“I beat you, you know,” Ryan says, playfully shoving Michael toward the starting block. His hair’s beginning to dry and his medal dangles away from his chest as he leans over Michael’s back to his ear. He can see the glint of gold bobbing against Michael’s spine, and he thinks, dude, this may be the most fucking awesome thing I’ve ever seen.
“For once,” Michael counters, already shimmying out of his workout bottoms and boxers.
Ryan snorts. “Once is all it takes, bro. I think I’ve earned a piece of this,” he says, slapping Michael’s ass and admiring the red handprint it leaves behind. “And where better than the place it all went down?” He nips Michael’s ear, hard.
“The place it will all go down when I hit my stride and kick your ass,” Michael snaps, trying to turn his head to see the potential look of hurt he hopes this’ll cause to spill across Ryan’s face. Ryan just smiles and tugs at Michael’s still-damp hair. Ryan thinks he can almost hear the sharp gasp Michael takes in echoing off of the walls of the arena, and it makes him smile even wider.
“Shut up.” They’ve been doing this since Beijing, off and on, and he’s given Michael so many sloppy post-race blowjobs that he thinks that he’s owed a little corner of the great Michael Phelps for himself. He can practically hear Michael’s heart hammering in that giant chest of his, anticipating. “You owe me this,” is all he allows himself to say. “Like I said, I beat you.”
He can see the look of trepidation across Michael’s face – always fucking worrying about getting caught by that chatty bitch from NBC – and nudges Michael down lower with one hand at the small of his back. “Don’t worry, baby. Just bend that slutty little ass over. Reezy’s going to take care of the rest.” If Michael wasn’t so anxious about getting caught in another PR nightmare and Bob and his mom killing him this time for sure, he’d snort at the nickname.
But by some miracle, he leans forward. His fingers curl where his toes had earlier in the evening, and there he is, bent the fuck over in lane eight. It’s like some twisted repeat of the race, where Ryan had, y’know, metaphorically bent him the fuck over by those four minutes and five point one eight seconds, damn it to hell.
“That’s a good boy,” Ryan soothes, sliding one hand the strong plane of Michael’s back. The medal is cold between their bodies when he leans down himself to suck a little at the place where Michael’s neck meets the broadness of his shoulder.
“No marks,” Michael warns, and it only makes Ryan want to bite him so the whole fucking Olympic village and their faithful red-white-and-blue viewership from across the Atlantic knows exactly what a little whore their Beijing golden boy is when he’s not neck-deep in chlorine. He doesn’t, though. This is a precarious balancing act, the way Michael lets him do this to him. He’s never gotten much of a chance to take what’s his, giving and giving instead. The memory of eight quick and dirty rounds of head back in China makes him wince, even four years later in London.
“Whatever,” Ryan murmurs cheerfully, pressing his mouth hard between Michael’s shoulder blades and trying to pretend it’s not a kiss, just something two guys high on a victory do to each other to blow off some steam.
The medal drags against Michael’s back, and Ryan can tell he’s got a pained expression at being beaten. “Can’t you take that fucking thing off, dude?” Michael protests, but they both know that it’s enough of a concession that Ryan isn’t nipping down his spine with a fucking American flag grill right now. Ryan doesn’t answer, just holds Michael apart with his hands and drags the pointed tip of his tongue across Michael’s hole.
They’ve never done this before, not even when they did this little dance in Beijing. They’ve never even fucked before, and Michael shudders and tries not to whimper. Champions don’t whimper. That fucking Soviet Union chick he’s currently trying not to think about out-medaling wouldn’t have whimpered if her best friend was currently - oh, fuck - and his train of thought not only derails but explodes beside the track as Ryan slides two mysteriously slick fingers inside of him.
Ryan can’t keep the look of pride off his face when Michael moans and presses back against his hand. “Tight like a little virgin,” he sneers, just because he’s feeling mean, like a king or some shit, all draped in gold and hoes. Michael just rocks his hips backward, needy and embarrassed. “You’re going to feel so good around me.”
It definitely makes Michael whimper now, the anticipation of being made to fit Ryan.
“Relax, Phelps,” Ryan says, because now he’s feeling the littlest bit merciful within the span of thirty seconds. “I’ll make you feel good too.” Ryan slides his own workout bottoms down, no underwear, and presses the hard-on he’s been trying to subdue since the podium against Michael’s ass where his fingers disappear inside of a national fucking treasure. “Tell me you’re ready to take it,” he commands, like so many dudes he’s seen in porn, feeling like he’s got a starring role in XXX Olympians, and it makes him snort back laughter. He flexes his fingers to remind Michael he’s serious.
