Phillip goes alien and familiar all at once and the room feels like it spins a little, Gustavain glad he's braced against the bed. The pace of his hips doesn't stutter, particularly, though it was somewhat erratic already, but his breath catches and he makes a low, keening noise that's utterly involuntary. He doesn't remember, there's nothing to remember, not in his mind, anyway. But his soul knows this...

When he thought about their first night together, he'd always presumed his reaction to the form was some kind of sick desire for the darkness, some kind of reaction as one of Hydaelyn's chosen filtered through his own heart. "Communion" with Fray had only intensified that opinion. Now, he's not sure.

Whatever it is, it spurs him onward with a kind of banked violence, Phillip's wrists pinned to the sheets in his hands, thrusts picking up now with a brutality born of sudden desperation far more than any desire to be cruel.