caroline

“you can take it,” he breathes above you. his cock is only halfway in, and you already feel so full. he looks at you with hooded eyes, lust-heavy breaths as he pushes you further into the soft mattress. “deep breaths for me, baby.”

the entire night, erling has been treating you as if you’re a porcelain doll. as if you’re made out of glass. your walls squelch around his length, the slick you’re producing not enough to accommodate all of him. you feel so full, and he’s not even fully sheathed in you.

“n-no—” you wince out, “just give it to me, i— please.”

erling lets out a small, but audible chuckle at your eagerness. he grabs your hand from his shoulder to press a warm kiss to the inside of your palm. “you’re clamping down on me, sweetheart,” he laughs, “gotta open up a lil’ f’me.”

his thick fingers slide to your clit, and the moment his digits start rotating, you feel your jaw grow slack. your thighs flex open a bit more, slick dribbling down on the — now soaking wet — sheets. “oh my—”

“just a little bit, yeah?” your boyfriend groans. and despite his build, his length wedged within you, his bulging biceps next to your face, he can’t help but shiver when he pushes himself further into your heat. “doin’ so good.”

and you actually squirm. it feels like he’s in your throat. “move— please, do something,” you plead again, trying to buck your hips upward.

erling grabs your knees all the way up to your shoulders. “last one, okay? then i’ll fuck you, nice and slow,” he presses a quick kiss to your knee, a stark constrast to the lewd position he’s put you in. “biiiig stretch.”

with one last, lengthy push into your pulsing pussy and a helpless whimper from you, his hips end up flush to yours. “ah, fuck,” the blond grunts out, and your eyes actually flutter shut at his intrusion. “s’tight.”

he gives you one experimental thrust, his overwhelming weight pushing you into the bed before springing you right back. his tip kisses your cervix, all warm and snug in your channel.

“y’good, honey?” erling asks, a hint of concern in his stare. you stretch your legs over his shoulders in the process to make yourself feel more comfortable, and your boyfriend’s hands immediately come up to caress your knees, the underside of your thighs. because where you quiver underneath him, he’s stable and sure above you.

“can’t take it?” he questions, acting like you struggling to take him is a joke. like you’re just something to play with.

at his bawdiness, you clench around his cock. all you can do is take it. let him have his way with you. he’s fucking everywhere: above you, inside of you. his big hands caressing your face.

you swallow, all soundless and out of breath as he feeds you shallow, careful thrusts. “you’re so— shit— big.”

erling’s amused face gawks back at you. “aww, baby,” he coos, gripping your chin between his fingers, your lips pouting. you can spot a glint of mischief, of pride in his eyes. “you’re doin’ real good for me.”

maybe it’s just in your hazy mind, but his thrusts go deeper now, sharper. and before your mind can process it, erling grabs your flabby hand and puts it on your abdomen.

fuck, you can literally feel his tip prodding under the fine fibres of your skin. it feels as if your eyes are going to roll out its sockets at any given moment.

“y’feel that, baby?” the only sounds in the room the creaking sounds of the bedframe lightly hitting the wall and your skittish whimpers. your boyfriend looks at you, adoration and elation mingled together in his gaze.

when you don’t respond at all — mind too hazy to even think of an answer — he breathes out a somewhat unnervingly obscene snicker. “‘m all the way in your guts.”

the night came after that disastrous match where he missed two goals and a collision with the keeper that cost the team three points. he stumbled into the bedroom, jersey sticking to him, sweat dripping from the bruise forming on his body. you watched him peel off his shirt, every muscle in his back coated with exhaustion. arms crossed, you waited until his shoulders slackened, and he turned that broad frame toward you. “maybe,” you said, voice edged with something dangerous, “you’d score more if you spent more time practicing and less time shopping, you would’ve won.”

he paused, halfway out of his strip, the jersey caught loose around his neck. for a heartbeat you thought he hadn’t heard your statement. then he looked at you, his eyes dark and animalistic, his jaw shifting so you could see the tension in his face. no words came; his gaze was fiery. your heart slammed against your ribs, and you felt small under the length of his silence.

he had you bent over his lap before you could blink, the mattress dipping under his weight as he threw you across his thighs like you weighed nothing. your face pressed into the sheets, the faint smell of his sweat and detergent clung to the fabric. his palm came down hard on your bare cunt, the slap sharp and wet, the sting blooming hot across your folds. you yelped, thighs twitching, but he pinned you with one thick forearm across your lower back.

