"You -" he's planning to babble something reassuring, but it gets cut off in long stutter of whimpers, the effect of forcing himself not to moan too loud, the low desperate sound emerging in brief spatters of truncated air. He didn't want more preparation, and Fives slides in perfectly; he's still so slick, almost dripping, but already a little sore, enough to make the sudden smooth stretch even more intense.

"Perfect, perfect," he mumbles, when he has any kind of control of his mouth again, because it's so good, too much, because it takes him out of himself in the best way, out of the rat-maze of his head and drowning him in the simple thrilling sensation of his body.