what matters
title what matters
pairing karim benzema/zinedine zidane
rating nc-17
word count 2,252
summary karim is nervous before the lyon match; zizou does his best to calm him down.
notes this is for michelle adorerdollylux because she gave me a zizou/benze plot bunny and i was going to wait to write this until after i'd finished all of my other fics in progress but then we lost today and i needed some comfort...so i wrote frenchmen!porn. really, that's the only explanation i have for this, it kinda came out of nowhere.
“Nervous?”
Karim pulled his headphones off of one ear, slightly startled. He usually spent the plane rides ensconced in his headphones, trying to get himself in the zone. Although since he wasn’t playing much lately, it was a futile effort, he noted bitterly. He was so much better than this, so much better than how he was playing lately. He just wanted a chance, to be able to prove himself in Madrid the way he had so spectacularly in Lyon.
It wasn’t that he regretted leaving Lyon, because he liked playing at Madrid. But he missed actually playing a full ninety minutes. Karim missed feeling bone tired at the end of a match, but bone tired in the satisfying way only playing hard for a full game could bring. Win or lose, that was the best feeling in the world.
Pulling himself out of his reverie, Karim glanced to the side, and gave another start when he saw Zinedine Zidane sliding into the seat next to him, crossing his legs and looking impeccable in his suit.
Karim coughed. “Oui, un peu,” he admitted, slipping easily into French. He knew Zidane, mostly through reputation, but also from a few training sessions with Les Bleus, before the midfielder’s retirement. Their acquaintance had been brief, but Karim had enjoyed Zidane’s company.
“Why?” Zidane looked entirely too comfortable, resting his chin gently on his hand and leaning back into the seat.
“I’m going back for the first time,” Karim mumbled. Zidane nodded, but didn’t look entirely satisfied. “Because…Mon Dieu! Because I used to be able to do such amazing things in that stadium, you know? And now I’m scared that I won’t be able to. I feel like I’m not the same player I was when I was there, and I want to still be that player. I want to be someone the fans will still recognize.” I want to be someone I still recognize, he added to himself, hating how young he sounded.
Zidane nodded sagely. “You’re still settling in,” he assured Karim. “It took me a while to get used to playing Spanish football, too.”
Karim nodded, fiddling nervously with his headphones. Zidane reached over and patted his knee gently. “Want to get a drink tonight? It might help you relax,” he offered.
“Sure.” The second the word rolled out of his mouth, Karim wished he could take it back- the last thing he needed to do before this game was go have a drink. He needed to be at his best tomorrow. But looking over at the half smile playing around Zidane’s lips, Karim just nodded again.
--
When a knock finally came at his door, Karim had already changed out of his suit and into a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and was lying on his bed, flipping through channels, happy to be able to understand everything, and not translate soap operas in his head. His eyes were growing heavy with sleep and the clock by the bed said it was 11:43, and even though it was perhaps a little early, Karim was actually, earnestly considering just calling it a night. He was more nervous than he’d admitted to Zidane earlier, and just wanted to go to sleep and pretend he’d wake up in the morning and put the Lyon uniform on.
So it was a slightly bleary eyed Karim that opened the door to find Zidane holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Karim ran a hand over his head and pulled the door open wider to let the older man in.
“I’m sorry, were you about to turn in?”
Even though the true answer was yes, Karim shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t, Karim was surprised to realize. He was tired, but he wanted to spend time with Zidane. His Lyon buddies would tell him he was being stupid, hoping some of the man’s talent would rub off on him or something. But Karim had felt some kind of solidarity, something beyond mere patriotism, in the plane earlier, and was eager to see if Zidane was actually invested in him as a player, if he actually thought Karim could be anywhere near as good as he was.
And God, Karim needed that confirmation. He took the glass of whiskey he was offered and finished it sooner than he meant to. Zidane raised his eyebrows a little but didn’t comment, instead refilling it.
