Pairing: Shawn Marion/Boris Diaw (Phoenix Suns)
Warnings: The usual. Foul language, explicit sex. Some underage kink, but nothing expressly illegal.
Author's Notes: Thanks, as ever, to shadow_shimmer, firstly for your valued friendship, and secondly for the faithful beta work, without which this would never have seen the light of day.
Losing always pisses me off. This loss is particularly irritating, though—our second loss already to the Mavs, and that entire goddamned team is so fucking proud of themselves, strutting around and pumping each other up, fists in the air—avenging last season’s playoff loss or whatever.
Mike’s cool after the game, and keeps it quick. He tells us that we played well and that we should be encouraged: we only lost by six points, we’re coming together as a team.
But we need to work on our defense.
And Christ, if I hear that same shit again I swear I’m gonna go off on someone.
I put on my headphones as soon as I’m on the bus and prepare to zone out. No one sits next to me and I like it that way after a bad loss. I’m not in the mood to smile or talk or be social. I just want to stare out this window and be left alone.
I chew on a nail and glance up just in time to see Boris brush past me on his way to the back of the bus. He makes eye contact with me, for just a second, and then we both look away.
And that’s all—we barely even acknowledged each other, but already the game starts to mean less, sort of fade into the background, and other things start to mean more.
And instead of staring out the window and sulking, I’m staring out the window and feeling okay.
I don’t waste a lot of time saying my goodnights in the hotel lobby. I clasp hands briefly with Steve—who seems a little rushed and distracted like he normally does whenever we’re in Dallas—and then I’m out.
In my room, I throw my shit down on the dresser and then lay on my bed, turning on ESPN but not bothering to turn up the volume even though I can barely hear what the commentators on SportsCenter are saying. It’s just a way to kill time, and I don’t care what they’re talking about. I don’t even mind when they start to show highlights from the game we just lost, because honestly I’m busy thinking about other things.
Things like dark eyes and beautiful skin and the hottest ass I’ve ever had my hands on.
And thinking about those things makes it hard to sit around and wait, but I force myself to be patient, to make it through the end of SportsCenter, long enough so that when I finally leave my room, sneaking down the hall and into the elevator and then down another hall, I’m pretty sure I won’t come across any of my teammates.
Except the one I want to see.
And then I’m finally in Boris’s room, and all those things I’ve been thinking about are right in front of me, and real.
We’re both on his bed, but it’s not like that, at least not right away. He’s stripped down to just boxers and a t-shirt, and he’s sitting there cross-legged, talking at length about his mom’s recent visit to the Valley, and how much she liked Phoenix, and liked the arena, and liked watching him play with the new team, while I stretch out next to him with a hand on his knee, finally relaxing. I like just laying there and watching him as he talks, all smiling and animated, and I don’t care that he’s going on forever with the story of her reaction to his less-than-stellar play against the Knicks (imitating her facial expressions and everything), because the thing about Boris is that he makes me forget. He makes me forget all the shit that gets me down, like losing the game tonight or not having a big-time shoe deal or always being third-best, stuck behind the league MVP and a teammate who’s currently hobbling around on crutches and probably won’t be worth shit if and when he comes back.
He also kinda makes me forget about my girlfriend, sometimes, but that’s another story.
Right now, it’s just me and Boris, and I can’t stop looking at him because he just had his hair cut yesterday—buzzed right down to his scalp—and it makes him look ridiculously young.
Boris finally notices me staring and stops talking—for a second. Then, “What are you looking at?”
I sit up and lean forward so that I can rub a hand over his head.
“You. You look fifteen with your hair like that.”
Boris looks indignant as he swats my hand away, but then something seems to occur to him and he’s looking closely at me, curious.
“Do you like that?” he asks, shifting on the bed, getting closer.
And I’m a little wary, not completely sure where this is heading. I shrug, confused. Because yeah, it’s kind of hot, Boris looking as young as he does. But it’s not like I’m…into that—like I’d actually, you know, want to fuck a fifteen-year-old, or whatever.
If that’s even what he’s asking. With Boris, sometimes it’s hard to tell.
Boris isn’t letting it go.
“Does it turn you on?” he presses. “The way I look, letting you touch me…?” He’s even closer now, his lips brushing against my neck. “Letting you fuck me…?”
I guess the way I grab his jaw and kiss him, hard, is answer enough.
I’m a little obsessed with Boris’s mouth. I’m even more obsessed with kissing his mouth, because he’s so good, just the right amount of pressure and the right amount of tongue. Could be that whole French thing, but whatever it is, making out with Boris turns me on more than almost anything else.
I push him back onto the bed and we fumble with our clothes for a minute until we’re both naked. I lay on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, kissing his jaw and then his neck.
