There's no gradual build-up, no starting slow and working his way up to faster and harder; it's zero to sixty so fast there's no perceptible change in gears along the way, and Fives can hardly breathe for how good it feels, how tight and hot and perfect. He could dial it back if Jedao asked, would stop in a heartbeat and pull himself away if Jedao wanted it, but in the face of Jedao's low-voiced, breathless encouragement all Fives can do, all he can think of, is fuck Jedao as hard and as fast and as desperate as he can.

The room is filled with the quiet sounds of their panting breaths and muttered pleas and encouragements and curses, the slap of skin, the slick sounds of flesh on flesh. Fives frees one hand from Jedao's hip and slides it up his back, fingers tracing the knobs of his spine, smearing the sweat on his skin, then latches onto his shoulder for better leverage. Bends a little to change the angle and fucks into Jedao hard and deep, his strokes almost punishing.

He can feel the heat in his belly coiling tight, his balls pulling up, the buzz under his skin spreading like sheet lightning, and he knows he's not going to last. Knows he should slow or stop or something to keep from embarrassing himself. But it's so fucking good and he's wanted it for so long, and all he can do is make quiet, desperate noises of want as he quickens his pace further and bends over Jedao's back, fumbling to reach beneath him and try to get a hold on his cock. Hope that there's better than a snowball's chance in hell that he can bring him along with him as he tips over the edge.