The same night Finn typed out a message with uncharacteristic decisiveness. No overthinking, no drafts, just: *Hey. Jax gave me your number. Hit me up if you wanna hang.* He hit send before his brain could conjure up twelve worse ways to phrase it.
Owen replied within minutes, which was either flattering or mildly concerning. *Finn! Hell yeah. You free Friday?* No games, no coy ellipses—just earnest enthusiasm that made Finn snort into his pillow. Of *course* Owen would text like a golden retriever with thumbs. Finn could practically see him grinning at his phone, oblivious to the way his own bluntness short-circuited Finn’s ability to play it cool.
He typed back *Sure*—then, because Owen’s vibe was infectious, added *What’s the plan?* Owen’s response was immediate: *Dunno. Workout at 4. Could come after?* Followed by, *Always pent up post-gym.* No emojis, no winking—just raw, unfiltered honesty that made Finn choke on his water.
Finn stared at his screen. That was it. No *if you’re down*, no *no pressure*—just *I’m horny after lifting, wanna help?* like he was asking Finn to spot him on bench. Finn should’ve been offended. Instead, his thumb hovered over the keyboard. He was exited.
Finn typed back *Sure*, then, after a beat, added a lone wink emoji—letting it hang there, absurdly suggestive in its solitude. Owen’s reply was instantaneous: a single flexing bicep emoji. Finn snorted. It was the least subtle sexting he’d ever witnessed—like two cavemen grunting *u fuck?* *me fuck.* But somehow, it worked.
Finn tossed his phone onto the bed, grinning at the ceiling. It felt bizarrely… *easy*. No games, no agonizing over punctuation—just two guys coordinating a hookup with the efficiency of scheduling a haircut. Finn rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet like an idiot. *God*, he was pathetic.
Friday arrived with the subtlety of a marching band—Finn’s stomach had been in knots since noon. By 3:30 PM, his apartment smelled like citrus cleaner and desperation. He’d scrubbed every surface, rearranged his throw pillows twice, and even debated lighting a candle before deciding that was *too* much. The beer in his fridge was meticulously chilled, because *maybe* Owen would want one afterwards.
His hair was styled into artful disarray, his body freshly showered and shaved smooth. He’d even—God help him—prepped himself earlier, just in case. Finn groaned into his hands at the memory, his cheeks burning. *Act normal*, he commanded his reflection. The guy staring back—pupils dilated, lips bitten pink—looked like he’d been mainlining caffeine.
The buzzer rang at 4:07 PM, and Finn nearly tripped over his own feet answering it. Owen’s voice crackled through the speaker, cheerful as a Labrador. "Hey, man!" Like that explained everything. Finn buzzed him up, then spent the next thirty seconds frantically smoothing his shirt and pretending he hadn’t just done that.
Finn heard the footsteps before he saw Owen—steady, unhurried, like someone who wasn’t overthinking the fact that they were about to hook up. The rhythm was almost soothing, and Finn realized his shoulders had crept up near his ears. He forced them down. *Relax. It’s just Owen.* As if Owen’s sheer existence didn’t short-circuit his ability to form coherent thoughts.
Then Owen rounded the corner, and Finn’s brain flatlined.
Sun-bleached hair still damp from the gym showers, Owen looked like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad—if cologne ads featured guys with biceps stretching the sleeves of a too-tight henley and thighs that could probably crush a watermelon. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and Finn caught the faint scent of soap and something woodsy—deodorant, probably, the kind that came in a no-nonsense stick labeled *SPORT* in aggressive block letters.
"Hey," Owen said, grinning like Finn was the best thing he’d seen all day.
Finn’s mouth went dry. "Hey."
Finn noticed Owen’s gaze flicker over him—quick, but unmistakable—as he stepped inside. The guy’s grin widened, eyes lingering just a second too long on Finn’s thighs before he casually toed off his sneakers. "Shoes outside?" Owen asked, already knowing the answer. Finn just nodded, suddenly hyperaware of how Owen’s sweatpants clung to his quads as he bent to tug them off. "Yeah," Finn managed, voice embarrassingly tight.
Owen straightened, gym bag dumped unceremoniously in the hallway, and surveyed the apartment like he was choosing a battlefield. "Bedroom or living room?" he asked, tone casual as if asking about pizza toppings.
Finn blinked. The sheer *ease* of it—like Owen hadn’t spent a single brain cell agonizing over logistics—threw him. "Depends," Finn heard himself say, words tumbling out before his filter kicked in. "Where d’you wanna do it?"
