"Fuck—" Finn's sneaker caught on something solid, sending him stumbling forward with the grace of a newborn giraffe. He barely caught himself against the hallway wall, his coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his cup. Whipping around, he glared at the offending obstacle—a sleek black backpack sprawled across the linoleum like a sleeping panther.
"Shit, sorry about that." The voice was warm, edged with amusement. Finn looked up—and up—into a pair of familiar green eyes crinkled at the corners. Jax leaned down to scoop up the bag, his gym-toned forearm flexing under rolled-up sleeves. "Nice save, though. Didn’t spill a drop."
Finn’s irritation evaporated like steam. He hadn’t seen Jax in months, not since his brother’s backyard barbecue where Jax had spent the afternoon manning the grill, shirtless and gleaming under the sun. Now, in the fluorescent university hallway, he looked unfairly put together—hair tousled just right, stubble shadowing his jaw, that same easy grin that made Finn’s stomach do a stupid little flip.
"You’re here?" Finn blurted, then immediately wanted to kick himself.
Jax straightened up, slinging the backpack over one shoulder with effortless ease. His grin widened, showing a hint of that crooked canine Finn remembered from summers spent lurking around his older brother’s friends. "Yeah, grad school," Jax said, thumb hooking toward a nearby lecture hall door. "Biomechanics. You?"
Finn blinked, suddenly hyperaware of his own ratty hoodie and the fact that his caffeine-starved brain was still struggling to process Jax’s presence. "Uh. First year. Pre-law." He cringed internally—pre-law sounded so boring compared to whatever the hell biomechanics entailed.
Jax chuckled, nodding like Finn had said something profoundly wise. "Nice. Bet you’re the type to argue about parking tickets just for fun."
Finn’s cheeks warmed. "Only if the meter maid’s cute." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, bratty and bold in a way that felt reckless under Jax’s amused gaze.
Jax’s grin deepened at Finn’s retort, one eyebrow quirking up like he’d just been handed a challenge. “Still got that mouth on you, huh?” He reached out, ruffling Finn’s already-messy hair with calloused fingers before Finn could duck away. The touch lingered half a second too long, warm and rough against his scalp, and Finn fought the urge to lean into it like a damn cat.
“Yeah, well.” Finn adjusted his hoodie with a huff, pretending he wasn’t acutely aware of how Jax’s biceps strained against his fitted t-shirt as he shifted his backpack. “Some things never change.”
“Glad to hear it.” Jax’s gaze flicked down Finn’s body—quick, but not quick enough—before landing back on his face. “You look good. Less like a twig.”
Finn scoffed, rolling his eyes even as his stomach did another traitorous somersault. “Thanks, I think. Still got it, I guess.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, bratty and bold, and he watched, gratified, as Jax’s pupils dilated just a fraction.
Finn’s grip tightened around his coffee cup as Jax’s gaze lingered on him—warm, assessing, and suddenly way too focused for a casual hallway reunion. The air between them crackled with something unspoken. Finn swallowed hard, willing his pulse to steady. *Cool. Be cool.*
“So,” Jax chuckled, the sound low and warm as he adjusted the strap of his backpack. His eyes flicked down Finn’s body again—just once, just enough—before he smirked. “Guess some things *don’t* change.” He stepped back, nodding toward the lecture hall behind him. “I’d stay and chat, but I’ve got biomechanics in five. Professor’s a hardass about tardiness.”
Finn’s stomach dipped, half-relief, half-disappointment. “Right, yeah, no—” He waved a hand, trying to sound casual. “Go flex your brain or whatever.”
Jax snorted, already turning away—but then he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, shit. Almost forgot.” He dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone with a quick swipe. “There’s a thing at my place next Friday. Nothing crazy, just some guys i know. You should come.” He tossed Finn a grin, the same one that used to make Finn’s teenage self lose all coherent thought. “I’ll introduce you around. Unless you’re too busy arguing parking tickets.”
