Fic: Not Your Pretty Woman
Title: Not Your Pretty Woman
Pairing: Andy Murray/Novak Djokovic
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~1000
Summary: For au_bingo prompt: 'other: prostitutes'. In which Andy is the Richard Gere to Novak's Julia Roberts. Sort of.
It's been a rough day, a rough tournament, a rough season, and Andy blames the disappointment and exhaustion for the series of bad judgement calls that finish with him waiting in his hotel room sweaty-palmed and heart in his throat for the fucking hooker to show up at his door. Adrenaline-fuelled anticipation carries him through the first half-hour, then it cools down into nerves and regret and vivid nightmare scenarios. This is the summer of the phone-tap expose, of sordid News of the Screws revelations. Andy's not exactly Wayne Rooney, but he doesn't think the tabloids are that picky.
When the knock at the door comes, Andy seriously thinks about not answering it. Then he thinks about the prostitute out there for anyone on this floor to see and recognise her for what she is. He opens the door so fast that the man on the other side blinks, surprised. Andy swallows a mixture of relief and frustration.
"Yeah?" he says, brusque.
"Hi," the man says. "My name is Novak. We have an appointment?"
Andy has never seen the man before in his life. "Yeah, no, I don't think so. Listen, I'm actually really busy, could you -"
"I am pretty sure we have an appointment," the man says, corner of his mouth twisting in a smile as he hands over a business card. Andy takes it reflexively, looks down, and his stomach twists. Fuck his life. This is the hooker.
The hallway is not the setting for the conversation that's about to take place. Andy steps aside.
"You'd better come in," he says, and the guy - Novak - nods and ducks through under Andy's arm, trailing the sharp scent of too much aftershave.
Andy takes a breath and glances the length of the corridor, but there's nobody there. No paps lurking. Andy shuts the door and, after a moment's thought, locks it. He takes a steadying breath before he turns around, half-expecting the guy to be undressed already, but his life isn't quite the slapstick comedy it sometimes aspires to be, and the guy is just standing there, at ease in his black polo-shirt and hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. He doesn't look at all like a prostitute. Not that Andy knows what male prostitutes are supposed to look like.
"Listen," Andy says, back against the door. It would not be physically possible to put more distance between them. "I think there's been a mistake. I was - I mean I thought - I thought you'd be a woman."
Novak just laughs. "So this would be why you look like -" he indicates Andy with a sweeping gesture, maybe his expression in particular, maybe just him in general.
Andy narrows his eyes. The guy is being paid to be here; he could make an effort. A wave of exhaustion rolls through him. Fuck this, he thinks. He should have just had a wank in the shower, like normal people.
"Alright, you know what," he says. "Just go. I'll pay for your taxi and just - just go. Tell whoever I spoke to on the phone to get a fucking hearing aid or something."
Novak huffs a breath of laughter and doesn't move, just rocks back on his heels a little. "Rough day?"
He has an accent, something vaguely East European. Serb, maybe.
"Yeah," Andy says. "Rough. So if you could just, you know." He steps away from the door, clearing the guy's exit.
"Okay, okay," Novak says, affably. "Although, you know, since I am here. I could help you to relax?"
"Thanks," Andy says. "But no."
"You don't go with guys, ever?" Novak shrugs. "A blow-job's a blow-job, no? You can shut your eyes, if you like."
Andy doesn't know what tell-tale of weakness Novak spots there in that fatal second of hesitation, but whatever it is makes his smile twist to something knowing. Andy swallows. He's not panicking. Yet.
"I'm already paying your ride home," he says. "You don't have to earn it."
He doesn't mean it nasty, but that's the way it comes out - spiky and harsh and mean.
Novak takes it easily, with a loose roll of his shoulders like he's shrugging the blow away. Like he's taken worse than whatever Andy can dish out. Another step brings him into the area that Andy defines as personal space. Andy's heart beats like a proximity alarm.
