Worship in the Bedroom

Christophe cupped Wout’s cheek and chin with one hand, tilting Wout’s head up so Wout was looking into his eyes. His brows were drawn together with concern.

Wout sat on the bed. Christophe stood between his spread knees. “Please,” Wout said. He leaned into Christophe’s touch. Christophe was so warm, and Wout’s brain was a mess. Most of the time, he had a handle on it. He could push away all the distractions and focus on what was most important. Right now, the anger, the disappointment, and the frustration were playing in a loop in his head. Two hundred and fifty-six kilometers, two punctures, and another year’s hopes and dreams crushed on the cobbles of France. Wout continued, “I need this.”

Christophe nodded and took a deep breath. “I know,” he said. “I want to give you what you need.” He stepped back so he could peel off his shirt and boxers. He was long and lean, like so many of them were, but Wout knew the strength in him. He could hold Wout down. He could force Wout out of his head.

Wout closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing. In and out. In and out. He was a creature of his body. He could only control so much. Sometimes his brain forgot that. That’s why he needed Christophe here. Christophe would make his brain to remember.

Christophe pushed Wout down until Wout was on his back. His touch was careful. The first few times they did this, he had been so hesitant and delicate with Wout, like Wout was some kind of prized show pony, like he was worried that one wrong move meant getting kicked off the team. Now that hesitation was gone, but the care remained.

Wout relaxed into the mattress. Christophe’s sheets were soft and luxurious against his bare skin. Wout didn’t have any proof, but he thought maybe Christophe brought out the nice sheets when Wout visited him here in France. He sighed when Christophe kissed him. His mouth was as soft and as luxurious as his sheets, hot and wet as Wout explored it with his tongue. Wout did his best to push everything else away. The only thing that mattered, that could ever matter, was the slide of lips over lips.

Christophe kissed his way down Wout’s jaw, his neck, his collarbones. His mouth was slow and deliberate. He lavished each spot with attention, small nips and nibbles accompanied by a hint of tongue. Wout tangled his fingers in Christophe’s hair. He needed to ground himself in the things he could touch and feel. “More,” Wout whimpered, even if he knew Christophe wouldn’t be swayed by bribery or begging.

Christophe didn’t respond, not in words anyway. He simply kissed his way down Wout’s sternum before attending to Wout’s nipples with his teeth, one after the other. Wout could feel his cock hardening between them. He usually ignored it in these situations. Christophe could handle him. Wout trusted that now. Wout trusted that always.

He shivered as Christophe continued his way downward. His lips followed the trail of hair leading to Wout’s crotch. He didn’t linger there. Instead, he pressed soft kisses to each of Wout’s hips. His lips traced the shape of the ugly scar on Wout’s left one. Wout wanted to squirm. He didn’t hate his scars, but it always made him self conscious when people paid attention to them. He didn’t like their pity. There wasn’t any pity in Christophe’s touch, though. Wout forced himself to be still.

When Christophe reached Wout’s thighs, he paused. “You are so strong,” he whispered, before he sunk his teeth into the meat of Wout’s quad.

Wout opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, unable to bring himself to meet Christophe’s gaze. He didn’t want to see the adoration there. He shook his head. “Please don’t,” he choked out. It didn’t matter how strong he was if he couldn’t– if he didn’t– Maybe winning wasn’t everything, but in this sport, with these expectations, he knew he was a disappointment.

“But you are,” Christophe insisted. His voice had the steady confidence it only had when speaking in French. “You are the strongest person I know.” He bit into the other thigh.

Wout shuddered. “It didn’t matter yesterday.” What good was strength when he had nothing to show for it? Christophe’s lips found another scar, the one on Wout’s left knee. He was tender with this one, too. Wout resisted the urge to kick him away.

“I’m sorry,” Christophe said, “I wasn’t there when you needed me to be.” He shifted up and took Wout’s cock in his mouth. The suddenness of it sent a shock through Wout’s system. Tight, wet heat engulfed him. He couldn’t stop the jerk of his hips. Christophe accepted it without hesitation or protest. Wout’s hands found Christophe’s neck, his hair, his shoulders. It felt too good. He didn’t deserve Christophe’s words. He wasn’t sure he deserved this either.

Christophe pulled out every trick in the book, like he could make up for all the terrible disappointment with just the skill of his mouth. It wasn’t enough. “Please,” Wout said. His fingers tightened on Christophe’s shoulders. He let himself look down to see Christophe’s mouth spread wide, his lips shiny and red. Despite the distraction Christophe was providing, Wout’s brain was still too busy, too crammed full of thoughts. He needed Christophe to make them stop.

Christophe pulled back, letting Wout’s cock fall from his lips. “I wasn’t able to take care of you yesterday,” he said, “but I can take care of you now.” His green eyes were dark and intent. His voice was threaded through with a fierce loyalty. Wout believed him. Christophe loved in a way that was unwavering. He wasn’t the loudest or the most demonstrative about it, and yet Wout wouldn’t want anyone else riding for him. “I just– I need–” Wout said. His French was okay, but the vocabulary escaped him sometimes.

“I know,” Christophe said. He licked the tip of Wout’s cock before getting up onto his knees. His hands settled on Wout’s sides, and he turned Wout so that Wout was on his belly.

Wout buried his face in the pillow. That helped. He squeezed his eyes shut, embracing the darkness behind his eyelids. Like this, he could let the rest of the world fade away.

The first press of Christophe’s lube-slick fingers against his hole coaxed a shudder from him. Wout loved the feeling of being opened up, both his body’s initial resistance and its eventual capitulation. And Christophe knew just how much Wout’s body could take. His movements were steady and sure.

More fingers. Wout wanted roughness, but Christophe’s motions were slow and unhurried. “Please,” Wout begged. His voice was muffled in the pillow. He shifted his hips up to try to get more friction.