“say it again,” he growled, voice low and rough from the match. his accent thickened when he was pissed. “tell me i don’t train hard enough.”

another slap landed right on your clit, the sound lewd in the quiet room. your pussy clenched around nothing, slick already dripping down your inner thigh. the pain flared bright, then mixed into a throbbing heat that made your hips jerk back for more.

“fuck, erling,” you gasped, but the words came out half-moan. inside, your mind raced.

maybe you shouldn’t have gone too far.

he didn’t wait, dipping two fingers shoved inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your vision spark. he pumped them fast, the wet squelch filling the air, then pulled them out to spank you again, three quick, stinging slaps right on your swollen cunt. each one sent a jolt straight to your core, and you could smell your own arousal now, thick and musky.

“you think i don’t work for this?” slap. “think i don’t hurt for every goal?” slap. his free hand gripped the back of your neck, squeezing just enough to make your pulse beat against his palm. “bratty little mouth on you. gonna fuck the attitude right out.”

he pulled off the bed, yanking your hips up so your ass was higher. the cool air hit your soaked pussy, then his cock, thick, heavy, already leaking, slid through your folds. smearing pre-cum over your clit, he drove in deep on the first thrust, stretching you wide, the burn perfect and overwhelming. you cried out, muffled, toes curling into the sheets.

“take it,” he snarled, hips snapping forward. the bed frame slammed the wall in rhythm. one hand stayed on your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw, cutting your air in little squeezes. the other reached under to slap your cunt again, fingers catching your clit with every thrust. his cock pounding deep and his palm batting against your swollen lips, had you shaking. sweat gleamed on your back where his chest pressed down, his breath hot on your ear.

“feel how wet you are for me? soaking my cock like a needy slut.” he laughed, low and dark, the sound shivering through his body to yours. “you wanted this. now you’re gonna come on it.”

every thrust hit that spot inside that made your walls flutter. his fingers worked your clit in tight circles between spanks, the mix of pain and pleasure twisting tighter in your gut. your inner thighs burned from the stretch, as you tasted salt from your own tears or sweat, you couldn’t tell, as he leaned harder on your throat, vision going out gently.

“beg,” he ordered, voice strained. “beg me to let you come, or i’ll edge this bratty cunt all night.”

“p-please, erling, fuck, please let me come,” you sobbed, voice weak. “i’m sorry, i’m your good girl, just—”

he growled approval and slammed in harder, choking you tighter for three more harsh thrusts until your ears rang. then he eased off just enough for air to rush back as his fingers rubbed your clit fast and mean. your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, cunt pulsing around his cock, thighs shaking, a broken moan tearing from your throat. he fucked you straight through it, drawing it out until you were limp and twitching.

only then did he let go of your throat and hook your knees over his shoulders. he drove back in, deeper at this angle, his eyes locked on yours, hungry and still a little wild. “not done with you yet.”

his hand returned to your cunt, slapping the oversensitive flesh in time with his thrusts while the other pinned your wrists above your head. the sting kept you awake, every nerve lit. you could feel every ridge of him dragging against your walls, the heat of his skin, the way his abs flexed against your thighs. the room smelled like sex and his cologne, the only sounds your wet bodies slapping together and his filthy words.

