Jackson stood under the shower spray, water sliding down his body. His honey brown hair clung to his forehead, streams carving down the hard lines of his jaw. One arm reached high against the tile, stretching his lats and tracing the sharp taper from wide shoulders to a tight, narrow waist. His stance was solid, thighs thick and sun-browned, quads flexing. In his fist, his cock stood hard as fuck, veins swollen, balls pulled up tight.
He pumped harder, breath catching in his throat. He tried not to think about Tommy, about the way he’d looked at him earlier, the way he’d touched him. But the memory snapped back sharp, that electric feeling. Jackson growled under his breath, jerking faster, like he could stroke it out of his head, grind the charge down through his cock. He wanted to get it out.
His hand moved fast as the images slammed into him. Tommy’s hand, him on his knees, in the uniform, lips stretched wide around Tommy’s cock. The flash burned through him, humiliating and hot, and his cock responded with a twitch. His balls drew tight, frustrated.
The bathroom door swung open. Braden padded in from the hall, barefoot, wearing loose black shorts and a white tank. He went straight to the toilet, unzipped, and pissed loud into the bowl.
The shower roared. Steam blurred the glass. Braden glanced toward it, brow furrowing.
“Why are you showering? It’s almost noon.”
“Go away,” Jackson called out, voice sharp through the spray.
Braden smirked as he finished, shook off, flushed. He stepped closer to the glass, head tilted. Over the sound of the water was another rhythm, too quick to be rinsing. His eyes brightened.
“You jerking it?” he asked, playful.
“Shut up,” Jackson shot back, but the strain in his voice cracked with laughter.
Braden slid the door open an inch, steam pouring out.
His grin widened at the sight of Jackson boned up, jerking it. “Knew it.”
“Shut the fuck up, Bray,” Jackson barked, laughing now, hand still working.
Braden opened the door wider, let the heat roll over him. “Don’t finish,” he said, voice firm.
Jackson froze, fist mid-stroke, cock twitching. He met Braden’s gaze with bright, buzzing anticipation.
“Wait,” Braden said, and stepped out.
When he returned, he carried a mason jar, the inside streaked with layers of old sperm, thick and pale, clinging to the glass. When Braden unscrewed the lid, the air filled with salt and musk.
Jackson’s eyes flared, cock jumping in his hand. “Already full,” he said, grinning.
“Not full enough,” Braden murmured.
He stripped off his tank and tossed it aside, revealing his broad chest and dense muscle. His shorts and briefs dropped in one motion, thick thighs flexing as his girthy, heavy cock swung free, already stiffening in the steam. Longer and thicker than Jackson’s, the shaft thickened fast, the pubic crown wide and dark.
Braden handed him the jar. “Same as always.” Jackson smirked. “Tradition.”
Side by side, they stroked in sync. Jackson’s strokes were sharp, his cock flushed and veined, his fist tight and fast. Braden was deliberate, powerful. Each drag of skin over his thick shaft was slow and full, precum slicking his fingers.
Braden leaned in and spat a thick wad onto Jackson’s cock. Jackson grinned and rubbed it in, the heat blooming through his grip.
“Your turn,” Braden said.
Jackson spat hard onto Braden’s shaft. Braden worked it in with greedy hands, coating his crown in spit and precum.
The jar trembled between them in Jackson’s palm, slick and waiting. Their breathing deepened. Jackson twitched with every pump, still haunted by Tommy’s ghost. Braden stayed grounded, his thicker cock pulsing harder as slick spilled from the tip, dripping into the steam.
“Now,” Braden grunted.
“Fuck yeah,” Jackson groaned, hand flying.
Both cocks jerked. Braden came first, thick spurts striking the glass with a wet slap. Jackson followed hard, jets shooting into the jar, mixing fast with Braden’s, the liquid sloshing into the already clouded pool. Sperm streaked the inside in white ribbons.
Steam swirled. The air thickened with salt and sweat. Jackson braced into the tile, chest rising. Braden calmly twisted the lid back on, the jar heavier and warmer in his hand.
He bumped his shoulder into Jackson’s with a grin. Jackson grinned back, hair dripping, cock softening down his thigh. Braden shook the jar once. The contents swirled thick and white.
“Breakfast fuel,” he said.
Jackson barked a laugh, body still twitching from the comedown. “Tank.”
“Stringbean,” Braden shot back, their hips knocking together under the spray.
It had started in high school, during one of those long, boringß afternoons when the house felt like it was closing in on them. Braden had gone digging in the pantry, looking for something to kill the boredom, and pulled out an old mason jar meant for canning peaches. He held it up like a prize.
“Bet you can’t fill this,” he’d said, grinning crooked at Jackson.
Jackson snorted, but when Braden unscrewed the lid and set it down on the nightstand, something charged passed between them.
