step back too far and you ain't fighting at all
title step back too far and you ain't fighting at all
word count 1,417
rating r
pairing karim benzema/samir nasri, implied karim benzema/hatem ben arfa
summary karim is a boxer, samir is his coach. inspired by this
Ten seconds on the clock.
"Ten seconds, Karim!" Samir shouts. It's loud. The crowd is invested; they always are when Karim and Hatem fight. "Stay busy!" Karim squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes, and in the space it takes him to do so, Hatem lands a hit to his left side. "Get in there, ten seconds!" Samir shouts again. "Don't stop moving, ten seconds!"
Karim starts moving then, takes a step away from the ropes and starts hitting, jab cross, jab cross, jab cross. "Change it up," Samir calls. "Stay busy!" Hatem starts taking steps back and Samir keeps shouting.
The bell rings just as Hatem leaves a tiny opening and Karim lunges, his glove connecting with Hatem's jaw.
Samir ducks under the ropes and stands in front of the stool. "Don't sit," he commands. "Breathe, come on," he says, because Karim's breaths are coming fast and shallow. "One, two, three, four," he begins to count, long pauses, and he keeps going until Karim's breaths even out. "Okay," Samir says, and he sidesteps, lets Karim sit down. He grabs a towel and presses it to Karim's forehead. "One more round. Last round. Good hit at the end there," he says. He holds his hand out in front of Karim's mouth and Karim spits his mouthguard into Samir's palm. "Keep your feet moving, stay off of the ropes," he says. "His left's looking weak tonight, work him there. He'll drop his hand if you keep hitting."
Karim nods, so Samir grabs his water bottle and hooks his index finger under Karim's chin, forcing him to tilt his head up. He squirts water into Karim's mouth and sloshes some over the mouthguard before he pops it back into Karim's mouth. "Up," he says. He takes the towel from around Karim's shoulders and wipes his chin where water had dribbled out of his mouth, and Karim stands. "Feet," Samir commands, and Karim gets his feet moving in small steps. "This one's yours," Samir says. "Last round. Don't stop moving." He slaps Karim on the shoulder and squeezes. Karim nods at him, grunts something unintelligible past his mouthguard. Samir ducks back under the ropes and puts the water bottle down, watching as Karim makes his way back to the center, and then the bell rings and the third round starts.
Samir waits until he sees Hatem leave to go into the changing rooms. It's a dark room and not all of the lights are on, just the bare bulb in the middle of the room. Karim's sitting on the bench against the row of metal lockers, leaning against them with a bloodied lip and congealed blood in his eyebrow.
"Good win," Samir says, and Karim cracks a grin. His hands are still wrapped but his gloves are lying on the floor, and he pokes his tongue out of his mouth to prod the cut on his upper lip.
"Thanks," he says. He's still sweating, even twenty minutes after the match. Samir takes a step forward and that's when he sees the bottle of God-knows-what liquor, half hidden behind Karim's right leg. It makes sense, then, Karim's nonchalance, the way he tests his split lip with his teeth and doesn't wince, how he still has his hands wrapped. Samir jerks his head towards the bottle and raises his eyebrows.
"Hatem," Karim explains. He bends down to pick the bottle up and he takes a swig from it. It's not an explanation, not really, but it's enough for Samir, who knows that Hatem and Karim-
The details are a little hazy, mostly gathered from nights of going to collect Karim from various bars around the city, drunken cab rides leading to confessions half-mumbled into a motel room pillow, but Samir knows by now that Hatem and Karim have known each other- have fought together- since their first training days. He knows that Hatem wasn't Karim's first, but that he was the first Karim didn't have to pay for, although Samir privately thinks that Karim has paid, if not in Euros then in fights, in wasted nights and bloodied lips and too many dingy hotel rooms. And he knows that these days they fight more often than they fuck, and when Karim comes to the training gym the morning after, Samir can't tell which it was.
"I don't like fighting him," Karim says. He's not slurring, but Samir knows that it doesn't mean anything.
"Yes you do," Samir says, because he saw the look on Karim's face in the third round as he bounced on his toes, lunging forward time after time.
"Yeah," Karim says, "but no." He puts the bottle down and stands up.
Samir knows a cue when he sees one, so he steps forward and pushes into Karim's space, rubbing his clothed chest against Karim's sweaty, bare skin. He lets Karim make the first move, because they always do this on Karim's terms, but once Karim tips his chin up, Samir's the one to tug at Karim's lips with his teeth, digging in just slightly until Karim tries awkwardly to fist his hands in Samir's shirt, only able to use his fingers past the wraps.
Samir licks at the blood on Karim's upper lip and then into Karim's mouth, tasting him and letting Karim press against him, feeling him rapidly hardening through his shorts. Samir pulls back and drops his hand to his own belt buckle. Karim is drunk and sloppy, trying halfheartedly to tug off his wraps, so Samir leaves his pants undone but clinging to his hips and goes for the Velcro. Before he can unwind the cloth, Karim kicks his shorts off and snatches his hands away, holding Samir's wrists and shoving a leg between Samir's.