Christophe didn’t let him get away with it. His other hand found Wout’s hip, and he used that leverage to force Wout into stillness. Wout whined, because yes, this is what he wanted. He wanted to let go of his own hard-fought control because he knew Christophe would be there to pick up the slack. Christophe said, very matter-of-factly, “You’ll take what I give you.”

Wout wanted to push back, to see if he could goad Christophe into harshness, but he’d left all his fight behind in the Roubaix Velodrome. He shoved his face further into the pillow. Wout hated crying over this race, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Another year, another failure. His eyes were wet. They were going to leave tear tracks on the pillow case.

He did his best to push the memories aside so that he could focus on the sensations. Christophe had long, elegant fingers, and he knew how to use them. Each push into Wout’s body sent pleasure ricocheting up and down his nerve endings. He needed more, though. He needed to be forced down into that place where he couldn’t think anymore, only feel.

Christophe removed his fingers. Wout let out a high-pitched whine at the loss. Christophe’s hand was still there on Wout’s hip, pressing him into the mattress. And then Christophe’s chest was against Wout’s back. His body was a warm, comforting weight. Christophe kissed one of Wout’s shoulder blades. His cock was nestled in between the cheeks of Wout’s ass.

“You are so beautiful and so strong,” Christophe murmured, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He lined up his hips and then pushed inside.

Wout always loved getting fucked, not just the physical sensations, but also the intimacy and intensity of trusting someone else to do this to you, for you. Christophe was everywhere. On top of him, inside him. Wout let out a soft, pleased noise of approval.

“You’re so incredible,” Christophe continued. “You’re the best rider in the world.” He started fucking Wout in earnest, but it wasn’t the fast, hard, and dirty version Wout had expected and wanted. His rhythm was slow and steady, almost leisurely.

Wout shook his head. His face was still pressed against the pillow. “Don’t,” he bit out. He liked getting compliments, the way most people did, but he hated having smoke blown up his ass. He wasn’t good enough, wasn’t strong enough, on the cobbles. The last thing he wanted was pretty lies. He didn’t need false comfort. He needed to win.

“But you are,” Christophe said. “I feel honored every day I get to ride with you.” He didn’t slow down, didn’t stop. The pleasure coiled in Wout’s belly, building and building with each thrust. He couldn’t stop it, and he wouldn’t want to even if he could, but–

Wout’s throat burned with shame. His eyes stung. “I wasn’t– I haven’t been good enough.” Another runner-up trophy to add to his cabinet full of them. Christophe could– Christophe could do better.

“You would be the strongest and the best rider I have ever known even if you never won another race again,” Christophe said. He punctuated the statement with a rock of his hips.

Wout wanted to wriggle away, to hide, from the earnest insistence of Christophe’s voice, but he couldn’t. He was trapped underneath the weight of Christophe’s body. Christophe’s cock was deep inside him. “I’m not–” Wout tried again.

“You are.” Christophe told him with unflinching certainty. When he first joined Jumbo-Visma, Christophe always spoke with a hesitant uptick, especially in English, a language he had only had cursory practice in. When he had felt settled and confident in his place on the team, that had faded away. There’s no trace of it now.

Wout wanted to keep pushing back, wanted to– but he couldn’t. Another wave of tears pricked behind his eyelids. It was difficult to hear, and yet– Christophe never lied to him. He took pride in being forthright and direct. Christophe pressed a kiss between Wout’s shoulder blades. It was such a gentle, worshipful touch. Wout was so tired. He did the only thing he could do: he surrendered.

Christophe continued, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I’m sorry that our luck was so terrible. But you were incredible. You were so strong, so powerful.” He thrust harder, picking up speed. The flow of words kept coming, as unrelenting as the push and pull of his body. “I love watching you ride. I love being with you when you ride. I love having you on my team. I love seeing you like this.”

All Wout could do was take it. The onslaught of praise. The onslaught of pleasure. He was swamped with sensation. He was being dragged under.

Christophe kept up the stream of words, cloying sweet, sweetly adoring. He had learned how to wring pleasure from Wout’s body, and he took full advantage of that knowledge. As Christophe fucked him harder, every thrust forced Wout’s cock into the mattress. Wout bit down on the pillow. He felt pulled apart in the best sort of way. He felt emptied, wiped clean. No past full of disappointments and no future full of expectations.

Eventually, Wout came with a moan. The sound was forced through a mouthful of expensive cotton. Christophe followed soon after. His teeth found Wout’s shoulder, and Wout luxuriated in the bright sting of pain.

Christophe collapsed on top of him, sweaty and heavy and warm, but only for a moment. He pulled away, peeling them apart. Wout let out a small, annoyed whine as Christophe climbed off the bed. It was mostly for show. He knew Christophe would return.

Wout took a deep breath and rolled over onto his back. He blinked his eyes open and stared at the ceiling. He felt loose-limbed and sleepy, the way he often did after a good orgasm. Christophe came back from the bathroom with a damp cloth.

“I meant it.” Christophe said. His touch was gentle and reverent as he wiped Wout clean. “Every word.” His eyes were clear and intent as they met Wout’s.

Wout nodded mutely. Christophe couldn’t change what had happened. He couldn’t guarantee a victory next year, either. But this, his care and his comfort, Wout needed it as much, if not more, than any trophy or medal.

Christophe said, “I wanted to make it better.” He pressed his forehead to Wout’s. “I want to make things good for you.”

Wout reached up. He touched Christophe’s nose, his chin, his cheek. Christophe leaned into the touch. His eyes drifted closed. Wout felt so much. His heart was bursting with it. No, this didn’t fix anything that had happened, but it was still– it was still everything. “I love you, too,” he said.

FIN.