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[ Hey man, it's just like with fishing. Sometimes, you have to twitch the rod a little to make the bait look more alive than it is. ]
Ha. Were that true, I suspect that my star would instead drive me to conflict with the entire country, Mr. Morgan.
It is hardly my place to judge such pursuits. In my time here, it has indeed come to seem as though capitol is as vital to life as food and water. I am a poor excuse for an outdoorsman, but I think I may prefer the light in the sky, myself.
[ Hey man, it's just like with fishing. Sometimes, you have to twitch the rod a little to make the bait look more alive than it is. ]
Ha. Were that true, I suspect that my star would instead drive me to conflict with the entire country, Mr. Morgan.
It is hardly my place to judge such pursuits. In my time here, it has indeed come to seem as though capitol is as vital to life as food and water. I am a poor excuse for an outdoorsman, but I think I may prefer the light in the sky, myself.
[ dont think that father has any splainin to do. he doesnt. dont ask any more questions. ]
A matter of time, surely.
Well, if capital gain is what cuts your path in life, then I am all the more grateful. How wonderful it is that we were able to make an acquaintanceship despite my clear lack! Haha :-)
A matter of time, surely.
Well, if capital gain is what cuts your path in life, then I am all the more grateful. How wonderful it is that we were able to make an acquaintanceship despite my clear lack! Haha :-)
Oh, I would not say that I'm maintaining my sobriety consciously. I suppose it's simply something I have gone without for so long that its absence is now a fact of life.
I must admit to holding some trepidation when first this subject was opened, but your curiosity is refreshing, my friend!
I must admit to holding some trepidation when first this subject was opened, but your curiosity is refreshing, my friend!
(directions blah blah how the fuck are they texting in 1899 anyway)
[Even though Keane's Saloon sat in the shadow of its competition down the street, Arthur considered his past misadventures at Smithfield's before recommending it to Godfrey. His jaw ached, and the sensation of splintered glass made his hair stand up at the memory. No, a used up watering hole with three items on the menu, and about as many stools, would better suit reintroducing a priest to the elements of debauchery.
This came with a few benefits, at least: the bartender didn't flinch the moment Arthur walked through the door, the air wasn't hazy with a noxious mix of cheap cologne and perfume, and the slightest movement on the old floorboards let out such a creak that no one could catch him unawares. Not while sober, at least.
It was late afternoon, and motes of dust danced in the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Arthur ordered two beers and waited. If Godfrey didn't show by sundown, he'd simply have a second drink to keep him company instead.]
[Even though Keane's Saloon sat in the shadow of its competition down the street, Arthur considered his past misadventures at Smithfield's before recommending it to Godfrey. His jaw ached, and the sensation of splintered glass made his hair stand up at the memory. No, a used up watering hole with three items on the menu, and about as many stools, would better suit reintroducing a priest to the elements of debauchery.
This came with a few benefits, at least: the bartender didn't flinch the moment Arthur walked through the door, the air wasn't hazy with a noxious mix of cheap cologne and perfume, and the slightest movement on the old floorboards let out such a creak that no one could catch him unawares. Not while sober, at least.
It was late afternoon, and motes of dust danced in the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Arthur ordered two beers and waited. If Godfrey didn't show by sundown, he'd simply have a second drink to keep him company instead.]
[ It's a strange thing, to feel his own feet slow where other men's quicken.
Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
[Valentine and all its surrounding hovels have stood in defiance of blizzards, tornadoes, and maybe even a war or two. However, while Godfrey saw miraculous endurance, Arthur could only imagine the encroaching black smoke from the stacks of the oil refinery down the road, carried ever closer by an expanding railroad track. All the grit that pulled it through so far would face inevitable, if not outright compliant, bulldozing. The name "Valentine" might remain, but if he lived to see the place in ten years' time, Keane's and Smithfield's both would be a forgotten memory of the brick and mortar laid out over their torn remains.
Those maudlin thoughts encircle Arthur's head in the wreath of cigarette smoke he's produced while waiting, when they would be better drowned in the bottles of beer the bartender finally places before him. Before that temptation can take full hold, all heads in the saloon turn toward the new face at the door, though Arthur is the only one to do it with a smile. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and dashes it to the floor while waving away the plumes he'd left lingering in the air around him.]
There he is. Pull up a seat. [He pats the stool next to him and snorts at Godfrey's concern.] Nah, the place needs help lookin' busy anyways.
[The sidelong glance he shoots over his shoulder at the bartender is not returned as mirthfully.]
Those maudlin thoughts encircle Arthur's head in the wreath of cigarette smoke he's produced while waiting, when they would be better drowned in the bottles of beer the bartender finally places before him. Before that temptation can take full hold, all heads in the saloon turn toward the new face at the door, though Arthur is the only one to do it with a smile. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and dashes it to the floor while waving away the plumes he'd left lingering in the air around him.]