They end up on the ground and Karim pins Samir's hands down. The wraps are rough against Samir's wrists but that doesn't matter when Karim starts to move against him. Samir pushes his hips up and tries to wriggle the rest of the way out of his pants, but he can't, not with Karim's weight against him, and he isn't willing to push Karim off.
Karim mouths at Samir's neck, sinking his teeth in and sucking a bruise just below his jaw, and Samir bucks up against him, can feel Karim leaking already, and Samir knows he's keyed up from the adrenaline and from Hatem, not from him, but he keeps rutting against Karim's thigh anyway, groans when Karim tongues the bruise on his neck.
It's over quickly- it would be embarrassing if it hadn't happened before, more times than Samir should be able to remember, but he does remember them all. Karim stills, pushes his cock against Samir's hip and shudders as he spills over the hem of Samir's shirt, panting against his shoulder. Samir's hands are still trapped but it doesn't matter, he finishes when Karim begins to shift, dragging against the outline of Samir's cock, and Samir comes, shivering. Karim tightens his fingers around Samir's wrists before going boneless and rolling to the side.
Samir pulls his hands back and rubs at his wrists where they're red from the friction against Karim's boxing wraps, and then pushes himself into a sitting position. He zips up his pants, already starting to feel sticky in his underwear, but he'll be home in a half an hour, so he deals with it.
"Come here," he says, and Karim rolls towards him.
"Good?" Karim asks, his voice slow.
"Sit up," Samir says, because it's not good, not exactly- it's not what he wants, but it's what he gets, so it's good. Karim pulls himself up and leans against the bench. "Hands," Samir commands, and Karim holds out his hands for Samir to undo the Velcro and unwind the cloth from his palms.
"You should shower," Samir says. He rolls the wraps and tosses them onto Karim's shorts. "See the physio about your eyebrow."
Karim nods and Samir stands. He holds out his hand, but Karim doesn't take it, pushes himself up off of the floor by himself instead. Samir watches as he grabs a towel from his locker and shuffles towards the showers, a completely different gait from his grace in the ring.
"Thanks," Karim says over his shoulder, letting his eyes drop to Samir's undone belt buckle.
"Good match," Samir says, so he can pretend it was an appropriate response.
word count 1,417
rating r
pairing karim benzema/samir nasri, implied karim benzema/hatem ben arfa
summary karim is a boxer, samir is his coach. inspired by this
Ten seconds on the clock.
"Ten seconds, Karim!" Samir shouts. It's loud. The crowd is invested; they always are when Karim and Hatem fight. "Stay busy!" Karim squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes, and in the space it takes him to do so, Hatem lands a hit to his left side. "Get in there, ten seconds!" Samir shouts again. "Don't stop moving, ten seconds!"
Karim starts moving then, takes a step away from the ropes and starts hitting, jab cross, jab cross, jab cross. "Change it up," Samir calls. "Stay busy!" Hatem starts taking steps back and Samir keeps shouting.
The bell rings just as Hatem leaves a tiny opening and Karim lunges, his glove connecting with Hatem's jaw.
Samir ducks under the ropes and stands in front of the stool. "Don't sit," he commands. "Breathe, come on," he says, because Karim's breaths are coming fast and shallow. "One, two, three, four," he begins to count, long pauses, and he keeps going until Karim's breaths even out. "Okay," Samir says, and he sidesteps, lets Karim sit down. He grabs a towel and presses it to Karim's forehead. "One more round. Last round. Good hit at the end there," he says. He holds his hand out in front of Karim's mouth and Karim spits his mouthguard into Samir's palm. "Keep your feet moving, stay off of the ropes," he says. "His left's looking weak tonight, work him there. He'll drop his hand if you keep hitting."
Karim nods, so Samir grabs his water bottle and hooks his index finger under Karim's chin, forcing him to tilt his head up. He squirts water into Karim's mouth and sloshes some over the mouthguard before he pops it back into Karim's mouth. "Up," he says. He takes the towel from around Karim's shoulders and wipes his chin where water had dribbled out of his mouth, and Karim stands. "Feet," Samir commands, and Karim gets his feet moving in small steps. "This one's yours," Samir says. "Last round. Don't stop moving." He slaps Karim on the shoulder and squeezes. Karim nods at him, grunts something unintelligible past his mouthguard. Samir ducks back under the ropes and puts the water bottle down, watching as Karim makes his way back to the center, and then the bell rings and the third round starts.
Samir waits until he sees Hatem leave to go into the changing rooms. It's a dark room and not all of the lights are on, just the bare bulb in the middle of the room. Karim's sitting on the bench against the row of metal lockers, leaning against them with a bloodied lip and congealed blood in his eyebrow.
