De Lantejoulas e Amor pt. 1
Title: De Lantejoulas e Amor
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: straight-up porn, yo
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~11k
Warnings: dub-con drug usage (nothing intravenous). shameless abuse of the Portuguese language, also complete lack of knowledge of anything concrete about Brazil. but there's a sequined g-string? that helps, right?
Betas: the lovely, the gifted, and the fucking hilarious medea_fic and lousy_science.
A/N: in honor of the approaching mardi gras/carnivale season... so, this was originally a fill for a prompt on the kink-meme, the link for which i have now lost. i wrote the first bit of it quickly, but then got tied up, and didn't finish until tracked down and promised muffins by the lovely the_deep_magic, so, this one's for you, bb. :) thanks muchly.
1)
The glittering black eyes are all he can see of the man behind the ornate feathered mask, reflecting the lights of the passing floats in a spinning miasma that makes Chris simultaneously excited and vaguely queasy.
Or rather, they are all he can see of the man's face .
The stranger is some sort of Latin Adonis, all delicately executed dancer's muscles and beach-kissed tan, poured into about six square inches of black sequined G-string. He's taller than Chris, by several inches, but then he moves, locking eyes and stepping forward with a deliberately enticing strut. Chris slides his eyes down the sharp curves of the man's legs to note the impressively elegant shoes, dark satin heels with rhinestone studded stilettos, and jesus fuck , if this guy's been dancing for miles in those, it's small wonder he looks like he could snap your neck with his thighs.
It's the thought of what, in particular, might cause Chris to have his neck between those magnificent legs that has him swaying on his feet as all of his very champagned blood executes an efficient swan dive to his nether regions, making the ties of his own six inch scrap of fabric pull forward across the planes of his pelvis as his cock swells in appreciative invitation.
The stranger smiles, teeth white and deadly, and Chris's knees tremble beneath him. He has never wanted anything so badly in his life as he wants right now to drop and wrap his mouth onto that shifting line of muscle at this man's well-oiled hip and suck.
"Heyo bonito, curtindo a noite?"
His voice is raw sex, full of rum and cigars and guitars playing under rising full moons. Chris' brain submits its resignation notice and shuts down completely, and he takes a moment to lick his lips and struggle to remember the only Portuguese he knows.
"Inglês só, me desculpe."
He fills his voice with as much sheepish apology as he can muster, managing to let go of the wall behind him and offer his hands palm up, beseeching for something, anything, he can't begin to care what.
"Não é nenhum problema. Não vamos precisar de palavras..."
The feathers of the dark stranger's mask bob gently in the heated air as he reaches out and slides one long finger up from the tip of Chris' middle finger to trace over his palm, his plush bottom lip catching between his glistening teeth as he watches Chris' hand jerk in instinctive reaction. He runs that finger slowly, oh so fucking slowly, all the way up Chris' arm to his clavicle, before sliding it gently to hook under his chin.
His eyes are dark, reflecting the mysteries of the universe to Chris' dazzled eyes as his mouth opens one last time, a word spilling off the tip of his tongue...
"Si?"
"Si..."
His tongue is barely past the sibilant before the stranger's mouth is moving with his, warm lips pressed against his own. The man is murmuring something into the cavern of Chris' mouth, praises, exhortations, Chris has no idea, but it doesn't matter at all. He tastes of rum and fruit, exotic and exquisite, chasing Chris' tongue with his own as his strong fingers move around from Chris' jaw to the back of his neck, rubbing a slow rhythm into his muscle.
It's suddenly too much for his addled brain; the intoxicating combination of the sounds of the festival and the smells of the alley, the taste of this man, the touch of his hands on Chris' sweat-damp skin. Chris drops, retaining just enough presence of mind to let himself slide down the body in front of him rather than falling like a rock. His knees hit the ground, and thank Oshun he's drunk enough to not feel the pavement under his patellae.
The change in altitude makes his head spin, and he grabs the muscled hips in front of him to steady himself, eliciting a pleased gasp from the man in front of him.
Oh. Right. The man in front of him.
He's feverish under Chris' immediately moving hands, heated by dancing and alcohol and the humid warmth that is the city at night. His skin is smooth and firm, muscles flexing under Chris' palms as he runs his arms up, up, up, edging his elbows in between the man's knees to spread them even as he gets his fingers under the edge of that flimsy bit of tight-stretched cloth and touches, ever so lightly.
"Eya, bonito, certamente você é um anjo caído..."
That voice, it curls into him, slipping down him to settle deep in his gut, warming his balls from the inside out. Chris leans forward to rub his face against this glorious hip, inhaling deeply the scents of salt and spilled cocktail, mouthing greedily at the hollow of the pelvic joint in front of him. He gives in and moans in pleasure, biting down when those delicious fingers grasp their way into his hair.
The man takes a step out, spreading his legs wide enough that Chris can kneel comfortably between them and using the grip he has on Chris' hair to rub Chris' face slowly and deliberately against the throbbing bulge between his statuesque thighs.
Chris takes a moment to press his hand firmly against his dick, and to think very kindly of the elderly woman who had painted his face that afternoon. "Nothing" she had said, patting his cheek with a knowing grin, "nothing will take this off." He'd blushed and paid her, hoping he might test the theory with a kiss, but now...
This will be a much, much better test.
The grip on his hair tightens, fingers twisting into the strands and pulling his head against the stranger's crotch with clear intent. Chris shudders, lightheaded with lust and good rum, and hooks his arms around the back of the man's knees, kneeling up just enough to close his mouth around the width of the heavy bulge pressed against his nose.