“Were you this nervous when you came to Madrid?” Karim asked some shots later. His eyelids were beginning to feel pleasantly heavy and he had a nice buzz in his limbs. They had somehow moved from sitting in the too-stiff armchairs by the desk to Karim being sprawled over the bed, Zidane sitting cross-legged next to him. “Did it make you this crazy, trying to prove yourself?”
“How crazy?” Karim blinked up at Zidane a few times, trying to figure out if he was imagining the slight quirk to the older man’s eyebrows.
Karim waved his hands around a little. “Crazy crazy. Crazy that I’m playing worse. Crazy that I don’t know how to fix it.”
He still sounded like a bumbling idiot, and he still hated himself for it. At least that hadn’t changed since he left Lyon.
Zidane carefully set his glass down on the floor. Karim drank in the look of his muscles rippling under the button-up shirt Zidane was still wearing as he made the stretch and straightened back up.
“Put that down,” Zidane ordered softly, gesturing to the glass still in Karim’s hand. Karim obeyed, flopping over the side of the bed to put the glass down with much less grace than the older man had exhibited. He straightened himself back out, propped his head up on his hand, and looked at Zidane expectantly.
“Why? There’s more to drink, isn’t there?”
Zidane laughed, the sound oddly elegant to Karim’s ears. “We can’t get you too drunk before a match, now, can we?” Karim bit his lip, thinking to himself that it might be a bit late to be concerned about that. “Besides, this clearly isn’t working.”
“Working?” Karim didn’t realize he’d actually tilted his head as he asked the question.
“You aren’t any more relaxed than you were earlier,” Zidane explained softy. “So I think we may have to try other tactics.”
“Other-“
“Shh,” Zidane chided, and before Karim could respond, the older man’s breath was washing over his face and then there was a strong hand tilting his jaw just slightly to the left and Karim’s lips were covered by Zidane’s.
The former midfielder kissed the way he played, Karim thought fleetingly, before moving his lips to mold against Zidane’s. There was something graceful and sensual that even he could detect, despite his intoxication. Zidane’s tongue flicked out, teasing at the seam in Karim’s lips, and Karim parted them with much less hesitation that might have been appropriate. He sucked gently on Zidane’s tongue as it explored his mouth, seeking out every crevice, every place that made Karim pant for breath and need to draw back for a moment to control himself.
Zidane moved his onslaught to Karim’s neck, and Karim brought his hands up to cradle Zidane’s head there, running his fingers over and over the older man’s scalp, shivering for the way Zidane was biting lightly at his pulse point.
“Zizou,” he breathed out harshly, as Zidane’s hands began to wander over his chest, flicking the pad of his thumb over Karim’s nipple and causing Karim to arch up suddenly. Karim scrabbled at Zizou’s buttons, trying desperately to rid the older man of the shirt, to make Zidane as vulnerable as Karim felt.
The drag of Zidane’s belt buckle against Karim’s hipbone was leaving the striker breathless, gasping for more, and he abandoned his efforts against Zidane’s shirt in favor of tugging roughly at his belt. Zidane laughed quietly, the sound breathier than before, more turned on. He moved his hands to his own belt buckle, placing Karim’s firmly on the waistband of his own sweatpants.
“Why don’t you take care of these,” he suggested, eyes gleaming as he made short work of his dress pants. Karim nodded once, twice, before realizing that he was the only one still wearing pants. Trying to hide his blush, he bit his lip and pushed down on the sweatpants, releasing his cock, hard and red, to lie against his lower belly.
“Lovely,” Zidane mumbled against his skin as he began to kiss a path from Karim’s shoulder down to his hipbone, pausing there to mouth at the sweaty skin. Karim moaned softly, hands scrabbling for purchase on the bed and eventually settling on Zizou’s now-bare shoulders.
“Please,” he managed to choke out as Zidane moved his hot, open mouthed kisses from Karim’s hipbone to his inner thigh, deliberately avoiding the striker’s cock. “Please.”
