The first time it happened, Leo was hungover as shit.
Not the fun kind of hungover, either — the kind where the ceiling fan sounds like a helicopter and his eyeballs felt two sizes too big for their sockets. He'd stumbled out of his bedroom at 11am wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that rode up his ass, his hair a disaster, his skin the color of old paper.
Jake was already on the couch. He'd finished his 6am client — some real estate agent named Tiffany who paid extra for "motivational coaching" that involved Jake spotting her on the bench press in a position that wasn't strictly professional — and he was in full recovery mode. Sweats. Bare chest. A protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through ESPN highlights.
"Dude, you look like death microwaved," Jake said without looking up.
Leo grunted. Made it to the kitchen. Pulled a mug from the cabinet with the handle held together by superglue. Filled it from the Keurig.
The first sip almost came back up.
"Bro." Leo's voice was wrecked. "I need you to do me a favor."
Jake finally looked up. "If you're about to ask me to suck the hangover out of your dick, I'm gonna need cash upfront."
"I wish. No — I need... okay, this is gonna sound weird."
"You once asked me to hold your balls so you could piss straight after you dislocated your thumb. Nothing's weird."
Leo turned around, leaned against the counter. The coffee steamed between his hands. His eyes were bloodshot, but there was something else there — a kind of embarrassed curiosity, the way a kid looks before asking a question he knows is stupid.
"Remember that video I showed you last week. The one with the Asian chick and the guy — "
"The Bukkake party one?"
"Yeah. And she — you know — in her coffee?"
Jake's eyebrows went up. A slow grin spread across his face. "No fucking way."
"I'm not saying I want a — a load, okay. I'm saying. A little bit. For the protein."
"For the protein."
"And the energy. You know. Testosterone or whatever. It's a thing. I read about it."
Jake set his protein shake down. He was fully grinning now, the kind of grin that said I'm about to make this weird and neither of us is going to stop it. "You want me to bust in your coffee."
"I want a kicker," Leo corrected. "Like a splash of oat milk but. You know. With more T."
A beat. The ceiling fan clicked. Somewhere in the building, someone's dog started barking.
"You're serious."
"I'm so fucking hungover, Jake. I'll try anything once."
Jake looked at him. Looked at the coffee. Looked back at him. And then he shrugged — a real, genuine shrug, the kind that said I've heard dumber ideas in this apartment.
"Okay. But I need material. You got something good?"
Leo blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah, bro, I can't just — I need a running start. You think I'm a faucet?"
The laugh that came out of Leo was half-cough, half-relief. He set his coffee down, grabbed his phone from the counter, and started scrolling through his bookmarks. His brain was too fried for anything artistic — he went straight for the saved folder marked GOLD, the one he'd curated over years of late-night scrolling.
"Here." He turned the phone toward Jake. "The redhead from BangBros. The one with the fake tits and the real enthusiasm."
Jake took the phone. Studied the thumbnail like he was reading a wine label. "Solid. The one where she does that thing with her tongue?"
"That's the one. Three minutes in is the money shot."
"Fuck yeah, I know this one." Jake was already settling back into the couch, phone propped on his stomach. He tugged the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free himself — already half-hard, because Jake was the kind of guy who woke up with a boner and forgot about it until he needed it. "Give me like, four minutes. Keep the coffee hot."
Leo grabbed his mug, topped it off, and stood at the kitchen counter scrolling through Instagram while Jake got to work behind him.
And that was it.
No tension. No weirdness. No "what does this mean" energy hanging in the air. Just Jake stretched out on the couch with Leo's phone in one hand and his dick in the other, and Leo leaning against the counter double-tapping pictures of his sister's new puppy.
"Bro," Jake said after about a minute, "her ass is so oiled up in this one. Like, disgustingly oiled. You can see the camera guy's reflection in it."
"Yeah, that's why I saved it. The lighting's insane."
"They don't light like this anymore. Everything's so filtered now. This is cinema."
"It's from 2018. They don't make 'em like that anymore."
Leo scrolled past a photo of a mutual friend's engagement announcement. Liking it felt like a lie — he'd hooked up with the groom-to-be at a Halloween party two years ago — but he double-tapped anyway. Social media was theater.
Behind him, Jake's breathing shifted. A little deeper. A little more deliberate.
"Almost there," Jake said, voice slightly tighter.
"Take your time. Coffee's not going anywhere."
"Can you — actually, turn around for a sec."
Leo turned. Jake was staring at the phone screen, jaw set, hand moving in a steady rhythm. His abs were tensed, the muscles in his thigh jumping.
"I need the visual," Jake said. "You standing there with the mug. Helps me... you know. Picture the landing."
Leo held up the mug. "Right here, buddy. Target acquired."
Jake laughed, which made his rhythm stutter, which made him groan. "Fuck, don't make me laugh, I'm right there — "
"Sorry, sorry. Go ahead."
And then Jake's head tipped back, his hips pushed up, and he came — a thick, ropey shot that hit the side of the mug and slid down the ceramic. A second one followed. A third, smaller.
He exhaled hard, let his head fall back against the couch cushion. "Fuck. Okay. That was a good one."
Leo looked down at the mug. There it was. A solid addition. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer, stirred it in like creamer, and took a sip.
