Fives is going to need to ask Jedao to teach him his language, because he wants to understand what all those almost liquid trills mean, wants to understand every word Jedao breathes or gasps or growls. But for now he arches and shudders in response to the simple sound of it, and his profound awareness of Jedao's focused but incorporeal regard.

"Cyare," he murmurs, his free hand clenching tight in the sheets as he works his finger deeper, pulls and stretches with more gentleness and care than he generally bothers to afford himself in any context. "Cyar'ika." For all that he's spoken it his entire life, he's not sure if he could find any words in Standard right now even under threat.

Mando'a is both safety and comfort; the one thing their Kaminiise masters had paid no attention to, an inferior language of an inferior species that was completely beneath them. So he babbles his own endearments and and pleas and barely half-formed desires in the language he'll always think of as his native tongue as he works himself open enough to slide a second finger in with the first, to twist and stretch and open himself further.