Owen paused mid-step, head tilting as his grin sharpened. Finn could practically see the amusement spark in those stupidly bright blue eyes. "Don’t care," Owen said, shrugging. "Long as I don’t have to stand. Beat from the gym." He flexed an arm absently, bicep straining his sleeve. "Extra pumped, though. Hope you like that."
*Extra pumped*, Finn’s brain echoed, mouth going dry as he watched Owen saunter into the living room with the confidence of someone who’d never second-guessed a single life choice.
Finn trailed after Owen, suddenly emboldened by the way Owen’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. "I like my men big," Finn blurted, then immediately wanted to shove his own face into a pillow. Where the hell had that come from? Owen just chuckled, low and easy, like Finn had said something charming instead of clinically unhinged.
"Big, huh?" Owen mused, rolling his shoulders absently. The motion made his biceps flex under his shirt, and Finn’s brain short-circuited for the third time in five minutes. "Sit down," Finn ordered, waving a hand at the couch like he wasn’t five-foot-nothing bossing around a human skyscraper. Owen obeyed, plopping onto the cushions with a contented sigh that made the furniture groan.
"Water?" Finn asked, already pivoting toward the kitchen before Owen could answer.
"Sure," Owen called after him, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. Finn risked a glance back—bad idea. The hem of Owen’s shirt rode up, revealing a strip of toned stomach that Finn wanted to lick like an ice cream cone. He nearly face-planted into the fridge.
By the time Finn returned with a glass—condensation already beading on the sides—Owen had settled deeper into the couch, one arm slung over the back like he owned the place. Finn handed him the water, trying not to stare as Owen downed half of it in one go, his throat working. A single droplet escaped, tracing a path down his neck, and Finn’s fingers twitched with the urge to chase it.
The living room wasn’t huge—just enough space for the couch and a TV across from it, the carpet between them worn thin from years of pacing. Finn didn’t kneel instantly, though. Instead, he sat down beside Owen, close enough that their thighs almost brushed, waiting. Owen took set his glass of Water down on the side table with deliberate slowness, then reached over and took Finn’s glass too, placing it beside his own. Finn raised an eyebrow, but before he could crack a joke, Owen turned to him, those bright blue eyes suddenly serious.
"I’d like to kiss you," Owen said, blunt as a hammer.
Finn blinked. He hadn’t expected the directness but he wasn’t about to complain. He nodded, and Owen didn’t waste time. One large hand cradled the back of Finn’s head, pulling him in before Finn could overthink it. The kiss was wet and messy from the start, all tongue and no finesse, like Owen was trying to drink him. Finn melted into it, his fingers digging into Owen’s shoulders as Owen licked into his mouth like he was mapping it.
Owen tasted like mint toothpaste and something faintly salty, his breath warm against Finn’s lips. Finn moaned when Owen bit his lower lip, tugging just enough to sting, and Owen chuckled against his mouth, the sound vibrating through Finn’s chest.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting, their lips swollen and shiny. Finn’s cock strained against his jeans, and he didn’t miss the way Owen’s sweatpants tented obscenely. Owen grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good?" he asked, like he hadn’t just turned Finn’s brain into static.
Finn didn't waste time with subtlety—"I want to suck you off again," he blurted, then immediately wanted to bite his own tongue off. Owen's grin stretched wider than Finn's dignity, his stupidly perfect teeth gleaming under the apartment lights. "Would love that," Owen rumbled, already reaching for his waistband. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his sweatpants and shimmied them down over his hips with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this exact maneuver a thousand times before—which he probably had.
The sweatpants caught on his thighs, and Finn watched, transfixed, as Owen lifted his hips just enough to wiggle the fabric down. Of course Owen had been freeballing. The thick outline of his cock had been obvious through the gray fabric. Now freed, it slapped against his stomach, before dropping heavily against his thigh. Finn swallowed hard, his mouth already watering. Owen grinned up at him, stretched lazily across the couch, his knees splayed wide—like a king lounging on his throne. "Wanna do it like last time? Between the legs?" he asked, seemingly oblivious to how Finn's pulse spiked at the casual offer.
Finn nodded, stepping forward before his brain could catch up with his body. The carpet was rough against his knees as he knelt, but he barely registered the discomfort—not when Owen's thighs bracketed him in, thick and warm, the scent of clean skin and faint sweat from his workout still clinging to him. Finn inhaled, shamelessly leaning in closer, his fingers hovering just above Owen's thighs. "You showered?" he asked, trying for casual and failing spectacularly.
