[ It's a strange hunger - the sort he couldn't feel until it was sated.
Sir Godfrey had felt those warm and lonely pangs, certainly, in the solitary nights since his widowing. Something hollow at the pit of his chest which ached for companionship. Nights passed in lonely silence, when the cool of his sheets was felt just a little harder.
Of course he'd felt a certain longing in that dark quiet. He was only a man - only if he were any less would he feel nothing at all. He has remembered this as he allows it to pass through him, as he prays to the sunrise for His guidance. And pass it did - the fires would die if he only waited, perhaps with sparse help from his hand. That he struggles is human. That he feels the cold and empty space beside him is proof against that very loneliness - proof of his beating heart. It is a pain to be treasured.
But it is not one that follows him to the streets. This loneliness has always been a passing and brittle thing, one that dies before it wounds too deeply. So long as there's something else to be thought about, Sir Godfrey can stave it off a little while longer. He's tricked himself into believing that this is the same thing as resilience.
Now that he feels bare skin against his, needful hands and hot whispering words urging him forward, he knows what a lie he had fed himself. The hunger for this skinship had always been there. Godfrey had just kept it out of sight.
Now, gloriously satiated, Godfrey can look back and see only how starved he had been. He exhales as though he's been holding his breath for a year, a great and warm heaving of his broad chest. Godfrey's hand finds Gale's, and he pushes against his palm, soaking desperately in the contact as he shifts his body against his. Godfrey presses his lips into the heel of his palm, the inside of his wrist. Then, his lips, soft and warm, his tongue darting between them as he lets his hand wander down his chest. Down his stomach.
Thrills for the way he flutters beneath his hand. ]
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Sir Godfrey had felt those warm and lonely pangs, certainly, in the solitary nights since his widowing. Something hollow at the pit of his chest which ached for companionship. Nights passed in lonely silence, when the cool of his sheets was felt just a little harder.
Of course he'd felt a certain longing in that dark quiet. He was only a man - only if he were any less would he feel nothing at all. He has remembered this as he allows it to pass through him, as he prays to the sunrise for His guidance. And pass it did - the fires would die if he only waited, perhaps with sparse help from his hand. That he struggles is human. That he feels the cold and empty space beside him is proof against that very loneliness - proof of his beating heart. It is a pain to be treasured.
But it is not one that follows him to the streets. This loneliness has always been a passing and brittle thing, one that dies before it wounds too deeply. So long as there's something else to be thought about, Sir Godfrey can stave it off a little while longer. He's tricked himself into believing that this is the same thing as resilience.
Now that he feels bare skin against his, needful hands and hot whispering words urging him forward, he knows what a lie he had fed himself. The hunger for this skinship had always been there. Godfrey had just kept it out of sight.
Now, gloriously satiated, Godfrey can look back and see only how starved he had been. He exhales as though he's been holding his breath for a year, a great and warm heaving of his broad chest. Godfrey's hand finds Gale's, and he pushes against his palm, soaking desperately in the contact as he shifts his body against his. Godfrey presses his lips into the heel of his palm, the inside of his wrist. Then, his lips, soft and warm, his tongue darting between them as he lets his hand wander down his chest. Down his stomach.
Thrills for the way he flutters beneath his hand. ]