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“Shhh!”
Giggles.
Absolutely childish giggles, filling the enclosed, hidden space of the villa garden.
“Stop pinching me then! Hah— Enzo!”
“I like it when you laugh like this,” he muses through heaving breath, trying to regain his composure— to no avail, of course, breaking into more yelps and laughing himself into tears when Cesare grabs his sides, playfully stern, pressing his back to the olive tree before licking up the column of Enzo’s throat, much to the latter’s outraged squeaking and scolding.
“Diu miu, you taste like fucking sugar,” he groans like it kills him to get the words out, moving to smile and suck on the boy’s throat once more.
“Cesare, that’s disgusting—” “Sh, shh.” Then there’s hips slotting against his own.
“Mmf…” Enzo moans through a bit lip, head falling back, though Cesare isn’t much better off, sighing out some pitchy sound against the other’s skin. Sliding a hand down from Enzo’s side, he grabs a cotton-clad thigh, lifting it to his own hip so a strong calve can hook around the back of Cesare’s tensing leg as he grinds forward into the other with an impish grin.
“Ahh…Cesare…” Gentle hands are in dark, ebony hair, carding through it, scratching at his scalp, only putting the mentioned into a further state of undress than he would have already been if someone were to stumble upon them.
All he can manage in return—when the lines of their cocks catch just so—is an idiotic, ragged groan, like an animal caught in a trap, and Enzo’s leg is only tightening around him.
“You’re sure no one will—” “They see what we want them to see.” Enzo rolls his eyes, but visibly relaxes at that, going almost completely lax between the man and the solid trunk of the tree, a soft gasp escaping him into the contrastingly open night air. He’s beautiful. Even with half his face shielded by darkness, the moon and stars illuminate him in an almost ethereal way, reflecting in his dark eyes as if he were the ocean itself. Yet somehow he’s earth, as well; like a flower pressed between unworthy pages, he’s an angel, withheld from heaven by mortality and dry wood that should have ignited the moment Enzo first touched either of them.
“Why did you stop? You’re looking at me weird,” he breathes with a smile, palms going to hold Cesare’s face, as if to shake him from a trance. “Hey.” It’s a chuckle this time, confusion and giddiness mingling into something absolutely boyish and yet incredibly arousing for both the heart and cock alike.
“Come here.” Suddenly Enzo is lifted from under his rear, legs kicking in delighted surprise as he yelps what is probably too loudly for their current location, but Cesare can only focus on dropping him down, with a triumphant laugh, onto the dusty ground of the garden.
Wheezing for breath, Enzo rights himself, scampering away— only for the one who put him on the ground to grab his ankles and drag him back in, straddling his hips and placing firm hands over those strong shoulders to keep him there, panting and trying to buck Cesare off—not using even half of his actual strength.
“Bastardu!” “Amuri…” he responds roughly, grinding down on Enzo’s full ass, laying his own body over the boy’s, eager digits falling to those tauntingly curved hips while his lips find that one tuft of hair that never sits down quite right— probably the only imperfect thing about him.
Scoffing, Enzo squirms, spewing curses and various colorful insults between heavy, hot ‘n bothered breaths— smiling all the while, of course, because how can someone not when they’re as desirable as this heaven incarnate? “Selfish, perverted prick.” Though he quiets when the ‘prick’s’ hands are untucking his white button-up, reluctantly scooting back and urging his hips off the ground so impatient hands can reach around to undo his belt and pants. Eager fingers don’t make nimble ones, however, so Cesare opts to just flip him back over, rearranging their legs so Enzo can pull him in close, ankles hooked behind the former’s back as his belt is yanked undone.
“Want you.” “When don’t you?” He tries to sound exasperated, but fails miserably, hardly passing as anything other than disgustingly affectionate, looking at Cesare like he's actually something good, throwing his arms around his neck and pulling him into a smily kiss, which Cesare happily licks into, hips jerking into Enzo’s once the boy’s taste hits his tongue.
Enzo whines at the feeling, tilting his head back to escape Cesare’s now excessively desperate ministrations. “Careful, uliantruzzu,” he coos, the nickname making the other groan as if he finished.
“Enzo…” he rasps, voice like he’s been screaming the name for hours, still trying to reach for those addictive lips, looking at the mentioned like he physically needs him.
Then there’s a hand between their bodies, and before Cesare can register it, Enzo is groping him through his pants, palming the painfully solid line of his cock, leaving the man to fight from shouting, only to press on the already leaking head with just a bit more pressure than he knows he should, watching Cesare’s severe reaction like the cat who got the fucking cream.
Hips jerking and bucking without much choice, he gives in with a small sound of acquiescence, letting his head fall just above a pounding heart, moaning at the knowledge that each beat, each strong pulse was because he was something Enzo got worked up over. The sound seems to spur the other on, speeding up just enough for Cesare to genuinely question if he’s about to come in his pants less than five minutes into actual stimulation.
“Hush,” he reminds playfully, voice almost innocent, despite how his motions are getting rougher and almost punishing, how his hand is working shameful sound after shameful sound from Cesare’s throat no matter how he tries to keep it down for the boy.
His second hand leaves Cesare’s shoulder to join the first so he can easily undo the man’s pants and slip a hand under the waistband. The moment his warm, calloused palm wraps around him, digits dryly working up and down the length, Cesare howls his name like a man possessed.