“Come on, Ryan, please.”
“That doesn’t sound very sincere, dude,” Ryan says contemplatively.
“Please,” Michael grits out, knees trembling against the starting block. His knuckles are beginning to whiten from his grip. Yep, definitely the most fucking awesome thing ever.
“I’d make you beg a little more for me, but I’m tired of waiting,” Ryan tells him, sliding one hand down his side to curl around those Olympic rings Michael’s fought so hard his entire life to earn. Ryan rummages in the pocket of his discarded pants to find the little bottle of lube he’s snagged from his gym bag. He also pulls out a condom and shudders at the memory of all the fucking horrific dick-rot pictures public-health-extraordinaire Nathan Adrian showed the relay guys on his laptop en route to the UK a couple of days ago.
“Please, don’t make me wait,” Michael says softly at the loss of Ryan’s fingers, and Ryan definitely kisses him this time, right in the center of his back. It’s fleeting, however, and he rolls the condom on and slicks himself liberally so that the entire world’s media won’t be speculating tomorrow on why Michael Phelps is walking so goddamn funny.
When Ryan slides inside of him, Michael cries out like a wild thing, and Ryan pretends it’s the roar of the crowd again.
“Ryan, I –,” Michael stammers, but Ryan cuts him off by lunging forward and mashing their mouths together. Not very graceful, but even their teeth briefly clicking together isn’t enough to make Ryan regret it. Michael makes a small, almost pained noise into his mouth, fingers twitching like they want something to hold onto other than the rough texture of the block below him.
“I was right. Tight as fuck,” Ryan says when he breaks the kiss and slams his hips forward. “Be a good little whore and tell me how much you like it.” And Michael feels like a whore, trembling in Ryan’s grip, cock bobbing neglected in the air.
“You feel so big,” Michael practically whines, and it goes straight to Ryan’s dick. “I like it.” It’s a simple statement, but the raggedness of Michael’s breath shatters the words and rakes them all over Ryan’s body. Michael’s body feels like it’s on fire. “Please, Ry.” And Ryan’s definitely not in the mood to tease, not anymore, not with Michael arching and straining beneath him. “Touch me.”
Ryan slides his hand across Michael’s belly, letting it inch downward to close around Michael’s length. “Good boy,” he murmurs, beginning strokes that are almost as rough as the snapping of his hips. He wants to badly to bite, to bruise Michael so that the world can see, but knows he’s about an inch from scaring Michael off, and that’s the last thing he wants when he’s balls deep in the most glorious tight heat he’s ever known. This is definitely how it feels to be king. “Want to come?”
“Fuck yeah,” Michael exhales as Ryan licks away the light sheen of sweat on his neck. “Please.”
All that training’s really paying off, Ryan guesses, because he’s not even feeling tired himself, but he is feeling so fucking close he can’t stand it. He can see Michael’s toes curling, and the sight combined with the quiet, desperate noises Michael’s making send him over the edge. He comes, white-hot and burning still.
Michael sighs unhappily at the loss as Ryan pulls out, but he’s practically wailing when Ryan slides in with three fingers and rubs over his prostate with little pretense. Michael sobs, and this time it does echo. “So close,” he gasps out, hands still gripping the edge of the starting block, eyes clenched tightly shut.
“Come on, baby. Do it,” Ryan urges, crooking his fingers even harder, deeper still inside of Michael. “Come for me. I wanna see it.”
And Michael obeys, clenching around Ryan’s fingers as he makes a sound that’s almost close to despair when he comes.
He’s shaking when he comes down from the high of his orgasm. Ryan’s still smiling, that grin never leaving his face, and he kisses hotly down Michael’s neck. Michael shivers, hands not leaving the block no matter how badly he wants to thread them through Ryan’s hair and kiss him squarely on the mouth. He doesn’t, though, and continues to shake as Ryan pulls Michael’s workout bottoms back up and tucks his cock away almost tenderly.
Ryan pulls his own pants back up and turns Michael around to face him. “Good to go, dude?” he asks, one hand on Michael’s cheek, directing his face back to Ryan when Michael flinches away from the gold medal shining brightly against his tanned chest.
“Wait until the four hundred, asshole,” Michael says, mustering up a shaky smile.