I can feel his cock pressing into my stomach and it occurs to me, as I trace the hollow in his throat with my tongue, that it’s been a while since I’ve gone down on him. Which is probably my fault; it’s not exactly my favorite thing in the world. And Boris doesn’t really make demands about it either way; he seems cool with whatever I do to him and happiest when he’s actually getting fucked. Which is, like, just fine with me. But I’m in the mood tonight, and suddenly it’s all I can think about—tasting him and touching him and making him moan and whimper and feel good.
I slide down his body and Boris sighs as he spreads his legs, letting me lay between them. His hands are gentle on the back of my head and on my neck as I work him slowly, watching his face and listening to the sounds he makes.
It’s kinda weird, but Boris has got…two voices. He has his “normal” voice, the smooth, sophisticated French actor voice that he usually uses. But then he has this other voice—higher-pitched, softer, almost childlike, which I hear him use sometimes in interviews if he’s nervous or unsure or caught off guard. And right now, as I go down on him, that’s the voice he’s using—that young voice—moaning and gasping and whimpering my name.
This is so fucked up, I think, knowing that Boris is doing it intentionally, and also unable to deny that it’s hot. I’ve never seen this side of Boris—the Boris who’s maybe a little kinky and wants to play—and that discovery turns me on just as much as the noises he’s making and the whole idea of what we’re doing.
When he starts to pant, his thighs twitching against my shoulders, I pull off of him and reach for the lube. I glance at him after screwing the cap back on, and he looks so good, breathing kind of heavy and watching me expectantly, that I have to move back up his body so that I can kiss his mouth again.
I push two fingers into him while I do and Boris exhales deeply and arches against me, his breath rushing over my skin. And he’s moaning again, and even though the sounds are muffled by my mouth, I can still tell that he’s using that voice, and it’s making me crazy.
“Fuck me,” Boris finally breathes against my neck. And it’s the first time he’s ever flat-out asked for it and it’s a little overwhelming—in, like, a good way—to realize that Boris is at the point where he’s able to do that. With me.
He’s pressing a condom into my hands and I unwrap it and then I’m sliding into him, all the way, and he’s got his legs wrapped around my thighs and one arm wrapped around my neck, pulling me down to his mouth.
I kiss him slowly and fuck him slowly and that’s how it goes for a while. No rush, just long, deep strokes and quiet sighs. Until Boris gets close and he starts back up with the moaning and the whimpering and he sounds like he’s fifteen with that voice and he looks like he’s fifteen with that goddamned haircut and the sex goes from slow and sweet to quick and dirty in a matter of seconds.
It’s sick and it’s wrong and there's no way to pretend like I'm not totally getting off on it.
I start to push into him harder, and he murmurs my name and I like that but I want more.
“Talk to me,” I mutter, feeling his fingers digging into the muscles of my shoulders.
He licks his lips and then he’s talking, and I don’t understand any of it, but it’s kind of better that way. He doesn’t really ever speak French around me unless I ask, like now, but I love it when he does. Maybe it comes back down to how I feel about his mouth, because everything moves differently when he speaks French—his lips, his tongue—and I’m a little fascinated by that.
He trails off after a minute and I kiss him, hard, reaching between us so that I can grab his cock.
His legs tighten around my thighs and he tightens up around me inside, too, making desperate, muffled noises against my mouth, and that’s more than I can take.
I’m coming and then Boris is coming right after me, and afterwards we both just lay there for a while, breathing heavily, until he finally moves underneath me, untangling his legs and letting me get up to throw away the condom.
Boris doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to clean up, just sort of laying there, waiting for me to get back into bed.
“What were you saying earlier?” I ask as I lay down next to him, honestly curious.
Boris glances over at me and smiles a little. “I was talking about your cock,” he says. “How I like it, how good you make me feel...” He wrinkles his nose. “I think it sounds better in French, maybe.”
I shrug, like it doesn’t matter, and it’s quiet again until Boris rolls over and props his head up.
“Do you…think anything else about me?” he asks.
I stare at him blankly, no clue what he’s asking me. Boris does that a lot—just blurts shit out that doesn’t quite make sense. But it doesn’t bother me, usually. So many foreign players are quiet and withdrawn and unsure, and I like how Boris is always so fearless and outgoing.
He smiles a little. “Like…sexually. You know, how you like how young I look when I cut my hair?” He’s speaking very carefully, trying to make sure I understand. “Do you think about anything else? Things that you like?”
Okay then, now he’s making sense. Kinks. Fetishes. Fantasies. And I’ve had a few that involved him. Things like tying him up or getting him to wear eyeliner for me or fucking him in some dark, secretive corner in US Airways Center. But I’m not quite sure he’s ready to hear any of that, so I go with something a little tamer.
