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Olav tries not to tense at the first touch of Wout’s hand on his back. He’s not some shy, blushing virgin. He’s fucked guys before. He’s even fucked Wout before. Plenty of times. Bent Wout over furniture. Shoved Wout onto mattresses. Felt Wout come apart underneath his cock. Wout loves it, as far as Olav can tell. He tells Olav that often enough, mouth open, drool spilling over his bottom lip.

Olav understands, intellectually, that it must feel good. Wout’s not some blushing virgin either. He knows what he wants. He’s not shy about giving Olav directions, telling Olav to go harder or slower or at a different angle.

It got Olav curious. What was it like on the other side of things? Would he like it half as much? He asked Wout about it once, while Wout was on his back, legs spread. Wout had grinned up at him, a little sharp, a little knowing. “I could show you,” he had said. Olav’s mouth went dry, and his face flushed. He knew he got splotchy like that, but he also knew Wout liked it.

“Maybe later,” Olav had mumbled.

Wout smirked. Not in a mean way or anything, but Olav still felt compelled to kiss that smile off his face, and then do a bunch of other things, too.

Now they’re here. Olav is spread out on the bed, chest down. He has his arms wrapped around a pillow, and he rests his chin on top of it. His heart hammers in his chest. It’s not like the moment before a sprint, his body coiled and ready to strike. It’s more like the beginning of a race: a muted tension that runs through his body. His energy banked, simmering.

“Okay,” Wout says. His voice is a low, deep rumble. There’s a gentleness to it. Wout on a bike is intimidating, a powerhouse. In private, he’s just like anyone else. He loves to make puns in a mishmash of languages. He is constantly checking his pockets, convinced he left his keys or his snacks or his wallet behind. He gels his hair before races, even though they’ll be wearing helmets for the next five hours. Olav has never been scared of Wout, not even when Wout was the team’s shining star and Olav was just the punk dev team sprinter admiring Wout’s wins. He refuses to be scared of Wout now.

A bottle cap snaps open. Olav’s fingers tighten around the pillow. Usually, Olav is the one covering his hands in lube. He knows what comes next.

One of Wout’s large hands settles on Olav’s hip. It’s grounding. This, at least, is familiar. “The lube might be a little cold,” Wout says.

Olav nods. He forces his body to relax. He knows the difference it can make from some of his early attempts at trying anal with other guys, putting his fingers up someone’s ass for the first time, when he was going off an odd mixture of practical internet advice and gay porn. He focuses on his breathing. Steady. In and out.

He still flinches at the first press of Wout’s fingers against him. His body seizes up involuntarily. “Hey,” Wout says, “It’s just me.” He sounds like he’s talking down a spooked animal.

Olav does know that. Easier said than done. Wout gives his hip a small squeeze. Olav leans into it. He trusts Wout, of course. In the hectic rush of a bunch sprint, he will always be willing to follow Wout’s wheel. He knows Wout will drop him off exactly when and where he needs to be. This is different. Even compared to the dangers of a crash, this feels risky, a different kind of vulnerability than what smashing against the tarmac might do.

And yet, it’s still Wout. When they shared hotel rooms during the Tour of Britain, Olav had felt giddy and adoring and stupid with it every time he saw Wout naked. He hadn’t thought of himself as a starry-eyed kid. He knew he was good enough to deserve quality lead outs, even at the level of Wout himself. But that was in a race, on a bike. In private, while sharing rooms together, Olav spent too much time staring at the curves of Wout’s legs and the line of Wout’s jaw.

Wout noticed. Olav could do subtlety, but he couldn’t do it for nine days straight in close quarters. After Wout took the overall win, fighting nearly the whole peloton the whole way, the team was happy, celebrating. Olav was almost convinced that he’d gotten away with it. Right up until Wout had looked straight at him and said, “You can fuck me if you want.” Well, Olav did want that. And so he did.

The first touch of Wout’s slick fingers against his ass almost makes him jump. As much as he can jump while laid out on a bed anyway. At first, it’s delicate, feather-light. Then it gets more insistent.

One finger pushes into him. It feels weird. Maybe a little uncomfortable. Nothing Olav can’t handle. Wout twists the finger, just enough friction to send sparks along his nerve endings. Olav’s breath hitches.

“Okay?” Wout asks. He presses a kiss to the dip of Olav’s back. His mouth is soft and wet.

Olav nods. “Yes,” he says. This is nothing. He wants more. He shifts his hips backwards, pressing into Wout’s touch.

