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He’d seen the man running by every morning.
Well, that wasn’t quite true.
He hadn’t been running EVERY morning. In the beginning, when he’d noticed him, as he sat outside on his patio drinking his morning coffee, he’d seen him walking. A very excessive, bombastic walk. Speed walking, it was called. Or some version of it that involved flailing limbs and tiny pink weights.
Most often he could hear him before he could see him, that faint fsst fsst fsst signaling his impending arrival. He couldn’t remember when this trend had started, but it was like clockwork every single day.
Around 7:19 every morning, the man with glasses would pass by his house in those horrendous purple track pants and windbreaker combo. While he normally didn’t care what someone wore during a workout, the garish attire made him stand out like a plum traffic cone. It was probably for the best, he’d hate to see his morning entertainment get nailed by a car because his pride pushed him to wear sleek black Under Armour gear.
It seemed the jogger had noticed him too, though, because the past few weeks he’d begun to give a polite nod whenever he passed. Reflexively he’d always give an equally polite raise of his mug to the jogger, either as a good morning or as a sign of encouragement. Eventually a wink was thrown in there, for good measure.
The man had been at it for months, and each time he seemed to be a little faster as he went by.
The first time he recalled seeing the poor man he was huffing and puffing just from walking, hand clutching at his chest and his hair pulled into a tight ponytail to keep it from sticking to his sweaty neck. Consistency had paid off, and slowly the man had gone from walking, to speed walking, to jogging, and eventually running.
Each day he sat on his patio, and waited for 7:19; for his morning treat to run by the house. This morning was no different.
He sat down on his rickety chair, coffee in hand, black and bitter, and he settled in with his newspaper as he waited for the tell-tale fsst fsst fsst.
Only, this time it didn’t come.
As he brought his mug to his lips, he began to wonder where the other man was. He didn’t even know his name, but he had become a critical part of his morning ritual. The day would be entirely thrown off if he didn’t see the jogger.
He wondered if maybe he took a different route. Or was he sick? He hasn't missed a morning in months. Had it really been months?
Maybe one day off—
Great, good, Hells.
He choked on his coffee, the hot liquid splashing back into his face as the jogger suddenly appeared over the crest of the hill.
Shirtless, sweaty, and a lot leaner than his baggy windbreaker had ever indicated.
Just as he was coughing and hacking, fist pounding futilely at his chest to get the coffee out of his windpipe, he heard something new.
“Are you alright?”
He looked up through watering eyes, seeing the blurry shape of the jogger standing over him with a helpfully concerned look.
“Fine.” He rasped, clearing his throat, “Just—down the wrong pipe. Never better, darling.” He cleared his throat once more to seem as casual as possible but his eyes were drawn to the man's pecs. While a hairy chest wasn’t what he had expected, it wasn’t unwelcome. Something about his bookish face gave him the impression he’d have a scrawny hairless body to match, even with the beard, but he could now see he was pleasantly, entirely, wrong.
“Are you sure?” The man asked again, and without invitation sat on the adjacent patio chair.
“Yes, of course.” He grinned easily, “Please, don’t let me interrupt.” He gestured to the direction of the street, “You’ve been on a hot streak for some time now. I’d hate to be the reason you break it.”
“You’re the reason I haven’t.” The man said, his openness refreshing. “I must admit you’ve been keeping me going. A bit of a ritual, you see. I run down this street, I see you with your cup of coffee, a nod, a wave,” the bespectacled man flushed the longer he went on.
“Well, I must say I’m quite the fan. Good to see someone working to improve themselves, consistently. Most people just talk of how they’ll do something someday, or ‘ get better’ at this or that—plus, you let me know what time it is.”
“Pardon?”
“Seven nineteen, every day.” He smirked, taking a sip of his coffee this time without splashing it all over himself.
“Oh?”
“How odd, though… you’ve been getting faster, yet you always seem to cross my house at the same time.” He took a slow sip, his eyes looking over his mug to see the blush finally reach the man’s ears and turn the most adorable shade of pink.
He’d been caught.
“Well, that's usually when you’re out here drinking your morning coffee.” The man admitted, with a glint in his eye that couldn’t be placed just yet. “It sounds vain but I appreciate my one man cheering section. It’s kept me going, especially on those particularly rough weeks.”
“I was worried for a moment. I thought you weren’t going to come by.”
“Ahh,” the man gave a soft chuckle, “my cat was being particularly cantankerous this morning. Delayed me a bit. She had gotten sick on my windbreaker and I couldn’t find another jacket to leave the house in, so I thought—”
“That you would just run shirtless and bounce your way across my garden?”
“A purely unintended side-effect of an old cat, I assure you.”
“Well, I hardly see how that's fair to me. You’re making my own attempts at self-betterment that much harder.”
The jogger balked, recoiled in his seat as he feigned offense, “ Me ? What ill could I possibly be inflicting?”
“I’ve been doing my best to give up sweats,” his eyes raked over the man’s dusky chest, “hm, sorry. Sweets. ” He corrected.