There's a wordless gut-deep groan that pulls from the man above him, and Chris can feel goosebumps rising on the glorious stretches of muscled skin surrounding beneath his palms, so he squirms his tongue past the sequins and licks.
The man may be drunk, but he's intelligent and fast. He spins suddenly, turning so he can lean his back against the stucco wall as he spreads his legs, placing his hands on Chris' shoulders and rotating him in a gesture that brooks no argument, and that will be hell tomorrow for Chris' knees. But when that long-fingered hand is back in his hair, and the man's other hand is reaching under that g-string to pull out the most glorious cock Chris has seen possibly ever, he realizes that any scars he has from this night he will treasure for years.
The Adonis' firm hand pumps his own cock, once, twice, and then Chris is being pulled forward inexorably, his already open mouth being filled in one strong thrust with the fragile sturdiness of this gorgeous being's dick.
He wraps his lips, and sucks for all he's worth.
What it lacks in finesse, it must make up in enthusiasm, because the man is moaning and writhing against the wall in Dionysian abandon, the tips of his fingers pressing into Chris' scalp in frantic counterpoint to the throbbing heat of the organ thrusting determinedly into his throat. He's barely able to stay upright, all his focus on licking, sucking, mouthing, and caressing the organ currently fucking his face, but he manages to pull together enough self-interest to pull his own leaking cock out into his hand, pulling desperately at its length and swaying as the buzz shoots through him.
There are words from above him, the man's voice gone tight and urgent, but Chris doesn't care, pressing with his tongue as he fucks his hand faster and faster.
The hips under his palms begin to slam a staccato beat, and then he’s being pulled roughly to his feet, his mouth open and drooling, his tongue seeking blindly for its lost toy. His bare chest is slammed against the warm sticky heat of another, and he grips at his partner’s shoulders in base instinct, gasping and shuddering as the man braces Chris against his body with his right hand in the small of Chris’ back. The man’s other hand has wriggled between their thrusting bodies and before Chris can finish the thought, has grasped Chris’ dripping length against his own and is pulling with determination.
His knees buckle at the sensation, but the black-eyed man has him pinned, so he lets his head fall back and the sensations wash over him in a synaesthestic cacophony. He can smell the musk of both their arousals mingling with the flower-laden night air, and hear the throbbing beat of the drums under the panting breaths and whispered-half words at his ear. He’s gasping, sobbing, at the touch of the man’s finely callused palm against his swollen dick, at the catch and pull of the sequins as his body moves back and forth against his partner's.
The man grips, hard, quick, his muscles tightening and freezing, and Chris shouts in abandon as the stranger latches those fine, sharp teeth on his earlobe and bites, ripping Chris’ orgasm from him in an excruciating ecstasy that sends fireworks across the backs of his eyes and pulls the breath from his lungs.
It’s a full minute before he’s capable of anything remotely approaching thought, and he comes to coherency plastered to the lean, heaving chest of the beautiful stranger, who is now running exhaustedly shaky fingers through the damp spikes of his hair.
Chris staggers back a foot, tucking himself back into his nearly defunct covering and fighting the urge to put his head between his knees in a decidedly non-sexy recuperation.
“Meu Deus. Precisamos fazer isso de novo, meu amor.” He catches Chris’ eye, and chuckles, reaching up to tug on his bruised ear. “Eu acho que você chupou meu coração minha virilha.”
Chris just shakes his head.
The man considers him for a moment, then looks around the alley for a minute, his eyes lighting on something laying on the pavement not too far away. He darts over, picks it up, and returns, grabbing Chris’ arm and holding it out to expose the delicate flesh of his inner forearm.
He doesn’t figure out that it’s an abandoned eyeliner pencil until the man begins writing with it, and then he begins to laugh at the gloriously appropriate serendipty, making his arm bounce and earning him a quirked grin and a light smack on the wrist.
“Plz. Del Sta. Carmen, 2100, amanhã.” He looks up, his eyes as they meet Chris’ softly questioning. “Si?”
Chris catches his breath, nods.
“Si.”
The grin across the other’s face is beautiful and fast, gone as he pulls Chris into a long, hard kiss, pulling away as Chris reels.
He adjusts his mask, and catches Chris’ eye.
“Amanhã.”
Chris nods again, his fingers going instinctively to the marks on his arm.
“Si. Amanhã”.
The man is gone in the space between one heartbeat and the next, melting into the dancing shadows.
Chris is alone in the dark, left to the rum and the drums and the stars.
But he has a wet spot on his stomach, and a word on his lips.
“Amanhã.”
And you know something? Carnivale lasts for days.
2)
He’s a little early, but he couldn’t help himself. The masked man is all he’s been able to think of from the moment he woke up in his small hostel room at the crack of well-past noon, focusing his thoughts like an unwelcome itch, like a sore tooth. The wait until evening took forever, and he had to force himself not to get ready until after dinner, thus avoiding the inevitable questions from his buddies.
"What are you so excited to get ready for?”
“Oh, I’m just hoping to see this incredible stranger I got off with in an alley last night...”
Yeah. Not so much.
He’d made it till dusk before changing his clothes; the bodypaint was good for one night, but he really needed to be drunk before he wandered out into the streets in a thong again, so he poured himself into his one pair of leather pants, black like sin and just as smooth to the touch. He’d contemplated a mask, but then, worried that if this stranger turned up where he said he would, he might not recognize him with a mask on, and what then?