Finn’s mouth went dry. A party. At *Jax’s* place. With *grad students*. He blinked, scrambling for something cool to say, but all that came out was, “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
Jax’s grin widened, like he knew exactly how flustered Finn was. “Cool. Give me your number—I’ll text you the details.” He held out his phone, screen already open to a new contact page. Finn fumbled with his coffee cup, nearly dropping it as he juggled to free a hand and tap in his digits. Jax’s fingers brushed his when he took the phone back, rough and warm, and Finn’s pulse jumped like he’d just mainlined espresso.
“See you Friday, then.” Jax winked—actually *winked*—before turning on his heel and striding down the hall, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd effortlessly. Finn stood there, staring after him like an idiot, until the coffee in his hand reminded him it existed with a scalding drip onto his wrist.
“Shit—” He hissed, shaking off the burn and finally tearing his gaze away. His brain was a mess of static, half stuck on the way Jax’s jeans had hugged his thighs when he walked, half stuck on the fact that he’d just been invited to a *party*. A real one, with actual people who probably didn’t spend their weekends debating Star Trek lore. Finn’s chest tightened with something giddy and nervous all at once.
He pivoted toward his own class, steps lighter than they’d been all week. The two guys he’d sort-of befriended in his dorm were nice enough, but their idea of a wild night was ordering extra-spicy ramen and arguing about anime dubs. Not exactly Finn’s scene. He’d spent the first month of college wondering if he’d accidentally enrolled in a monastery—until now.
—
A few days later, Finn stood in front of his closet with the intensity of a general preparing for battle. Four shirts lay discarded on his bed—too tight, too loose, too *desperate*—before he settled a simple pair of Jeans that hugged his hips just right and a Tee, loose enough to breathe but snug enough to remind anyone looking *exactly* what they were missing.
Jax’s texts had been sparse—practical, almost. *Friday, 8pm. My place.* No frills, no emojis, just the address pinned to the message like an afterthought. Finn had stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing—then deleting—three different replies, each progressively more unhinged. He’d settled on *cool, see you then*, then immediately regretted not adding a wink. Or literally anything that didn’t sound like a robot programmed by a nun.
The next message had arrived two days later, mid-lecture, buzzing in Finn’s pocket like a live wire. *Some of the guys from my old college football crew’ll be there. And maybe a few rugby dudes.* Finn’s pen had skidded across his notebook, leaving a jagged line through his notes. Rugby dudes. Football crew. Translation: a room full of Jax clones—broad shoulders, thicker thighs... Finn had gnawed on his lip, imagining it—a sea of gym-toned bodies, all biceps and bad decisions, and him, five-foot-nothing of twink energy, wedged between them like a lost puppy. His stomach did something complicated.
The final text had come last night, blunt as a hammer: *Don’t bring shit. Got booze. Got weed. Just bring your ass.* Finn’s fingers froze mid-scroll, the words searing into his retinas like a neon sign in a dark alley. He blinked—once, twice—before his brain caught up. It was just a phrase. Just Jax being Jax. He didn’t *mean* Finn’s actual ass. Probably.
Now as Finn stood in front of the weathered brick building—one of those pre-war structures with ornate fire escapes and windows that probably hadn’t been replaced since the 70s—he wondered, not for the first time, how the hell Jax had ended up here. The neighborhood was a mix of gentrified coffee shops and stubbornly old-school bodegas, the kind of place where rent would make a grad student’s wallet cry. Finn smirked, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he jabbed the intercom button. *Definitely mommy and daddy’s money,* he thought, just as a crackly *“Yeah?”* came through the speaker.
Finn leaned in, lips almost brushing the grimy metal. “It’s Finn.”
The buzzer blared before he’d even finished speaking, the door unlatching with a heavy *clunk*. Inside, the lobby smelled like lemon cleaner and something faintly mildewy, the kind of scent that only old buildings could muster. Finn’s eyes flicked to the staircase—no elevator in sight, because of *course* not—and he groaned internally.