“My apologies,” the man said unapologetically.
If the jogger was put off at the blatant forwardness, he made no outward sign of it. By the lean of his body, he seemed into it. With only a few feet between them it was hard to miss the stink coming off him, mingling with the acidic aroma of black coffee and the crip of morning dew. From this distance he could even discern the Ocean Spray scented cheap body wash—the kind a sensible, pragmatic, man would buy. The same kind of guy who ran in street-safe, brightly colored clothing and tied his hair back from his face, and worse glasses during exercise no matter how often they slipped down his nose and had to be corrected.
The type of man who would consistently torture himself day in and day out with mindnumbing exercise, just for the sake of a stranger’s enjoyment. How utterly selfless of this absolute stranger.
If he looked closely enough he could see the fine steam coming off the jogger’s skin as the sweat evaporated into the cool air; such a waste of such a succulent musk. With a careful breath through his mouth he drew in slowly, hoping the sour scent would get caught on the back of his throat to savor the taste. It spiked his blood, feeling his own heart beginning to quicken.
Now, the neighborly thing to do would be to offer a drink of water, or perhaps maybe even some sort of sports drink rich in electrolytes to promote hydration and recovery. The jogger had, after all, stopped in his morning routine to check and see if he wasn’t choking. Such a selfless act surely warranted a spot of returning gratitude.
A hypnotic bead of sweat ran down that tanned neck, tracing along the bony edge of his collarbone before slipping further to soak into the hair on his chest. It was a singular point to focus on as his vision jostled erratically from the reckless thrusting that shook the entire bed frame. He reached back to clutch the headboard, willfully accepting his knuckles being repeatedly crushed between the wood and drywall.
He had interrupted the man’s workout. It seemed only fitting to ensure he got his routinely scheduled cardio in full.
Because he was such a good fucking neighbor.
In spite of the agreeable cool morning air the windows in the bedroom were firmly shut, the air growing thick with heat and moisture so it suffocated. Every breath of air was a shot of liquor to the brain, tasting the man between gasps and moans.
“Turn over,” the man over him patted at his hip and through his daze he couldn’t register the words. Suddenly his view was flipped, his face in a pillow and the emptiness in his ass rapidly filled once more with an aggressive push back into him, leaving him biting into goose down.
Hands more calloused than he’d imagined gripped at his hips, intending to bruise as they arched his back into an obscene angle and his body welcoming the painful change in position, knees sliding outward and his untouched cock now weeping against the sweaty sheets. Every thrust was shorter, deliberately punctuated when it struck that sweet spot inside him and scrambled his brains.
It had taken far too long to get to this point.
Every damn day he watched the man prance on by, a siren enticing him to walk into the busy street. And like a dog on a leash he had only watched from his porch, his own mating signal apparently too subtle. The lift of his mug and quirk of a smile not clear enough to say: Come into my house and fuck me. Choking on the sight of bouncing hairy man bosom, however, seemed to have done the trick to finally lure the man in.
Who was courting whom, it was impossible to say.
But as he struggled to breath, smothered by the stench of the man’s luscious scent, he could hardly find it in himself to care. The sweat of their bodies sliding against one another lit every part of him aflame, the slapping of the jogger’s hard-earned muscular thighs against his ass going in rhythm with the creaking of his mattress.
A stranger, crushing him with all his weight and fuck him as thoroughly as he could, like this would be his only chance. The corners of his vision started to blacken, air a precious resource he wasn’t afforded as he took too much at once. As he tried to gasp his mouth was suddenly filled by wet, thick, fingers. They tasted of Earl Grey and sweat, his tongue greedily pulling in the intrusion and drool running down his chin for it.
Every part of him was filled to the brim, ecstasy bubbling dangerously in his gut as he felt himself grow painfully tight, the friction of his expensive sheets rubbing against his raw cockhead, and the brutal pace of the man above him suddenly intensifying that would leave him sore for days.
With a guttural cry it all came undone at once, his voice hollow around the fingers in his mouth and whimpering into the stale air as he rutted against the bed and ass arching into the thick cock inside him, feeling the man above him stutter and shutter as his own spend began to release and fill him up.
The jogger collapsed on top of him, his weight barely noticeable for the moment it was there before rolling off to lie by him on the bed, a sudden emptiness in his mouth and backside. He admired the way the man’s chest heaved as he caught his breath, the way his chest hair was mussed every which way. Reaching over, he found enough strength to smooth it out, relishing the cool dampness of sweat under his fingers.
Tiredly the man lolled his head to the side, a dumb smile on the visible half of his face, the rest obscured by one of the many pillows on the bed.
“Not—” he took a breath, “quite how I planned my morning workout… though I suppose cardio is cardio.”
He found it in himself to chuckle, “When I asked if you wanted to come inside —”
The jogger laughed, breathless and husky. With a satisfied hum, “I’m Gale, by the way.”
“Astarion.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Astarion.”