"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Jedao murmurs, firmly but warmly, giving Fives' wrist another squeeze before letting go. "I hadn't told you yet."

Jedao can tell what Fives is trying to do, starts to say, "Yeah, just a little - " and then becomes completely stymied at trying to figure out how to give clear directions, has a sudden absurd mental image of his first drill sergeant yelling out left turns, and all the green idiots getting their left and officer's left all mixed up. He ducks his head in a half-muffed, bubbling laugh, and then moves himself instead, tilts his hips just right so that Fives' fingertip is brushing his prostate.

Pleasure lances through him, pure and defeaning. His head drops back onto the pillow, his spine arches, his toes curl helplessly.