"You don't go with guys," Novak says, in a tone that says I don't believe you, like, at all. Andy, breathing a little hard now, wants to snap back that no, actually, he doesn't go with guys - and it wouldn't be a lie - it would be true, semantically. Andy doesn't go with guys. But he's been with guys, and apparently his dick isn't in the mood for word games: he's hard in his jeans, and Novak has noticed.
"You wanna tell me to stay?" Novak asks. Andy makes a stupid sound somewhere between a cough and a gasp. Novak says, "I'm not gonna stay, unless you ask."
Andy thinks distantly that it's better to be hanged for a sheep than a lamb and manages, hoarse and barely audible, "Stay." Blood flushes into his cheeks, and other places. Novak grins. He leans in closer.
"Tell me to suck your cock," he says, bringing his hands to rest poised at the buckle of Andy's belt.
"Jesus Christ," Andy hisses. He tips his head back against the cool wall, and swallows. Novak's dark, clever eyes watch the convulsive movement of his throat.
"Tell me," Novak says, unbuckling Andy's belt with slow deliberate movements, and it's like he fucking knows exactly what buttons to push - what to say, how to say it; exactly how much push Andy will take. "Tell me to suck your cock."
"Fucking," Andy rasps. "Will you - will you just - do it?"
"Do what," says Novak. He stills puts one hand flat to the muscle of Andy's stomach under his shirt; an oddly kind, intimate little gesture, all things considered. "Come on. Tell me."
He could die here. "Suck my cock," Andy says. He hears it, the flat Scots sounds, and flushes, mortified and turned on in about equal measure.
But Novak just murmurs, "Yeah," with an amused and satisfied twist of his mouth as he slowly, slowly unbuckles Andy's belt and draws it out of his belt-loops with practised smoothness.
"Brace yourself," Novak says, with an upward glance that's cocky as fuck, and there's a comeback on the tip of Andy's tongue at the exact moment that Novak puts his mouth on him, and okay, so, maybe he can afford to be a little cocky after all.
"Fuck," Andy says, breathy and helpless. "Fuck."
A blow-job's a blow-job, Novak had said, but he'd been selling himself short. No wonder a guy can make a living sucking cock like this, Andy thinks - is vaguely sickened with himself for thinking it, and yet. Andy reaches down and gets a grip on the short bristles of Novak's dark hair. Novak makes an appreciative, encouraging sound, a low hum, and Andy hisses.
Andy is balanced on the exquisite knife-edge of orgasm when Novak pulls off, looks up and asks with his amazing obscene mouth, "Do you want to come on my face?" and Jesus, Andy thinks distantly, what a fucking question. He's not sure he says anything coherent but maybe the distaste shows on his face; Novak seems to get the drift anyway, and lowers his head again to bring Andy off quickly with some fantastic tandem movement of mouth and hand.
The orgasm hits him like a shot to the heart. His knees buckle - they must, because one second he's gasping up at the ceiling and the next he's on the floor, tangled in his own shoved-down jeans with Novak laughing at him, saying something he's too far gone for the moment to listen to.
"Jesus fuck," Andy says, when he can. His voice is scratchy and rough in his throat.
"Blasphemer," Novak says, with a sinning smile. Andy just stares at him, incoherent in the misty gold-hued afterglow.
Novak wipes stray spots of semen from the corner of his mouth with his fingertips, then he puts them into his mouth, sucks them clean. It's not lascivious, exactly, but he looks steadily at Andy while he does it, dark eyed and almost playful. Andy wonders if it's something he likes to do, or if it's a thing he thinks Andy will like to watch. It's hot as fuck either way; but it nags at him a little, the not knowing. He swallows around the urge to kiss Novak, wet and messy, to chase the taste of himself into Novak's mouth. He doesn't know if that's a thing Novak does, and it's a question he doesn't know how to ask. Pretty Woman is the extent of his prior experience with hookers, and Julia Roberts never knelt on the floor with a red ruined mouth licking come from her fingertips. Or maybe she did; Andy fell asleep when Kim tried to show him through that movie. Maybe he missed the good parts.
