It's four in the morning on a Thursday night--Friday morning, really, and people with sense, or day jobs, have gone to bed. In an all night coffee shop, those who don't fit into either category have drifted into corners with inadvisable caffeine, largely in singles or pairs without much in the way of conversational buzz. The only real noise right now is a half-drunk woman arguing with the barista at the counter over the wait time on the next pot of decaf.
     Loki's claimed a corner himself, with a full ratty couch all his own. The earpiece is firmly in place, music cranked up loud enough to drown out the warble of the shop's sound system, if only in one ear. It's his own music that his fingers are drumming to along the edge of his phone as he reads, working off the high from a night out in live music. The concert wrapped two hours ago, he left the club not long after, but it was good music. That kind of thing sticks around a while, despite distance and distraction.

     You know, drowning the world out has its advantages, but the downside is anyone could sneak up on you.
     The tone is distinctly amused, and pitched for your 'ears' only. He could sneak up on you even if you weren't making it easy on him, of course; even without magic, he is and has always been King of Thieves and Emperor of Assassins. He does not look the part particularly right now; a black and red t-shirt, brown leather bomber jacket, and a pair of old and faded jeans do not an assassin's outfit make. The boots are plain, old, hobnailed work boots that have seen better days...
     One wing of hair falls over an eye, and he grins down at you by bending over the other edge of the couch, leaning lightly against its arm. He winks his visible eye, then takes a seat without being asked. "Lost in thought, or thoughtfully lost?" Gwilym inquires easily, ignoring the rest of the room as if it simply doesn't exist - or doesn't matter. "You look together, oes?"

     It'd be too much of a giveaway if he went and smiled when you appeared, but there's a suspicious lack of hostility in his startle at your words that has to mean something. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other," Loki says, sliding the earpiece off. The phone follows into a separate pocket. A place for everything, and everything in its place. "I needed to unwind, and I wasn't in the mood to sit at home." Unspoken, Alone.
     The more thoughtful look around the coffee shop, as if to confirm that this is real, no dreaming, doesn't come until a moment later.

     "Oh, oes? Well, you won't be lacking for company soon, will y'?" Gwilym settles back, perfectly at ease as he leans back with eyes half-closed. He smiles, and it is as smooth as butter and just as sly. "You seem to be enjoying y'self, I must say."
     I know that my nephew has been telling you things. I figure I should tell you ... I don't mind...
     He leaves it for you to hear without ears, and he leans back and takes for himself a cup of coffee that probably wasn't there a minute ago. "So. Settling?"

     "It's been a good night," Loki admits, very nearly as if it's something he should be ashamed of. He tracks the arrival of coffee with a half-disgruntled thought of Everyone else gets the useful tricks. Other people get magically appearing coffee, he gets headaches...
     Though it's harder to be annoyed about those headaches when surrounded by the coffee, and on the slow slide back down from the emotional punch of tonight's concert. "Coping," he says, sinking back with his far entirely prosaic double-shot latte. "Working on things. Some of it gets easier. Some of it doesn't. And the rest of life keeps going, which does take some work, now and then."

     The strong stuff comes later. What you have is more powerful than ninety per cent of the human race already, Gwilym retorts, sounding amused. It matches his perpetual expression, anyway. Don't worry. Do well enough with these and I'll trust you with more. Would you trust just anyone with your drums?
     He sips his coffee without spilling a drop, even as he shifts positions to perch on the arm of the sofa as agilely and as easily as a cat. "Life is always difficult. For all of us, oes? Not just you, I promise. But I imagine y' have questions, and I did promise I would answer more questions, the next time we met." That one eye closes again in a wink. "Here's your opportunity."
     He never said it would be easy on the nerves...

     Loki shifts about to keep an eye on you. For what little good that's likely to do him, but it's not like there's anything more interesting in the coffee shop right now. "I don't think I'm anywhere in the top eighty percent when it comes to difficulty in life. Difficulty is unfortunately subjective."
     It's always easier to remember the questions when you're not around. That's distraction at work, not memory. "Is this the long-term pattern, or just the way things work right now? You showing up and disappearing without any schedule I'm privy to, and me just...slogging along trying to get more practice with these things between appearances."

     "I show up when I have time to." Gwilym shrugs easily, seeming perfectly comfortable with the situation for his own end of it. He slides from arm to cushion, lounging back with an unconscious but elegant grace that comes as naturally to him as wearing his skin. "It's not a schedule, as such; it's when seems right."
     He drinks his coffee, lazing with his one visible eye half-closed as he peers at you over his cup. "Difficulty is definitely subjective. No doubt of it," he agrees readily. "So. No questions at all?" He grins brilliantly. "Y' don't have to censor yourself on my account."