By the time he reached the top, his thighs were burning, and he was half-convinced this was some kind of sadistic pre-party warmup courtesy of Jax’s subconscious gym rat brain. The door to apartment 4D was cracked open, bass thumping through the gap—loud enough to feel it in his ribs, but not so loud the neighbors would call the cops. *Smart,* Finn noted, pushing the door wider with his hip.
The first thing that hit him was the smell—weed, sure, but underneath it, something richer, like spiced cider and the faint tang of sweat. The second thing was the heat; the place was clearly well-insulated, the big open loft space was almost too warm. Finn stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind him with his hip, and took in the layout with one sweeping glance.
In front of Finn sprawled a loft-style space—industrial yet lived-in, exposed brick walls meeting steel beams, the kind of place that screamed *grad student with rich parents*. Directly ahead, a pool table dominated the center of the open-concept living area, where two guys were locked in a game. The first had a buzzcut so platinum it nearly glowed under the track lighting, his lean frame seemed to coil with definition. His opponent was the opposite—a mountain of sun-kissed muscle in a too-tight tee, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the overhead lamp when he leaned forward to take his shot. Finn's brain supplied *rugby player* before he'd even registered the guy's tree-trunk thighs straining against his sweatpants.
Beyond them, bifold glass doors led to a balcony half-obscured by drifting smoke and the amber glow of string lights. To Finn's right, the kitchen gleamed with stainless steel—where Jax stood, hips cocked against the counter as he shook a cocktail shaker with the ease of someone who'd done this before. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, forearms flexing under the warm pendant light, and Finn's mouth went dry watching the muscles in his back shift under the thin fabric of his henley.
His gaze snapped left—where a flatscreen played some muted sports highlights above a low-slung couch. A man sprawled there, built like a quarterback mid-relaxation: thick thighs splayed wide, one arm slung over the back cushions, his other hand idly scrolling his phone. Even lounging, he radiated the kind of effortless dominance that came from knowing exactly how much space his body commanded. Finn's fingers twitched at his sides. Four people. Small gathering. Just like Jax had said.
Except—
Finn swallowed hard.
They were all *massive*.
Jax spotted him first, grin spreading like he'd been waiting. "There he is." The shaker clinked onto the counter as he strode over, drink in hand. "Was starting to think you bailed."
Finn forced a smirk, accepting the glass. Their fingers brushed—warm, deliberate—and he fought the urge to shiver. "What, and miss watching you play bartender? Please."
A chuckle from the couch. The quarterback-looking guy tilted his head, hazel eyes flicking over Finn with amused curiosity. "So you're the pre-law kid."
Finn blinked. "Jax talked about me?"
"Only in the last few days, during workouts," rumbled the rugby mountain by the pool table. His voice was deeper than Finn expected, rough like gravel under tires.
Jax rolled his eyes, nudging Finn toward the kitchen. "Ignore them. Come here, I'll make you something that doesn't taste like battery acid."
Finn followed, hyperaware of four pairs of the eyes tracking his every step. The loft suddenly felt twice as hot.
Jax handed Finn a sweating glass filled with something amber and citrus-smelling, condensation already pooling around his fingers. "Try this," he said, watching Finn's face with the smug confidence of a man who knew his mixology game was strong. Finn took a sip—ginger bite first, then honey-sweet—and barely suppressed a moan. "Holy shit."
"Right?" Jax grinned, taking the six-pack Finn had brought with an appreciative nod. His fingers brushed the cans, pausing. "Still cold," he noted, thumb sliding over the condensation before setting them aside on the counter without cracking one open. Instead, he reached for his own drink—something dark and fizzy in a chipped pint glass—and took a slow swallow, throat working under stubble Finn suddenly wanted to scrape his teeth over.
Finn grabbed his fresh drink, following Jax toward the pool table where the platinum buzzcut guy was lining up a shot with lethal precision. The cue cracked against the ball like a gunshot, sending two stripes careening into corner pockets without so much as grazing the eight-ball.
"Christ, Owen," Jax snorted, nudging Finn's elbow as they approached. "You're getting wrecked *again*."
