[He's struggling now, but Black Mist knows. It knows he won't last for long, the way he's trembling, the way his skin is hot under its fingers.

(you can't stay in control when the thing you want is to be open, to be seen, to be loved and wanted and used and owned)

The tendril arcs lazily over its shoulder, moves in close so it's barely resting against IV's lips.]

You'll love this, my pet. You'll be so happy.

[It keeps its palms locking IV's head in place, but it brushes its fingers gently through his hair as the tendril slowly (so slowly, almost torturously so) slides into his mouth. It's dripping with oil, now, just at the tip so it runs into his mouth.

As it does, one of the other tendrils begins to wind up his leg, gliding over his inner thigh.]