Work Text:
I'm a firm believer that Finnick Odair isn't the type of man to simply fuck his lover and view their time together as a passing fancy. No, he makes love to them. He deeply savors the atmosphere of intimacy the two of you share inside the privacy of your shared bedroom. To him, sex with you is love in its purest, rawest form.
He touches like the tide— Finnick’s hands skim over their skin as though it were delicate sea-glass, softened by years of storms. He memorizes each curve with the kind of awe only a man born from old poetry could possess. Salt still clings to his lashes, his hair damp with moonlit mist, but his gaze—his gaze burns.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the hollow of their throat like a prayer. “You don’t know how wonderful you are."
He maps them slowly, reverently, with fingertips that once held spears but now hold only devotion. a shoulder blade becomes a shore. a collarbone, a crescent moon. the pulse at their neck is a drumbeat of something holy, a melodic grounding. “Every inch of you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss below their ear, “was carved to ruin me.”
His voice is low, reverent, like the sea hush before a wave breaks. “They can keep their jewels and empty promises. I'd trade them all for the slope of your hip, the warmth of your breath, the curve of your smile in the dark.”
Finnick kneels—not in submission, but in adoration.
As if worship were not something done in temples, but in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.
As if salvation could be found in skin and sighs and the taste of someone who calls him home.
Love, unarmored.
Worship, unashamed.