     "I don't know which questions to ask," Loki says, "which is almost as annoying as the lack of scheduling. It's not like I have a very good track record with the questions I have asked after, since it always seems to come back to either 'practice' or something I can't follow." There's no irritation in his voice, but the warm buzz of the concert's worn off.
     He props his elbows on the arm of the couch, slouched down in what would probably turn into an all-out sprawl across the couch if he were willing to put his shoes on the furniture. "Fuck if I know. Here's one. What do you want me to be doing now, that I'm not? I've barely got an idea of where I'm supposed to get to, which means I'm not real clear on how to get from here to there."

     "I have nothing specific for you to do right now. If I did, I'd have told you - I'm not the sort of god who believes in sending messages to his followers in a mold stain on a basement wall, or an impression of his mum in a pat of batter." He grins, eye sparkling at that one. Riot! Mum would love that. "Right now, I am girding your loins for what is yet to come."
     Gwilym leans over to take from among the seat cushions a bottle of Irish whiskey. He winks at you, unscrewing it casually and adding a liberal dollop to his coffee before offering you the same. "You are less tangled than you were, but you're not free of tangles yet. You're moving in the right direction."

     It's probably a bad idea to add alcohol to all the caffeine in his system right now, which does not stop Loki from holding out his cup to that offer. "That's some reassurance. If anyone did send me a message in a mold stain, I'd probably scrub it out before I understood what it meant. What's up with those sorts of amazingly vague messages, anyway? You'd think a theoretically omnipotent god could come up with something a little more straightforward, like a booming voice from above, if he really wanted to get across information to his worshippers."
     Which is enough to make him think of one of those niggling little questions... "With all those gods out there, is there room for the whole Judeo-Christian one? Omnipotence, omniscience, all that? You'd think there wouldn't be space for anyone else, with all of his 'thou shalt not have other gods' proclamations, if so."

     Gwilym shrugs, rolling his shoulders back lazily. "If there is room for belief, there's probably room for a Judeo-Christian god, but I wouldn't want to meet the bloke myself. Anyway, he never said there weren't other gods; he said he was the one true god, didn't he? Sort o' like running for office. Don't vote for him, vote for me! A vote for Yahweh is a vote for god and country and justice and right."
     He grins at you, that sly, sliding grin, the devil's own. "Following sommat else is like following the devil himsel' according to the Christians, oes? I don't know. Can't say as I ever saw much to choose between them - Christ and Satan, Yahweh and Lucifer. But I don't tend to get into the theology of the matter." He waves a hand airily. "You don't, y'see. Start doing so and you may's well go mad. I've never had an angel or devil wear a face I recognized and tell me who to follow or how, so I go on doing and being what I am. I figure that's all anybody can do, whether or not they're human. Besides, what's human, anyway?"

     "A biological organism defined by a certain set of DNA patterns," Loki says promptly. "After that, it turns into philosophy, and half the time people get all True Scotsman about the discussion." He gives his mug a swirl, and drinks down the doctored coffee. "Besides, all I know of theology is what I got in my one comparative mythology course, which I only took for vaccination purposes. So I'm not about to stay up nights"--presumably even later than he already is, for such a thing--"wondering if there is a Dog."

     "Vaccination purposes?" Gwilym looks entirely amused by that. "Didn't take, did it? - All right, then. What about sex?"
     He says it completely offhanded, following with a sip of whiskey-laden coffee. He draws a leg up and settles back contentedly, watching you from under lowered, unfairly long eyelashes.

     "It worked perfectly well until one of you started showing up in person," Loki says primly, "which is about the equivalent of snacking on the brains of mad cows on the religious front."
     He's a good liberal boy who's just fine with talking about sex, and you are...you. The next gulp of coffee doesn't really hide the uncomfortable twitch in his shoulders. "So what about sex? How did we get from religion to there?"

     "I am a fertility god, of sorts." Gwilym grins at you wolfishly, and there's something blatant and undressing in his gaze for a moment. If he could bottle and sell it, he'd make millions. "Everything connects to sex in the end. Birth, sex, death. My nephew covers sex and birth. I take over where he leaves off."
     It's just as well nobody else is paying the slightest attention. This conversation, if they could hear it, would only raise eyebrows and more than that. If they could hear it.
     He leans towards you, and casually runs a fingertip against your cheek. "And you had questions on that front," Gwilym reminds you, fingertip ending up under your chin to tip it up towards him a bit. "I remember, even if you don't."

