Tonight only: Gloss does Riley! (slashficathon entry)
Apparently karma has a sick sense of humor, as I was assigned Oz/Riley, in South America, with Oz giving head. Okay, Oz I could (and willingly would) do; cocksucking Oz, definitely. Cocksucking jetsetting Oz? Sure. It was the Riley that threw me.

Title: Simpatia é Quase Amor
Pairing: Oz/Riley
A/N:Thanks to zyre for the assignment and to her and green_luv for the coaching in Riley-love, not that I seem to have learned anything; to phaelstya and Metaforgirl for the careful read-throughs they provided and general reining-in of my wackier distresses; and to saussy and _flaming_june_ for throwing this big gorgeous orgy in the first place. I shamelessly stole Oz in a sarong from katemonkey because, hey. Irresistible. Definitions and factoids follow the text.
For zyre.
Summary: "The identity of a place does not derive from some internalized history. It derives, in large part, precisely from the specificity of its interactions with 'the outside'" (Massey, 1993: 143)



Simpatia é Quase Amor


Oz is dancing.

Saturday before Carnaval, Jubeto and Rosie begged and cajoled him --

"Can't hide in here *reading* all the time, sweetie."
"We'll make you look so *pretty*."
"Please? It's different out there. Come and see."
"No one gets hurt in the bloco. Just dance, yes?"

-- and dragged him to Praça General Osório, and he's so fucking glad they did.

It's a tourist trap, the whole thing, hideous spectacle blown up for the gaping Northerners. He could retreat back into aloof, ironic observation, could viciously judge all those pasty fat people for thinking they can participate. Thinking they know what's going on when they don't have a fucking clue.

Oz knows he doesn't have a clue, but he's willing to try.

He came here when the beads started breaking down. When the hot taste of Tara's terror still stuck in the back of his throat months later, choking him awake every morning. When he learned via one of Angel's calligraphy-laden postcards that there were shamans in Bahia who could help the lobisomem.

And then he stayed.

Brazil blows his mind several times over every single day. It's fucked-up and passionate, lots of skin and even more guilt, demons that look like children and children who look like angels. He knows it isn't perfect; it's so far from perfect that it's the first place he's felt at home since the high school library.

Things meld here, creep around and influence each other and it's like this riot of fertility. Where the polka and Bantu prayers beget the samba, where a shit-ass pseudo-empire like Portugal ended up with the best and biggest chunk of a continent just because the map got drawn wrong. Where his cousin the uirapuru, gentlest of the changelings, can lend his name to a cheap MG popular with the Shining Path and other guerillas. Where the obsidian gleam of the Rio Negro still runs for miles, twining and spreading as defiantly as kudzu, within the Amazon's slow, soggy cocoa. Syncretism, it's called, and he knows no one in the favelas could give a shit about influence and fertility and entwining cultures while they're crawling across acres of garbage looking for food, but that's just it.

Everything's here, out in the open, gloriously fucked, and tonight, he's dancing.

*

He's late.

One more delay when a garishly made-up crone presses a mask into Riley's hands and clutches at his elbow with talon-like fingernails until he puts it on.

They only have a week in Rio, doing double duty of vacationing and keeping an eye on Lula's radical tendencies. He promised Sam he would pick her up for dinner in the hotel lobby at eight. It's well past seven, and Riley has moved -- he checks over his shoulder, the stiff faux-peacock feathers on his mask rustling -- a block and a half. Dancers, beggars, frighteningly ancient drag queens and impossibly muscled beach boys overrun the street. At this rate, he'll be lucky to hit the hotel before dawn.

He feels totally ridiculous. Ripping the feathers off the mask helps a little, but still leaves him underdressed and stiff in a sea of glittering skin and undulating dancers.

It seems impossible to focus when everyone is moving, the sun dipping bloody over the horizon, glowsticks and candles wavering.

Yet he does.

Whether it's his military training, an Iowa-bred curiosity about the world beyond cornfields, or the deeper reaches of an id he doesn't like to acknowledge, he can focus. He does focus.

Fascinated, horrified, Riley watches.

Silver-blonde wig, tousled like Marilyn's, on a slip of a man, half-moon mask over his eyes, silver gauzy shirt somewhere between a vest and a tank, short sarong the color of the sea slung low on his hips. He weaves and dips with the crowd as if he's only an extension of them all, or they are more of his limbs. He dances like he's praying. Except the good Methodists who raised Riley would never think of this as prayer.

