As Cato’s back strikes a tree, he’s made familiar with the man’s power and strength. Of course he’d heard tales of the man during war, of his ability to do great things, but he’d never experienced anything but the soft, quiet and pensive Cid. To experience just even a glimpse of the other side of this man turned him on. Cato moans into the male’s hairline, pressing his lips in deeper against his throat. His hips buck, no rut, against the male and before he knows it they’re moving again.
When they finally arrive in the tent, the Castherian is quick about moving. Years in the fields had left the young Lord Branwell strong. Regardless of his experience in battle, the Sollian was nothing to him. Hands firmly planted about the male’s hips, he’s lifting him atop a cask of wine. Nimble fingers unclasp, unbutton and untuck, and shortly he’s got a blank canvas at his disposal; shortly he’s got his lips moving over the male’s chest, littering it with his own markings. He finally reaches his navel, now fully balanced on his knees, tongue swirling around it once he’s finished and content with the amount of lovebites he’s placed along the male’s abdomen. Cato’s fingers hook into the male’s trousers, urging him to place his hands on the barrel so he might lift his hips for him. “Let me relieve of these,” he coaxes, eyes burning with wanton desire. Lips press delicately to the male’s inner thigh, even through cloth he swears to feel the male’s pulse. “Wrap these muscular beasts around my head, don’t let me come up for air until the job is done,” the Castherian Lord instructs. Standing now, Cato brings their lips together once more, hand slipping between the male’s legs. Grabbing at him through cloth, Cato doesn’t settle there, instead, he presses firmly against him, calloused digits sliding back, past his large pair to the prize he seeks.
Where shadows closed in on them as they pushed through the loose flaps of the lone tent, force came quick—and with it, pleasure surged from the heady rush—heat-wrought thrill—at the feeling of how the other reciprocated more than what sweet kiss that they both shared. Cid found himself stumbling back for purchase --------- somehow it was enough. Where fingers gripped tight and his stance wide, a sigh finally left his lips as impatient hands practically tore through his tunic and the cold night air kissed at the swell of his already flush chest; a kiss that came with the lord’s own as his descent continued on and commanded his body to tense and shudder from the steady sparks of sensation that all seemed to weigh on him and his very core—to demand that they should be the only things that he should feel. Not at all difficult in a body that was more than willing --------- not at all difficult with his taste back on Cid’s lips.
Though where hands sought him, a moan finally escaped Cid’s lips. A firm press—then lower. It goaded on to make his chest swell on even more for a low growl as he found some semblance of balance by sitting on the barrel just enough -------- find steadiness but still lend room to see the task through. And where his hunger nagged at him, his thick legs wrapped around the man’s midsection as if to offer more for the other’s hand—and with his own, he grasped at the Lord Branwell’s nape and pull him closer and firmer where his could have their kiss come deeper as he nudged his hips enough to rut against that arm.
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