     He's gone a little wide-eyed, that frozen look of indecision. It's not unlike lust, in some ways. Or terror. "Mostly...wondering," Loki says. He swallows, and pulls back from your finger, enough to hide behind a sip of coffee. "I don't know. You've told me about Romano, and what he does for you. And that it's not in my job description. That seems to cover the, uh, important points."

     He smiles, and the glint in his eye has nothing to do with humor alone. "Romero," Gwilym agrees easily. "And please, let's not bother with pointless lies and deceptions, oes? I know you want me. You know it. You know I know, and I know that you know. We could keep it going indefinitely, but that joke's been done, oes?"
     He finishes off his coffee and sets it aside; his hand, empty, comes to rest on your knee as he speaks, thumb moving idly back and forth in a sweep against the curve of the patella. "You seem to have a problem with the fact that I want to see y' naked and squirming under me - or rather, you don't have a problem with it, and that's what you have the problem with. Except the problem isn't going away on its own, is it?" His hand lifts, the backs of his nails dragging along your thigh. "So we get to work through it. We can take the easy way - talking about it - or the hard way, which still ends up with y' in my lap and ultimately, in my bed."

     "Wanting something," Loki says, with some effort to keep his voice steady, "is seldom much of a good reason to go after...whatever that something is." He swallows, hand tightening on the handle of the mug he's still holding. "Especially since reality never lives up to imagination. Why not let things stay at want instead of complicating them with have?"

     "Because sometimes the having's as good as the wanting," Gwilym answers promptly. His hand continues to your waist, thumb looping through one of the belt loops of your trousers and tugging just hard enough for the material to rock a bit. "If you wanted, I could unzip y' and go down on y' and I'd lay y' even odds nobody would even notice."
     He grins at you wickedly, one emerald eye sparkling with mirth and darkness. His thumb slips free of the loop, fingers trailing down against said zip before he lazily pulls his hand back to between you and him on the sofa.
     "We both know. So why not know completely? What, really, have y' got to lose..."

     He's right back to frozen in shock, if conflicting instincts weren't enough to do the job already. The first he's able to respond, when your hand's finally back (safely) off him is--"In public?" Hardly audible, that question; even in shock, Loki knows better than to Make A Scene.
     The heel of one shoe digs in against the side of the sofa as he curls back into his corner, as if he might be about to climb up onto the back in full on mouse-on-the-floor panic. (He won't. Shoes aren't allowed on the furniture.) Or bolt for the door, but if he were going to do that, he'd be moving by now. "There's always something to lose," he says, shoulders hunching in. "Even if I don't know precisely what it is right now."

     "Who's going to notice?" Gwilym points out, oh so reasonably. He smirks, leaning forward and planting both palms on your thighs. "Nobody's paying a lick of attention to us. And speaking of licks..."
     His smirk widens, turning into the kind of grin that has no compare. It is Trouble, pure and simple. He sliiiides off the sofa silently and gracefully, palms sliding to your knees to nudge them apart to give him a clean landing.
     "Or if y' like, we could go back to the Abbey. They've booths there, after all. The coffee's better, too."

     No, that wasn't frozen before. That was only...slow. This, here, is Loki wide-eyed and entirely unable to respond. He's not even thinking all that coherently, aside from a faint repeating echo of in public that's almost as distracting as you are.
     "Not...here," he finally manages, and it's as near as he's likely to get to stating a preference any time soon.

     "Right, then." Gwilym smoothly slides up to his feet, holding his hand out to you. His grin is as predatory and feline as a leopard's. "The Abbey it is. Shall we?"
     It's with an expression more akin to a deer in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler that Loki stands to follow, your hand taken all the more slowly. "...okay."

     The ride was not that long, although perhaps it felt longer for Gwilym's arm casually slung along the back of the seat. He spoke lightly during the trip, of traveling in France and Canada, and of his time as an acrobat. His stories are outrageous - you wouldn't be out of place to wonder if there's so much as a grain of truth in any of them. But they do pass the time remarkably well...
     At the Abbey, he tips the driver handsomely and with a wink, turning to bow you out of the taxi and into the coffee shop. "What d'you want to drink?" he inquires as amiably as if the entire purpose of being here weren't for illicit sexual practices in a booth. "I think I'm about done with coffee for tonight, m'self. But I might be talked into a granita."