Zidane looked up and made eye contact with Karim as he let his tongue slip out of his mouth and finally, finally, begin to tease the head of Karim’s cock. Karim struggled to keep his eyes clamped on Zidane as the older man took him slowly into his mouth.
“Oh, god, dieu, dieu,” Karim groaned as his cock hit the back of Zidane’s throat and he lifted one of his hands to pet erratically at Zidane’s head, trying to keep himself from thrusting into the wet heat.
And then Zidane was pulling back, heaving himself up on the bed and pressing two fingers to Karim’s lips, pushing them in slowly. Karim’s eyes were dark with lust as he swirled his own tongue around Zidane’s fingers, sucking on them gently until Zidane pushed a third finger into his mouth and then withdrew all at once.
“Roll over,” Zidane commanded breathlessly, and Karim scrambled to comply, pushing himself over onto his stomach and letting his head pillow on his crossed arms. His skin felt electrified as Zidane ran a hand over his ass, and he pushed up, arching his back, spreading his legs. His cock pulsed against the sheets and he was torn between pushing back, feeling more of Zizou, and grinding against the bed for some much-needed friction.
Zidane slipped the first finger in without a problem, quirking it inside of Karim until the striker was keening, pushing back onto Zidane’s hand.
“More,” he grunted, his body gleaming with sweat and his voice hoarse from arousal. Zidane obliged, pushing a second finger in along with the first, scissoring them. Karim bit his lip at the slight burn -it had been a while, since he’d left Lyon, God, it really had been a while- and waited for his body to adjust before heaving himself back, fucking himself on Zidane’s fingers.
“Now, please, I need you now,” he gasped urgently, snaking a hand down between his body and the mattress to give his cock a few firm strokes.
“Are you-“
“Yes, I’m sure, I’m fucking sure, and it won’t matter since I don’t play anyway, just please, now, I need you now,” Karim slurred, feeling empty and whining slightly at the loss of Zidane’s fingers.
And then the head of Zidane’s cock was pressed against his ass and he was gasping the older man slid in slowly, not stopping until he was fully in, draped over Karim, leaning over just enough to bite lightly at Karim’s ear. Karim moaned for the feeling of being filled, for the feel of Zidane in him and over him, surrounding him, blocking everything else out.
“You do matter,” Zidane whispered harshly into Karim’s ear before pulling out to thrust in again, and Karim pitched forward on the bed for the force of it.
“More, fuck, Zizou, harder,” Karim grunted, fisting his own cock and knowing he was close and this was going to be over embarrassingly soon but he was just drunk enough not to care. Zidane began fucking him in earnest then, moving his hands to grip at Karim’s hips and steady the striker as he pistoned in and out.
“Ah, ah, Dieu, right there, more, please Zizou more,” Karim begged as Zidane his prostate, and his legs were starting to tremble, his breathing becoming more and more erratic with every thrust. Zidane bit down on Karim’s shoulder blade, reaching around the striker to replace Karim’s hand with his own, and with a few firm strokes, Karim came, shuddering into the mattress. Zidane thrust in a few more times before Karim, panting, tightened his muscles around him and then he collapsed on the striker, shaking through his orgasm before pulling out slowly, wincing at the feel of Karim’s tight muscles clenching around his softening cock.
They lay for a few moments, Zidane recovering before Karim, and then, almost regretfully, Zidane sat up and reached over the bed for his trousers. Pulling them up and doing the buckle, he returned to the bed and turned down the covers, motioning for Karim to roll under them. The striker did so, and Zidane pulled the comforter back up over Karim’s waist. Picking up the mostly-empty bottle of whiskey and the two shot glasses, Zidane shrugged on his shirt and reached over to turn off the light before he left.
“Hey,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Karim’s forehead. “Did you hear what I said?”
“When?” Karim asked blearily, his eyelids and limbs heavy. He felt like he was sinking into the mattress.
