Laios' freeballing morning run

Laios moved to the city three months ago, and while the traffic, crowds, and overpriced coffee still throw him off sometimes, there's one thing he's absolutely mastered: his morning routine.

Every single day. 5:30 AM. No alarms needed anymore—his body knows. He throws on his running shorts, no underwear underneath (he hates the restriction), and hits the pavement. Five kilometers of cool breeze, empty sidewalks, and the subtle thrill of feeling everything down there bounce with each stride.

He doesn’t just run—he lets it all move with him, free, heavy, and full. The soft friction, the rhythm, the wind brushing between his legs—it’s almost too much some mornings. He comes home more worked up than when he left.

And that’s where it gets fun.

Back inside his tiny apartment, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin, he heads straight to the bedroom. Shirt peeled off, towel slung over one shoulder. His chest glistens, his muscles pumped, and that musky scent of early sweat is all around him. It doesn’t turn him off—it drives him crazy.

He pulls off his shorts but leaves the socks on. There’s something about it that feels dirty in the best way. He sprawls out on the bed, the fan spinning lazily overhead, running his hand down his body—still warm, still buzzing. He squeezes his thighs, presses into his skin, fingers trailing dangerously close to where the tension's been building since mile two.

Every move is deliberate. Slow. Teasing.

He’s not in a rush—he never is.
This is his reward. His ritual. His personal little release before the rest of the city even wakes up.