     None of this seems entirely real. It would make sense in a dream, but in real life people don't--well, no, other people might head to a different public place in the city for somewhat less public sex, but he doesn't. It's not the sort of thing he does. Not without being far, far less sober. So this can't possibly be happening the way it seems to be happening.
     In a moment of excessive honest, Loki says, "I have no idea." He's not quite looking at you full on, as if the nearby architecture is amazingly interesting just now.

     He looks at you measuringly. "Get a half-order of coffee in a large cup for you," Gwilym decrees, and with a smile that could charm paint into undressing off the walls, he orders just that on your behalf from the girl behind the counter along with a raspberry granita for himself. "We'll be occupying a booth for an hour or two, ducky," he tells her with a roguish grin. "Maybe you'll join us when you get off your shift, eh?"
     She giggles and fails to slap his face. It's proof that the universe just isn't fair.
     He smiles at you, and it is a slyer smile, darker and more knowing, and the one visible eye that seems the only one the world ever sees closes in a wink. He hands you your coffee. You need to have your hands on something right now, oes? And it is full where before it was only half full; somewhere between the barista's hands and yours he's managed to top it off with Irish cream liqueur. With one hand freed, that hand now goes to the small of your back, steering you towards one of the booths.
     "Mind your knees," Gwilym says cheerily. "The table's sometimes seeming a bit closer to the sliding doors than is wantful."

     Loki is directed in an amenable daze, holding coffee with more liquor than is entirely wise and--no, he left "wise" somewhere in the last coffee shop, so it's rather late to be worrying on that point, isn't it?
     I am not the kind of person who does this kind of thing. Ergo, either I am not actually doing this kind of thing, or I'm not actually the kind of person I thought I was...
     He does remember to mind his knees, after opening the door. Complete brain lockup has not quite occurred yet.

     There's a wicked glint of a smile in Gwilym's eyes and he climbs in after you, putting his drink down where it will likely be ignored for the rest of the evening. The doors are slid shut behind him with a low hiss of wood in their grooves.
     "Now. Where were we." He smiles at you from the same side of the booth as you, turning towards you and draping his arm around your shoulders so casually that it could be a stroll in the park. It isn't, of course. His other hand makes sure you remember that; it lights upon your thigh. "Oh, oes, I think I remember."
     He squeezes your thigh once, then slides his arm back to lift that hand to feather through your hair. "About here, wasn't it?" Gwilym inquires, looking at you with that lazy smile. "I am going to kiss you now, Loki. And then when I am done kissing you, I am going to do terrible, awful, wicked things to y'. Which you'll enjoy. Any questions?"

     Loki is not ignoring his drink. He is clutching it as if it might save him from whatever it is that he needs saving from just now. Or, after a heavy gulp, as if it might offer enough liquid courage to help him...flee? Resist fleeing? Whichever the option, he's not gone running yet, so he can't want to all that much.
     "It's really not fair how you can do that," Loki says, voice barely audible. "You just--these things just work for you."

     Gwilym listens with an air of attentiveness; he tips his head to the side with that predatory sort of patience, and then, he smiles. "That wasn't a question," he murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. His other hand slides from your thigh to your hip, grasping it idly.
     "If there are no further questions from the class..."

     "Um," Loki says, which isn't a question either, his shoulders pressed against the back of the booth as if he might be able to phase right through the wall. With his knee sliding over to cozy up against yours, it is not exactly an unmixed message.

     Gwilym smiles, and he slides forward to capture your mouth with his own. It is not a forceful kiss, but it is a kiss that knows its own mind. It is a kiss which doesn't need a map to know where it is going, and its destination is clearly marked. His tongue slides against yours slyly, teasing at the inside of your lower lip before his teeth almost daintily tug at that lip, not quite in a nip. He does so leisurely and almost carelessly, only freeing your mouth in order to travel to the rim of your ear.
     "Tell me what you want," Gwilym murmurs, one hand beginning to carelessly tug your shirt free of your trousers. "Is this what you want, Loki?" His thumb slips against your belly, then his palm travels down to your groin to press there for a moment with added heat. "Oes or no..."

     Loki's knuckles are white where he's gripping his cup of coffee. Everything still makes sense, so long as he has that at hand. Against your kiss he's not entirely passive, lips moving in no kind of comment (or even a suddenly remembered question) except an uncertain response.
     "I don't--" He stops his own answer halfway through, eyes flickering down across where your hand's gone. "Yes," he says, almost inaudible. "I don't know if I should, but I know what I want."