He filled his hands with someone’s abandoned cosmetics instead, tracing the faded patterns of the paint remnants on his face with a careful hand, marking himself with the blue, the green, the purple; disguise and identity in one. Finally night fell, and he slipped out the door into the gathering crowd, following the sound of the pounding drums with instinct born of untold millennia, down, down to the pulsing heart of the city.
It had been easy enought to find when he’d looked it up on his map that afternoon, the Plaza del Santa Carmen- it was one of the central open areas in the downtown, all old buildings and open pavement. Now it's a bursting flash mob of color, light, and noise; writhing bodies and bouncing breasts, waving hair and flashing sequins as far as the eye can see. He makes his way resolutely to the heart of the Plaza, wending his way through the press of humanity, feeling his heart fall as he begins to realize the sheer number of bodies in this crowd. There’s just no way he’s going to find one person in this madness. It can’t be possible, not in this sea of surging revelers.
The signal comes suddenly, and the floats creak to life, the decorations atop them waving with the release of inertia. He watches, mesmerized, as the float in front of him starts to move, its massive explosion of silver and gold fans and dancers shivering with the new momentum. There’s a sudden hand on his arm that he shrugs off without thinking, caught up in the spectacle in front of him, then a hot breath in his ear.
“Aí está você. O que um bom menino, como eu lhe disse. Eu estive procurando por você!”
He turns in shock, his eyes widening as he takes in the black feathers, the darker eyes, the full-lipped smile.
“Pronto para se divertir?”
The man is waiting expectantly, his thumb tracing the inside of Chris’ upper arm, so he answers the only word he can.
“Si.”
--
The man smiles at him, his tanned cheeks creasing in pleasure, and Chris is gone. May as well hand over his heart on a gilded platter, Chris thinks, because he is lost, utterly lost in this man’s smile.
His elbow is cradled in a warm palm, strong fingers wrapped around to press against the tender fold of the joint, as the stranger’s other hand raises a large clear bottle to those full lips, tipping it back to drink. Chris can’t tear his eyes from the bob of the man’s throat as he swallows, and when a drop of liquid escapes to run down his neck to the masked man’s collar bone, Chris’ dick hardens so fast he feels dizzy, swaying lightly on his feet.
He could stand and stare all night, but they’re moving suddenly, the floats beginning to gain a certain relative speed and the crowd jubilantly starting to dance, the rhythms exploding around them loud and fast and bright, pulling them in the undertow of humanity, catching them at the ankles and propelling them forward with the beat of hearts and feet. Chris’ head is spinning now from the caipirinhas he’d had while getting ready, hoping the sweet, cool, alcohol would calm the butterflies dancing behind his navel, but now the whirl of color and sound is nearly too much, and he wavers. The hand on his arm steadies him, and there’s glass at his lips- the rim of the bottle, he realizes.
There’s a moment when he knows he probably shouldn’t, but he’s already seen the man drink from it, and well, hell, he’s already had this man’s (thick, beautiful) cock in his mouth, so he licks his lips and tips his head.
Cachaça.
Thick and clear on his tongue as he swallows, once, twice, a third time and then the bottle is pulled away, replaced before he can breathe with that mouth, that delicate bow of muscle moving against his, chasing the light sweetness of the booze into his mouth, tongue exploratory and thorough as he licks the last drop from the corner of Chris’ lips.
Chris has clutched at the stranger’s shoulders without noticing, pressing himself wantonly against his body, knee to knee, hip to hip. The man’s hands have settled onto his waist, one finger dragging beneath the edge of his waistband as he moans quietly in response.
Those eyes meet his again, flashing with lust and amusement, and before he knows what’s happening, Chris is being lifted off his feet, moving up and up into the air before being deposited firmly on his leather-sheathed rear. The masked man vaults easily up next to him, all long, lean legs and panthered grace, grasping his hand and hauling Chris to his feet before he can figure out that he is standing…
…on a float.
--
He is standing on a float, bare-chested and more than a little tipsy, bending his knees instinctively to ride the rolling motion of the slow-moving monstrosity as it pulls forward through the sea of faces.
He is standing on a float, bare back pressed to a thinly muscled chest, as a strange and beautiful masked man slides a hand down the front of his pants, palming his dick and making him gasp in a sudden buzz of lust.
The man behind him pulls at his arms, and Chris falls to his knees in the middle of the plywood flooring. He can feel that the stranger has dropped with him, the other man’s chest still pressed to his back, all long planes and moist heat against his shoulder blades. He tries to turn, but the masked man’s arms are firm around his ribcage, his chin pressing into Chris’ shoulder.
“Não, eu quero você assim. Em seus joelhos, exibido para o público.”
His voice is almost more than Chris can process, sliding heavy and warm into his left ear while the man’s hand slides possessively up his ribs. Long, slim fingers, with a firm touch as he delineates each of Chris’ ribs, tracing the blueprints of Chris’ body with the knowing reverence of a long-time lover.
All Chris can think is how amazing those fingers would feel buried to the knuckle in his ass, so he leans his head back and moans, eliciting a sharp inhalation from his partner. Fingers grasp his left nipple and twist, pulling the skin taut and sparking a line of fire straight down his belly to his groin.
“Sim, como aquele. Faça seu barulho, para mim, só para mim...”
Dancers ring the edge of the float, their tanned and delectably bare buttocks all facing inward toward Chris and the masked man. Their heels thud in a syncopated rattle that he can feel reverberating through his knees and cock, but can’t hear above the roaring of the crowd and the rushing in his ears. He starts to turn again, but the man makes a sudden move, and Chris writhes, his wrists pinned behind him, trapped in the man’s tight grip.