Jake watched him from the couch, still catching his breath. "Well?"
Leo swished it around his mouth. Swallowed. Considered.
"...It's not bad. Bit salty. But not bad."
"Dude, I literally just came. Give it a second to aerate."
"You want me to let it breathe like wine?"
"I want you to appreciate the craftsmanship."
Leo took another sip. This time he could feel it — a warmth spreading through his chest, or maybe that was just the caffeine hitting. "Okay. I think I feel something."
"Endorphins," Jake said, like he was diagnosing a car problem. "The oxytocin from the, uh. The act. You're getting a contact high."
"I'm getting a what?"
"It's science, bro. I read about it. When you swallow, you get the bonding chemicals. It's a whole thing."
Leo stared at him. "You read about the science of swallowing cum."
"It was a Joe Rogan episode."
"Of course it was."
Jake pulled his sweats back up and tossed Leo's phone onto the cushion beside him. "So. Verdict. One-time experiment or new Tuesday ritual?"
Leo looked down at the mug. Half full. Warm. Strange.
"Let's call it a trial period."
---
That was three months ago.
Now it was Thursday morning, and Leo was standing at the kitchen counter in nothing but a silk robe he'd stolen from a one-night stand, holding out a fresh mug of coffee like an offering.
"Hurry up, bro. I have a noon shift and I need to shower."
Jake was already on the couch, phone out, scrolling for the morning's selection. "You got anything new or we cycling back to the redhead?"
"Check the folder marked FRESH. I added that one from last night — the massage one."
"With the Swedish chick?"
"No, the one where she's pretending to be asleep and the masseur — "
"Oh, that one. Yeah, that's solid." Jake clicked it, settled in. "Give me five. My nuts are still recovering from yesterday."
"Your nuts are fine. You're a personal trainer. You're peak genetic condition."
"My dick isn't a muscle, Leo."
"Tell that to the girls who pay you for the deluxe package."
Jake snorted but didn't argue. His hand was already moving, the familiar rhythm automatic. Leo turned back to his phone, scrolling through Twitter, taking the occasional sip of his pre-nut coffee. Waiting for the main event.
"Hey," Jake said, eyes on the screen, "you ever think about how weird this is?"
Leo didn't look up. "What, the coffee thing?"
"No, the —" Jake gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Like. This. Us. I'm jerking off into your morning coffee while you scroll through memes."
"I'm not scrolling through memes. I'm reading about the housing market."
"Same energy."
Leo took another sip. "It's not weird. It's efficient."
"It's weird to literally anyone else on the planet."
"Good thing literally anyone else on the planet isn't in this apartment."
Jake was quiet for a second. His hand kept moving. The video kept playing. "You ever think about telling anyone?"
"Telling anyone what? That my roommate puts protein in my coffee?"
"That I — you know. Finish in it."
Leo finally looked up. Met Jake's eyes. They held it for a beat — one of those rare moments where the joke dropped and something real sat underneath.
"Who would I tell?" Leo said. "And what would I say? 'Hey, my best friend jacks off into my morning brew, it's a whole thing we do.' That's not a conversation you walk away from looking normal."
"Fair point."
"Besides." Leo raised the mug in a toast. "It's our thing. Why would I share it?"
Jake's expression softened. Just a flicker. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual shit-eating grin. "You're so romantic."
"Fuck off and finish. My coffee's getting cold."
"Yes, sir."
Jake picked up the pace. The video hit its peak — the moaning from the phone speaker pitched higher, the slap of skin audible even at low volume. Jake's breathing went with it, synced to the rhythm on screen.
Leo watched him this time. Not in a sexual way — it was more like watching someone perform a task. The concentration on Jake's face. The way his jaw tightened right before. The way his abs flexed involuntarily.
He was beautiful. Leo could admit that. Objectively. Like a car or a sunset. "Nice body bro" territory.
And then Jake's hips bucked, and he let out a low groan, and the coffee got its kick.
"Solid," Jake said, breathless. "That one's a keeper."
Leo stirred. Took a sip. Nodded. "Good viscosity today. You been hydrating?"
"Two gallons yesterday. I had a heavy leg day."
"Keep it up. The quality's improving."
"Anything for my favorite customer."
Leo carried his coffee to the bathroom. Stopped in the doorway. Looked back.
"Hey. For the record. I think the weirdest part isn't the coffee."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"That you called yourself a faucet. And then we actually timed it."
"Three minutes and forty-two seconds. I'm consistent."
"You're terrifying."
Leo shut the bathroom door. Turned on the shower. Drank the rest of his coffee while the water heated up.
Outside, he could hear Jake shuffling around — the click of a lighter, a deep inhale. Jake only smoked weed after he came, said it hit different when the endorphins were already flooding. Leo didn't question it. He had a system. Jake had a system. They overlapped in weird places.
The coffee was warm going down. Salty. A little thick at the bottom.
And Leo felt great.
He wasn't going to analyze it. He didn't need to. Some things didn't need a label. Some things were just — two guys, a decade of friendship, a morning routine, and a shared understanding that normal was overrated.
He stepped into the shower, steam billowing around him, and started thinking about what video he'd pull for tomorrow.
He'd heard the black girl from Vixen had a new one dropping.
Jake liked her. Jake liked her a lot.
Leo filed that away for the morning.