     He smiles. "Good enough," Gwilym answers easily. His hand stays where it is. "Here, or somewhere more - comfortable, then?"

     Somewhere beneath the lust and confusion, Loki finds a moment of pragmatism. "Is the more comfortable place less public? Because if so, I'm for it." The way he's holding onto his coffee suggests at least one more caveat on his willingness to leave the booth.

     There is a wolfish smile, hungry and dark, and he slides forward against Loki in that confined space. His palm cups comfortably against Loki's groin, his other hand sliding up over Loki's chest to cradle the nape of his neck and then slide fingers into his hand for a convenient but not painful hold.
     "Oes," he croons, "much less public. It is my heart. The Center of All Things. I've asked three times and three times you've answered me, No Man's Son. And now..."
     And now...
     He tugs Loki towards him, kissing him with sudden predatory appetite. It is a breath-stealing kiss, the sort that marks mouths and hints at the souls behind the eyes. Before the kiss has ended, the booth has melted away; from one shadow to another is never a very far step for the Holly King.
     And what had been the booth is now a stone room, the walls bare and a granite slab the only furniture in the room. There are no windows, and fat white candles sit in niches in the walls, velvets and furs tossed haphazardly onto the slab and the floor alike. Gwilym retains his hold on Loki, leaning him up against the wall now that the wall of the booth is not there.
     "I am going to give you pleasure," Gwilym promises, lips close to Loki's ear. "I am going to make sure that you will not forget this night."

     "My king, you forget yourself..."
     The voice and the Presence (and power) behind it are sudden. His mouth is a breath away from his king's own ear, and for all his posture, his expression is quite placid and the thrumming tone of his voice drawls out low and long.
     Would you ruin all that you had sought to build? Usually, I am the first with a box of matches to the tinder. But look tenderly now, brother, upon yourself and your priest.
     The aurora of emerald around the otherwise inky darkness of his eyes fix upon Loki, pinned as he is like a frog to the mat, between the Raven and the Holly King. Looking at the priest a moment, Aeron thereafter tilts his head. His pierced tongue slips out and eases along the line of Gwilym's ear. "Liege and Lord, Holly and Thorn," Aeron breathes, "... you have gotten started without me. How rude. I think I shall have to take amends."
     Take. Not Make

     If there were anything so coherent as a sentence running through Loki's head right now, it might be This is not what I signed up for. He is not, however, able to articulate that much even to himself. Aeron's appearance is enough to get his wide-eyed gaze unlocked from Gwilym.

     There is a flicker of something like recognition in Gwilym's eyes for a moment; it is enough to get the full force of that attention which, more than his hands, has been so thoroughly moving across and through Loki. He turns to look at his brother, breath hissing as physical contact is made.
     Inside of him, darkness roils and writhes with a life of its own. It does not wish to surrender itself to Balance again so easily...
     Oes, look at him. For the first time, he is declaring himself. What exactly have I done wrong in that, Raven? Can you even tell me?
     It has the sound of a jibe, a sneer, a taunt, and a flush rises into Gwilym's face. His hand slides against Loki's groin, moving to his hip instead; he looks as if he is about to kiss the priest again. But he is off kilter from where he had been; the darkness does not have the same hold that it had. What do I know of tenderness, brawd? You of all people know who I am. You know my worth... and lack thereof.
     Gwilym growls, low in the back of his throat, an exasperated, angry, frustrated sound. He lowers his head the way a bull might, and he pulls himself back from Loki abruptly. He looks at Loki dead on. He purses his lips, and whispers a single word with a look of agony in his eyes that does not match the decadence and dominance of his pose...
     "Run."
     And then he turns to Aeron, growling again, the flush rising in his face again, hands going to Aeron's hips. "There is nothing you can take from me without my leave, Raven." Brave words, that are not matched by the agony that remains in his eyes.