The mountain in sweatpants—Owen, apparently—groaned, rubbing the back of his neck with a palm the size of a dinner plate. "Dude's a fucking terminator," he grumbled, though there was no real heat in it.
From the couch, the quarterback-shaped guy snorted into his beer. “Ghost doesn’t lose,” he said, tipping the bottle toward the buzzcut guy now chalking his cue with methodical precision. “Dude’s got a fucking algorithm for angles.”
Jax smirked, swirling his drink as he watched Owen groan and rub his neck. “Third game in a row, man. At this point, you’re just donating dignity to Ghost’s trophy case.”
Finn blinked. The platinum buzzcut guy *Ghost* just chalked his cue, ice-blue eyes flicking up to meet Finn’s for a half-second before dismissing him like a calculator clearing its memory.
Jax clapped Finn’s shoulder, warm and heavy. “Alright, introductions.” He gestured first to the couch. “That’s Mark—QB for State, likes his steak rare and his exes rawer.” Mark flipped him off without looking up, thumb still scrolling.
Next, Jax pointed to the blond mountain currently scowling at the pool table. “Owen—rugby meathead, can deadlift a small car but loses at pool like it’s his job.” Owen groaned, tossing his cue onto the felt. “Fuck you, man.”
Finn bit his lip to keep from laughing as Jax’s smirk widened. Then, with a tilt of his chin toward the buzzcut guy now racking the balls with surgical precision: “And that’s Lewis, or ‘Ghost’ because—“Because he is as white as a ghost,” Jax finished with a smirk, just as Lewis—Ghost—sent the cue ball rocketing into the triangle with enough force to make Finn flinch. The balls scattered with a sound like cracking knuckles.
Finn swallowed hard under the collective gaze of the men. “Uh. Hi,” he managed, raising his drink in a weak salute.
Mark chuckled from the couch, finally looking up from his phone. His hazel eyes flicked over Finn with lazy amusement. “Pre-law, huh? A bit shy, but we'll get that out of him.”
Finn opened his mouth—probably to prove him right—but Owen interrupted by groaning and flopping onto the couch beside Mark, making the entire frame creak. “Can we not? My brain’s still recovering from Ghost annihilating me.”
Jax snorted, clapping Finn’s shoulder again before releasing him to grab his own drink off the counter. “Relax, rookie. They don’t bite.” His smirk deepened. “Unless you ask nice.”
Finn’s cheeks burned, but before he could formulate a retort, Ghost cleared his throat—a sound like a blade being drawn—and tapped his cue against the floor. “Your shot, Owen.”
Owen groaned, rubbing his temples like Ghost had personally scrambled his brain with the pool cue. "Done. I'm tapped out." He flopped backward onto the couch, arms spread wide like a sacrifice to the gods of humiliation.
Ghost’s fingers tightened around his cue, knuckles going pale. He opened his mouth—probably to deliver some dry, eviscerating remark—but Jax cut in before he could speak.
"Nah, let me finish in Owen’s place," Jax said, already walking toward the pool table with a grin that promised trouble. He snatched Owen’s abandoned cue and twirled it in one hand like a baton, rolling his shoulders back as he surveyed the table. "But let’s make it interesting."
Finn’s pulse jumped as Jax’s gaze flicked to him, green eyes glinting under the warm light. Ghost merely tilted his head, unimpressed but intrigued, his fingers flexing around his own cue.
"What’re you thinking?" Mark drawled from the couch, stretching an arm along the backrest, his biceps straining the sleeve of his tee.
Jax smirked. "Loser takes a shot of that absinthe Ghost’s been hoarding."
A collective groan rose from the couch—except Ghost, who just narrowed his eyes. "You’ve been eyeing my liquor."
"And you’ve been eyeing my ass," Jax shot back without missing a beat, lining up his shot. The cue cracked against the ball, sending the seven careening into the corner pocket with a satisfying *thunk*. Finn’s breath hitched.
