#jello feint

Dear, Anon! I actually go by "Ms." because I don't believe that getting married should merit a title change. Men don't change theirs, so why should women? Thank you so much for all the kind words and being such a supportive and loyal reader. It means the world to me.

Anyway!!! Here's a preview of Feint ch. 3:

"You're in heat," Jannik says in disbelief.

Carlos looks at him in terror. It's the fear Jannik's been chasing all match. But it's the wrong kind.

"I..." Carlos slumps down along the wooden panel of the lockers. "Yes. I need. I need help."

Jannik takes a step toward Carlos. He is soaked, head-to-toe-to -- Jannik gulps. Licks his lips.

Looks wildly around the locker room and eventually finds the emergency kit on the wall. A small red canvas bag imprinted with the white Alpha and Omega logos.

He grabs it. Gets on his knees next to Carlos and unzips the bag with shaky hands. Jannik breathes deeply, like a match point serve; it's best his hands are steady for this next part.

"Jannik," Carlos whispers.

Jannik turns to Carlos because he must. Carlos still looks afraid and Jannik can't have that.

He says, "I have the kit here. I will help you. It will be okay, Carlos. You will be okay. I am here."

He releases his own scent. Waves of rum and the same cinnamon Carlos is giving. This seems to ease Carlos, who closes his eyes.

Jannik searches the bag for what he needs.

Carlos' head tips forward into Jannik's neck. He takes a deep inhale.

"You smell so good, Jannik," he mumbles. One of his hands clutches the hem of Jannik's shirt.

Jannik drops the bag. Then, he puts a hand on Carlos' nape and pushes Carlos closer into his neck.

"Yes," he says. "You. You also. You smell."

He takes a deep breath of the top of Carlos' head. The hair tickles his nose. Carlos is the crispy fried dough in hot oil that he knows will taste of indulgence. Something that will burn his tongue and stick in his throat and leave him bloated and wanting.

"Amazing, Carlos," he says. "I want to..."

He gasps.

Carlos has stuck his tongue out and pressed it against Jannik's scent gland.

Jannik is hard. He's so hard and Carlos Alcaraz is an omega. Carlos Alcaraz is an omega in heat and he smells like the best thing Jannik has ever smelled and Jannik is going to --

"Jannik," Carlos whines. "Help me with the -- uh -- the injection?"

Jannik blinks.

Right.

He scrambles to grab the bag and looks through it. Scent patches. Condoms. Birth control pills. And most importantly:

Emergency suppressants in auto-injectors.

An orange one for rut.

A yellow one for heat.

Chapter Three: Open

September 8, 2026 - New York City, New York

Jannik and Carlos win not because they are alpha and omega. 

They win because they’re the best players in the ATP. 

It’s a superiority borne from hard work and innate talent and the guidance of the right people and --

Carlos eats his scrambled eggs and wonders if that has something to do with it also. 

Well, anyway. Every little thing matters. Or, perhaps, none of it does. 

It is the morning of the quarterfinals. Player dining is dead now that the field has been culled. Coco gives him a small wave as she walks by with her team. He nods and smiles. 

“Good luck,” he says. 

Coco looks at his wrist. Everyone looks at his wrist, nowadays. 

“You too, Carlitos,” she answers. 

Maybe another morning he would have said more, chatted about last night’s thriller against Amanda, but today Carlos is tired.

He is tired and angry and knows his heat is coming. 

But he’s the defending champion. Backing out now would be unthinkable. The wrist is feeling just fine, but his legs are heavy and his stomach hurts, and every round closer to the final produces stabbing pains in his spine, his gut. Nausea from overdosing on suppressants. 

He can smell himself. 

No one else seems to be aware, or they’re too polite to say so, but every time he spreads his legs he gets a waft, which is both sickening and strangely alluring. 

He dispenses with the usual jockstraps and wears compression shorts. Lines the crotch carefully, has to throw away the first couple because the wings, the flappy things, they stick to themselves, and he has to start again --

-- fuck, he hates being an omega. 

Anyway, he does that for the Round of 128 and the Round of 64 and the Round of 32 and the Round of 16, and it all holds up just fine, even if there is a fog in his head that grows murkier with every match. 

He has to find a way to clear it though. Félix is out for blood; head shorn like Carlos last year, but on purpose. Carlos, thick head of hair, wonders if he should do the same. His temples sweat, his scalp itches. 

Everything itches. The wood pressing against his ass. The metal fork in his hand, clanging against his teeth. 

Samu’s hand, meant to be soothing, between his shoulder blades. He says, “Félix -- the backhand is looking better. Since Wimbledon. What do you think?” 

Carlos nods. “When he has the rhythm, yes. So I take away.” He waves the fork to the right. To the left. Jabs it forward towards Samu’s eyeballs. “Heavy hits.” 

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I love you

(I'm DARVOing you into reading my fic)

Carlos breaks him late. Six-four. At the net Holger pulls him in by the back of the neck, the way he has since they were fourteen, and says, “You’re back.” 

Carlos says, “You’re back.” 

They laugh into each other’s shoulders.

The corridor afterward is emptied of everyone but them, the roar gone muffled behind concrete. Holger walks with him.

There’s just the edge of the usual salmiak and dark chocolate he used to share with Carlos after doubles matches. Bite of ammonia, and the rich sweet of it too. He always makes more of an effort to control the aggression around Carlos, makes it a more soothing thing instead.

They make it to the locker room and he says, "Sit.” 

Carlos sits, and lets his spine go, lets his face do whatever it wants. With Holger he can.

"The wrist."

"Fine."

Holger sits next to him and puts a head on his shoulder. Up close his eyes are very pale. "The truth.” 

Carlos shakes his head. “Fine right now.” 

Carlos's patch has sweated loose at one corner, peeling toward his collarbone. Holger sees it before Carlos feels it. Holger reaches up, presses it flat against the skin, and waits for the adhesive to take. Just one boy fixing another boy's patch.

Like he has since they were fourteen.

"Novak.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Beat him again?”

Carlos smiles. 

“I missed you, Holgy.” 

Holger hums. “You smell worried,” he says. 

Carlos flexes his hand. Stares at it. “You can tell that?”