Owen snorted, flexing one thigh just to watch Finn's eyes dart down. "Yeah, man. Didn't wanna smell like a locker room when I showed up." He reached down, palming himself lazily, his foreskin sliding back to reveal the flushed head of his cock. Finn's breath hitched. Owen smirked. "Go for it," he said, like he was offering Finn a beer instead of permission to choke on his dick.
Finn leaned in, the scent of Owen’s soap—something aggressively *male* with a hint of pine—filling his nose. He licked a broad stripe up the underside, savoring the way Owen’s abs twitched. The taste was clean, salty, unmistakably *Owen*. Finn wrapped his lips around the head, sucking gently, and Owen let out a pleased hum, fingers carding through Finn’s hair like he was petting a particularly enthusiastic golden retriever.
Finn sank deeper, his jaw already aching as Owen’s girth stretched his lips wide. *Fuck*, he was big. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, he just had it in the back of his mind that he was a little bit shorter... Owen's cock twitched against Finn's tongue, he was clearly already enjoying himself, his breath hitching in a stupidly endearing way like he was trying—and failing—to play it cool.
Finn managed to get about halfway down before his throat rebelled, gagging reflexively as the head nudged the back of his mouth. He pulled back with a wet pop, saliva stringing between his lips and Owen's cock, glistening under the apartment lights.
Owen knew he was big; how could he not? He didn't have to glance down to confirm Finn's lips were stretched obscenely wide—the choked-off gag told him everything. Finn pulled back, lips slick and swollen, cheeks flushed pink. Owen grinned down at him, fingers still tangled lazily in Finn's hair. "Good?" he asked, voice rough but teasing, like he already knew the answer.
Finn licked his lips, tasting salt as he eyed Owen’s cock like it was a challenge—which, honestly, it was. *Christ*, he’d forgotten how *girthy* Owen was, the way his foreskin stretched tight over the flushed head, the veins standing out like a roadmap to Finn’s impending jaw fatigue. Owen let out a quiet chuckle above him, fingers still idly scratching at Finn’s scalp. “Don't overdo it, just take as much as you can. I know I'm above average size.,” he rumbled.
Finn rolled his eyes internally but the patience was weirdly reassuring. He leaned in again, swirling his tongue around the tip, savoring the way Owen’s thighs tensed under his palms. Owen exhaled sharply through his nose, a soft *“fuck”* escaping him, and Finn preened at the reaction. He hollowed his cheeks, sinking down as far as he could before his gag reflex kicked in.
Owen’s right hand found its way back to Finn’s hair, fingers threading through the dark strands with a lazy possessiveness that made Finn’s stomach flip. He didn’t tug—just held, letting Finn set the pace as he bobbed his head, lips stretched taut around Owen’s girth. Finn could feel the weight of Owen’s gaze on him, those stupidly bright blue eyes tracking every twitch of Finn’s jaw, every flutter of his lashes. It was *ridiculous* how turned on he was just being *watched*, like Owen’s attention alone was enough to short-circuit his nervous system.
Finn pulled off with a wet sound, catching his breath before diving back in, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Owen’s thighs tensed under Finn’s palms, the muscle shifting like tectonic plates. *Christ*, even his *legs* were distracting—thick enough to strain the fabric of his sweatpants earlier, now flexing under Finn’s fingers as Owen let out a low, appreciative hum. “Fuck, yeah,” Owen muttered, voice rough around the edges.
Finn smirked around him, swirling his tongue just to hear Owen’s breath hitch. The guy was *loud* in the best way—every exhale, every bitten-off curse landing like a punch to Finn’s gut. Owen wasn’t performative, wasn’t faking it for Finn’s benefit; he just *reacted*, unfiltered and earnest, like he’d never learned how to hold back. Finn loved it. Loved the way Owen’s abs clenched when Finn sucked particularly hard, loved the way his fingers flexed in Finn’s hair like he was resisting the urge to take control.
*Resisting*, apparently, had a time limit.
One moment Finn was in charge, lips sliding down Owen’s shaft; the next, Owen’s grip tightened—not harsh, but *definite*—guiding Finn’s head down with pressure Finn couldn’t ignore. Owen’s breath hitched, thighs tensing beneath Finn’s palms. "Close," Owen muttered, voice thick, like the word was being dragged out of him. Finn smirked around him, hollowing his cheeks—then yelped when Owen’s fingers flexed, pushing him down *harder*.
