NBA fic: "Dreaming My Way Deep" AI/Melo, Eddie/Melo
Title: "Dreaming My Way Deep"
Pairing: Allen Iverson/Melo, and some light Eddie/Melo
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1781
Disclaimer:This is the product of my twisted imagination. It never happened and I'm not implying that it did. I make no profit from writing this.
Summary and A/N: This is kind of a deleted scene from "All Stars and Crashed Cars," only from Melo's POV. Part of it takes place during the 2004 Olympic Games. Many thanks, as always, to horizon_greene for the beta.
Dreaming My Way Deep
In the dream, Melo’s home in Baltimore, alone. Everything’s familiar, from the bed he’s laying in to the old Mets jersey he’s wearing. His house smells like his mom’s coffee and waffles, and if he opens his eyes, he’ll see the window that overlooks the basketball court and next to that, his shelf of trophies.
Smothering heat, a slight sense of seasickness and his dry, swollen tongue start to splinter the illusion. The knifing pain behind his right eye and the feeling of rough carpet underneath him and warm, damp skin behind him, shatter it. He’s not home; he’s half-awake, half-hung over and half-naked on the floor of T-Mac’s suite. He’s on a fucking boat, outside of Athens, and he’s supposed to be playing USA Basketball. And that -- that used to mean the Dream Team, right? But Melo’s already heard the press call him and Allen and LeBron and T-Mac and everyone else the Nightmare Team.
Speaking of, someone shifts behind him and an arm slithers over his waist. It takes effort for Melo to force his eyes open and then there’s a few seconds where he has to think about focusing, but then he can see and he wishes he hadn’t bothered. Arms can be fairly anonymous until you start inking enormous black panthers across them. Melo figures that Allen must still be asleep, though, or mostly, and thinking that Melo’s one of the girls he had last night.
Or not.
Allen’s softly -- so softly that if Melo were really asleep he wouldn’t wake up for this -- dancing his fingers over Melo’s stomach and down to the waistband of his shorts, and then he stops, moves a little so his body is pressed flush with Melo’s, and palms Melo’s cock.
Melo chokes on the heavy, wet air, gagging on the salty smell of the ocean.
Tension rolls off of Allen in waves, sparking in all the places he’s touching Melo, and Melo twitches, trying to breathe, wondering if you can die from something like heat suffocation.
“Don’t move,” Allen mumbles, into Melo’s back, and Melo does nothing but reach for the ornate, metal leg of the table in front of him, hoping to ground himself by holding on to something sharp and solid. He wonders how Allen is holding so still -- just using his fingers, tracing the shape of Melo’s hard-on through his shorts and then down to his balls, rolling them and squeezing them gently -- because the thing that defines Allen, aside from his unpredictable and viscous mood swings, is his energy.
Gripping the table leg tighter, Melo focuses on the pinching pain and lets Allen move him -- angled this way, an inch to the left -- as he pulls Melo’s shorts over his hips to the top of his thighs. Then, a little farther down.
“You were watching me,” Allen says, still talking into Melo’s back, barely getting the words out, slurring the sounds together until Melo isn’t sure what he’s saying. “Watching me fuck,” Allen finishes, and he gets that last word out clearly.
Melo takes a long breath and arches back into Allen’s body. “Don’t remember,” he lies, seeing Allen bent over the balcony railing, bent over a girl and hiding her body with his. Melo fixated on the jump-slide of the muscles in his back, distorting the Fame and the Realist above his shoulders, and making all the little stars between them dance.
“Whatever,” Allen says, and Melo feels something hard and wet against the back of his leg at the same time Allen starts jacking him off.
“No, don’t --” Melo starts, not sure what he’s asking Allen not to do exactly, but convinced it’s gone too far already.
“I’m not,” Allen says, “not that.” And he pulls Melo’s legs apart, just enough, and starts to move between them, sliding easy, quick. The friction is electric; fire centered at the base of Melo’s neck where Allen’s dragging his teeth over the bumps of Melo’s spine until he latches on and bites down.
Melo’s hand, sweaty and sore now, slips off of the table leg, catching on one of the metal spikes, cutting the heel of his palm -- not deep, just enough to bleed -- and he sucks at it, gagging himself as he comes over Allen’s hand, white and wet on top of black lines and swirls.
It takes several long, hot minutes for Allen to come and Melo thinks that this might be the dream; it has that almost desperate, edgy feeling to it that you get right after you realize that you’ve gone blind and right before you wake up.
The come on Melo’s stomach and then, in a minute, on his legs, is real and sticky, and he wants to shower like he’s never wanted anything ever, but Allen’s telling him no, to leave it. And, yeah, Allen’s in a fucked up place right now, Melo knows, with the guns and the assault thing last year and the gambling problem and pissing in public, but Melo prays like he hasn’t since he was a kid that Allen doesn’t want to drag him down with him.
