[ There's that press of its cheek to his own, that gush of oil into his mouth, and IV moans around the tendril, sucking the oil in deeply.

(it slows down again, though, and it's faster than before but it's not enough, not enough he needs more it's so good and he needs it)

Rocking in its grip, IV gasps and groans and moans more, more, please the best he can around the tendril and between swallows, and the noises only get more desperate when he feels the tendril press into him, the trickling oil. He needs more, though.

(more, more, more, he needs more why is it so slow when IV would give anything)

(he should still resist and he knows it but he doesn't care)

(Black Mist is giving him what he wants, what he needs, but not enough of it)

(he would do anything, he would give anything, he would give his soul for more of this in this moment)

(what's left of it to give, anyway) ]