Fives loses himself quickly to the sweet, building pleasure of it; soft touches and hungry kisses, the warmth of a body, however alien, moving against his own, the deep, aching pleasure of being stretched and filled and, intermittently, lit up with waves of sensation that propagate through his system like a pulse grenade.

There's nothing but this moment, this pleasure, nothing before or after. Just darkness and warmth and heat and building, aching need. Until what's left of his voice fills the darkness with a ragged, gasping whine that builds and fades but never goes silent, and his body arches and trembles beneath the creature as pleasure builds and builds and builds and then, more shocking than anything that's come before, breaks over and through him, tearing a shocked cry from his abused throat as he seizes and trembles and spills all over his abdomen and chest and even the quivering tendons of his throat.