“You do matter,” Zizou repeated, stroking Karim’s cheek with his thumb before turning off the light. “Remember that tomorrow.”
pairing karim benzema/zinedine zidane
rating nc-17
word count 2,252
summary karim is nervous before the lyon match; zizou does his best to calm him down.
notes this is for michelle adorerdollylux because she gave me a zizou/benze plot bunny and i was going to wait to write this until after i'd finished all of my other fics in progress but then we lost today and i needed some comfort...so i wrote frenchmen!porn. really, that's the only explanation i have for this, it kinda came out of nowhere.
“Nervous?”
Karim pulled his headphones off of one ear, slightly startled. He usually spent the plane rides ensconced in his headphones, trying to get himself in the zone. Although since he wasn’t playing much lately, it was a futile effort, he noted bitterly. He was so much better than this, so much better than how he was playing lately. He just wanted a chance, to be able to prove himself in Madrid the way he had so spectacularly in Lyon.
It wasn’t that he regretted leaving Lyon, because he liked playing at Madrid. But he missed actually playing a full ninety minutes. Karim missed feeling bone tired at the end of a match, but bone tired in the satisfying way only playing hard for a full game could bring. Win or lose, that was the best feeling in the world.
Pulling himself out of his reverie, Karim glanced to the side, and gave another start when he saw Zinedine Zidane sliding into the seat next to him, crossing his legs and looking impeccable in his suit.
Karim coughed. “Oui, un peu,” he admitted, slipping easily into French. He knew Zidane, mostly through reputation, but also from a few training sessions with Les Bleus, before the midfielder’s retirement. Their acquaintance had been brief, but Karim had enjoyed Zidane’s company.
“Why?” Zidane looked entirely too comfortable, resting his chin gently on his hand and leaning back into the seat.
“I’m going back for the first time,” Karim mumbled. Zidane nodded, but didn’t look entirely satisfied. “Because…Mon Dieu! Because I used to be able to do such amazing things in that stadium, you know? And now I’m scared that I won’t be able to. I feel like I’m not the same player I was when I was there, and I want to still be that player. I want to be someone the fans will still recognize.” I want to be someone I still recognize, he added to himself, hating how young he sounded.
Zidane nodded sagely. “You’re still settling in,” he assured Karim. “It took me a while to get used to playing Spanish football, too.”
Karim nodded, fiddling nervously with his headphones. Zidane reached over and patted his knee gently. “Want to get a drink tonight? It might help you relax,” he offered.
“Sure.” The second the word rolled out of his mouth, Karim wished he could take it back- the last thing he needed to do before this game was go have a drink. He needed to be at his best tomorrow. But looking over at the half smile playing around Zidane’s lips, Karim just nodded again.
--
When a knock finally came at his door, Karim had already changed out of his suit and into a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and was lying on his bed, flipping through channels, happy to be able to understand everything, and not translate soap operas in his head. His eyes were growing heavy with sleep and the clock by the bed said it was 11:43, and even though it was perhaps a little early, Karim was actually, earnestly considering just calling it a night. He was more nervous than he’d admitted to Zidane earlier, and just wanted to go to sleep and pretend he’d wake up in the morning and put the Lyon uniform on.
So it was a slightly bleary eyed Karim that opened the door to find Zidane holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Karim ran a hand over his head and pulled the door open wider to let the older man in.
“I’m sorry, were you about to turn in?”
Even though the true answer was yes, Karim shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t, Karim was surprised to realize. He was tired, but he wanted to spend time with Zidane. His Lyon buddies would tell him he was being stupid, hoping some of the man’s talent would rub off on him or something. But Karim had felt some kind of solidarity, something beyond mere patriotism, in the plane earlier, and was eager to see if Zidane was actually invested in him as a player, if he actually thought Karim could be anywhere near as good as he was.
And God, Karim needed that confirmation. He took the glass of whiskey he was offered and finished it sooner than he meant to. Zidane raised his eyebrows a little but didn’t comment, instead refilling it.
