[ It can't be said that Godfrey is a man of no appetites.
Not that one would know. If there's one impression Godfrey has cultivated over his years of life, it is that there's nothing more to be seen below his smooth codpiece - that, though his heart remained in that golden shell, that was all to him that was warm and beating. Something golden and all-encompassing shining brightly enough to iron away shadow. In the absence of unseemly desire, a whole and uncompromising love. He certainly acts like it, if nothing else.
Of course, this was not so. Try as he might, and though the priestly nature springs naturally from him, Godfrey is merely a man. Physically reticent and shy though he may be, warm and firm flesh still lived beneath his armor. He needed only to be shelled of it.
Gale becomes cold and weightless air in his lap, and before he realizes it, he's standing in cloth walls, the sounds of the campfire distant and unclear. He's in his arms. There's something daring in his eyes, and all Godfrey knows is that he wants never again to feel cold emptiness.
He doesn't know where his hands are on Gale when those seconds of delayed quiet pass and he falls into him, kissing him with a hard, greedy sigh. Only that he feels below his hand Gale's clothing twisting, the warm blush of his skin, muscle moving and twitching as it reacts to his hungry touch, fueled by nothing more than a hard and ravenous need for closeness. He knows the powerful throb in the press between them, something that threatens to bring him to his knees.
He knows that his hands, in their fervour to keep up with his lips, push something down the curve of him. He doesn't know that those are his trousers, shoved down as an afterthought against the sharp angle of his pronounced knuckles as his hands press downward, feeling the curve of his ass against his palms. ]
no subject
Not that one would know. If there's one impression Godfrey has cultivated over his years of life, it is that there's nothing more to be seen below his smooth codpiece - that, though his heart remained in that golden shell, that was all to him that was warm and beating. Something golden and all-encompassing shining brightly enough to iron away shadow. In the absence of unseemly desire, a whole and uncompromising love. He certainly acts like it, if nothing else.
Of course, this was not so. Try as he might, and though the priestly nature springs naturally from him, Godfrey is merely a man. Physically reticent and shy though he may be, warm and firm flesh still lived beneath his armor. He needed only to be shelled of it.
Gale becomes cold and weightless air in his lap, and before he realizes it, he's standing in cloth walls, the sounds of the campfire distant and unclear. He's in his arms. There's something daring in his eyes, and all Godfrey knows is that he wants never again to feel cold emptiness.
He doesn't know where his hands are on Gale when those seconds of delayed quiet pass and he falls into him, kissing him with a hard, greedy sigh. Only that he feels below his hand Gale's clothing twisting, the warm blush of his skin, muscle moving and twitching as it reacts to his hungry touch, fueled by nothing more than a hard and ravenous need for closeness. He knows the powerful throb in the press between them, something that threatens to bring him to his knees.
He knows that his hands, in their fervour to keep up with his lips, push something down the curve of him. He doesn't know that those are his trousers, shoved down as an afterthought against the sharp angle of his pronounced knuckles as his hands press downward, feeling the curve of his ass against his palms. ]