They lay side by side on Braden’s bed, the jar open between them. At first they laughed, red-faced and awkward, until the rhythm took over. By the time the jar held its first streaks of white, neither of them was laughing. They kept going until it was clouded at the bottom, warm and sharp-smelling in the still air.
The jar sat on the counter between them, glass cloudy with streaks of white. Warm from the shower, both of them were still damp, towels slung around their shoulders. Braden twisted the lid off with a practiced flick, and the smell rose sharp and heavy, filling the kitchen air.
Jackson wrinkled his nose but grinned anyway. “It’s thicker this time.”
“Means it’s working,” Braden shot back, eyes glinting. He picked the jar up, tilted it to catch the light. The fluid clung to the sides, slow-moving, opaque. “Tank fuel.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “You just like saying that.”
Braden lifted it, throat working as he took the first swallow. His jaw flexed, and for a second his eyes squeezed shut, but then he set the jar down with a heavy thunk. “See?” he said, licking a drop from his lip. “Power.”
Jackson laughed, half-disbelieving. “You’re insane.” But his cock twitched under the towel just from watching. He grabbed the jar, held it in both hands. The smell was sharp, his stomach already turning, Braden’s grin was daring him, and Jackson couldn’t back down.
He drank. The taste was hot, salty, clinging. He gagged once, forcing it down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Jesus,” he muttered, breath sharp.
Braden was already laughing, slapping his thick thigh. “Look at you! Abs are gonna be cut even deeper tomorrow.”
Jackson smirked despite himself, pulling the towel tight around his waist. “I swear if this makes me puke, I’m blaming you.”
“You’ll thank me at practice,” Braden said, taking the jar back. He shook it, the remaining fluid swirling into a white froth. “See? Still plenty left.”
Jackson shook his head, but his grin betrayed him. He slapped his stomach, the ridges already hard under his hand. “Fuel,” he said, almost reverent now.
Braden clinked the jar rim against his own chest like a toast. “Fuel,” he echoed, voice low.
The car idled in the gym parking lot, sunlight beating down through the windshield. Both of them were in gym clothes: Braden in a cutoff tank that strained across his chest, Jackson in a tight tee that clung to the ridges of his abs. Between them, sitting in the cupholder, was the mason jar. Its glass was cloudy, streaked inside with thick white, the liquid clinging to the sides like cream.
Braden twisted the lid off with one hand, the sharp, saline smell immediately filling the car. Jackson leaned his head back against the seat, groaning, half disgusted, half turned on.
“You first,” Braden said, grinning as he lifted the jar. He drank deep, his throat flexing. When he lowered it, a drop clung to his lip. He licked it away and flexed his arm deliberately, the muscle rounding huge under his skin. “Tank fuel.”
Jackson rolled his eyes, but his cock stirred anyway just watching. “You’re ridiculous.” He took the jar, fingers brushing Braden’s, and raised it to his mouth. The taste hit him sharp, heavy, familiar. He swallowed, gagged once, then forced it down. His stomach clenched, then loosened, and a grin split his face. “Fuel,” he echoed, rubbing a hand across his stomach, over the sharp ridges of his abs.
Braden laughed, clapped him hard on the shoulder. “That’s why we’re monsters in there. Nobody else has this.”
Jackson set the jar back in the cupholder, capped and ready for later. His abs tightened as he exhaled, already imagining the weights, the burn, the pump. He reached for the door handle. “Let’s go feed it.”
Braden slammed his door open, chest wide, eyes bright. “Fuel,” he repeated, like a prayer.
They climbed out together, walking toward the gym as if they were carrying a secret no one else would ever know.
The workout had left them both trembling. Braden still felt the squat bar pressing into his traps, his thighs burning from the weight, his chest thick and swollen from presses. Jackson could still taste the iron tang of the pull-up bar, his lats stretched to fire, his abs buzzing sharp under his skin. They’d pushed each other until their arms shook, until their shirts were soaked through, until sweat dripped off their jaws in rivulets. By the time they stripped down in the locker room, the ritual was already humming in the back of their heads.
In the showers, steam filled the tiled space like fog. Braden braced one hand against the wall, his cock thick and flushed in his fist, each pump deliberate, heavy, drawing skin tight over the wide head. Jackson stood beside him, jar in hand, his own cock rigid, stroking faster, his leaner frame twitching with each sharp pull. Water pounded down, coursing over their shoulders, down their chests, dripping from their balls to the tile.
It was the same rhythm they’d kept for years: side by side, filling the jar, drinking the fuel. Jackson’s abs, Braden’s tank bulk: both of them swore this was the source.
But tonight the air was different. Jackson’s mind kept sparking with images he didn’t want: Tommy’s hand on his shoulder, the heat of his cock pressing into his mouth, the mirror flashing his own reflection in that cheer outfit, eyes wet, lips stretched wide. He hated it, but every flash made his cock throb harder in his fist, precum streaking down his knuckles. His balls ached, full and high, his chest tight with frustration and hunger at once.
