He groans softly when Fives pulls his hips in, rocks in sharp, urgent little motions. He get his bare hand inside Fives' open shirt and gropes shamelessly, fingers splayed over Fives' absurd pectoral, palm rubbing against the delightful little peak of his nipple.

"No you," he counters between kisses, tone deliberately petulant to the point of playful silliness, grinning every time he catches Fives' eyes, before darting in for more kisses. The socially responsible part of his brain - for certain particular values of responsible - suggests that he really ought to teach Fives a little technique while they're here, but he shoves it off. He likes the sloppiness right now, the lewd messy brashness of it, the unmistakable palpable want, the total lack of repression or calculation.

Maybe later.