Finn gagged instantly, eyes watering as Owen’s cock hit the back of his throat. He tried to pull back, but Owen—usually so accommodating—held him firm, hips jerking upward with a low groan. Then, abruptly, Owen let go—but too late. Finn wrenched himself backward, gasping, saliva slick on his chin—just as Owen came with a punched-out groan. Finn barely had time to blink before hot stripes painted his cheeks, his eyelashes, even the tip of his nose. He froze, stunned, as Owen’s cum splattered across his face in thick, glistening streaks.
For a second, Finn just sat there on his knees, Owen’s release cooling on his skin like some bizarre facial mask. Then, slowly, he stuck out his tongue—just enough to catch a drop that had landed near the corner of his mouth. The taste was salty, musky, unmistakably *Owen*. Finn made a show of swallowing exaggeratedly, then swiped a finger through the mess on his cheek, popping it into his mouth with deliberate slowness. He grinned up at Owen, whose chest was still heaving. "Tasty," Finn quipped, voice hoarse.
Owen’s laugh was breathless, half-disbelieving. "Christ," he wheezed, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re fucking *ridiculous*." But his gaze was locked onto Finn’s mouth, tracking the way Finn’s tongue darted out to catch another stray drop. "Hot, though," Owen admitted, voice rough.
Finn preened, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand—then, because he couldn’t help himself, licked that too. Owen groaned, flopping back against the couch like Finn was personally ruining him. "That looks hot," Owen muttered, his dick twitching against his thigh, still half-hard.
Finn smirked, wiping his chin with the back of his hand as he stood up, his knees popping from the carpet burn. Owen was sprawled on the couch like a sunbathing lion, his henley shirt riding up just enough to tease the lower ridges of his abs—tragically covering the rest of that sculpted torso. *A crime*, Finn thought mournfully, though the thick, half-flaccid cock still glistening between Owen’s thighs more than made up for it.
"You do be looking real hot aswell," Finn admitted with a grin, gesturing vaguely at Owen’s entire existence before turning toward the hallway. "Gonna wash this masterpiece off my face real quick. Try not to miss me too much."
Owen’s laugh followed him down the hall—a deep, rumbling sound that made Finn’s stomach flip. By the time he returned, face freshly scrubbed and hair finger-combed back into some semblance of order, Owen was already dressed, leaning against the window frame with his arms crossed. The sight punched Finn with a weird mix of disappointment and satisfaction—*right, this was just a hookup*—until Owen turned, sunlight catching the stupidly perfect planes of his face.
"I’d like that," Owen said, voice casual but eyes sharp, like he’d been rehearsing the line. "Next time, though? I’d like it even more if I returned the favor."
Finn blinked. *Oh.*
The words hung between them, thick with implication. Finn’s brain helpfully replayed Owen’s offhand statement—*"I’m gay aswell"*—between clips of Owen’s hands, Owen’s mouth, Owen’s *everything*. Suddenly, the idea of Owen on his knees, or better yet, pinning Finn down with those linebacker shoulders, felt *very* immediate.
Finn’s mouth went dry. "Yeah?" he managed, aiming for cool and landing somewhere near *eager disaster*. "I mean. Yeah. That’d be—" *Say something coherent, Jesus.* "—cool."
Owen snorted, pushing off the window to clap Finn on the shoulder—a gesture that should’ve felt bro-y but instead sent a jolt straight to Finn’s groin. "Cool," Owen repeated, deadpan. "Sure." His thumb brushed the nape of Finn’s neck, fleeting but deliberate, before he grabbed his gym bag. "Text me when you’re free."
Finn nodded, brain still buffering as he followed Owen into the hallway of his flat. Owen paused at the door, half-turning with a grin. "See ya, shortstack," he said, grabbing his gym bag off the floor and slinging it over one shoulder with effortless ease. The movement made his biceps flex obscenely under the thin fabric of his shirt. Finn swallowed hard.
"Yeah, see ya," Finn echoed, voice suspiciously high-pitched as Owen ducked through the doorway—the man had to tilt his head slightly to avoid smacking the doorframe, which was unfairly hot. The door clicked shut, and Finn exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since Owen walked in. "Holy *shit*," he muttered to the empty hallway, his voice hoarse in a way that would’ve been embarrassing if he hadn’t earned it so thoroughly.
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