[The struggles don't seem to discourage it at all -- in fact, it presses in closer, and when he starts to flick his tongue it takes hold of the tendril and pushes it an inch or two further into Mizael's mouth, to take advantage of that as well.

It trembles in its bliss, "skin" beading with droplets of purple moisture that eat slowly at Mizael's clothing, and it strokes at his cheeks just shy of where his lips are stretched around the tendril.]

Go on, little bird, go on...

[And then he swallows, finally, and it sighs in contentment, moving one hand down to massage his throat and encourage the same to happen again.]

That's it...drink, Barian, let me in...