The point is, he's screwed.
Pairing: Andy Murray/Novak Djokovic
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~1000
Summary: For au_bingo prompt: 'other: prostitutes'. In which Andy is the Richard Gere to Novak's Julia Roberts. Sort of.
It's been a rough day, a rough tournament, a rough season, and Andy blames the disappointment and exhaustion for the series of bad judgement calls that finish with him waiting in his hotel room sweaty-palmed and heart in his throat for the fucking hooker to show up at his door. Adrenaline-fuelled anticipation carries him through the first half-hour, then it cools down into nerves and regret and vivid nightmare scenarios. This is the summer of the phone-tap expose, of sordid News of the Screws revelations. Andy's not exactly Wayne Rooney, but he doesn't think the tabloids are that picky.
When the knock at the door comes, Andy seriously thinks about not answering it. Then he thinks about the prostitute out there for anyone on this floor to see and recognise her for what she is. He opens the door so fast that the man on the other side blinks, surprised. Andy swallows a mixture of relief and frustration.
"Yeah?" he says, brusque.
"Hi," the man says. "My name is Novak. We have an appointment?"
Andy has never seen the man before in his life. "Yeah, no, I don't think so. Listen, I'm actually really busy, could you -"
"I am pretty sure we have an appointment," the man says, corner of his mouth twisting in a smile as he hands over a business card. Andy takes it reflexively, looks down, and his stomach twists. Fuck his life. This is the hooker.
The hallway is not the setting for the conversation that's about to take place. Andy steps aside.
"You'd better come in," he says, and the guy - Novak - nods and ducks through under Andy's arm, trailing the sharp scent of too much aftershave.
Andy takes a breath and glances the length of the corridor, but there's nobody there. No paps lurking. Andy shuts the door and, after a moment's thought, locks it. He takes a steadying breath before he turns around, half-expecting the guy to be undressed already, but his life isn't quite the slapstick comedy it sometimes aspires to be, and the guy is just standing there, at ease in his black polo-shirt and hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. He doesn't look at all like a prostitute. Not that Andy knows what male prostitutes are supposed to look like.
"Listen," Andy says, back against the door. It would not be physically possible to put more distance between them. "I think there's been a mistake. I was - I mean I thought - I thought you'd be a woman."
Novak just laughs. "So this would be why you look like -" he indicates Andy with a sweeping gesture, maybe his expression in particular, maybe just him in general.
Andy narrows his eyes. The guy is being paid to be here; he could make an effort. A wave of exhaustion rolls through him. Fuck this, he thinks. He should have just had a wank in the shower, like normal people.
"Alright, you know what," he says. "Just go. I'll pay for your taxi and just - just go. Tell whoever I spoke to on the phone to get a fucking hearing aid or something."
Novak huffs a breath of laughter and doesn't move, just rocks back on his heels a little. "Rough day?"
He has an accent, something vaguely East European. Serb, maybe.
"Yeah," Andy says. "Rough. So if you could just, you know." He steps away from the door, clearing the guy's exit.
"Okay, okay," Novak says, affably. "Although, you know, since I am here. I could help you to relax?"
"Thanks," Andy says. "But no."
"You don't go with guys, ever?" Novak shrugs. "A blow-job's a blow-job, no? You can shut your eyes, if you like."
Andy doesn't know what tell-tale of weakness Novak spots there in that fatal second of hesitation, but whatever it is makes his smile twist to something knowing. Andy swallows. He's not panicking. Yet.
"I'm already paying your ride home," he says. "You don't have to earn it."
He doesn't mean it nasty, but that's the way it comes out - spiky and harsh and mean.
Novak takes it easily, with a loose roll of his shoulders like he's shrugging the blow away. Like he's taken worse than whatever Andy can dish out. Another step brings him into the area that Andy defines as personal space. Andy's heart beats like a proximity alarm.