“Não, não se movem. Você é meu para fazer o que eu quiser…”
The dancers are spinning, their feathered plumes bobbing and swaying, their flawless thighs stretching and pulling as they turn first one way, then the other. Chris groans again, his head thrown back against the man’s warm shoulder, his wrists tightly imprisoned in the man’s right hand while his left wanders, mapping the topography of Chris’ abdomen, of the indentation of his navel, the mathematical curve of his hip.
Lights are flashing all around him, shining in his eyes and leaving colored tracks across the darkened sky. The man’s hand has found its way to the end of its reach, and stretches out those long fingers to cup his straining dick, fondling it peremptorily through the buttery leather before slipping beneath the edge of his waistband.
Chris has never been so glad in his life for the decision to give underwear a miss.
--
Two of the stranger’s warm and nimble digits have now found their way beneath the leather stretched across his hip, stroking and pushing ever lower. Chris can feel the panic rising in him, splayed as he is on his knees in the middle of the float, back arched to bring his shoulders against the other man’s chest, dick pulsing against the laces of his pants. He's vulnerable, and exposed, his visible desire on display to any who care to see.
His wrists are freed momentarily as the man shifts, and he takes the breath of time to look around, noticing with a deep gratitude that whatever it is they’re doing here, they are largely screened by the gyrating hips and legs of the dancers who line the edges, and somehow he never thought he’d be gratefully ignoring the bare asses of forty-odd Brazilian beauties, but if they are what stands between public exposure and getting fondled by the man behind him, he will give gratitude where it is due.
Teeth on his shoulder derail any chain of thought he may have had going, and his hands are drawn up tight again, pulled down to hit the wood between his ankles, forcing his back into a sharp bow, making him gasp as the man’s hot mouth comes down on his collar bone, his trachea.
That voice, that voice in his ear, and he’s thrusting his hips into the hand that has unwrapped him, bared his throbbing dick to the warm night air.
“Agora, você é meu. Eu vou lhe trazer prazer como você nunca conheceu.”
The hands on him tighten, grinding his knuckles into the plywood, gripping his cock and working it, hard, long strokes that have him hovering on the edge in a matter of seconds. He can feel the man’s muscles tensing behind him as he thrusts against the small of Chris’ back, dick rock hard and rubbing at the indentation of Chris’ spine.
“Vou escrever meu nome em seus ossos, eu vou assinar o seu corpo com minha boca.”
The stars are spinning like mad, his head lolling as those teeth sink again into the meat just below his jaw line, and he comes, shouting into the chaos like he’s been burned, muscles seizing him into bliss as the masked man shouts and jerks behind him, pressing hot and wet into the curve of Chris’ ass.
--
Several blocks smear past before he can breathe normally again, the float having continued its idle progression forward as the stranger launched them both into the stratosphere. It seems incongruous that his world could be shaken so thoroughly, that he could be remade under this man’s touch, and yet everything surrounding him should progress exactly as it had before.
The man beneath him is holding him, stroking his side almost tenderly, and Chris can feel the vibrations of his narrow chest as the stranger chuckles helplessly.
“Você fazer um hedonista de mim, meu amor.”
His hands are gentle as he tucks Chris back into his pants, but Chris gasps at the sensation, earning himself a passing nip on the neck. He leans back into the touch, and the man laces his pants back up, his hand lingering on Chris’ hip for a moment longer than necessary.
He never wants this to end, but he’s being pushed up and up, staggering to his feet, caught and held against the other’s chest. The man’s mask is slightly askew, one dark eye gazing lop-sided through the almond slit.
Chris reaches up a hand to straighten it, and the man freezes, his eyes big with surprise. Chris just smiles crookedly and fixes it, dropping his hand to the man’s waist when he’s done.
There’s that smile again, the one that first weakened his knees to falling last night, and then the man turns, hauling Chris behind him as he leaps off the back of the float into the crowd.
Chris doesn’t have time to consider, so he leaps behind him, hand in hand as they hit the pavement, and he’s being dragged through the reveling throng to the edge of the street, staggering on his feet as the man throws him flat against the wall.
He doesn’t have time to catch his breath before he’s being kissed, the stranger’s mouth moving on his with a sense of urgent devotion. Chris clutches his fingers into the other man’s thick hair and kisses back with every liquour-soaked ounce of fervor he can muster.
It’s an extended space of time before they break apart, gasping desperately for air. The man raises his hand to stroke Chris’ face, his mouth twisting at one side as he digs into a pocket Chris didn’t even know could fit in the skin-tight denim he’s plastered himself into. Chris leans forward to kiss him again, wanting nothing more than to slide his tongue into that welcoming heat, but a finger across his lips makes him pause.
“Você é muito maravilhosa. Eu preciso ver você de novo.”
Chris nods helplessly, his fingers tracing the curve of the man’s hip, the shell-like whorl of his navel.
“Venha para mim amanhã. Após o crepúsculo...”
There’s a questioning note in the man’s voice, even as he produces a miniature sharpie and presses the point into Chris’ skin, so Chris nods again, lifting his other arm to run a thumb around the edge of the man’s stubbled jaw.
Catedral de São David, his arm reads, 0830. The man looks him in the eyes one last time before darting forward to press a hard kiss aginst the corner of his mouth, and then he’s gone, lost in the fearsome swirl of the crowd.
Chris lets himself slide down the wall to a crouch, his hands still reaching for the warm body they hadn’t wanted to release.
Another night, another day. Dreamlike in its vividity, but inescapably real.