Riley's seen things to curdle the blood of every Methodist who ever lived, but if he had to, he could try and explain vampires, and slayers, even ADAM.

This? He cannot explain this. He likes to keep his mind clean and orderly as a checkerboard, sort things out into equal and opposite piles. He has to; he can't help it. He knows that some think it's bigoted, which he just doesn't get. How can knowing where you stand be bigotry? How can fixing an order to rioting, threatening chaos count as wrong?

Moonboy moves through the crowd like he's got more space than everyone else. He slips and pivots and then he's *there*, just in front of Riley, back to him, still dancing. Always dancing.

The fabric of the sarong clings to his ass, slithers down another fraction of an inch with each twitch of the hips, yet never falls. His skin is pale and reflects the fabric like a necklace of bruises.

There is no name for what Riley sees, because he has never seen this, and probably never will again. He has nowhere to put this -- person, he supposes, is the fairest term -- yet he sees himself reaching out. Observes with detachment and a fair amount of fear his fingers stretch into the fast-moving light.

Beneath the wig's gossamer tangle, shoulder-blades flex like wings when he raises his arms. The muscles at the figure's waist twist and freeze when he holds the beat.

Riley moves forward. Moonboy weaves back.

Riley would like that checkerboard to be true. On those stark squares, men are men, women are women and dancing happens at weddings, maybe on Saturday nights. Here, just as they're about to meet, nothing makes sense: strong *male* shoulders under pretty hair. Slim, corded calves dusted with auburn hair emerging from silky fabric.

Horrified. Fascinated.

Riley's never been able to keep it together, not for long anyway. Buffy looked like a girl, tiny and blonde, but she managed to kick his ass and his heart. Demons he hates more than anything else treated him with care and passion. Sam may be slightly butch, but she's still a woman where it counts. And Riley himself? A mess, a boil just waiting to get drained, but he's still trying to do right.

His hand brushes sweat-damp skin, remembers the jut of the male pelvis like it was yesterday.

*

The guy is taller, buffer, *whiter* than Oz has had lately. But Rosie's right, this is different. Time's different here, marked by the music rather than the clock, people are different, *he* is different.

A big arm holds him around the waist and Oz dances against a wall of muscle. For the first time in ages, he's not about to fall.

He threads his left arm upwards, finds the guy's neck with his hand, arching his back as he grinds his ass over the guy's crotch. Swivels and dances until he's pulling the guy's head down, twisting his own, kissing him sloppy and fast.

Interesting. The guy kisses back. Far from politely; it's not a peck, and definitely not what he'd expect from this living Ken doll.

*

Riley's going to pull away any second now.

Moonboy's mouth, though, is hot and wet, impossible to leave.

Over the crackling of the crowd, beyond the rising beat of horns and percussion, Riley feels-hears-sees a figure looming through the crowd. Coming at them, coming *for* them.

It screeches in Brazilian or whatever the hell they speak here, and even if Riley doesn't know the words, he understands the meaning and goes into fighting stance.

The man in his arms stiffens. Riley tightens his arm and steps backward, the way hostage-takers do, never meeting the figure's eyes, until the curb bumps the back of his ankles. He whirls then, taking Moonboy with him, lifting him over his shoulder, runs flat out through a laughing crowd.

Somehow the wide main street they had been on has narrowed, gone crooked, and when he hangs a right to try to get back, he finds himself in an even narrower alley.

At least it's quieter in here. Quiet enough that he doesn't hear anyone following.

Quiet enough that he *does* hear Moonboy gasping, wheezing, slapping weakly at his shoulder.

*

Radical.

Too fucking funny.

Oz has just been rescued from a drunken Jubeto who only wanted in on the fun.

Too funny: Damsel, distress, knight.

Oz can't stop laughing, even as he's slid off that huge shoulder, even as he leans into the broad chest, kissing him again, giddy like no one's business, pushing the guy back against the wall.

The alley is dark and creepy, damp and laden with the smell of sea water and piss and rum. Glass and pebbles crunch under their feet.

Oz quiets, but that doesn't mean it's not still the funniest thing in *years*.

The man holds himself stiff and wary, but slowly, eventually, returns the kiss. Not that Oz was worried.