     Loki... listen to me...
     It is, in the midst of the tempest, a Voice of Reason. In the clamor of a coastal storm, in the hazards of a rocky coast and darkness, it is a beam of light, a beacon. The voice of Aeron echoes between your ears. Behind me is a door. Go in. You will be safe. Trust me.
     Aeron smiles, the twist and curl of his lips like a dark vine, a jungle of labyrinthine tangles. The green flickers, will o' the wisp, charming gods into whirlpools. He grins and leads the bull like the flash a cape, a whip. "You take? Or I give. Which is it, the chicken or the egg?"
     Behind them, opposite the direction, in fact, that the two men move, is a door. As suddenly clear as if it had been created from thin air...
     How could you turn to another to give you what you need. Who but I know how to howl at the moon? To give my King his Due.
     Grinning in the face of certain obliteration, the Raven turns the king, grabbing regal hips and pulling him against him, even as he moves forward, backing Gwilym toward a stone wall.

     He doesn't have to be told twice--or maybe he does, because it's somewhere between the Run and the appearance of the door that Loki bolts for the dubious safety of somewhere that isn't here. Which is seeming like a better idea with every passing moment, and enough so that he's not about to put up token protest or contribute to the conversation before he goes.

     Gwilym pays no attention to the bolting of the little priest, his attention fixed on larger prey. He bares his teeth in a feral smile which cold as easily be a snarl that turns into a groan as his back hits stone so abruptly.
     Hell's teeth. Which one of us is going to howl, Aeron? If you will not give me what I need, I will take it.
     It is becoming bluster and bravado more. The darkness moves in him, but it recognizes its master; the one it could not tame. The one it could not chase away. Gwilym's hands move towards Aeron's shoulders as he growls, "Show me what you have."

     Your back meets the wall, his thigh between your own, commanding. "You need what you need. Who but I can give it to you." Aeron's hand reaches for your leathers, tugging, opening the flaps with a single rough pull. They are ruined. But then... who isn't... what isn't in this chamber?
     His mouth hesitates near your own. Aeron's tongue slips out once more, flicking with playful, trickster glee. And then he grins, his hands grabbing your hips and spinning you to face the stone.
     "You will howl for me... as you should always howl for me," he breathes at your ear, his piercing chiming at the cartilage. Aeron chuckles as his hand disappears in the leather, spreading you lewdly. "Loudly."
     At the king's ankles form the tendrils of shadows, his legs held wide, immobile. His hands are left free, to claw (as needed) against the stone.

     He whines as your thigh presses his apart, eyes rolling back behind his eyelids. Need is already turning the tide against darkness - once set on this path, there is no help for him, and nothing to be done except stay the course for as long as it takes. And with you and with him, that can be days.
     His hands squeeze your shoulders, and he exhales loudly. "What makes you think this time I won't break free?" Gwilym snarls, even as a shudder runs through him as leather gives way as easily as if it were paper. "The moon changes in its phases, oes?"
     And you turn him, and he whines again, as loudly as a hound at the end of its tether, as you spread him, as he is bound. He knows what is coming now. He begins to shake in reaction, in primal fear and need and anticipation.

     "Hmmm...my king," you feel the slap of him against the flesh rounds of your rear, his fingers suckled between his lips, made wet. His hand spanks and rubs between, "... only because you do not wish to. You want this," he hisses. "You need this." His fingers, oiled by inky shadows turned liquid, invade you one by one.
     He consumes you...
     He leaves you vacant...
     Hands anchor at your hips, spreading you, the air a reminder that you are a vessel wanting to be filled. "I am your Constant. I am not fickle like your mistress moon," Aeron murrs at your ear. You feel him there, between your legs, against your rear sliding.
     He consumes you, tops you, your body trapped between the stone of the wall and the stone of his body. He fills you like Asgard. Hard. Rough. And ceaselessly.

     He moans out loud as you bend him further (but always in the direction he wants to go). It is a harsh sound, driven out of him as your fingers penetrate him, make him so obviously needy. The cadence of his voice changes; becomes breathless, becomes helpless, choked with frustration until he begs.
     "Please..."
     You pull out, and his frustration is magnified, amplified. There is no room for anything else with this need growing so large, so loud that it drowns out everything in the universe. Nothing else exists except you, and him; Gwilym Gwyn Garu begs.
     "Duw!" It escapes his lips in a small explosion as you move against him, sliding around him and into place, as you begin to fill him. As you fill him entirely, and as you refuse to yield. Duw...
     Oes...

     Oes...
     My king, I am here for you... your Constant...
     Your Constant in Triplicate. Brother... Raven... Lover. A hand upon your hip pulls you back against him, your rear crushed into his groin. His other hand grips yours against the wall, holding, intertwining as you are lifted, bounced and impaled upon the Relief you seek.
     The relief in the Trap from which there is no escape...

Posted by rowan at May 03, 2009 05:54 PM