He will go home. He will go to bed. And tomorrow...
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
next
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: straight-up porn, yo
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~11k
Warnings: dub-con drug usage (nothing intravenous). shameless abuse of the Portuguese language, also complete lack of knowledge of anything concrete about Brazil. but there's a sequined g-string? that helps, right?
Betas: the lovely, the gifted, and the fucking hilarious medea_fic and lousy_science.
A/N: in honor of the approaching mardi gras/carnivale season... so, this was originally a fill for a prompt on the kink-meme, the link for which i have now lost. i wrote the first bit of it quickly, but then got tied up, and didn't finish until tracked down and promised muffins by the lovely the_deep_magic, so, this one's for you, bb. :) thanks muchly.
1)
The glittering black eyes are all he can see of the man behind the ornate feathered mask, reflecting the lights of the passing floats in a spinning miasma that makes Chris simultaneously excited and vaguely queasy.
Or rather, they are all he can see of the man's face .
The stranger is some sort of Latin Adonis, all delicately executed dancer's muscles and beach-kissed tan, poured into about six square inches of black sequined G-string. He's taller than Chris, by several inches, but then he moves, locking eyes and stepping forward with a deliberately enticing strut. Chris slides his eyes down the sharp curves of the man's legs to note the impressively elegant shoes, dark satin heels with rhinestone studded stilettos, and jesus fuck , if this guy's been dancing for miles in those, it's small wonder he looks like he could snap your neck with his thighs.
It's the thought of what, in particular, might cause Chris to have his neck between those magnificent legs that has him swaying on his feet as all of his very champagned blood executes an efficient swan dive to his nether regions, making the ties of his own six inch scrap of fabric pull forward across the planes of his pelvis as his cock swells in appreciative invitation.
The stranger smiles, teeth white and deadly, and Chris's knees tremble beneath him. He has never wanted anything so badly in his life as he wants right now to drop and wrap his mouth onto that shifting line of muscle at this man's well-oiled hip and suck.
"Heyo bonito, curtindo a noite?"
His voice is raw sex, full of rum and cigars and guitars playing under rising full moons. Chris' brain submits its resignation notice and shuts down completely, and he takes a moment to lick his lips and struggle to remember the only Portuguese he knows.
"Inglês só, me desculpe."
He fills his voice with as much sheepish apology as he can muster, managing to let go of the wall behind him and offer his hands palm up, beseeching for something, anything, he can't begin to care what.
"Não é nenhum problema. Não vamos precisar de palavras..."
The feathers of the dark stranger's mask bob gently in the heated air as he reaches out and slides one long finger up from the tip of Chris' middle finger to trace over his palm, his plush bottom lip catching between his glistening teeth as he watches Chris' hand jerk in instinctive reaction. He runs that finger slowly, oh so fucking slowly, all the way up Chris' arm to his clavicle, before sliding it gently to hook under his chin.
His eyes are dark, reflecting the mysteries of the universe to Chris' dazzled eyes as his mouth opens one last time, a word spilling off the tip of his tongue...
"Si?"
"Si..."
His tongue is barely past the sibilant before the stranger's mouth is moving with his, warm lips pressed against his own. The man is murmuring something into the cavern of Chris' mouth, praises, exhortations, Chris has no idea, but it doesn't matter at all. He tastes of rum and fruit, exotic and exquisite, chasing Chris' tongue with his own as his strong fingers move around from Chris' jaw to the back of his neck, rubbing a slow rhythm into his muscle.
It's suddenly too much for his addled brain; the intoxicating combination of the sounds of the festival and the smells of the alley, the taste of this man, the touch of his hands on Chris' sweat-damp skin. Chris drops, retaining just enough presence of mind to let himself slide down the body in front of him rather than falling like a rock. His knees hit the ground, and thank Oshun he's drunk enough to not feel the pavement under his patellae.
The change in altitude makes his head spin, and he grabs the muscled hips in front of him to steady himself, eliciting a pleased gasp from the man in front of him.
Oh. Right. The man in front of him.
He's feverish under Chris' immediately moving hands, heated by dancing and alcohol and the humid warmth that is the city at night. His skin is smooth and firm, muscles flexing under Chris' palms as he runs his arms up, up, up, edging his elbows in between the man's knees to spread them even as he gets his fingers under the edge of that flimsy bit of tight-stretched cloth and touches, ever so lightly.
"Eya, bonito, certamente você é um anjo caído..."
That voice, it curls into him, slipping down him to settle deep in his gut, warming his balls from the inside out. Chris leans forward to rub his face against this glorious hip, inhaling deeply the scents of salt and spilled cocktail, mouthing greedily at the hollow of the pelvic joint in front of him. He gives in and moans in pleasure, biting down when those delicious fingers grasp their way into his hair.
The man takes a step out, spreading his legs wide enough that Chris can kneel comfortably between them and using the grip he has on Chris' hair to rub Chris' face slowly and deliberately against the throbbing bulge between his statuesque thighs.
Chris takes a moment to press his hand firmly against his dick, and to think very kindly of the elderly woman who had painted his face that afternoon. "Nothing" she had said, patting his cheek with a knowing grin, "nothing will take this off." He'd blushed and paid her, hoping he might test the theory with a kiss, but now...
This will be a much, much better test.
The grip on his hair tightens, fingers twisting into the strands and pulling his head against the stranger's crotch with clear intent. Chris shudders, lightheaded with lust and good rum, and hooks his arms around the back of the man's knees, kneeling up just enough to close his mouth around the width of the heavy bulge pressed against his nose.
