That's definitely the dichotomy he goes for: hot, yet cute. (It's not, as he doesn't strive to be any particular thing, but it's inevitable, perhaps, given his size). As accustomed as he is to a height difference, it's still mildly irritating to have to choose between kissing and touching, sometimes. But there's still something nice, about tilting his face up toward a lover, to catch or demand their lips, to watch them through his lashes as his hands feel their body, real and warm.

Finnick is beautiful; Levi would think that no matter his shape, but he can't help the primal part of his brain that enjoys the solidity of muscle beneath skin. The uncanny perfection isn't far from his mind, wondering what sort of scars the man would have if they hadn't been erased. His fingertips ghost along his chest, ribs, stomach, imagining what they might have been like - not because he likes the thought of him being hurt or suffering, but because they'd been his; part of his story, a testament to the things he survived.

His hand finally finds what he's after, caressing the shaft with fingertips, rubbing it with the heel of his palm before taking it in a careful grip, giving Finnick a very gentle tug.

"Fuck," he mutters, watching the younger man's face, other hand resting at his hip. "Could fucking break glass with this thing."