Silencing him immediately, Enzo tsks in disapproval. “You call me the prude, yet you act like you’ve never had someone put their hands on you. This isn’t just for show, is it? Because if you aren’t enjoying this, I can always stop—” “NO— No… Please, amurèddu.” “‘Please,’ what? Do you or do you not want me to get you off?” Does he have to smile like the fucking sun when he’s talking dirty? Cristu… Cesare wonders affectionately, flushing all the way down to his chest.
Cesare heaves a breath. Enzo’s hand has retreated to teasing just below his navel, where a faint trail of hair dusts its way down to what’s aching so badly. A whine escapes him. He bites his lip. “Want— fuck, Enzo… Want you to get me off…” he mumbles under his breath, as quiet as he knows he can get away with without being made to repeat himself, like a child forced to apologize for what he’s done, over and over until he says it right. He’s learned his lesson from previous…experiments…in as many places as he can find excuses to take the boy with him. “Just fucking touch me already,” he stammers, avoiding any chance of meeting those deep, midnight-blackened eyes, burying his red face into Enzo’s shoulder.
“Please?” he breathes, hands grasping the boys biceps as if to will him to move his arms, his hands— just do anything.
He does, thank God. Cesare bucks his hips, a wanton moan falling from his lips as that textured hand grips him even firmer than before, the other tugging his pants low so Enzo can finally pull him free of the straining fabric and stroke him more freely, twisting his wrist in the way Cesare had shown him a while back, thumbing at the tip every once in a while, resulting in a slightly smoother feel as the precum is spread over the rest of his length. The man jerks into the contact helplessly, stuttering sounds of pleasure flowing from him and completely out of his control.
He doesn’t look down, knows he couldn’t bear the sight that would greet him so salaciously. Opting to, at last, shift so he can meet Enzo’s eyes, he isn’t so sure he’s much better off like this.
“There’s my boy.” Free hand finding Cesare’s cheek, Enzo grins, looking more than a little pleased with himself at how flustered and lust-addled Cesare undoubtedly appears. He simply whines in reply, leaning into the tender contact, thrusting into the rougher one.
“Such sad eyes for a man with his cock in my hand, don’t you think?” A sweeter smile, though still full of mischief. Cesare gapes at how divine he looks right now, gasping as the heat in his gut grows an almost overwhelming amount. Holding himself up with one arm, his fingers dive down the front of Enzo’s already loosened pants exigently, much to the aforementioned’s hissing and chanting of ‘easy.’
The grip on his own cock tightens as he pushes useless fabric down and takes Enzo in hand, desperately building up speed, blood roaring in his ears as climax rushes closer. Fuck, he doesn’t like getting there without him. He’d just been so worked up and selfishly hadn’t thought about him and—
“I know, I know… So sweet, aren’t you? Go ahead, you’ll make up for it.” Enzo Farara is a mindreader— has to be. Or is Cesare just that easy for him to read? He can’t further dissect this, Enzo’s hand practically a blur between their sweaty bodies, slick, sinful sounds being elicited from the motion, and the former barely stops his knees from buckling, muscles from giving out.
He comes hard, moans and gasps bursting from their rightful place in his diaphragm, head falling to the boy’s throat in an attempt to muffle himself as he makes a damn mess of Enzo’s—still moving—hand and front.
“Diu— Fuck, Enzo! Lu me amuri da la vita,” he spews, curling into him, embracing him tightly, wave after wave of his own orgasm racking his body from head to toe, stopping to pulse considerately at where Enzo still strokes him, albeit slower now, coaxing and dragging him through it until whines and too breathless of moans fill the space where Cesare’s open mouth rests over the hollow of his throat.
Enzo nuzzles his damp, strewn about hair, finally releasing the tight grasp he has on where Cesare is most sensitive at the moment, wiping most of the sticky mess off in the grass before carding his fingers through the other’s hair soothingly, mumbling some dirty thing about Cesare making such a mess.
“Minchia…” Cesare draws out, before humming into the attentive touch of this lovely, beautiful thing he got to call his lover, shifting his arms to hug him properly. Enzo chuckles. Cesare gets butterflies.
“Been needing that, hm?” That sweet voice asks, scratching at a certain spot in Cesare’s brain in the same satisfying way his fingertips are scratching at his scalp. “Mhm…” he whines, pressing his nose to the faintness of Enzo's Adam's apple, just smelling him. It’s not perfume or flowers— but those things taste bitter on the skin. Enzo’s skin tastes salty and sweet, and he smells like horses, raw olives, sometimes sex, but always just flesh. He smells fucking human— in spite of looking and sounding and acting anything but.
Eager to dissect him more, Cesare nudges closer, inhaling deeply. Enzo cringes away from the ticklish sensation, chest shaking with silent laughter. “Stop being weird,” he groans with a smile that Cesare doesn’t open his eyes in time to see. When he does, it’s because Enzo is trailing fingertips up his throat and under his chin, lifting his head to hold his gaze properly.
“You’re not forgetting anything, are you? Amuri?” He asks coaxingly, grabbing Cesare’s jaw with a laugh when the man tries to rub into his hand like a damn happy cat. “Down,” he commands with a sultry smile. Cesare shudders, shifting away from the other’s warm embrace to do as told.
Because he’d happily do just this for the rest of his life, so long as Enzo keeps telling him he does it well, petting his hair and holding his face in that way that makes Cesare lose his mind.
So who can blame him for being eager, taking him in his mouth just like that? ‘A man with more sins of pride than that of lust,’ that’s what Cesare is— which is saying a lot.
But, damn...if he isn’t proud of himself when Enzo looks at him like he is now: regarding him in the same way Cesare imagines God must a zealot.
Maybe he is a God. An angel at the very least. Whatever he is, Cesare is getting on his knees regardless.