There's a wordless gut-deep groan that pulls from the man above him, and Chris can feel goosebumps rising on the glorious stretches of muscled skin surrounding beneath his palms, so he squirms his tongue past the sequins and licks.
The man may be drunk, but he's intelligent and fast. He spins suddenly, turning so he can lean his back against the stucco wall as he spreads his legs, placing his hands on Chris' shoulders and rotating him in a gesture that brooks no argument, and that will be hell tomorrow for Chris' knees. But when that long-fingered hand is back in his hair, and the man's other hand is reaching under that g-string to pull out the most glorious cock Chris has seen possibly ever, he realizes that any scars he has from this night he will treasure for years.
The Adonis' firm hand pumps his own cock, once, twice, and then Chris is being pulled forward inexorably, his already open mouth being filled in one strong thrust with the fragile sturdiness of this gorgeous being's dick.
He wraps his lips, and sucks for all he's worth.
What it lacks in finesse, it must make up in enthusiasm, because the man is moaning and writhing against the wall in Dionysian abandon, the tips of his fingers pressing into Chris' scalp in frantic counterpoint to the throbbing heat of the organ thrusting determinedly into his throat. He's barely able to stay upright, all his focus on licking, sucking, mouthing, and caressing the organ currently fucking his face, but he manages to pull together enough self-interest to pull his own leaking cock out into his hand, pulling desperately at its length and swaying as the buzz shoots through him.
There are words from above him, the man's voice gone tight and urgent, but Chris doesn't care, pressing with his tongue as he fucks his hand faster and faster.
The hips under his palms begin to slam a staccato beat, and then he’s being pulled roughly to his feet, his mouth open and drooling, his tongue seeking blindly for its lost toy. His bare chest is slammed against the warm sticky heat of another, and he grips at his partner’s shoulders in base instinct, gasping and shuddering as the man braces Chris against his body with his right hand in the small of Chris’ back. The man’s other hand has wriggled between their thrusting bodies and before Chris can finish the thought, has grasped Chris’ dripping length against his own and is pulling with determination.
His knees buckle at the sensation, but the black-eyed man has him pinned, so he lets his head fall back and the sensations wash over him in a synaesthestic cacophony. He can smell the musk of both their arousals mingling with the flower-laden night air, and hear the throbbing beat of the drums under the panting breaths and whispered-half words at his ear. He’s gasping, sobbing, at the touch of the man’s finely callused palm against his swollen dick, at the catch and pull of the sequins as his body moves back and forth against his partner's.
The man grips, hard, quick, his muscles tightening and freezing, and Chris shouts in abandon as the stranger latches those fine, sharp teeth on his earlobe and bites, ripping Chris’ orgasm from him in an excruciating ecstasy that sends fireworks across the backs of his eyes and pulls the breath from his lungs.
It’s a full minute before he’s capable of anything remotely approaching thought, and he comes to coherency plastered to the lean, heaving chest of the beautiful stranger, who is now running exhaustedly shaky fingers through the damp spikes of his hair.
Chris staggers back a foot, tucking himself back into his nearly defunct covering and fighting the urge to put his head between his knees in a decidedly non-sexy recuperation.
“Meu Deus. Precisamos fazer isso de novo, meu amor.” He catches Chris’ eye, and chuckles, reaching up to tug on his bruised ear. “Eu acho que você chupou meu coração minha virilha.”
Chris just shakes his head.
The man considers him for a moment, then looks around the alley for a minute, his eyes lighting on something laying on the pavement not too far away. He darts over, picks it up, and returns, grabbing Chris’ arm and holding it out to expose the delicate flesh of his inner forearm.
He doesn’t figure out that it’s an abandoned eyeliner pencil until the man begins writing with it, and then he begins to laugh at the gloriously appropriate serendipty, making his arm bounce and earning him a quirked grin and a light smack on the wrist.
“Plz. Del Sta. Carmen, 2100, amanhã.” He looks up, his eyes as they meet Chris’ softly questioning. “Si?”
Chris catches his breath, nods.
“Si.”
The grin across the other’s face is beautiful and fast, gone as he pulls Chris into a long, hard kiss, pulling away as Chris reels.
He adjusts his mask, and catches Chris’ eye.
“Amanhã.”
Chris nods again, his fingers going instinctively to the marks on his arm.
“Si. Amanhã”.
The man is gone in the space between one heartbeat and the next, melting into the dancing shadows.
Chris is alone in the dark, left to the rum and the drums and the stars.
But he has a wet spot on his stomach, and a word on his lips.
“Amanhã.”
And you know something? Carnivale lasts for days.
2)
He’s a little early, but he couldn’t help himself. The masked man is all he’s been able to think of from the moment he woke up in his small hostel room at the crack of well-past noon, focusing his thoughts like an unwelcome itch, like a sore tooth. The wait until evening took forever, and he had to force himself not to get ready until after dinner, thus avoiding the inevitable questions from his buddies.
"What are you so excited to get ready for?”
“Oh, I’m just hoping to see this incredible stranger I got off with in an alley last night...”
Yeah. Not so much.
He’d made it till dusk before changing his clothes; the bodypaint was good for one night, but he really needed to be drunk before he wandered out into the streets in a thong again, so he poured himself into his one pair of leather pants, black like sin and just as smooth to the touch. He’d contemplated a mask, but then, worried that if this stranger turned up where he said he would, he might not recognize him with a mask on, and what then?
