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To start as we mean to go on, have a snippet of the short next part from the your hand in mine 'verse (parts one and two on AO3. This one directly follows the second fic, because I couldn't resist writing the wedding night.

The late winter afternoon is slipping toward dusk by the time they stumble into Cromlix's largest suite, Novak being entirely unhelpful to balance – or common decency standards – by biting Andy’s fucking earlobe as they try to make it through the door without untangling themselves.

It wrenches a groan from Andy’s throat, startled out too loud. God, he hopes none of the other guests glance into the hall to check the noise; they’d never live it down, already dishevelled all over with Andy's three top buttons undone and a piece of gold confetti lurking in Novak’s hair. There’s probably some in Andy’s too, decorative glitter that won’t hide where it’s gone curling at the ends from nervous hands rubbed through, from Judy ruffling it in affection after the photos.

Novak slamming him against the wall halfway up the grand sweep of stairs and tangling his fingers in it to pin Andy still as he kissed him probably didn’t help either.

Now he moves to kiss the tempting dip of Andy's throat revealed by the open shirt, licking at the gleam of sweat beaded there. Barely twitches when Andy pokes him in the ribs with a protest, voice thready:

'No- let me shut the door at least Novak, fuck.'

'That is the idea,' Novak murmurs and keeps kissing as Andy manoeuvres them around to push the heavy door closed, biting just the right side of too-hard until Andy makes a choked sound, gritted through clenched teeth in an effort to mute it.

The instant the door slams shut – probably waking the entire hotel, shit – Novak twists like an eel in his grip and drops to his knees.

'Novak, what the fu-' Andy starts. Most of him is already focused on the ludicrously-oversized bed a short stagger away and everything he's going to do to Novak when he gets him stripped, work out the burning desperation of a night spent swaying on the dancefloor under the not-quite-drunk-enough stares of Andy’s family; touching was out of the question if either of them ever wanted to look his gran in the eye again. They don't have time for-

Far more coordinated than anyone who'd drunk so much champagne had any right to be, Novak flashes him a grin, flips up Andy's kilt, and slides his mouth all the way down Andy's dick before he can finish the sentence.

'Fuck, fuck-' Bracing his arms against the door, Andy curses until he runs out of breath and shuts his eyes because if he watches Novak's mouth going slick as he moves, stretched and red, he's going to come faster than a teenager.

Might anyway. Novak’s been getting steadily more affectionate as the day wore through to evening, the practiced polish to his smile chipping away until he was tucking a laugh into Andy’s shoulder during the first dance, all the tension eased out his shoulders.

Watching him relax helped soothe the anxiety that’s itched beneath Andy’s skin for weeks, ever since he blurted out, ‘Marry me?’. Novak acquiesced so easily, Andy had almost believed everything, this insane upheaval of their lives, wasn’t going to be a problem.

He’d believed it right up until he’d looked up, blinking in the sunrise filtering into Cromlix’s cosy chapel, and Novak’s wide-eyed panic stared back at him from the doorway, tucked behind the rigid smile he puts on for awkward interviews and 5 a.m. drug tests on a rest day. The look he wears when he’s forcing himself into something unpleasant, and seeing it there – at that moment – the bottom dropped out of Andy’s stomach as if he’d been punched.

But when Novak reached the top of the aisle, he’d smiled when Andy cracked a poor joke and as the registrar ran through the script in front of them, his hand crept into Andy’s warm and familiar, and Andy had suppressed the kneejerk urge to call the whole thing off. Tried to tell himself he’d imagined it; it might’ve been the mirrored flash of his own panic at how disastrously this could turn out for all of them with one whisper to a journalist – one off-the-record comment that brings all their careful subterfuge crashing down.

But it’s been almost eight hours and they’re not on the front page of the Daily Mail yet (his phone would be singing a dirge of messages already if they were). Just maybe, he’ll get keep Novak giving him a frankly fanfuckingtastic blowjob on their wedding night without throwing their respective tennis careers under the secretly-gay-married PR trainwreck. Neither of them have warned their agents; when Andy mentioned it, Novak just shrugged and said 'If it happen, it happen. Why fill a tiny cup with water because you are worried your house catch fire, eh?'



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