“Were you this nervous when you came to Madrid?” Karim asked some shots later. His eyelids were beginning to feel pleasantly heavy and he had a nice buzz in his limbs. They had somehow moved from sitting in the too-stiff armchairs by the desk to Karim being sprawled over the bed, Zidane sitting cross-legged next to him. “Did it make you this crazy, trying to prove yourself?”
“How crazy?” Karim blinked up at Zidane a few times, trying to figure out if he was imagining the slight quirk to the older man’s eyebrows.
Karim waved his hands around a little. “Crazy crazy. Crazy that I’m playing worse. Crazy that I don’t know how to fix it.”
He still sounded like a bumbling idiot, and he still hated himself for it. At least that hadn’t changed since he left Lyon.
Zidane carefully set his glass down on the floor. Karim drank in the look of his muscles rippling under the button-up shirt Zidane was still wearing as he made the stretch and straightened back up.
“Put that down,” Zidane ordered softly, gesturing to the glass still in Karim’s hand. Karim obeyed, flopping over the side of the bed to put the glass down with much less grace than the older man had exhibited. He straightened himself back out, propped his head up on his hand, and looked at Zidane expectantly.
“Why? There’s more to drink, isn’t there?”
Zidane laughed, the sound oddly elegant to Karim’s ears. “We can’t get you too drunk before a match, now, can we?” Karim bit his lip, thinking to himself that it might be a bit late to be concerned about that. “Besides, this clearly isn’t working.”
“Working?” Karim didn’t realize he’d actually tilted his head as he asked the question.
“You aren’t any more relaxed than you were earlier,” Zidane explained softy. “So I think we may have to try other tactics.”
“Other-“
“Shh,” Zidane chided, and before Karim could respond, the older man’s breath was washing over his face and then there was a strong hand tilting his jaw just slightly to the left and Karim’s lips were covered by Zidane’s.
The former midfielder kissed the way he played, Karim thought fleetingly, before moving his lips to mold against Zidane’s. There was something graceful and sensual that even he could detect, despite his intoxication. Zidane’s tongue flicked out, teasing at the seam in Karim’s lips, and Karim parted them with much less hesitation that might have been appropriate. He sucked gently on Zidane’s tongue as it explored his mouth, seeking out every crevice, every place that made Karim pant for breath and need to draw back for a moment to control himself.
Zidane moved his onslaught to Karim’s neck, and Karim brought his hands up to cradle Zidane’s head there, running his fingers over and over the older man’s scalp, shivering for the way Zidane was biting lightly at his pulse point.
“Zizou,” he breathed out harshly, as Zidane’s hands began to wander over his chest, flicking the pad of his thumb over Karim’s nipple and causing Karim to arch up suddenly. Karim scrabbled at Zizou’s buttons, trying desperately to rid the older man of the shirt, to make Zidane as vulnerable as Karim felt.
The drag of Zidane’s belt buckle against Karim’s hipbone was leaving the striker breathless, gasping for more, and he abandoned his efforts against Zidane’s shirt in favor of tugging roughly at his belt. Zidane laughed quietly, the sound breathier than before, more turned on. He moved his hands to his own belt buckle, placing Karim’s firmly on the waistband of his own sweatpants.
“Why don’t you take care of these,” he suggested, eyes gleaming as he made short work of his dress pants. Karim nodded once, twice, before realizing that he was the only one still wearing pants. Trying to hide his blush, he bit his lip and pushed down on the sweatpants, releasing his cock, hard and red, to lie against his lower belly.
“Lovely,” Zidane mumbled against his skin as he began to kiss a path from Karim’s shoulder down to his hipbone, pausing there to mouth at the sweaty skin. Karim moaned softly, hands scrabbling for purchase on the bed and eventually settling on Zizou’s now-bare shoulders.
“Please,” he managed to choke out as Zidane moved his hot, open mouthed kisses from Karim’s hipbone to his inner thigh, deliberately avoiding the striker’s cock. “Please.”