"You don't go with guys," Novak says, in a tone that says I don't believe you, like, at all. Andy, breathing a little hard now, wants to snap back that no, actually, he doesn't go with guys - and it wouldn't be a lie - it would be true, semantically. Andy doesn't go with guys. But he's been with guys, and apparently his dick isn't in the mood for word games: he's hard in his jeans, and Novak has noticed.
"You wanna tell me to stay?" Novak asks. Andy makes a stupid sound somewhere between a cough and a gasp. Novak says, "I'm not gonna stay, unless you ask."
Andy thinks distantly that it's better to be hanged for a sheep than a lamb and manages, hoarse and barely audible, "Stay." Blood flushes into his cheeks, and other places. Novak grins. He leans in closer.
"Tell me to suck your cock," he says, bringing his hands to rest poised at the buckle of Andy's belt.
"Jesus Christ," Andy hisses. He tips his head back against the cool wall, and swallows. Novak's dark, clever eyes watch the convulsive movement of his throat.
"Tell me," Novak says, unbuckling Andy's belt with slow deliberate movements, and it's like he fucking knows exactly what buttons to push - what to say, how to say it; exactly how much push Andy will take. "Tell me to suck your cock."
"Fucking," Andy rasps. "Will you - will you just - do it?"
"Do what," says Novak. He stills puts one hand flat to the muscle of Andy's stomach under his shirt; an oddly kind, intimate little gesture, all things considered. "Come on. Tell me."
He could die here. "Suck my cock," Andy says. He hears it, the flat Scots sounds, and flushes, mortified and turned on in about equal measure.
But Novak just murmurs, "Yeah," with an amused and satisfied twist of his mouth as he slowly, slowly unbuckles Andy's belt and draws it out of his belt-loops with practised smoothness.
"Brace yourself," Novak says, with an upward glance that's cocky as fuck, and there's a comeback on the tip of Andy's tongue at the exact moment that Novak puts his mouth on him, and okay, so, maybe he can afford to be a little cocky after all.
"Fuck," Andy says, breathy and helpless. "Fuck."
A blow-job's a blow-job, Novak had said, but he'd been selling himself short. No wonder a guy can make a living sucking cock like this, Andy thinks - is vaguely sickened with himself for thinking it, and yet. Andy reaches down and gets a grip on the short bristles of Novak's dark hair. Novak makes an appreciative, encouraging sound, a low hum, and Andy hisses.
Andy is balanced on the exquisite knife-edge of orgasm when Novak pulls off, looks up and asks with his amazing obscene mouth, "Do you want to come on my face?" and Jesus, Andy thinks distantly, what a fucking question. He's not sure he says anything coherent but maybe the distaste shows on his face; Novak seems to get the drift anyway, and lowers his head again to bring Andy off quickly with some fantastic tandem movement of mouth and hand.
The orgasm hits him like a shot to the heart. His knees buckle - they must, because one second he's gasping up at the ceiling and the next he's on the floor, tangled in his own shoved-down jeans with Novak laughing at him, saying something he's too far gone for the moment to listen to.
"Jesus fuck," Andy says, when he can. His voice is scratchy and rough in his throat.
"Blasphemer," Novak says, with a sinning smile. Andy just stares at him, incoherent in the misty gold-hued afterglow.
Novak wipes stray spots of semen from the corner of his mouth with his fingertips, then he puts them into his mouth, sucks them clean. It's not lascivious, exactly, but he looks steadily at Andy while he does it, dark eyed and almost playful. Andy wonders if it's something he likes to do, or if it's a thing he thinks Andy will like to watch. It's hot as fuck either way; but it nags at him a little, the not knowing. He swallows around the urge to kiss Novak, wet and messy, to chase the taste of himself into Novak's mouth. He doesn't know if that's a thing Novak does, and it's a question he doesn't know how to ask. Pretty Woman is the extent of his prior experience with hookers, and Julia Roberts never knelt on the floor with a red ruined mouth licking come from her fingertips. Or maybe she did; Andy fell asleep when Kim tried to show him through that movie. Maybe he missed the good parts.
The point is, he's screwed.