The jar shook faintly in his hand. He set it down on the bench.
Braden caught the motion immediately. His eyes narrowed through the steam. “What are you doing?” His voice was rough, breath already thick.
Jackson didn’t answer. He dropped lower, crouching in the steam, eyes locked up at Braden with a ferocity that made Braden’s stomach flip. Jackson’s mouth hovered just below Braden’s thick shaft, lips parted, water running down his face like sweat.
Braden’s rhythm faltered, cock jerking in his fist. “Jackson…” he warned, a growl that was equal parts alarm and want.
And then it hit him, a reel flashing like strobe light in his head. Years of them shoulder to shoulder, laughing as the jar filled. The first time they dared each other to drink, choking it down and calling it “fuel.” Jackson gagging and then grinning, Braden flexing, both of them convinced it made them stronger. All of it flashed, frame by frame, before snapping back to the present: Jackson crouched in front of him, mouth open, eyes burning.
The steam blurred everything but that image.
Braden’s grip tightened, his cock swelling, veins corded and heavy, balls drawn up. His body jerked once, twice, and then he was lost. His shout echoed off the tiles as he surged, his cock pulsing in his fist and Jackson leaned in, breaking the ritual completely.
The moment blurred into sensation: the hot rush, the sound of water slamming tile, Braden’s groan reverberating in his chest. Jackson’s jaw worked, lips tight, eyes closing as he took what the jar had always been meant to hold.
Braden’s vision shattered in bursts: Jackson’s mouth, the spray of steam, the years of the jar layered behind it. Braden groaned, deep and torn, his cock pulsing hard in his fist as his release surged. Hot streams of sperm erupted, not into the jar but directly into Jackson’s mouth. His thighs trembled, his body sagging into the wall, cock jerking with the last pulses of release.
When he opened his eyes, chest heaving, Jackson was rising slowly. Water coursed down his face, lips wet, eyes dark and steady. His cock still stood iron-hard, rigid in his grip, precum dripping steadily down the shaft.
The jar sat forgotten on the bench, lid loose, steam curling around it.
Braden let out a shaky laugh, disbelief and hunger tangled. “You just rewrote the ritual.”
Jackson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smirk curling. His voice came out low, rough. “Fuel.”
For a beat, neither spoke. Only the sound of water filled the space.
Then Jackson turned, picked up the mason jar from the bench. His cock was still hard, long and slick in his grip, twitching with each stroke as he worked himself with sharp, hungry pulls. Braden watched, dazed, still reeling from what Jackson had just done.
Jackson groaned low, his whole frame shuddering. His cock jerked violently in his hand and then released, spurting hot streams of sperm into the jar. The glass streaked white immediately, heavy ropes hitting the cloudy bottom and pooling thick. He kept stroking, kept spilling, until the inside swirled with fresh heat layered over the old residue.
He capped it with one hand, water dripping from his wrist, then turned and pressed the jar into Braden’s hand. Their eyes locked.
Braden stared at him, breath still rough, chest wide and heaving. Without breaking Jackson’s gaze, he raised the jar and drank. His throat worked once, twice, draining deep.
When he lowered it, his lips wet with the taste, his grin was crooked, shaky, almost reverent. “Fuel,” he muttered, voice raw.
Jackson leaned back against the tile, cock still semi-hard, chest trembling. His own grin broke slow and wide. “Fuel,” he echoed.
The next morning. Saturday. Braden was sprawled across his bed in nothing but gym shorts, one arm flung over his head, chest rising slow and heavy.
The door creaked open. Jackson stepped in, hair mussed, skin still warm from sleep. His white briefs were tented out front, fabric pulled so tight it left nothing to the imagination. He paused for a beat, staring at Braden stretched across the sheets, then padded over, his cock throbbing against the cotton with each step.
Braden stirred, eyes blinking open. His gaze went straight to the bulge in Jackson’s briefs before dragging back up to his face. A lazy grin cracked across his mouth.
“Already?” His voice was gravel-rough from sleep.
Jackson didn’t bother answering. He pulled the jar from the nightstand, twisted the lid loose, and set it down between them. The sharp, briny scent filled the room immediately, charged with memory.
He climbed onto the bed, and Braden shifted to make room, their thighs brushing. For a moment they just looked at each other —and then, without a word, each reached for the other. Jackson’s hand closed around Braden’s thick shaft, already swelling, while Braden’s hand wrapped tight around Jackson’s cock straining inside the briefs, yanking the cotton down as he gripped him fully.
It felt automatic now, as natural as breathing. Their fists pumped each other in rhythm, cocks stiffening fast under the other’s grip, precum slicking their knuckles. The air filled with their breathing, with the wet sounds of skin sliding.