Mark barked a laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Christ, Jax."
Finn couldn’t help the snicker that escaped him, quickly muffling it behind his drink. Ghost’s expression didn’t change, but Finn swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he chalked his cue again, slow and deliberate.
Owen groaned, slumping further into the couch. "I’m just glad I’m not the one getting wrecked this time."
To say the least, Owen did lousy at pool, and Jax didn't fare much better against Ghost's ruthless precision. But Ghost's absinthe was the real winner—bitter enough to make Finn's eyes water after Jax, grinning like a madman, poured shots for everyone "so we all suffer together." Even Lewis—Ghost—had downed his with only a slight tightening around his eyes, though Finn swore he saw his fingers twitch toward the water glass afterward.
Somehow, that broke the ice. The pool cues were abandoned, the game forgotten as the group migrated to the kitchen and couch in loose, laughter-drunk clusters. Finn found himself trailing Jax, partly because he was still the only one he really knew, partly because watching Jax move—all loose-limbed confidence even three drinks in—was its own kind of mesmerizing.
By the second hour, Finn had learned three things: One, Mark (QB, hazel eyes, smirk like a loaded gun) could drink anyone under the table but chose not to—preferred watching the chaos unfold with the detached amusement of a god. Two, Ghost (platinum buzzcut, ice-blue stare) didn’t just win at pool—he absorbed information like a sponge, filing away tells and weaknesses with terrifying precision. And three, Owen (blond mountain) was catastrophically, endearingly bad at poker.
Finn was mid-sip of his fourth drink—something citrusy Jax kept refilling without asking—when Owen flopped onto the couch beside him, smelling faintly of weed and cologne. "So," Owen said, slinging a tree-trunk arm over the backrest, "you're gay, right?"
Finn choked on his drink. The vodka-laced citrus burned up his sinuses as he coughed, liquid dribbling down his chin. Across the coffee table, Jax—lounging in a worn leather recliner with his legs spread wide—arched one brow but didn't intervene.
"Uh," Finn managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Owen's blue eyes were glassy from the joint he'd smoked earlier, his expression openly curious without a trace of malice. Like he'd asked about Finn's major, not his sexuality. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
Owen nodded sagely, his massive shoulders rolling in a shrug that made his tight tee strain at the seams. "Cool. Me too." He grinned, slow and dopey, before adding, "Just wanted to check before I said something stupid."
Finn blinked. That was—unexpectedly sweet, actually.
Jax snorted into his beer. "Too late for that, big guy." He kicked his feet up on the ottoman, the muscles in his thighs flexing under his jeans. "But yeah, Finn's gay. Not sure when the hell I mentioned that to you, though."
"You didn't," Owen said cheerfully. "Mark did. Said Jax’s new friend was cute and probably into dicks."
Finn’s face burned. Jax groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."
"It's fine," Finn muttered, swirling his drink to avoid their eyes. "I'm out. Have been since high school."
Jax exhaled dramatically, slumping back into the recliner like a marionette with cut strings. "Thank fuck. Thought I just accidentally outed you to a walking steroid advertisement."
Owen gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "Rude."
Finn laughed despite himself, the tension in his shoulders unraveling. The loft smelled like weed and citrus now, the air thick with something warmer than the overhead lights could explain.
Jax’s gaze slid to Finn, green eyes glinting under the low light. "So," he drawled, tipping his bottle toward Finn, "since we're airing secrets—what’s your type?"
Finn’s pulse stuttered. Jax knew damn well what his type was—had known since Finn drunkenly confessed it during a study session sophomore year. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The kind of hands that could—
Owen leaned in, smelling like cedar and something faintly herbal. "Yeah, what’s your type?"
Finn swallowed hard. Trapped between Owen's dopey smile and Jax's knowing smirk, he gestured vaguely at both of them. "Uh. You know. This."
Jax barked a laugh. "Vague but accurate."
Owen nodded sagely. "Muscle."