The kiss deepens into desperation as he clutches at Oz's neck, hand big enough to snap it if he wanted, dislodging the wig a little so it slips forward. He devours Oz's mouth and tongue as he paws at the wig and his other hand runs up Oz's chest. Their masks click and whisper against each other as Oz holds him by the waist, rolling his hips until he feels the stiff heat in the guy's groin.

A damsel always thanks her knight.

And thanking this knight? Tight waist seething with muscle, deep kissing, skin that smells like home, like clean sweat and detergent and basketball courts? Not a hardship, not by a long shot.

Oz slides one palm over the guy's stomach, knuckling his bellybutton, tip-tapping his way downward, as he starts to sink to his knees. The guy stops him, though; grabs his elbow and pulls him back up, holding him at arm's length.

"No?" Oz whispers. Not possible.

The guy grins, ducking his head for a second before he starts to shrug off his shirt. He points at the shards of glass and the rest of the shit on the ground. The shirt slides off his arm and he kicks it around his feet.

Okay, big-time knight here.

Oz moves back in, palms on the guy's chest -- seriously functional, non-ornamental muscles here, sheened with sweat that's more gaseous than wet -- mouthing along the collarbone, down his sternum, drinking in the scent and taste of something galactically faraway: good old downhome milkfed three-square-meals American *skin*.

Scarred skin, he realizes, tongue dipping and twisting, travelling up over a shoulder and down one arm. Lots of scars, many kinds of scars. Knotty scars, neat O-ring medical scars.

Silvery cross-hatched scars in the crook of his elbow that set the guy trembling even as he tenses.

Weird throaty noises like pleas drip from his mouth. Oz nips at the closest scar, tasting old pain in the rough-healed wound. He hears moaning above him and feels the hot quiver of the guy's hard-on against his stomach.

Oz sucks harder, tracing the webbing of skin with his incisors, and the guy groans loud and clear, thrusting hard. Just as suddenly, his body tenses -- Oz *feels* every muscle lock into place and *hears* the jaw grind shut just as clearly as he *smells* the flood of precum, sharp and tangy as shame.

Which, another time, another place, could be interesting, but best to stay on task.

Oz is sinking again, sliding down, swiping his mouth over one nipple, the guy's hand tangling in the wig. His stomach hollows as Oz pauses and presses his face against the expanse of smooth tan skin.

Oz dips lower until he is on his knees, on the shirt. He mouths at the crotch of the guy's khakis, up then down the length of heat beneath the zipper.

He sits back on his heels and looks up.

*

Riley's scars pinch, sizzle, melt as his dick throbs against the music from the street and in time with the guttering neon-candle glow of shadows and light playing through the alley.

Sensation dancing and skittering over his skin, he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, and wonders -- briefly, not for the first time -- if there's some emotion in between.

He looks down and sees the boy-man-girl gazing up at him, licking his lips. His eyes dart to Riley's groin, linger there, then move back up as he tilts his chin and smiles crookedly. Like hookers the world over, as if it were genetic, lasciviousness something as deeply wired as language.

Dazed, Riley fumbles at his fly and manages to take out his dick, starts to stroke it, not that he needs any help, and suddenly the guy's mouth is on him, licking his thumb, his shaft, hot, sweet, fast and wet.

He tugs down Riley's pants as his mouth slips and skates down the length, his thumbs working the creases between thighs and torso before they lower and brush over aching balls. Riley glances down, sees the shimmer of spit and precum hovering like a UFO between him and the moon mask. He has to squeeze his eyes shut, knock his head back against bricks, or he's going to come right now.

Pain glints momentarily from the back of his skull, zooming behind his eyelids, but it fades fast against the rush of silver-indigo-skyblue pleasure swirling up out of the boy's mouth into Riley's gut, squeezing at his balls, spiralling up his chest and exploding like clouds in his head.

He hears himself moaning, his voice gone high, as his head rolls back and forth and he fights like hell not to thrust.

*

Glad just doesn't cover it anymore for Oz.

The guy tastes like salt and Irish Spring, the flavor stronger in the sweat on his pubes, strung out thinner but still tasty along his cock. Beautiful long hard dick pulsing against his lips, pressing in, riding the groove of his tongue.

He feels big hands fall gently onto his shoulders, feels the tension of corded thighs trying to stay still, and has to smile.

Gentleman to the last, apparently. Which is nice and all, but, context being everything, hardly necessary. On the next down swipe, Oz soaks his thumb good and wet, then slides one hand around the guy's waist. Grips at his ass, working and nudging his thumb into the cleft, roughly stroking the wrinkled hole, tugging him forward as he suckles hard and starts to swallow.