Braden’s forehead dropped against Jackson’s temple, his grunt low, rough. Jackson answered with a sharp breath, hips twitching into Braden’s fist. Neither of them said a word, but it was obvious: this wasn’t a change anymore. It was the ritual, the way it always should’ve been.
Neither had to speak. Their hands moved in rhythm, Jackson stroking Braden’s thick shaft, Braden gripping Jackson’s harder cock. They pumped each other as if they’d done it this way forever, shoulders pressed, their breath syncing into the same ragged cadence.
Braden’s fist was slow and deliberate, dragging Jackson’s skin tight with every pull, thumb smearing the precum slicking the swollen head. Jackson’s was faster, tighter, his wrist snapping sharp strokes that made Braden grunt low in his throat.
Their hips jerked in rhythm, muscles tensing, thighs flexing under the sheets. Each groan fed the other, each twitch in their cocks answered in the other’s grip. The ritual didn’t need words — their bodies knew it, their hands knew it.
Jackson grabbed the jar with his free hand, holding it steady between them as their strokes grew frantic. The glass trembled, fogging faint from the heat, waiting.
“Now,” Braden growled, forehead pressing into Jackson’s temple.
Jackson’s voice broke into a gasp. “Together—”
Their bodies clenched, and they spilled at once. Braden’s cock jerked in Jackson’s fist, releasing thick streams of sperm that splattered heavy into the jar. Jackson groaned, hips thrusting, his own cock erupting in Braden’s grip, hot ropes spilling alongside Braden’s. The glass streaked white in an instant, the fluid swirling and pooling at the bottom in a thick mix.
Their mouths crashed together in the aftermath, messy and desperate, then slowed as they caught their breath. But the kiss reignited when Braden sucked Jackson’s lower lip, and Jackson answered with equal hunger. Braden pulled him close, locking Jackson in against his weight. His thigh slid between Jackson’s legs, grinding against his sensitive cock until Jackson whimpered and clung tight, their bodies slick and grinding back.
Braden pulled back just enough to grab the mason jar, cracking the lid. He made Jackson drink first, then downed the rest himself. The taste fueled the kiss, which deepened into a heavy, grinding seal. When they finally broke apart, stunned, Braden pulled him in for one last, slow kiss, as if there was no going back.
Braden, Jackson, and Tommy moved through the lifts. Tommy’s calm strength reshaped the room, but the energy was wrong. Jackson stalled early; usually, they thrived on each other’s rhythm, trading reps and laughter. Today, silence hung heavy.
By the end, Braden’s arms trembled, sweat soaking his tank. Jackson’s shirt clung tight, breath heavy. Tommy wiped his face, undisturbed. Normally, the magnetic pull between Braden and Jackson drew them to showers or home. Tommy threw off the rhythm.
Braden felt the charge was wrong. Jackson’s jaw locked, eyes restless. Not theirs. Tonight.
“Heading out,” Braden muttered, tearing his tank off.
Jackson froze. “What? We always—”
Braden was already moving, a wall. He couldn’t explain. The ritual didn’t feel right with Tommy.
Jackson stood frozen, chest heaving. Tommy brushed past, heading to the showers. Jackson followed, frustration sparking in his eyes.
He entered the empty locker room, his shirt clinging to sweat-dampened skin. He stayed behind after Braden left, but Tommy’s presence was a trigger. Steam curled along the tiled floor. Jackson stripped and stepped into the mist. Tommy was washing at the far end; Jackson’s eyes traced the long line of his back, the thick cock swinging heavy as he rinsed. His own cock stirred, the image of his knees on tile almost overwhelming.
Tommy glanced over, steady and unreadable. Jackson moved on instinct, shutting off his water and crossing the wet tiles into Tommy’s stall. He dropped to his knees, arms sliding behind his back, chest bare and exposed. Tommy’s hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, a steady anchor.
The thick crown pressed at Jackson’s lips. He opened, jaw aching, and took him in. The taste was immediate, salty and warm at the back of his tongue. His throat worked around the length, his own cock throbbing hard against his thigh. Tommy’s hand guided him, slow and deliberate, feeding him deeper. Every slide made his stomach tremble; every withdrawal left him wanting more.
Tommy grunted low, his grip tightening at the back of Jackson’s neck. "Stay," he whispered. His hips jerked forward, and he came hard. Hot streams pulsed onto Jackson’s tongue, filling his mouth faster than he could adjust.
Tommy held him there under the spray until the last shudders faded. When he pulled back, Jackson tilted his chin up, tongue extended, showing the thick load. Tommy nodded. Jackson swallowed it down, throat flexing hard, then opened his mouth to show it was gone.
Tommy grabbed a towel and walked away without a word. Jackson remained kneeling under the spray, water coursing over his chest, his cock still iron-hard.
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