“I think about fucking you while you’re wearing your jersey sometimes,” I admit. “Pull it up a little so I can see your hips and your stomach and your dick while I do it…” I let my fingers brush against his ribs, watching as his eyelids flutter. And I’m glad that I decided to tell him about that one, because there’s a huge smile spreading across his face and he looks incredibly pleased.
“Which one? The purple one or the white one?”
I don’t know why it matters, but I shrug and answer him.
“The white one. I like how it looks on you. Like how your ass looks in it too, but we’d probably need to forget about the shorts.”
He laughs, reaching out to lay a hand gently on my chest.
“Next chance I have, I’ll bring one home.”
“Alright.” I play it cool, but just barely, because…shit. The idea of Boris making my little fantasy a reality…
And Boris just laughs, like he can see right through me, can see how much he affects me, and I’m struck for what must be the thousandth time by how fucking beautiful he is.
And a little frightened by how much I’m starting to care.
But before I can get too freaked out about that, he crawls up my body and kisses me. And it’s not one of those slow, lazy, after-sex kisses; it’s firm and insistent and he’s rubbing up against me, making little whimpering sounds in the back of his throat.
I guess all the talk about jerseys and fucking has turned him on. It’s got me going a little too—well, that and the way that Boris is squirming all over me, naked—and I slide my hands down his body, grasping the back of his thighs and pulling his legs open until he’s straddling me, one knee on either side of my hips.
I feel his hand between us, first on himself and then, a minute later, on me, and I grunt, sliding one hand up the back of his thigh. I reach around behind him, between his legs, and almost lose it when I feel how slick he still is from earlier. I slide two fingers into him and he catches my lower lip between his teeth and moans into my mouth, and I can’t help moaning a little myself. It’s almost overwhelming—his hand on my cock and my fingers inside him, where he’s wet and hot and tight, and just knowing, from the way he moves and the sounds he makes, how much he likes being touched like this.
I push my free hand between us and grab his dick, slowly stroking him, and I don’t mind when Boris eventually lets go of me so that he can sit up a little and brace himself on my shoulders with both hands. It’s hard to mind when he’s writhing and moaning like he’s never felt so good in his entire fucking life.
He leans over after a minute to grab a condom off of the top of the dresser, and I take my hand off his cock but keep my fingers inside him. His eyes are fixed on me as he opens the wrapper, his breath hitching a little when I push my fingers deeper, rubbing at that spot inside him.
He puts the condom on me and then he’s pushing my fingers out of him with one hand, holding my dick steady with the other, and sliding down onto me.
We both grunt once I’m fully inside, and he pauses for a moment, taking a couple of deep, measured breaths. I wipe my fingers on the bedspread and then lay my hands on his thighs, rubbing gently.
He starts to move on me and within seconds, his expression changes. His eyes widen and he looks overwhelmed at first and then he’s arching his back and parting his lips and starting to make noise. We’ve never fucked like this before, with him riding me, and if the way he’s moaning is any indication, he loves it. And I like to think that I’m pretty decent at…you know…rubbing him the right way, or whatever, but I guess that nothing compares to the angle you can get when you’re on top.
And then, he’s not so much moaning as he is just plain crying out. Loud, throaty cries, the kind that wake the neighbors and make my dick ache. And I’m glad that the team is spread out on several floors of the hotel, and that no one’s right next door to Boris, because he’s making so much noise that there’d be questions in the morning.
But luckily, no one we know is there, and so I can relax and just enjoy him. I like how loud he is, and I like looking at him, at the faces he makes, the muscles in his chest and stomach rippling as he moves, his cock hard against his belly.
And then, before I can even really think about touching him there, he’s suddenly gasping my name and clenching around me, and then there’s wetness and I realize that he’s coming.
Because I don’t have a hand on him, there’s no way of controlling where his come goes, and it gets everywhere. All over him and all over me, on our stomachs and chests, on his thighs and my arms.
He looks a little shocked that he’s come like this, without me touching him and without touching himself, and I’m a little surprised too but it’s more of a turn-on than anything, the fact that just having my dick inside him was enough to get him off.
His thighs are trembling when he’s done but his rhythm doesn’t really falter; he just shifts in my lap, changing the angle of his hips, and keeps going. And I’m rubbing his thighs and just looking at him, taking him all in, and he’s almost too much for me. It’s because of how his face looks, all flushed and glistening with sweat, and the way he’s still so tight around me, and how he keeps whimpering and moaning as he rides me, even though he’s already come.
And it only takes a few moments until he’s pushed me close enough that I start to lose control. I roll my hips, pushing up into him every time he pushes down onto me, and slide my hands farther back until I can grab his ass.
“Shit,” I gasp. “Get it done, baby.”
Saying that makes Boris whimper, and my last coherent thought before I come is how much I wish that I wasn’t wearing a condom. Because I want him to feel it, and I have this overwhelming, primitive desire to leave something behind, something besides the medicinal smell of latex.