There he is. Pull up a seat. [He pats the stool next to him and snorts at Godfrey's concern.] Nah, the place needs help lookin' busy anyways.
[The sidelong glance he shoots over his shoulder at the bartender is not returned as mirthfully.]
[ If he has a particular opinion about Keane's Saloon and what help it may or may not need, Godfrey does not betray it. He smiles warmly, and lowers himself into his seat with care.
Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
-- or so I hope.
Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
-- or so I hope.
Edited 2025-01-24 23:39 (UTC)
[If the creak of Godfrey's stool is audible, it just joins the chorus coming from every other strained wooden surface in the bar, Arthur's own seat included. He takes about as much notice of it as the hairline cracks in the shot glasses and the sticky spots on the floorboards-- all part of the decor.
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
[His breath catches, every touch and whisper of breath amplified; Godfrey's warmth fills the tent and Gale finds himself content to drown in it, to leave reason behind and give himself over entirely to relearning the joys of mortal flesh. A groan escapes him; he bows his head forward to rest his brow against Godfrey's shoulder as the larger man takes him in firm, steady strokes. That something so simple could be so absolutely dizzying is somehow wondrous to him, and it keeps him from even considering the potential complexities of all of this, his hips rolling forward every time Godfrey allows him even the slightest bit of give, chasing that slow build.
His fingers remain tangled in champagne hair as Godfrey begins to sink downwards, and suddenly Gale feels as though he has no breath at all, swallowing his voice completely for several moments as lips steadily trail their way down his throat, his chest, all the way to his abdomen, the anticipation of what's to come making him absolutely ache even as he remains in the paladin's grasp.
Gods above, it was hardly unusual to see Godfrey on his knees, and yet Gale had never allowed himself to even imagine this, even when he'd allowed himself to indulge in the occasional fantasy.]
Godfrey.
His fingers remain tangled in champagne hair as Godfrey begins to sink downwards, and suddenly Gale feels as though he has no breath at all, swallowing his voice completely for several moments as lips steadily trail their way down his throat, his chest, all the way to his abdomen, the anticipation of what's to come making him absolutely ache even as he remains in the paladin's grasp.
Gods above, it was hardly unusual to see Godfrey on his knees, and yet Gale had never allowed himself to even imagine this, even when he'd allowed himself to indulge in the occasional fantasy.]
Godfrey.
[ There is something pure and intoxicating in his responsiveness, a newness. Each touch leaned into, a sigh for every kiss, hungry fingers pressing through his hair. Every moment urged further, pressed into. Anything to prolong the moment of warm contact a fraction longer.
What else would his body chase? What other touch would he prolong? The thought thrills through his spine and drives Godfrey forward; sighing hotly against his skin, feeling the tender and pebbly skin of his nipple beneath his lips and pressing in. Godfrey's broad hand flattens against his hardened dick and desperately pushes, moving with the whole of his body as his hips flex toward his warmth, the throb between his own legs for now unheeded.
By the time he reaches his hips, Godfrey's fingers are again finding his shaft, his body gently tangled in crushed pillows and his lovers' legs. He lifts his gaze to catch Gale's above him, studies his face in the hot half-second he has before the throb between his legs pushes him to move again; takes both thighs on his shoulders and, reverently, presses another kiss against the tender crook, the soft flesh between pelvis and inner thigh, sighing harshly. He had wanted this to last forever, naturally - to take his time exploring him.
This intention was set before the hot throb between his legs had begun to grow urgent.
He centers himself; both legs to a shoulder, his eyes lifting, seeking to touch Gale's own gaze as he rises slowly along his hard length, tongue first. His gaze lowers as he comes to its firm head, wraps his lips around it, and swallows it as far back as he can.
Until hot and shivering throat-muscles contract against its tip. ]
What else would his body chase? What other touch would he prolong? The thought thrills through his spine and drives Godfrey forward; sighing hotly against his skin, feeling the tender and pebbly skin of his nipple beneath his lips and pressing in. Godfrey's broad hand flattens against his hardened dick and desperately pushes, moving with the whole of his body as his hips flex toward his warmth, the throb between his own legs for now unheeded.
By the time he reaches his hips, Godfrey's fingers are again finding his shaft, his body gently tangled in crushed pillows and his lovers' legs. He lifts his gaze to catch Gale's above him, studies his face in the hot half-second he has before the throb between his legs pushes him to move again; takes both thighs on his shoulders and, reverently, presses another kiss against the tender crook, the soft flesh between pelvis and inner thigh, sighing harshly. He had wanted this to last forever, naturally - to take his time exploring him.
This intention was set before the hot throb between his legs had begun to grow urgent.
He centers himself; both legs to a shoulder, his eyes lifting, seeking to touch Gale's own gaze as he rises slowly along his hard length, tongue first. His gaze lowers as he comes to its firm head, wraps his lips around it, and swallows it as far back as he can.
Until hot and shivering throat-muscles contract against its tip. ]
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