Interrupted (Wilby Wonderful)
Duck’s not a cheater, but Buddy drives him to it.
Buddy has gotten so much better at his running that he’s decided to train for a marathon. Duck is the supportive boyfriend, making sure he meets him at certain points in his daily runs with water and to check on him. He also rubs Buddy’s tired muscles with his calloused hands at night and gives as much verbal encouragement as he can think of.
The running has also made Buddy look something like an Adonis, so of course, when Buddy suggests, while Duck is distracted with fucking him, that Duck begin to train with him, he says yes.
Duck’s in pretty good shape, his arms, shoulders, legs and abs kept strong by all the manual labor. He also parks his truck and does a lot of carrying and errands on foot, because sometimes it’s more convenient than driving from one short distance to another. But he’s not a runner, and it’s a nightmare to train alongside Buddy, who has taken to running kilometers ahead to fetch water and then runs back to wherever Duck is struggling, barely tired.
Show-off.
So one Saturday morning Duck decides to cheat. Buddy has just rounded a bend in the road, taking himself out of sight, and there’s a convenient side road that Duck can use to sneak home. The marathon is quickly approaching, and Buddy is focused, concentrating intently. He probably won’t even notice. Hell, Duck probably has time for a shower, a nap, and could have lunch ready by the time Buddy makes it back home.
The hot water is rolling over his sore muscles, and he doesn’t hear the door open. He does make out Buddy’s form through the opaque shower curtain, right before Buddy steps into the shower behind him. Buddy places a hand on his back, gives him some questioning pressure. Duck braces his hands against the wall and Buddy puts his arms around him, growling into his ear. “Slacker.”
“Over-achiever,” he retorts, and then gasps because Buddy is sliding fingers slicked up with something into him. He clenches and arches his back before sliding his feet apart, and when Buddy pushes into him, he impatiently pushes back. Buddy practically lunges into him, over and over again, the water running over both of them, and Duck comes without even touching himself and figures this is a thousand times better than running.
The hot water runs out and Duck is shivering by the time they step out of the shower. Buddy vigorously towels him off, even playfully rubs at his hair. He drapes it over Duck’s eyes and kisses him enthusiastically.
“Sap,” Duck pans, because he’s blushing and doesn’t really know what to say. They’re interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Buddy gives him a playful grin and wraps a towel around his own waist. “I’ll get it,” and strides out of the washroom to the front door. Duck rolls his eyes and dashes to the bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt.
Buddy looks somewhat abashed and uncomfortable, his arms crossed over his chest when Duck finally makes it to the door. Duck wonders at his strange timing until he nearly runs into him.
Just inside the front door, hands in pockets, sleeves rolled halfway up, crooked smile in place, stands Dan Jarvis.