Just for a second, the reassurance has the opposite effect. For a split second, he’s back in Vietnam with a massive Russian soldier pulling his own hair to compel him to radio his superiors…

He can still feel the searing blade cutting a new line of scar tissue along his orbital socket. He can feel the electrical current, the bite of jute rope holding him fast.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone like he got hurt, especially a friend—and for this, Finnick is a friend he will never let go, not for anything—but he’s asking. Asking and grinning like he’s looking forward to it…and thinks about Finnick’s nails on his back.

John slides both his hands into Finnick’s hair, looking into his eyes, and kisses him again. He rocks against him, kissing slow and deep with that delicious hot slide of tongues…

…and slides a hand down Finnick’s chest, letting a nail catch on his nipple through the fabric of his shirt as he tightens his fingers in his hair and gives a short, but firm tug to tip his head back a little more so he can deepen the kiss still more.

And that…taking his mouth like he wants to take his body, or be taken, taking advantage to taste and touch and do something Finnick wants…yeah, that’s good.

That’s fucking incredible.