And then I’m coming, and I’m not really thinking, just thrusting up into him, hard, and moaning his name.
When I’m finally done, I close my eyes, breathing heavily, and feel Boris lay down on top of me and nuzzle into my neck. He’s hot and sweaty and having him pressed against me like this only serves as a reminder of just how much of a mess there is between us, but I don’t really care. I wrap an arm around him, rubbing his back gently, and let him lay there for a minute, as long as I dare, before rolling both of us to the side and pulling out.
As I do, Boris tenses up and gasps into my neck. Just a tiny gasp, but it’s enough for me to know that he’s sore and uncomfortable. And I feel bad about that as I throw away the condom. It makes me want to do stupid, stupid things. Things that I’ve never done to any other guy, that I’ve never even considered doing until now. Until him.
Things like pull him closer, once I’ve laid back down, and press my lips against his forehead.
“You okay, baby?” I murmur.
He nods, sliding an arm around my waist.
“I’m okay. Just…”
He doesn’t seem to know how to describe what he’s feeling, but he doesn’t have to. I get it. And I feel a little guilty about it, even though I know I technically shouldn’t, but Boris is relaxing against me again and making a little contented noise in the back of his throat and I figure he’ll be fine in the morning or whatever anyway.
I tilt his head up and kiss him, gently, letting my tongue brush softly against his once he opens his mouth.
We kiss for a while, and I marvel at how I still can’t seem to get enough of him, even after everything we’ve already done tonight. And there’s this nagging little voice in the back of my head, warning, You shouldn’t be doing this. You should’ve fucked him and left. Gone back to your own room, and called your girlfriend.
But I don’t want to do any of that—don’t want to leave him, don’t want to call Erika, don’t want to sleep alone.
We eventually get up and take a shower together and then crawl back into bed. And I kiss him—again—because I can, and I keep doing it until he finally laughs against my lips and pushes me away, reminding me that we have to get up early tomorrow to fly out of here. He smiles at me as he rolls over, pressing his back against my chest, and I let one of my hands slide down until it rests against his ass. Because I can do that too, and because I like touching him—everywhere, really, but there especially.
Boris settles down and within minutes he’s asleep. Which he should be—he’s had a hell of a night. So’ve I, and I ought to be asleep too, but I’m too busy thinking. Thinking about Boris, and about Erika, and how in the hell this is all supposed to work.
Which it isn’t. There’s no way it can, not the way things are now.
I mean, I know Boris is unhappy. He puts on a good show, smiles and chatters and has all the reporters (plus fucking Bill Walton, for god’s sake) convinced that he’s the friendliest and most outgoing player in the league. Which maybe he is, I don’t know. But I do know that he doesn’t understand what I want from him, or what I’m doing. I’m not quite sure I know either. Which is the main problem, really.
Because I love my girlfriend. No question. I’m happy with her.
And I really didn’t intend for this shit with Boris to be anything serious. Swear it. I liked his face and loved his ass and was attracted to him in a casual way, and so I figured, hell, why not? Thinking that there was no reason why this couldn’t be like every other time I’d fucked around with another guy—quick and easy and painless, no strings, no fuss. Short-lived encounters that were meaningless as soon as they were over. But then, I’d never slept with anyone on my own team. That was probably my first mistake. I’d also never slept with anyone who hadn’t done it before. And Boris had been so unsure and nervous that first time, shaking in my arms, and when it was over I felt like I owed him something. And so I’d hung around afterwards, laying with him, touching him, talking to him. Connecting in a way that I hadn’t ever allowed before. And that’s where shit got complicated. Because one fuck turned into two, and then three, and then four, and now it’s pretty much…like…a regular thing for us.
But the really complicated part is that it’s not just about fucking him now. It’s about liking and wanting and needing to be around him. Like on nights like tonight, where everything feels like it’s gone to shit until I’m with him.
And needing him like that is scarier than I want to admit, because of what it means. What it means for that life I’d always planned to have, a life of marriage and kids and stability and all that shit that people want.
Needing Boris the way I do puts all of that in jeopardy.
Boris is suddenly shifting, rolling over and pressing his face into my neck. And it amuses me, the things he does when he’s asleep. He’s actually taller than me, by about an inch, but when he sleeps he always maneuvers so that he can cuddle with his head tucked beneath my chin. It makes me feel kinda protective of him. I put a hand on the back of his head, cradling him against me. And shit, I still can’t get over what he’s done with his hair…
I wonder, as my thoughts start to get a little vague and fuzzy, if it’s crazy that I’m starting to think about what it would be like if I left Erika for Boris. It probably is. I’ve been dating her for years, she lives in my house, up until now I’d always been certain she was my future…
I’d always just…assumed, you know?
But nothing seems certain anymore, and that’s the thought that lingers as I finally drift off.