Wout’s lips pull into a smile. Olav can feel it against his skin. Wout responds to Olav’s unspoken demand by thrusting his finger further in. Olav has spent entire meals fixated on Wout’s hands before, and now one of those fingers is inside him.

Olav thinks this shouldn’t feel like a revelation, shouldn’t make him shivery and hot all over. He’s done this to other guys before. He’s done this to Wout before. None of that prepared him for the intensity and vulnerability of having it done to him.

Wout pumps that finger in and out. The motion is slow and deliberate. Olav’s body opens up and adjusts to this new sensation. It’s starting to feel good, pleasurable even. Olav has been half-hard since he and Wout took off their clothes. Now his cock fills and thickens beneath him, trapped between him and the mattress. He sinks into the sensations. Wout speeds up. He crooks his finger.

Olav groans at the stretch, at the new flare of pleasure. “More,” he hisses out. He had no idea — or maybe he did have some idea, but only in the vague, theoretical sense. His head is spinning. His skin feels hot all over. Both a different and the same sort of arousal.

Wout inserts another finger and sinks them both in deep. His fingers are long enough and wide enough that everything does become more. More intense. More pleasurable. Olav lets out a groan. Has it really felt like this the whole time? He didn’t even know he had nerve endings in some of these places.

“Good, yeah?” Wout asks, as if he genuinely can’t tell that Olav’s brain feels like it’s leaking out of his ears.

“Fuck,” Olav hisses out. Wout is good at this, and it’s annoying because Wout is so good at so many things already. It’s just not fair.

Wout laughs. It’s a warm, rich sound. Not cruel or mocking in any way. Just low and amused. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” He adds another finger. Three, now.

Full. That’s the only way Olav can think to describe the experience. His muscles stretch. His body opens. Wout curls his fingers, and Olav’s hips jerk of their own volition. His nerves spark again, deeper and more intense this time.

Wout presses kisses along the knobs of his spine. “Do you think you can come like this?” he asks. “With my fingers inside you?”

Olav would probably be more embarrassed by the strength of his own reaction if he hadn’t seen Wout as undone as he feels right now. “Please,” Olav gasps out. He can feel the orgasm building just a bit more with every twist of Wout’s fingers. He pushes himself up onto his knees, both so that he can get more leverage and so he can reach between his legs and palm his cock.

Wout sinks his teeth into a shoulder blade. The sting of pain only pushes the pleasure higher. A whimper escapes Olav’s throat. “You’re a natural at this,” Wout whispers. “You’re taking it so well.”

Olav’s hand is clumsy as he tries to jerk himself off, but it doesn’t matter. He just needs the extra bit of heat and friction. His eyes fall closed as he moans again.

“This is the best part,” Wout says, voice low and confessional, “when it’s just– it’s right on the edge of being too much and you feel greedy for more anyway.” Wout’s long fingers find Olav’s prostate. Or, at least, that’s what Olav assumes it is, because the sensation is so intense, his vision gets dark at the edges.

He’s beyond words at this point. He can only groan into the pillow and twitch his hip back.

“Yeah, like that,” Wout says. “Come for me.” He speeds up the thrusts of his fingers, applying pressure along all of those newfound nerve endings.

Olav does the only thing he can do, the only thing he wants to do: he follows Wout’s lead. He comes with his mouth open, gasping for air, his forehead pressed up against the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut, his cock spilling onto the sheets below him.

As his body begins to register sensations again. he feels Wout’s hand gently petting his back, long, soothing strokes. Olav’s fingertips are still tingling. He rolls onto his back. His butt ends up in the wet spot, but he’s too blissed out to care.

Wout presses a kiss to his neck. His long body is pressed up against Olav’s side. “So,” Wout says, “what do you think?”

“It was good,” Olav mumbles. His mouth is gummy and dry.

“Good enough to try again?” Wout starts nibbling up Olav’s neck, settling when he finds the tender spot behind Olav’s ear.

“Yeah. We could give that a shot,” Olav says. He’s trying for nonchalance, but it’s probably not convincing, what with the way he shivers every time Wout’s teeth meet skin.

Another laugh from Wout. Now Olav can feel the way it rumbles in his chest. “Just as long as we keep doing it the other way, too.” He grinds his hard cock against Olav’s hip.

Olav thinks of what it would be like to go further. Wout’s cock inside of him, fucking him open, making him writhe and gasp and pant. He thinks of returning the favor, using Wout’s body until Wout is nothing but a hollowed-out mess. “Deal,” he says, and he seals the promise with a kiss.