I Want to Hold Your Hand

“Are you sure?” Wout asks. He’s not usually nervous about this sort of thing, trying out new and different sex stuff, but this is more intense than handcuffs or blindfolds or even that one time when Mathieu dragged him into the bathroom of the Alpecin team bus and sucked Wout off while his teammates and several trainers were just one thin doorway away.

Mathieu rolls his eyes. “Yes, I am fucking sure, just like I was sure the last five times you asked.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for caring about the safety and well-being of my partner,” Wout bites back.

Mathieu flops down onto the bed face first. He wriggles his bare ass in Wout’s direction. “Come on,” he says. Just shove your whole hand right in there.”

Wout huffs out an annoyed breath. He loves bottoming, loves the push, the stretch, the feel of his body opening up, but he does not love it anywhere near as much as Mathieu loves it. Mathieu gets needy and impatient when he’s bottoming, prone to fits of recklessness that leave them both reeling and Wout certain that one or both of them is going to get hurt. That’s why Wout has to be the responsible one here. He doesn’t mind exactly, but it does mean he has an embarrassing number of tabs open in his browser with titles like ‘5 Tips for First-Time Fisters.’ He just likes to be prepared, though he is also terrified of how much Google now knows about his sex life.

“It never takes you this long to put your dick up my ass,” Mathieu complains. He shoots an annoyed look over his shoulder.

Wout sighs again and swats one of Mathieu’s asscheeks. “Turn over,” he says instead of giving Mathieu another lecture on safe kink practices. (That had been another set of embarrassing Google searches that Wout is praying that WielerFlits never gets their hands on.)

Mathieu turns over. On another night, he might drag it out just to be difficult, just to get Wout to spank him a few more times, but he’s even more eager to get this show on the road than Wout is. He hadn’t even complained much about Wout being an annoying busybody earlier when they were scrubbing themselves down in the shower, making sure Mathieu’s ass was as clean as they were going to get it. Mathieu stretches his arms over his head, showing off all the long, lean lines of his body in the way that he knows Wout likes. He raises his eyebrows in a clear goad, a clear challenge.

“Yeah, like that,” Wout says as he grabs one of the pillows and shoves it underneath Mathieu’s hips. He loves fucking Mathieu face down, watching the shifting muscles of his back, the way Mathieu always gets wilder, greedier, more desperate for every bit of sensation. But for this, he wants to be able to see Mathieu’s face. Not only so that he can gauge Mathieu’s reactions and make sure this stays good for him, but also because Wout loves watching Mathieu’s face when he comes.

Wout grabs a tube of lube from the bedside table and then nudges Mathieu’s legs apart so that he can settle between them. There’s a spare bottle in the drawer if it ends up being necessary. Mathieu gave him some shit about that earlier, but Wout refuses to let a shortage of lube interrupt their activities tonight, especially since those same websites had been very adamant that they would need more lube than they thought they did.

Mathieu is worked up just from the anticipation. His cock is starting to harden, interested even before Wout has touched it once. His shoulders have a bit of tension to them, but it’s the kind that will lead to fidgeting, not to Mathieu freaking out. Wout slathers his fingers with lube. This part, at the very least, is familiar. Mathieu doesn’t need or particularly like any preamble, so Wout pushes one finger in, then two.

“Yeah, like that,” Mathieu says. He tilts his head back, his eyes falling half-closed.

They’d spent time working up to this, testing and pushing the limits of Mathieu’s body for the past week, stretching him wider and wider until Wout was confident that they were ready for the main event. (Mathieu clearly would have said he was good to go from day one, but Wout is not going to risk tearing something just because Mathieu is a greedy slut.)

Wout has fingered Mathieu enough times that it feels simple, easy, practiced. Like riding a bike, even. Mathieu can take this many fingers easily with nothing more than spit, a fact they’ve put to the test more than once during the Tour, when time and energy is always in short supply. Mathieu usually enjoys this part and is willing to to savor it, but tonight he’s restless, letting his impatience show. “Come on,” he says. “This is nothing.” He shoves himself back onto Wout’s fingers just to make a point.

He’s being such a brat about it that Wout rolls his eyes, but Wout still adds another finger. Mathieu’s body takes this one too. No resistance at all.

Mathieu lets out a pleased noise. “Yeah,” he says. “More.” His cock has hardened completely at this point, thick and flushed in a way that makes Wout’s mouth water, that makes Wout want to put it down his throat. But it won’t do to get distracted, not while he has more important things to focus on.

He adds a generous amount of lube and a fourth finger. Mathieu groans out a, “Fuck yes.” His eyes fall fully closed, and his whole body seems to melt into the bed. He always gets like this when he gets something inside him, whether it’s fingers or a cock or a toy, all blissed out and lost in pleasure, but it’s never less than breathtaking. He’s so vulnerable like this, so open and so wanting. Wout’s arousal had been simmering already, but now it feels like it’s bubbling up to the surface. For a second, he considers asking Mathieu if they can let the whole idea of fisting go so that he can just bend Mathieu in half and fuck him into the mattress instead. He holds back, though. He put so much time and effort into setting this up. He’s not going to let it go now.