Because he could.
If he does shit like this, he can get to the one place Melo’s never let anyone else, and he’s already got a fingernail in the crack of Melo’s defenses because of who he is -- he’s Allen fucking Iverson and he’s hardcore. He’s been in prison. And he’s everything Melo’s mom tried to keep him away from, including Melo’s own brother.
And he’s right here.
*
“Did you guys do anything else?” Eddie asks, startling Melo out of the heat of his memories and back into the cold.
“Nah,” he says. “I mean, not then. Not in Greece.”
Eddie looks down at him from where he’s propped up and back against the headboard. “You were, what? Twenty?” His eyes are wide and almost sad, and Melo’s never seen him look like that before. He rubs at his palm, finding the tiny ridge of scar tissue.
“Just,” he answers. “He was twenty nine? Thirty, maybe?”
“Damn,” Eddie scoots closer and pulls on one of Melo’s braids. “It all went to shit after that.” Not asking.
Melo shrugs. He’s not sure what Eddie means.
“The weed in the backpack thing and the bar brawl and the DVD?” Eddie rubs at his eyes. “All right after the Olympics. He fucked you up.”
“No. I mean, maybe I was just --” Melo’s not sure how to say that he was confused more than anything else, because that sounds like he’d be admitting to something about himself that he and Eddie understand but don’t ever talk about. “I don’t know. He was this big, big thing that happened to me, all of me, and I didn’t know how to deal.” That sounds better. “I wanted his life. His cars, like the Rover. But -- oh.” He grins at Eddie. “He drives a Mercedes kind of like yours.”
“Yeah,” Eddie smiles back, lopsided and tired. “I’m not him, though.”
“I know that,” Melo almost snaps, still drawn tight and hot from reliving it. “Anyway, I wanted his body and his hair, but not so much him, I guess. And --” he stops Eddie from interrupting. “I don’t know what he wanted from me. Wants,” he corrects himself.
“Still?” Eddie asks, pushing his hair back, face neutral.
Melo just sits and stares back. He can’t fight with Eddie right now. Not over this and not with JR asleep in the next room. Finally, “You haven’t wanted me in a while, man. Not ‘til tonight.”
“I’m not mad,” Eddie says and then mutters to himself in Spanish. “Do you fuck?” he asks, a minute later, and there’s suddenly distance between him and Melo.
“Once,” Melo says, feeling stripped. Honesty is all he has left. “He likes me to suck him.”
“Because you give good head,” Eddie says, a little forced, and then he’s on top of Melo again, pushing him into the bed. “How did you do it? Did you get to --”
“What do you think?” Melo puts his lips on Eddie’s. It’s not quite a kiss, but it brings them closer again.
“I think that the new, dedicated, family-oriented, team-leader and good citizen AI should let you fuck him. As, like, as show of good faith. Or something.”
“Right. Do you want it to stop?” Melo is genuinely curious. He’s never sure where the line is with Eddie, and what, or who, it takes to cross it.
“Kind of,” Eddie rolls over and stretches, popping his knuckles -- two rows of joints -- in quick succession. And then he kisses Melo back, gently, hands on either side of Melo’s face and thumbs pressing into his jaw.
Melo sinks back and sinks into it, glancing at the frost covered windows and shivering thankfully, glad for the cold and for the slow, quiet way Eddie moves over him.
*
“Narcissism,” Eddie tells Melo later. “I think Allen has a thing for you because you’re just a bigger version of him.”
That makes no sense to Melo, so he just blinks at Eddie and watches him make tea. JR should be up in a minute and Melo wants to be done with this conversation by then.
“You’re like a mirror,” Eddie says, tossing Melo an orange. “A bright, shiny mirror into his past. Or, like, a possible past, where he didn’t get arrested when he was seventeen and where he never had to live in a place with no heat and no water and shit on the floors, and he got to grow up without having to fight so hard.”
Peeling the orange, Melo thinks about it, breaks it down, and starts to get frustrated.
“So he fucks me because I remind of him of being young, somehow, and you fuck me to stay young?”
Eddie turns to him and cocks an eyebrow.
“You told that to Steve once. I heard you.”
“Not exactly. But the thing is, you have this -- ability. This way of seducing people into believing in you, whether it’s that you can soothe their souls, or heal their bodies, or -- “ and Eddie turns to the kitchen door, “make them into superstars. Like you.”
JR’s there, looking tired and wary, but he sits, dodging an orange peel that Melo flicks at him.
Melo’s not sure whether Eddie just complimented him or made fun of him, somehow, but that’s Eddie, and Eddie’s making him waffles now, and he’s willing to take that as a sign that, either way, they’re going to be okay.