Finn choked on air. "I didn’t—"
Jax cut him off with a grin. "Relax, bubble butt. We know." He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of sun-kissed skin. "But since we're being honest—" His eyes flicked down Finn’s body, slow and deliberate. "—you ever been with a guy who could bench press you?"
Finn’s mouth went dry.
Owen perked up, his grin turning wicked. "Or two?"
Finn’s glass nearly slipped from his fingers. His face burned hotter than the vodka in his gut. “I—what?”
Jax smirked, swirling his beer bottle like this was just another casual Tuesday. “Kidding. Mostly.” His grin widened as Owen blinked between them, still grinning like an overgrown golden retriever. “But hey, wouldn’t tell a soul if you helped big guy out. Dude’s on a dry streak longer than Mark’s patience.”
Finn’s pulse hammered in his throat. He waited—for the punchline, for someone to burst out laughing, for *anything* to make this less surreal. The silence stretched, thick as Owen’s thighs.
“Wait.” Finn’s voice cracked. “You’re *serious*?”
Jax laughed—low and rough, the sound curling around Finn’s ears like smoke—and set his beer down with a deliberate *clink*. "Relax," he said, leaning forward in the recliner, elbows resting on his knees. The movement made his shoulders flex under his shirt. "It was a joke. Mostly." His grin turned wolfish. "But like I said, wouldn’t tell a soul if you helped Owen out."
Finn’s pulse was a jackhammer in his throat. He flicked a glance at Owen, who was blinking between them with the dazed expression of someone some drinks deep but still somehow following the conversation. His cheeks were flushed under his skin, and Finn couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or—
*Jesus Christ.*
Jax stretched, arms crossing behind his head, and Finn’s gaze snagged on the strip of skin exposed at his waistband. "Look," Jax said, voice dropping into something softer, almost conspiratorial. "I liked you back when we were hanging out before. You’re cool. That’s why I invited you." His grin turned knowing. "But I also knew you were gay. Saw how you eyed me and your brother back in the day." He shrugged, like this wasn’t sending Finn’s brain into overdrive. "Figured you might be down for some... extra fun."
Finn's fingers twitched around his glass, the condensation dripping onto his jeans. He could feel the heat radiating off his own face. "So what, like—" He forced a laugh that came out more like a squeak. "A group thing? Me helping you guys out?" The words sounded absurd even as they left his mouth, but the alcohol in his veins was doing a piss-poor job of masking the way his pulse kicked up at the thought.
Jax smirked, slow and knowing. "Could be." He rolled his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest. "Or just Owen. Or just me. Or none of us." A shrug, deliberately casual. "Your call, bubble butt."
Owen, still blinking between them like a confused Saint Bernard, suddenly perked up. "Wait, for real?"
Finn’s mouth went dry. He’d joked about this exact scenario—usually alone, in the shower, half-asleep fantasies of being sandwiched between two muscle studs—but the reality of Jax’s raised eyebrow and Owen’s dopey, hopeful grin was short-circuiting his brain.
The silence stretched—too long, too thick—until Owen let out a quiet, choked noise halfway between a cough and a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, “I mean. If you’re not into it—”
“No!” Finn blurted, then immediately wanted to vanish into the couch cushions. Jax’s smirk deepened, and Finn swallowed hard, scrambling for composure. “I mean—it’s not that I’m *not* into it.” His cheeks burned hotter. “Fuck. I just didn’t think—like, *ever*—”
Jax leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. “Finn,” he said, slow and deliberate, like he was explaining gravity to a toddler. “You’re overthinking.” His gaze flicked to Owen, then back, a silent *well?* hanging in the air.
Finn exhaled strangely calm, despite his pulse hammering in his throat. “Okay,” he murmured, the word barely louder than the hum of the fridge. Jax’s grin widened—slow, predatory—as he leaned back into the recliner, but Finn didn’t miss how his feet stayedt planted firmly on the ground, knees spread wide. No lazy sprawl now. Every line of him thrummed with intent.