Wout shifts down the bed so that he can get a better look at what he’s doing. Up until now, he’s been mostly operating on feel and experience. But from here on out, they’re moving on from things they’ve done before to things they haven’t. He pulls all his fingers out so that he can apply more lube, and Mathieu makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “No, come on. Put them back in,” Mathieu whines. One of his hands flails out, grabs at Wout’s arm, but he’s not the most coordinated right now, and he misses. Wout ignores him. He coats his fingers, his palm, the back of his hand with lube. You can’t use too much, the website had said, but it still feels ridiculous, slick and wet and shining in the light of the bedroom lamp.

Before he goes back in, Wout presses a kiss to Mathieu’s hip. Mathieu shivers at the touch. Wout can feel some of the tension in Mathieu’s body, some of the nerves. He’s not as blasé about this as he would like to pretend he is. It reminds Wout of some of their first tentative forays into sex together. They’d started out when they were barely more than teenagers, young and inexperienced, handjobs that were fueled by a toxic mix of anger and adrenaline. The mechanics of a handjob aren’t complicated, so they both were able to muddle through. Wout had been confused and horny about the whole thing, barely able to admit to himself how many times he had jerked off to the way Mathieu’s neck smelled after a race. Then Mathieu had upped the ante one day by dropping to his knees on the plush carpet of one of Wout’s hotel rooms and replacing his hand with his mouth. Wout had returned the favor, both because it seemed like the polite thing to do and because he didn’t want Mathieu to think he was some kind of coward, but it had been messy and difficult, a whole new set of skills they’d both had to develop. It took them years and more than one dramatic confession of feelings to graduate to what Mathieu colloquially called, “butt stuff.” When Wout fingered him for the first time, Mathieu had been nervous and weird about it at the beginning, but once things had really gotten going, he made a face like he was seeing God, and well, they haven’t looked back.

Trying something new together in the bedroom always makes Wout a little nostalgic for those early fumbles, those awkward and uncomfortable encounters where they could barely admit how much they liked the sex, much less how much they liked each other. He wouldn’t trade their age and experience for anything, but there’s still a sweetness to those memories.

Because he knows Mathieu can take it, Wout pushes all four fingers in at once. Mathieu grunts out a, “Fucking finally,” with more bravado than is strictly necessary, but there’s a shortness to his breath, a blotchy flush that runs from his face to his chest, and his body relaxes more and more the longer Wout’s touching him.

Wout twists and spreads his fingers, watching as the red, puffy rim of Mathieu’s asshole stretches to accommodate the movement. He applies more lube. It’s everywhere now, smeared all over Wout’s hands and Mathieu’s ass and even the bed sheets. He folds his thumb over in the way he’s seen in the diagrams and takes a deep breath and pauses for a moment. “Are you sure?” he asks again, both because he wants an answer and because Mathieu was being a shit earlier, and he deserves to be annoyed.

Mathieu manages to give Wout an uncoordinated kick to the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest. “Hurry up, dickhead,” he says. He lifts his head up enough that he can glare in Wout’s direction, though it doesn’t have any actual bite to it. It’s not like Mathieu ever looks intimidating with four fingers in his ass anyway.

Wout laughs, but then he slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, works the tip of his thumb into Mathieu’s hole. Mathieu makes a low, rumbling noise as Wout pushes in and in and in. He’s not quite loose enough to take the new digit easily, but he’s straining to get there. His head is tossed back. His hands are flexing and clenching at the sheets. One of his legs ends up hooked over Wout’s shoulder, twitching as Wout’s hand sinks deeper and deeper.

They’ve almost made it to the knuckle, to the widest part of Wout’s hand. Mathieu is whimpering, these soft noises like he can’t keep them in. His chest is heaving. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that tears are leaking from the corners. His hard cock has dribbled precome onto his belly. It’s so beautiful it takes Wout’s breath away.

“Just a little bit more,” Wout promises. He knows that they both live for these moments, testing the limits of their all-too-fragile bodies and seeing if they can make it to the other side. Compared to all the things they’ve forced themselves to endure, this is nothing. Wout has seen Mathieu’s body pushed to the edge in so many different contexts, but this one has to be his favorite. He loves it when Mathieu gets reduced to something raw and hungry, to a creature of sensation and instinct, desperate for what only Wout can give him.

Carefully, he pushes past the knuckle. The muscles clench, then relax, then clench again around his hand. Mathieu’s whimpers pick up in volume and intensity as the rest of Wout’s hand slides in, all the way up to his wrist. A line of drool runs from Mathieu’s mouth down his chin and cheek.

Fuck. They really did it. “Okay?” Wout asks.

Mathieu nods, a jerky, uncoordinated move. His body is so taut, so tense, so close to the edge already. His balls are drawn up, and his cock is so swollen and red it’s almost purple.

Wout makes a first, experimental attempt to curl his fingers, and Mathieu comes, just from that brief stimulation on his prostate, without Wout touching his cock at all tonight. The orgasm is almost entirely silent, just a violent shudder working its way through his body as he spills, white and sticky, all over his stomach. Wout has made him come just by fucking him before. He knows it’s mostly because Mathieu is just a slut for anything anal, but it’s still hot as fuck every time.