End.
Pairing: Allen Iverson/Melo, and some light Eddie/Melo
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1781
Disclaimer:This is the product of my twisted imagination. It never happened and I'm not implying that it did. I make no profit from writing this.
Summary and A/N: This is kind of a deleted scene from "All Stars and Crashed Cars," only from Melo's POV. Part of it takes place during the 2004 Olympic Games. Many thanks, as always, to horizon_greene for the beta.
Dreaming My Way Deep
In the dream, Melo’s home in Baltimore, alone. Everything’s familiar, from the bed he’s laying in to the old Mets jersey he’s wearing. His house smells like his mom’s coffee and waffles, and if he opens his eyes, he’ll see the window that overlooks the basketball court and next to that, his shelf of trophies.
Smothering heat, a slight sense of seasickness and his dry, swollen tongue start to splinter the illusion. The knifing pain behind his right eye and the feeling of rough carpet underneath him and warm, damp skin behind him, shatter it. He’s not home; he’s half-awake, half-hung over and half-naked on the floor of T-Mac’s suite. He’s on a fucking boat, outside of Athens, and he’s supposed to be playing USA Basketball. And that -- that used to mean the Dream Team, right? But Melo’s already heard the press call him and Allen and LeBron and T-Mac and everyone else the Nightmare Team.
Speaking of, someone shifts behind him and an arm slithers over his waist. It takes effort for Melo to force his eyes open and then there’s a few seconds where he has to think about focusing, but then he can see and he wishes he hadn’t bothered. Arms can be fairly anonymous until you start inking enormous black panthers across them. Melo figures that Allen must still be asleep, though, or mostly, and thinking that Melo’s one of the girls he had last night.
Or not.
Allen’s softly -- so softly that if Melo were really asleep he wouldn’t wake up for this -- dancing his fingers over Melo’s stomach and down to the waistband of his shorts, and then he stops, moves a little so his body is pressed flush with Melo’s, and palms Melo’s cock.
Melo chokes on the heavy, wet air, gagging on the salty smell of the ocean.
Tension rolls off of Allen in waves, sparking in all the places he’s touching Melo, and Melo twitches, trying to breathe, wondering if you can die from something like heat suffocation.
“Don’t move,” Allen mumbles, into Melo’s back, and Melo does nothing but reach for the ornate, metal leg of the table in front of him, hoping to ground himself by holding on to something sharp and solid. He wonders how Allen is holding so still -- just using his fingers, tracing the shape of Melo’s hard-on through his shorts and then down to his balls, rolling them and squeezing them gently -- because the thing that defines Allen, aside from his unpredictable and viscous mood swings, is his energy.
Gripping the table leg tighter, Melo focuses on the pinching pain and lets Allen move him -- angled this way, an inch to the left -- as he pulls Melo’s shorts over his hips to the top of his thighs. Then, a little farther down.
“You were watching me,” Allen says, still talking into Melo’s back, barely getting the words out, slurring the sounds together until Melo isn’t sure what he’s saying. “Watching me fuck,” Allen finishes, and he gets that last word out clearly.
Melo takes a long breath and arches back into Allen’s body. “Don’t remember,” he lies, seeing Allen bent over the balcony railing, bent over a girl and hiding her body with his. Melo fixated on the jump-slide of the muscles in his back, distorting the Fame and the Realist above his shoulders, and making all the little stars between them dance.
“Whatever,” Allen says, and Melo feels something hard and wet against the back of his leg at the same time Allen starts jacking him off.
“No, don’t --” Melo starts, not sure what he’s asking Allen not to do exactly, but convinced it’s gone too far already.
“I’m not,” Allen says, “not that.” And he pulls Melo’s legs apart, just enough, and starts to move between them, sliding easy, quick. The friction is electric; fire centered at the base of Melo’s neck where Allen’s dragging his teeth over the bumps of Melo’s spine until he latches on and bites down.
Melo’s hand, sweaty and sore now, slips off of the table leg, catching on one of the metal spikes, cutting the heel of his palm -- not deep, just enough to bleed -- and he sucks at it, gagging himself as he comes over Allen’s hand, white and wet on top of black lines and swirls.
It takes several long, hot minutes for Allen to come and Melo thinks that this might be the dream; it has that almost desperate, edgy feeling to it that you get right after you realize that you’ve gone blind and right before you wake up.
The come on Melo’s stomach and then, in a minute, on his legs, is real and sticky, and he wants to shower like he’s never wanted anything ever, but Allen’s telling him no, to leave it. And, yeah, Allen’s in a fucked up place right now, Melo knows, with the guns and the assault thing last year and the gambling problem and pissing in public, but Melo prays like he hasn’t since he was a kid that Allen doesn’t want to drag him down with him.