"Good win," Samir says, and Karim cracks a grin. His hands are still wrapped but his gloves are lying on the floor, and he pokes his tongue out of his mouth to prod the cut on his upper lip.
"Thanks," he says. He's still sweating, even twenty minutes after the match. Samir takes a step forward and that's when he sees the bottle of God-knows-what liquor, half hidden behind Karim's right leg. It makes sense, then, Karim's nonchalance, the way he tests his split lip with his teeth and doesn't wince, how he still has his hands wrapped. Samir jerks his head towards the bottle and raises his eyebrows.
"Hatem," Karim explains. He bends down to pick the bottle up and he takes a swig from it. It's not an explanation, not really, but it's enough for Samir, who knows that Hatem and Karim-
The details are a little hazy, mostly gathered from nights of going to collect Karim from various bars around the city, drunken cab rides leading to confessions half-mumbled into a motel room pillow, but Samir knows by now that Hatem and Karim have known each other- have fought together- since their first training days. He knows that Hatem wasn't Karim's first, but that he was the first Karim didn't have to pay for, although Samir privately thinks that Karim has paid, if not in Euros then in fights, in wasted nights and bloodied lips and too many dingy hotel rooms. And he knows that these days they fight more often than they fuck, and when Karim comes to the training gym the morning after, Samir can't tell which it was.
"I don't like fighting him," Karim says. He's not slurring, but Samir knows that it doesn't mean anything.
"Yes you do," Samir says, because he saw the look on Karim's face in the third round as he bounced on his toes, lunging forward time after time.
"Yeah," Karim says, "but no." He puts the bottle down and stands up.
Samir knows a cue when he sees one, so he steps forward and pushes into Karim's space, rubbing his clothed chest against Karim's sweaty, bare skin. He lets Karim make the first move, because they always do this on Karim's terms, but once Karim tips his chin up, Samir's the one to tug at Karim's lips with his teeth, digging in just slightly until Karim tries awkwardly to fist his hands in Samir's shirt, only able to use his fingers past the wraps.
Samir licks at the blood on Karim's upper lip and then into Karim's mouth, tasting him and letting Karim press against him, feeling him rapidly hardening through his shorts. Samir pulls back and drops his hand to his own belt buckle. Karim is drunk and sloppy, trying halfheartedly to tug off his wraps, so Samir leaves his pants undone but clinging to his hips and goes for the Velcro. Before he can unwind the cloth, Karim kicks his shorts off and snatches his hands away, holding Samir's wrists and shoving a leg between Samir's.
They end up on the ground and Karim pins Samir's hands down. The wraps are rough against Samir's wrists but that doesn't matter when Karim starts to move against him. Samir pushes his hips up and tries to wriggle the rest of the way out of his pants, but he can't, not with Karim's weight against him, and he isn't willing to push Karim off.
Karim mouths at Samir's neck, sinking his teeth in and sucking a bruise just below his jaw, and Samir bucks up against him, can feel Karim leaking already, and Samir knows he's keyed up from the adrenaline and from Hatem, not from him, but he keeps rutting against Karim's thigh anyway, groans when Karim tongues the bruise on his neck.
It's over quickly- it would be embarrassing if it hadn't happened before, more times than Samir should be able to remember, but he does remember them all. Karim stills, pushes his cock against Samir's hip and shudders as he spills over the hem of Samir's shirt, panting against his shoulder. Samir's hands are still trapped but it doesn't matter, he finishes when Karim begins to shift, dragging against the outline of Samir's cock, and Samir comes, shivering. Karim tightens his fingers around Samir's wrists before going boneless and rolling to the side.
Samir pulls his hands back and rubs at his wrists where they're red from the friction against Karim's boxing wraps, and then pushes himself into a sitting position. He zips up his pants, already starting to feel sticky in his underwear, but he'll be home in a half an hour, so he deals with it.
"Come here," he says, and Karim rolls towards him.
"Good?" Karim asks, his voice slow.
"Sit up," Samir says, because it's not good, not exactly- it's not what he wants, but it's what he gets, so it's good. Karim pulls himself up and leans against the bench. "Hands," Samir commands, and Karim holds out his hands for Samir to undo the Velcro and unwind the cloth from his palms.
"You should shower," Samir says. He rolls the wraps and tosses them onto Karim's shorts. "See the physio about your eyebrow."
Karim nods and Samir stands. He holds out his hand, but Karim doesn't take it, pushes himself up off of the floor by himself instead. Samir watches as he grabs a towel from his locker and shuffles towards the showers, a completely different gait from his grace in the ring.
"Thanks," Karim says over his shoulder, letting his eyes drop to Samir's undone belt buckle.
"Good match," Samir says, so he can pretend it was an appropriate response.