More tears are streaming down Mathieu’s cheeks. His breath is rough and loud in the otherwise silent room. His entire body is covered in a sheen of sweat. Wout waits the orgasm out as best he can. He’s so turned on his head is spinning with the arousal, but he has to make sure this is good for Mathieu, that it stays good. The shivers that run through Mathieu’s body eventually subside. Wout pets Mathieu’s thigh with his free hand, trying to offer that extra bit of contact, of comfort.

“More,” Mathieu croaks out. His voice has the same raspy quality it gets after an intense session on the trainer. He likes to keep getting fucked after an orgasm, the uncomfortable intensity of the overstimulation on sensitive nerves.

So Wout experiments with curling fingers again, twisting them, shifting forward and back, fucking Mathieu with his hand. Mathieu is so hot, so tight, so smooth inside. The muscles flex around Wout’s wrist, pulling him deeper. Wout finds Mathieu’s prostate again and digs his fingers in hard enough that the pleasure must be tipping over into pain, but Mathieu doesn’t protest, doesn’t resist, only whines and shivers and twists his fingers in the sheets. His body is making these aborted movements like he’s trying to pull back, get away, but Wout can read him like an open book, can see how much he loves being forced to take it. Besides, he can’t pull away. He’s impaled on Wout’s fist.

Mathieu’s erection hadn’t fully softened after his first orgasm, and it’s filling again with each passing breath. There’s drool leaking from the other corner of his mouth. He’s a mess of sweat and come and saliva and tears, and Wout just wants to mess him up more, wants to leave him a hollowed out wreck at the end of this.

“Do you think you can come again?” Wout asks, though it’s more of a rhetorical question than anything else. He’s not expecting an answer, not in words anyway. It’s impressive, really. Mathieu’s refractory period has never been this short before.

Mathieu’s leg on Wout’s shoulder flexes and bends like he’s trying to draw Wout closer, but he doesn’t have the strength or coordination to do more than that. Wout takes that as an affirmative, and he fucks Mathieu harder, twisting his fist so that the hard ridges of his knuckles hammer against Mathieu’s prostate with every stroke. Mathieu’s whole body is shaking now, vibrating at some beautiful, overwhelmed frequency. Wout keeps his rhythm steady but fast, the way Mathieu likes when he’s getting fucked the more conventional way. The noises Mathieu makes are barely human, a wail that goes on and on until he tips over the edge again. This orgasm is weaker than the last one, but Mathieu’s face still wrenches up in a mix of ecstasy and agony. His body seems to collapse in on itself afterwards, twitching through the aftershocks. This time, Wout knows that he’s done, that the intensity has shifted over from the good kind to the unpleasant kind.

“I’m going to pull out now,” Wout tells him. He gentles Mathieu’s shaking leg with his other hand. It’s easier to get his hand out than it was to get it in, especially now that Mathieu’s loose and sated, but Wout still moves slowly and carefully.

Mathieu lets out a little grunt as Wout frees his fingers, his thumb, but there’s no sign of pain or discomfort from him, at least as far as Wout can tell. Wout tries to take stock of their situation afterwards, to be the responsible partner here, but he gets distracted by the faint hint of a smug smile on the disaster of Mathieu’s red and fluid-stained face. It’s so gorgeous and so annoying that Wout has to crawl up his body to kiss it off of him. Mathieu is lazy about it, not really contributing much to the kiss, but it doesn’t matter. Wout’s so wound up that it only takes a few jerks of his hand on his own neglected cock before he adds his come to existing mess on Mathieu’s belly.

He draws back once he catches his breath again, just so he can admire his handiwork. Mathieu looks destroyed in the best possible way, dirtied up and filthy but also blissed out and satisfied. Wout was the one who did that to him. Wout was the one who made him that way.

“I’ll be right back,” Wout promises. He goes into the bathroom to wash his hands, to grab a wet towel. When he gets back to the bed, Mathieu is smiling for real, wide and pleased and still smug. Wout cleans his face first, wiping it clean of tears and spit, then moves on to his stomach, mopping up the come, and finally between Mathieu’s legs, where it’s still slick from all the lube.

“Mmm,” Mathieu says, more of a pleased hum than anything else, as he leans into Wout’s touch.

“So, I’m assuming that was good for you, too,” Wout says once he’s finished making sure there’s no blood or other unpleasant bodily fluids anywhere they don’t want them to be. He settles onto the bed and brushes Mathieu’s hair off his forehead. It’s getting long now, and he knows Mathieu will go to get it shorn into its usual buzzcut soon.

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Mathieu mumbles, his voice slurred in the way it gets after a very, very good orgasm. “You know that was fucking amazing.” His eyes have fallen closed now, and Wout can tell he’s about to drop off into sleep. They can deal with showering and changing the sheets in the morning. Mathieu flails out one hand to grab hold of one of Wout’s, and he threads their fingers together.

When he gives it a squeeze, Wout squeezes back.

FIN.