Zidane looked up and made eye contact with Karim as he let his tongue slip out of his mouth and finally, finally, begin to tease the head of Karim’s cock. Karim struggled to keep his eyes clamped on Zidane as the older man took him slowly into his mouth.
“Oh, god, dieu, dieu,” Karim groaned as his cock hit the back of Zidane’s throat and he lifted one of his hands to pet erratically at Zidane’s head, trying to keep himself from thrusting into the wet heat.
And then Zidane was pulling back, heaving himself up on the bed and pressing two fingers to Karim’s lips, pushing them in slowly. Karim’s eyes were dark with lust as he swirled his own tongue around Zidane’s fingers, sucking on them gently until Zidane pushed a third finger into his mouth and then withdrew all at once.
“Roll over,” Zidane commanded breathlessly, and Karim scrambled to comply, pushing himself over onto his stomach and letting his head pillow on his crossed arms. His skin felt electrified as Zidane ran a hand over his ass, and he pushed up, arching his back, spreading his legs. His cock pulsed against the sheets and he was torn between pushing back, feeling more of Zizou, and grinding against the bed for some much-needed friction.
Zidane slipped the first finger in without a problem, quirking it inside of Karim until the striker was keening, pushing back onto Zidane’s hand.
“More,” he grunted, his body gleaming with sweat and his voice hoarse from arousal. Zidane obliged, pushing a second finger in along with the first, scissoring them. Karim bit his lip at the slight burn -it had been a while, since he’d left Lyon, God, it really had been a while- and waited for his body to adjust before heaving himself back, fucking himself on Zidane’s fingers.
“Now, please, I need you now,” he gasped urgently, snaking a hand down between his body and the mattress to give his cock a few firm strokes.
“Are you-“
“Yes, I’m sure, I’m fucking sure, and it won’t matter since I don’t play anyway, just please, now, I need you now,” Karim slurred, feeling empty and whining slightly at the loss of Zidane’s fingers.
And then the head of Zidane’s cock was pressed against his ass and he was gasping the older man slid in slowly, not stopping until he was fully in, draped over Karim, leaning over just enough to bite lightly at Karim’s ear. Karim moaned for the feeling of being filled, for the feel of Zidane in him and over him, surrounding him, blocking everything else out.
“You do matter,” Zidane whispered harshly into Karim’s ear before pulling out to thrust in again, and Karim pitched forward on the bed for the force of it.
“More, fuck, Zizou, harder,” Karim grunted, fisting his own cock and knowing he was close and this was going to be over embarrassingly soon but he was just drunk enough not to care. Zidane began fucking him in earnest then, moving his hands to grip at Karim’s hips and steady the striker as he pistoned in and out.
“Ah, ah, Dieu, right there, more, please Zizou more,” Karim begged as Zidane his prostate, and his legs were starting to tremble, his breathing becoming more and more erratic with every thrust. Zidane bit down on Karim’s shoulder blade, reaching around the striker to replace Karim’s hand with his own, and with a few firm strokes, Karim came, shuddering into the mattress. Zidane thrust in a few more times before Karim, panting, tightened his muscles around him and then he collapsed on the striker, shaking through his orgasm before pulling out slowly, wincing at the feel of Karim’s tight muscles clenching around his softening cock.
They lay for a few moments, Zidane recovering before Karim, and then, almost regretfully, Zidane sat up and reached over the bed for his trousers. Pulling them up and doing the buckle, he returned to the bed and turned down the covers, motioning for Karim to roll under them. The striker did so, and Zidane pulled the comforter back up over Karim’s waist. Picking up the mostly-empty bottle of whiskey and the two shot glasses, Zidane shrugged on his shirt and reached over to turn off the light before he left.
“Hey,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Karim’s forehead. “Did you hear what I said?”
“When?” Karim asked blearily, his eyelids and limbs heavy. He felt like he was sinking into the mattress.
“You do matter,” Zizou repeated, stroking Karim’s cheek with his thumb before turning off the light. “Remember that tomorrow.”