God, this is beautiful—Finnick genuinely coming apart, safe and cared for and coming to pieces, begging for anything just because John is touching him, tasting him. He’s hard and dripping, and the taste of him is on his tongue, his scent in John’s lungs…

He moans as he bends his head to run his tongue along the underside of Finnick’s cock, pauses to wrap his mouth around the tip and suck as he strokes him. He can’t resist, and fuck, it’s so good.

It’s too good, and he definitely wants Finnick to fuck him. John can blow him later. A few times.

With shaking hands, John rummages through the pockets of Finnick’s discarded pants to find the lube he’s sure is there—just like that first time. Straddling his waist, John bends to kiss him and slips the lube into his hand, wrapping his free one around Finnick’s cock to stroke him again while he leans in to bite and suck another bruise onto his neck.

“Help me?” He whispers, heat rising in his cheeks again. “Wanna feel what it’s like, maybe I can do it next time. Let you watch.”

And thinking about that, opening himself up with Finnick watching, thinking about Finnick inside him while he does it…

Yeah, recovery time is winding down for damn sure.