He filled his hands with someone’s abandoned cosmetics instead, tracing the faded patterns of the paint remnants on his face with a careful hand, marking himself with the blue, the green, the purple; disguise and identity in one. Finally night fell, and he slipped out the door into the gathering crowd, following the sound of the pounding drums with instinct born of untold millennia, down, down to the pulsing heart of the city.
It had been easy enought to find when he’d looked it up on his map that afternoon, the Plaza del Santa Carmen- it was one of the central open areas in the downtown, all old buildings and open pavement. Now it's a bursting flash mob of color, light, and noise; writhing bodies and bouncing breasts, waving hair and flashing sequins as far as the eye can see. He makes his way resolutely to the heart of the Plaza, wending his way through the press of humanity, feeling his heart fall as he begins to realize the sheer number of bodies in this crowd. There’s just no way he’s going to find one person in this madness. It can’t be possible, not in this sea of surging revelers.
The signal comes suddenly, and the floats creak to life, the decorations atop them waving with the release of inertia. He watches, mesmerized, as the float in front of him starts to move, its massive explosion of silver and gold fans and dancers shivering with the new momentum. There’s a sudden hand on his arm that he shrugs off without thinking, caught up in the spectacle in front of him, then a hot breath in his ear.
“Aí está você. O que um bom menino, como eu lhe disse. Eu estive procurando por você!”
He turns in shock, his eyes widening as he takes in the black feathers, the darker eyes, the full-lipped smile.
“Pronto para se divertir?”
The man is waiting expectantly, his thumb tracing the inside of Chris’ upper arm, so he answers the only word he can.
“Si.”
--
The man smiles at him, his tanned cheeks creasing in pleasure, and Chris is gone. May as well hand over his heart on a gilded platter, Chris thinks, because he is lost, utterly lost in this man’s smile.
His elbow is cradled in a warm palm, strong fingers wrapped around to press against the tender fold of the joint, as the stranger’s other hand raises a large clear bottle to those full lips, tipping it back to drink. Chris can’t tear his eyes from the bob of the man’s throat as he swallows, and when a drop of liquid escapes to run down his neck to the masked man’s collar bone, Chris’ dick hardens so fast he feels dizzy, swaying lightly on his feet.
He could stand and stare all night, but they’re moving suddenly, the floats beginning to gain a certain relative speed and the crowd jubilantly starting to dance, the rhythms exploding around them loud and fast and bright, pulling them in the undertow of humanity, catching them at the ankles and propelling them forward with the beat of hearts and feet. Chris’ head is spinning now from the caipirinhas he’d had while getting ready, hoping the sweet, cool, alcohol would calm the butterflies dancing behind his navel, but now the whirl of color and sound is nearly too much, and he wavers. The hand on his arm steadies him, and there’s glass at his lips- the rim of the bottle, he realizes.
There’s a moment when he knows he probably shouldn’t, but he’s already seen the man drink from it, and well, hell, he’s already had this man’s (thick, beautiful) cock in his mouth, so he licks his lips and tips his head.
Cachaça.
Thick and clear on his tongue as he swallows, once, twice, a third time and then the bottle is pulled away, replaced before he can breathe with that mouth, that delicate bow of muscle moving against his, chasing the light sweetness of the booze into his mouth, tongue exploratory and thorough as he licks the last drop from the corner of Chris’ lips.
Chris has clutched at the stranger’s shoulders without noticing, pressing himself wantonly against his body, knee to knee, hip to hip. The man’s hands have settled onto his waist, one finger dragging beneath the edge of his waistband as he moans quietly in response.
Those eyes meet his again, flashing with lust and amusement, and before he knows what’s happening, Chris is being lifted off his feet, moving up and up into the air before being deposited firmly on his leather-sheathed rear. The masked man vaults easily up next to him, all long, lean legs and panthered grace, grasping his hand and hauling Chris to his feet before he can figure out that he is standing…
…on a float.
--
He is standing on a float, bare-chested and more than a little tipsy, bending his knees instinctively to ride the rolling motion of the slow-moving monstrosity as it pulls forward through the sea of faces.
He is standing on a float, bare back pressed to a thinly muscled chest, as a strange and beautiful masked man slides a hand down the front of his pants, palming his dick and making him gasp in a sudden buzz of lust.
The man behind him pulls at his arms, and Chris falls to his knees in the middle of the plywood flooring. He can feel that the stranger has dropped with him, the other man’s chest still pressed to his back, all long planes and moist heat against his shoulder blades. He tries to turn, but the masked man’s arms are firm around his ribcage, his chin pressing into Chris’ shoulder.
“Não, eu quero você assim. Em seus joelhos, exibido para o público.”
His voice is almost more than Chris can process, sliding heavy and warm into his left ear while the man’s hand slides possessively up his ribs. Long, slim fingers, with a firm touch as he delineates each of Chris’ ribs, tracing the blueprints of Chris’ body with the knowing reverence of a long-time lover.
All Chris can think is how amazing those fingers would feel buried to the knuckle in his ass, so he leans his head back and moans, eliciting a sharp inhalation from his partner. Fingers grasp his left nipple and twist, pulling the skin taut and sparking a line of fire straight down his belly to his groin.
“Sim, como aquele. Faça seu barulho, para mim, só para mim...”
Dancers ring the edge of the float, their tanned and delectably bare buttocks all facing inward toward Chris and the masked man. Their heels thud in a syncopated rattle that he can feel reverberating through his knees and cock, but can’t hear above the roaring of the crowd and the rushing in his ears. He starts to turn again, but the man makes a sudden move, and Chris writhes, his wrists pinned behind him, trapped in the man’s tight grip.