Finn’s pulse roared in his ears as he stood, his knees liquid under the weight of Owen’s expectant gaze. The rugby player was sprawled across the couch like a fallen god, arms draped-to-the-back, biceps bulging against the tight sleeves of his shirt—each ridge and vein so pronounced Finn could trace them with his eyes. Owen’s chest was a broad expanse of muscle, the fabric clinging to every dip and curve of his abs, sweatpants riding low. And between his tree-trunk thighs, the unmistakable swell of his cock strained against the fabric.
Finn swallowed hard, his mouth watering.
"Damn," Jax murmured from the recliner, voice rough with amusement. "Getting a good preview, bubble butt?"
Finn ignored him, his entire world narrowing to the sheer *mass* of Owen—the way his sweatpants stretched taut over thighs thicker than Finn’s waist, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the way his arms flexed as he shifted slightly, like he was resisting the urge to reach out. Finn’s body moved before his brain caught up, sliding off the couch and onto his knees between Owen’s spread legs, the hardwood floor cool against his skin.
Owen smiled down, his icy blue eyes brightening as Finn settled in front of him. His hands, previously draped lazily over the back of the couch, moved slowly—deliberately—to the waistband of his sweatpants. Finn could see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric, thick and heavy, the head already damp with precome. Owen’s fingers hooked into the elastic, pulling it down just enough to reveal the black boxer briefs beneath, the material stretched obscenely over his erection. Every ridge was visible through the thin fabric, and Finn’s mouth watered.
“Fuck,” Finn breathed, his voice barely audible. He couldn’t believe this was happening—that *Owen*, all six-foot-five of sculpted muscle and golden-boy charm, was letting him do this. That *Jax* was watching, his green eyes already glinting the whole time.
Owen grinned, slow and wicked, his hands moving to grip the waistband of his boxers. “Hope you don’t mind a little mess,” he murmured, voice rough with anticipation. Finn watched, transfixed, as Owen’s thick fingers tugged the fabric down in one smooth motion, revealing the full, flushed length of his cock. It sprang free, heavy and glistening at the tip, the veins standing stark against the pale skin. The boxers pooled around Owen’s ankles, tangled with his sweatpants, leaving him completely exposed from the waist down—a monument of muscle and raw power, thighs spread wide enough to frame Finn between them.
Finn’s breath hitched. Up close, Owen’s size was almost overwhelming—his cock thick as Finn’s wrist, the flushed head already beading with precome. Finn’s fingers twitched, itching to touch, to feel the weight of it in his hands. Without hesitation, he reached out, wrapping his fingers around the base, his grip firm but not tight. The skin was impossibly smooth, hot against his palm, and Finn marveled at the way it twitched under his touch, as if responding to him.
Finn exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening just enough to make Owen’s thighs flex—a silent, involuntary reaction that sent a thrill down his spine. The sheer *heat* of Owen’s cock in his palm was intoxicating, the skin silken and yielding under his touch despite the iron-hardness beneath. Finn dragged his thumb over the slit, smearing the bead of precome down the length, watching with rapt attention as Owen’s breath hitched, his abs clenching like he was fighting to stay still.
“Fuck,” Owen muttered, his voice rough as gravel, hands gripping the couch cushions so hard his knuckles blanched. Finn didn’t miss the way his biceps bulged with the effort, veins popping along his forearms like topography maps of restraint.
Finn smirked, pressing the pad of his thumb against the sensitive underside of the head, relishing the way Owen’s hips jerked—just once, barely controlled—before he forced himself still again. “Big guy’s got a *lot* to handle,” Finn murmured, more to himself than anyone, but the way Jax snorted from the recliner told him he’d heard.
Finn's fingers tightened around the base of Owen's cock, his grip firm but slick with his own spit as he worked his hand down the length. The sheer thickness of it was exhilarating—each ridge and vein pressed against his palm, hot and pulsing as he dragged his fist upward slowly, watching the flushed head glisten under the dim light. His thumb swiped over the slit again, smearing precome down the shaft, and Owen's breath hitched, his abs flexing already indicating he enjoyed it. Finn leaned forward, his tongue darting out to lap at the tip, the taste salty and musky on his tongue. He let his spit pool in his mouth before letting it drip onto Owen's cock, the slickness trailing down the sides in slow, glistening rivulets.
