John stops holding back then, pressing his forehead into Finnick’s as he shamelessly thrusts into that perfect grip. Heat and pressure and those beautiful callused fingers moving over him fast and deliberate as the pleasure tightens in his belly…

…and for a second it’s like his body isn’t listening, has forgotten how to stop holding back that release he wants so badly. He does whine then, not a true whimper but so much higher than that breathy hum—but something happens, Finnick’s breath on his face and the right twist of his wrist and the way his body feels under John’s hands.

He reaches the edge, he falls over it—and he quits thinking altogether.

For a long time there’s nothing but pleasure. He’s moaning and crying out Finnick’s name, nails raking his back over his shirt, shuddering and fucking Finnick’s fist for what feels like forever. When he does start to come down, he finds his face pressed to Finnick’s neck where he’s been mindlessly nipping and worrying at a patch of skin just above the collar of his shirt in between lapping at the spot just to taste his skin.

“…holy shit.” he laughs softly, drawing back to kiss him. “Mmmm…”

Love you.

He keeps kissing Finnick so the words don’t fall out of his mouth too soon.