cotton, pale and smelling unmistakably of him.

Carlos blinked when Jannik eased it over his head, the fabric dragging across still-sensitive spots, carrying that sharp cedar bite, that cool apple tang that was all Jannik. It settled against his skin like a second presence, clinging to his chest, his throat, until Carlos felt buried in him.

He could have protested. Should have. It was a gesture too loaded, too intimate—a mark between lovers, between mates. But his body didn’t move, didn’t resist.

He let Jannik dress him. Shirt, briefs, pants. Not because he needed help, but because the thought of Jannik’s hands leaving him felt worse than any ache. Because the shirt was heavy with another alpha’s scent, and for the first time Carlos didn’t want to fight the way it made him feel.

When Jannik was finally dressed too, he lowered himself beside Carlos, their knees brushing in the quiet. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was thick but not uncomfortable, their breaths falling into sync as if they’d always known how to.

Carlos turned his head, studying the line of Jannik’s jaw, the way his beautiful curls clung to his forehead. “What happens now?”

Jannik’s gaze held his. “You tell me.”

Carlos’s mouth tugged up at one corner. “You gonna mark my things again?”

Jannik tilted his head. “You gonna mark mine?”

Carlos leaned back, eyelids heavy. “Maybe.”

Jannik’s gaze dropped to his neck, his jaw tightening. Something in the look—sharp, intent, weighted—sent a pull low through Carlos’s chest. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just the aftermath of being taken apart and held together again. It was possession, yes, but threaded with something steadier, something that made his skin prickle and his stomach turn weightless.

The sight made Carlos feel too much, and maybe that was why his mouth moved before his brain could catch up—why the words came at all.

His voice came out low, steadier than he expected. “I don’t want this to be a game anymore.”

Jannik’s eyes flicked to his, sharp and unreadable at first. Then they softened, something unguarded passing through. “It was never really a game for me.”

The words lodged in Carlos’s chest, heavier than any mark, any bruise. He swallowed, then pushed himself to his feet, legs still shaky but carrying him toward the row of lockers. His shirt was there on the floor, the one he’d been wearing when he stormed in to confront Jannik, tossed aside in the rush of undressing. Carlos bent to pick it up, the cotton soft and familiar in his hands, still carrying the weight of his scent. For a moment he just held it, staring down at the crumpled fabric, before turning back to Jannik.

He held it out. “I wear yours,” he said quietly. “You wear mine.”

The implication hung between them, sharp and undeniable: if I’m yours, you’re mine too.

Jannik rose slowly, gaze never leaving him. Without hesitation, he peeled off the shirt he’d just put on, dropping it carelessly to the bench. His chest was still flushed, golden, rising and falling fast. Then he reached for Carlos’s shirt, pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, and settled it across his shoulders.

The sight hit Carlos like a punch. Jannik in his scent, in his shirt, looking satisfied in a way Carlos had never seen before.

He drew in a long breath through the collar, eyes half-lidded. When he looked up, his pupils were blown wide.

“Dio,” Jannik rasped, tugging at the hem as if to feel it cling. “You smell so fucking good.”

Before Carlos could breathe, Jannik stepped in, pressing him back against the lockers. Not rough this time, not like before, but firm, certain. His mouth hovered a breath from Carlos’s, his voice roughened into something that almost sounded like a smile. “I think we both won.”

The words left Carlos shivering. All the months of provocation, of stolen towels and marked rackets—they all led here. To this press of cool metal against his spine, to the solid heat of Jannik’s body pinning him.

The smell of them was everywhere, thick in the air, clinging to his chest and throat and hair. He could smell himself on Jannik’s skin, buried there like a brand. And he could smell Jannik on him too—covering him, heavy, inescapable—an invisible claim that made something deep in his chest feel raw and full all at once.

And when Jannik finally kissed him—slow, devastating, sure—Carlos didn’t fight it.

The kiss wasn’t a battle, wasn’t a test.

It was a seal, a promise.

It left him open, unguarded, every nerve sparking at the gentleness of it.

He let himself give in, and the ache of it—body sore, heart still racing, scent and heat everywhere—felt dangerously close to bliss.