"Yes, keep your hands there for me, that's good," he encourages, giving John the instructions he needs to be the good boy he so desperately wants to be. It's adorable.

The scars are evidence of John's experiences, what he's been through. Evidence of pain, but also proof of his resilience to still be here, to heal, to mend. Finnick is grateful for that, and he has appreciation for everything that's made John into the man he cares for.

It's true, though; Finnick is trying to overwhelm John, to send him to that lovely place where thoughts are slow like sludge and wrapped in fog, and all that matters is submission, in being held safe and treated to pleasure. John deserves that. His hands and mouth keep working lower, and he hears John struggle to form words, knowing that rational thought is unravelling from Finnick's touch. He looks up, meets his eyes.

"It's alright, sweetheart. I've got you; nothing's gonna hurt you. Let yourself go." As though to support his point, his hands wrap around John's hips, holding them securely. Given that his partner seems relaxed enough and still enjoying himself, Finnick undoes his pants and slides them down his hips carefully. His cock springs free, and John's physique is fully revealed, like a statue carved of smooth marble. Finnick's hands caress over his hipbones, thumbs creeping into the divets of his hips. He then kisses there, very softly. Lips and tongue lap at the spot, then gradually make their way lower, toward the base of his cock. Still, nothing touches it. It stands erect, pre-come dripping onto John's stomach.

"You're so beautiful," Finnick murmurs adoringly.