*

Riley bucks in the grip, screwing back against the insistent stroke at his hole, curling his hands into fists, banging them against the wall, scraping at the skin, as the boy's mouth -- so fucking wet and slippery -- descends down his dick, throat muscles starting to work.

He gives in, accepts the offer, and thrusts deeply as teeth graze lightly over the base of his shaft.

He groans something out, something crude and needy, and is understood.

Miracle, sin.

The boy nibbles harder, breath audibly whistling through his nose, and Riley clenches at one bony shoulder, feeling the twist of knuckle at his hole pause as something sharp as a fang -- sharp, wrong, *good* -- scrapes up the side of his shaft. Sweat has flooded his skin, glued his mask to his face, and his throat is scratched raw as he fights to get away, fights to turn and come and end this. But his hips keep bucking and fireworks burst and wheel past his eyes.

*

Oz remains locked in place, swallowing hard, gone dizzy and stubborn, resisting every effort the guy's making to pull away. The cock shakes in his mouth, bangs palate and molars as the guy stiffens, about to shoot. His hole winks and tightens around Oz's thumb and he jabs it in a little harder.

The ass muscles clench, knees crack as they lock, as Oz slides aching lips back up to the head, no longer careful of teeth because Ken seems to like it hard. He drives the tip of his tongue against the slit, sucking out the constant stream as he locks his mouth hard and tight around the pulsing head.

He swallows and nips as cum spurts into his mouth, over his teeth, finally down his chin as he slumps back.

His mask is askew, blinding one eye, and the sarong's totally come undone.

He swallows as he pulls the guy's pants up and stumbles up onto one foot, bracing himself against a wall, then up onto the other. Shakes out the now-filthy shirt and hands it to the gasping American.

Tries to smile his thanks, but the guy won't meet his eyes.

*

The boy doesn't even stop to straighten his mask. He shakes out the shirt and helps Riley into it, buttons it up halfway, and places a dry kiss on the exposed skin. Squeezes his hand, brushes sweat-plastered hair from his cheek, and goes up on tip-toe to kiss Riley chastely with closed lips.

Riley sags into the soft touch of fingertips and mouth; his arm crawls around the still-cool waist as he kisses the boy back. Gratitude thickens his tongue, shorts out his brain, even as the usual regret starts to unspool, black and insistent, in the center of his chest.

The boy tastes like cum and alcohol and the sea, and Riley has to remind himself not to hold him too long.

"Have a good Lent, okay? Plenty of time for penance," he says lowly. Riley couldn't tell before, but he *is* American. Maybe Canadian; definitely North American.

Riley opens his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say, not sure he *can* speak with the jangly post-orgasm threading through his veins, his ass still clenching and throbbing, now-soft dick painfully stiffening the longer the boy leans against him.

The guy fastens his skirt back around his waist with a jerk of the wrist, nudges his mask back into place, and smiles almost fondly at Riley.

"Go home," he says quietly. "You're not happy here."

And he's gone, back into the light and music and crowds.


###end###


Notes
Title translates as "Sympathy is almost like love" and is the name of one of the most recent Carnaval blocos. Founded in the brief democratic flourish of 1985, it is Ipanema-centric but rapidly gaining a devoted non-local following. It persists in its radical-democratic inclusion of favelas-residents, beachgoers, middle-class bourgeoisie, and tourists.
Summary from: Massey, Doreen. (1993). "Politics and space/time" in Keith, Michael and Steve Pile, eds, Place and the politics of identity. London and NY: Routledge. pp. 141-161. A piece, like Wolch & Dear's Malign Neglect, that Oz must have fished out of the recycling bins at Reed.
Bahia is a province in the southeast of Brazil, the first settled by the Portuguese upon their arrival in 1500. Historically, it is the seat of Afro-Brazilian culture.
Lobisomem is the Portuguese word for werewolf. According to GhostSpot's Werewolf Legends, a human only will become a 'lobisomem' if he was the 7th son from the same father and mother. "He changes into a "lobisomem", for the first time when he is 13 years old. Just for two hours: from Midnight to 2:00 am. Always on Friday during Lent."
Uirapuru is another changeling, a small, plain brown bird that can transform into a child.
Lula is the nickname of Brazil's new president, Luis Inacio Lula da Silva, the of the Workers' Party, elected in October, 2002.