Because he could.
If he does shit like this, he can get to the one place Melo’s never let anyone else, and he’s already got a fingernail in the crack of Melo’s defenses because of who he is -- he’s Allen fucking Iverson and he’s hardcore. He’s been in prison. And he’s everything Melo’s mom tried to keep him away from, including Melo’s own brother.
And he’s right here.
*
“Did you guys do anything else?” Eddie asks, startling Melo out of the heat of his memories and back into the cold.
“Nah,” he says. “I mean, not then. Not in Greece.”
Eddie looks down at him from where he’s propped up and back against the headboard. “You were, what? Twenty?” His eyes are wide and almost sad, and Melo’s never seen him look like that before. He rubs at his palm, finding the tiny ridge of scar tissue.
“Just,” he answers. “He was twenty nine? Thirty, maybe?”
“Damn,” Eddie scoots closer and pulls on one of Melo’s braids. “It all went to shit after that.” Not asking.
Melo shrugs. He’s not sure what Eddie means.
“The weed in the backpack thing and the bar brawl and the DVD?” Eddie rubs at his eyes. “All right after the Olympics. He fucked you up.”
“No. I mean, maybe I was just --” Melo’s not sure how to say that he was confused more than anything else, because that sounds like he’d be admitting to something about himself that he and Eddie understand but don’t ever talk about. “I don’t know. He was this big, big thing that happened to me, all of me, and I didn’t know how to deal.” That sounds better. “I wanted his life. His cars, like the Rover. But -- oh.” He grins at Eddie. “He drives a Mercedes kind of like yours.”
“Yeah,” Eddie smiles back, lopsided and tired. “I’m not him, though.”
“I know that,” Melo almost snaps, still drawn tight and hot from reliving it. “Anyway, I wanted his body and his hair, but not so much him, I guess. And --” he stops Eddie from interrupting. “I don’t know what he wanted from me. Wants,” he corrects himself.
“Still?” Eddie asks, pushing his hair back, face neutral.
Melo just sits and stares back. He can’t fight with Eddie right now. Not over this and not with JR asleep in the next room. Finally, “You haven’t wanted me in a while, man. Not ‘til tonight.”
“I’m not mad,” Eddie says and then mutters to himself in Spanish. “Do you fuck?” he asks, a minute later, and there’s suddenly distance between him and Melo.
“Once,” Melo says, feeling stripped. Honesty is all he has left. “He likes me to suck him.”
“Because you give good head,” Eddie says, a little forced, and then he’s on top of Melo again, pushing him into the bed. “How did you do it? Did you get to --”
“What do you think?” Melo puts his lips on Eddie’s. It’s not quite a kiss, but it brings them closer again.
“I think that the new, dedicated, family-oriented, team-leader and good citizen AI should let you fuck him. As, like, as show of good faith. Or something.”
“Right. Do you want it to stop?” Melo is genuinely curious. He’s never sure where the line is with Eddie, and what, or who, it takes to cross it.
“Kind of,” Eddie rolls over and stretches, popping his knuckles -- two rows of joints -- in quick succession. And then he kisses Melo back, gently, hands on either side of Melo’s face and thumbs pressing into his jaw.
Melo sinks back and sinks into it, glancing at the frost covered windows and shivering thankfully, glad for the cold and for the slow, quiet way Eddie moves over him.
*
“Narcissism,” Eddie tells Melo later. “I think Allen has a thing for you because you’re just a bigger version of him.”
That makes no sense to Melo, so he just blinks at Eddie and watches him make tea. JR should be up in a minute and Melo wants to be done with this conversation by then.
“You’re like a mirror,” Eddie says, tossing Melo an orange. “A bright, shiny mirror into his past. Or, like, a possible past, where he didn’t get arrested when he was seventeen and where he never had to live in a place with no heat and no water and shit on the floors, and he got to grow up without having to fight so hard.”
Peeling the orange, Melo thinks about it, breaks it down, and starts to get frustrated.
“So he fucks me because I remind of him of being young, somehow, and you fuck me to stay young?”
Eddie turns to him and cocks an eyebrow.
“You told that to Steve once. I heard you.”
“Not exactly. But the thing is, you have this -- ability. This way of seducing people into believing in you, whether it’s that you can soothe their souls, or heal their bodies, or -- “ and Eddie turns to the kitchen door, “make them into superstars. Like you.”
JR’s there, looking tired and wary, but he sits, dodging an orange peel that Melo flicks at him.
Melo’s not sure whether Eddie just complimented him or made fun of him, somehow, but that’s Eddie, and Eddie’s making him waffles now, and he’s willing to take that as a sign that, either way, they’re going to be okay.
End.