“Não, não se movem. Você é meu para fazer o que eu quiser…”
The dancers are spinning, their feathered plumes bobbing and swaying, their flawless thighs stretching and pulling as they turn first one way, then the other. Chris groans again, his head thrown back against the man’s warm shoulder, his wrists tightly imprisoned in the man’s right hand while his left wanders, mapping the topography of Chris’ abdomen, of the indentation of his navel, the mathematical curve of his hip.
Lights are flashing all around him, shining in his eyes and leaving colored tracks across the darkened sky. The man’s hand has found its way to the end of its reach, and stretches out those long fingers to cup his straining dick, fondling it peremptorily through the buttery leather before slipping beneath the edge of his waistband.
Chris has never been so glad in his life for the decision to give underwear a miss.
--
Two of the stranger’s warm and nimble digits have now found their way beneath the leather stretched across his hip, stroking and pushing ever lower. Chris can feel the panic rising in him, splayed as he is on his knees in the middle of the float, back arched to bring his shoulders against the other man’s chest, dick pulsing against the laces of his pants. He's vulnerable, and exposed, his visible desire on display to any who care to see.
His wrists are freed momentarily as the man shifts, and he takes the breath of time to look around, noticing with a deep gratitude that whatever it is they’re doing here, they are largely screened by the gyrating hips and legs of the dancers who line the edges, and somehow he never thought he’d be gratefully ignoring the bare asses of forty-odd Brazilian beauties, but if they are what stands between public exposure and getting fondled by the man behind him, he will give gratitude where it is due.
Teeth on his shoulder derail any chain of thought he may have had going, and his hands are drawn up tight again, pulled down to hit the wood between his ankles, forcing his back into a sharp bow, making him gasp as the man’s hot mouth comes down on his collar bone, his trachea.
That voice, that voice in his ear, and he’s thrusting his hips into the hand that has unwrapped him, bared his throbbing dick to the warm night air.
“Agora, você é meu. Eu vou lhe trazer prazer como você nunca conheceu.”
The hands on him tighten, grinding his knuckles into the plywood, gripping his cock and working it, hard, long strokes that have him hovering on the edge in a matter of seconds. He can feel the man’s muscles tensing behind him as he thrusts against the small of Chris’ back, dick rock hard and rubbing at the indentation of Chris’ spine.
“Vou escrever meu nome em seus ossos, eu vou assinar o seu corpo com minha boca.”
The stars are spinning like mad, his head lolling as those teeth sink again into the meat just below his jaw line, and he comes, shouting into the chaos like he’s been burned, muscles seizing him into bliss as the masked man shouts and jerks behind him, pressing hot and wet into the curve of Chris’ ass.
--
Several blocks smear past before he can breathe normally again, the float having continued its idle progression forward as the stranger launched them both into the stratosphere. It seems incongruous that his world could be shaken so thoroughly, that he could be remade under this man’s touch, and yet everything surrounding him should progress exactly as it had before.
The man beneath him is holding him, stroking his side almost tenderly, and Chris can feel the vibrations of his narrow chest as the stranger chuckles helplessly.
“Você fazer um hedonista de mim, meu amor.”
His hands are gentle as he tucks Chris back into his pants, but Chris gasps at the sensation, earning himself a passing nip on the neck. He leans back into the touch, and the man laces his pants back up, his hand lingering on Chris’ hip for a moment longer than necessary.
He never wants this to end, but he’s being pushed up and up, staggering to his feet, caught and held against the other’s chest. The man’s mask is slightly askew, one dark eye gazing lop-sided through the almond slit.
Chris reaches up a hand to straighten it, and the man freezes, his eyes big with surprise. Chris just smiles crookedly and fixes it, dropping his hand to the man’s waist when he’s done.
There’s that smile again, the one that first weakened his knees to falling last night, and then the man turns, hauling Chris behind him as he leaps off the back of the float into the crowd.
Chris doesn’t have time to consider, so he leaps behind him, hand in hand as they hit the pavement, and he’s being dragged through the reveling throng to the edge of the street, staggering on his feet as the man throws him flat against the wall.
He doesn’t have time to catch his breath before he’s being kissed, the stranger’s mouth moving on his with a sense of urgent devotion. Chris clutches his fingers into the other man’s thick hair and kisses back with every liquour-soaked ounce of fervor he can muster.
It’s an extended space of time before they break apart, gasping desperately for air. The man raises his hand to stroke Chris’ face, his mouth twisting at one side as he digs into a pocket Chris didn’t even know could fit in the skin-tight denim he’s plastered himself into. Chris leans forward to kiss him again, wanting nothing more than to slide his tongue into that welcoming heat, but a finger across his lips makes him pause.
“Você é muito maravilhosa. Eu preciso ver você de novo.”
Chris nods helplessly, his fingers tracing the curve of the man’s hip, the shell-like whorl of his navel.
“Venha para mim amanhã. Após o crepúsculo...”
There’s a questioning note in the man’s voice, even as he produces a miniature sharpie and presses the point into Chris’ skin, so Chris nods again, lifting his other arm to run a thumb around the edge of the man’s stubbled jaw.
Catedral de São David, his arm reads, 0830. The man looks him in the eyes one last time before darting forward to press a hard kiss aginst the corner of his mouth, and then he’s gone, lost in the fearsome swirl of the crowd.
Chris lets himself slide down the wall to a crouch, his hands still reaching for the warm body they hadn’t wanted to release.
Another night, another day. Dreamlike in its vividity, but inescapably real.
He will go home. He will go to bed. And tomorrow...
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
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