He didn’t waste time—his lips parted as he took the head into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked gently. The weight of it was already stretching his jaw, but Finn was determined, his tongue pressing flat against the underside as he worked his way down, inch by inch. He only made it halfway before his jaw protested, but his hand compensated, stroking the lower half in rhythm with his mouth. Owen’s thighs tensed beneath him, muscles flexing as he let out a slow, deep exhale through his nose—more controlled than ragged, but Finn could feel the tremble in his legs, the subtle twitch of his cock against his tongue.
Finn pulled off with a wet *pop*, dragging his lips along the length before diving back down, his hand never stopping its steady strokes. Owen’s fingers tangled briefly in his hair—not pushing, just grounding himself—before settling back against the couch. Finn smirked around him, his tongue swirling just under the head, and Owen’s hips jerked slightly, an aborted thrust that told Finn he was holding back. That only spurred him on—he bobbed his head faster, his free hand gripping Owen’s thigh for balance as he worked him over, spit-slick and relentless.
From the recliner, Jax let out a low whistle. “Damn, bubble butt,” he muttered, voice rough with amusement. “Didn’t know you had those kind of skills.” Finn flicked his gaze up just long enough to see Jax’s smirk, his green eyes dark with interest as he watched, beer forgotten in his hand.
Owen’s breathing deepened, his chest rising and falling steadily, but Finn could feel the tension coiling in his body—the way his thighs trembled under his palms, the way his cock twitched against his tongue.
Finn tried—really, genuinely tried—to hold eye contact with Owen, but the sheer *mass* of him made it impossible. Every time he lifted his gaze from the thick cock filling his mouth, his eyes snagged on the ridges of Owen’s abs, the way they flexed with each ragged breath. The rugby player’s chest was a landscape of muscle, pecs like slabs of marble, his back arching off the couch. Finn’s lips stretched wider around him, his tongue pressing flat against the underside as he swallowed around the head, and Owen’s hips jerked.
Finn’s fingers dug into Owen’s thighs, the muscle beneath his palms taut and trembling. He could feel the power there—the kind of thighs that could crush a man’s ribs if Owen wanted to—but right now, they were spread wide, yielding, letting Finn settle between them like he belonged there, just how he liked it. He dragged his tongue up the length, savoring the way Owen’s abs clenched, the way his pecs tightened as he exhaled sharply through his nose. Finn’s eyes flicked up, catching the way Owen’s jaw was set, his lips parted just enough to let out a quiet, broken groan.
Finn switched tactics, flattening his tongue against the underside as he sucked hard, his hand twisting just the way he knew drove guys wild. Owen groaned—a deep, rumbling sound—and Finn felt the first real loss of control as his hips bucked upward slightly, forcing more of his cock into Finn’s mouth.
Finn didn’t pull away. He relaxed his throat, taking him deeper as his hand worked what he couldn’t fit. Owen’s grip on the couch tightened, his biceps straining as he fought to keep still, but Finn could tell he was close—the way his breath stuttered, the way his cock pulsed against his tongue.
Jax chuckled from the recliner. “Fuck, Owen. You gonna let him swallow?”
Owen’s response was a strangled grunt, his hips jerking again as Finn hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard. The taste of precome flooded his mouth, salty and thick, and Finn moaned around him, the vibration sending Owen over the edge. His release hit the back of Finn’s throat in hot, pulsing bursts, and Finn swallowed easily, his hand milking him through it until Owen sagged back against the couch, spent and panting.
Finn pulled off slowly, licking his lips as he sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Owen’s chest rose and fell heavily, his eyes half-lidded as he blinked down at Finn, dazed but satisfied.
Jax leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his smirk widening. “Guess Owen’s dry spell is officially over.”
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