John is clearly feeling anything but discomfort, and those moans and grabs and desperate pleas are driving Finnick to the brink of madness as he grasps at the frayed ends of his self-control. Finnick is breathing heavily now in a fight against his own arousal, his own desire to violently rail John into oblivion here and now. That's not what John wants in this moment, not what he needs.

John says, make love to me.

Click.

It's as though the words press a button, spurring an automatic roll of Finnick's hips. He kisses John, deep and messy, and lets out a long and low moan as his body undulates into his lover's. Each thrust is a gentle press into the bed, and one hand holds John's knee up while the other buries in his hair, cradling the back of his head and gripping just slightly.

It feels incredible. His cock he chose to neglect until this point is now awash with delicious pressure and heat. Ripples of pleasure emanate out from that point, filling his brain with pluming chemicals, ricochets of electricity.

"Oh my god," he moans, overwhelmed with the euphoria of it all.