“come again,” he demanded, voice cracking. “come on my cock like the desperate little thing you are.”

you did harder this time, vision whiting out as he choked you lightly again, the lack of air highlighting everything until pleasure ripped through you in hot waves. he followed with a groan, burying himself deep, his cock throbbing as he filled you, hips jerking through it all.

he collapsed half on top of you afterward, still inside, breathing ragged against your neck. his hand stroked your throat gently now, soothing the ache. “i love you,” he muttered, voice soft again. “even when you’re a brat.”

he drops his keys in the bowl by the door, kicks off his trainers, and pads toward you, hair still damp at the ends, tied back but messy, golden as ever. you’re already curled on the couch, knees hugged to your chest, pretending to read a book but your eyes keep flicking to the clock, to the window, to the spot where he’ll inevitably stand towering, broad, impossibly big.

he catches you looking, a slow, knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “miss me?” he asks, voice soft and teasing, and you can’t help the way your body responds just to that—a flutter low in your belly, a tingle between your thighs. all you can do is nod, a little too eager, a little too obvious. he just hums, dropping down next to you, stretching his long legs out until his feet almost brush the end of the coffee table. one arm slips around your waist, pulling you in, and when he threads his fingers through yours, your hand vanishes inside his, swallowed completely. his skin is rough, calloused from gripping weights and handles and footballs; his knuckles are scuffed, and when he squeezes gently, you feel small and delicate, fragile in a way you never are with anyone else.

you glance at his hands, and you think about how they can palm your whole face, how they settle on the small of your back and bracket your hips with such easy confidence. “why’re you staring at me like that, love?” he teases, voice a low burr. you squirm, embarrassed, but he just laughs, pressing a kiss into your hair. “i need a shower, sweetheart. i’m disgusting.” he stands, stretching, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of hard, muscled stomach. “give me ten minutes, yeah?”

you watch him go, the heavy stride, the way he ducks his head instinctively through every doorway. the bathroom door clicks shut, the sound of water thunders through the pipes, and you try to wait, you really do. but the seconds drag, your skin prickles with anticipation, and your body aches with need. you want him, need him, the way only he can give himself to you—overwhelming and gentle, sweetly condescending, hands everywhere.

after five minutes you can’t take it. you slip out of your clothes, tiptoe to the bathroom, and slide the door open just enough to let out a curl of steam. he’s under the spray, head tipped back, water sluicing down the thick line of his neck, shoulders bunched and glistening. for a second you just look: the sheer size of him, the long expanse of his torso, the way his arms flex as he runs his fingers through his hair. you step in behind him, water hitting your skin in hot, heavy drops, and he startles, just a little, then turns, a smile blooming as his gaze rakes down your naked body.

“couldn’t wait, huh?” he murmurs, stepping aside to make room, though the shower suddenly feels much too small with all of him filling the space. he reaches for you, pulling you into his chest, slick and burning with heat, and his hands cup your hips, thumbs pressing slow, possessive circles. the air is thick with steam and the scent of him, and when he leans down, his mouth brushes your temple, his voice a gentle hum. “so needy tonight…”

you shiver at the sound, at the press of his body, at the way his hands bracket your waist, their size alone making you feel helpless. his palm drifts up your side, fingers trailing over your ribs, then higher, curving around your throat—so easily, so naturally, his thumb settling against your pulse. you look up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, and he smiles, all soft confidence, fondness and control.

he strokes your neck, his hand almost engulfing it, his grip careful but so solid you feel instantly pinned in place. “like this, don’t you?” he says, not quite a question, his voice a low, indulgent purr.

your answer is a breathy whimper, your body arching into his touch, your fingers curling around his wrist. he tightens just a little, just enough pressure to make your head spin, to make your breath catch and your thighs tremble. the contrast between his gentle smile and the strength in his grip makes your heart pound, makes your skin twitch with need.

the water thunders over both of you, steam curling up, everything heavy and hot. his palm stays firm around your throat—so gentle it aches, yet so unyielding you feel like you’re hanging in his grasp, suspended between the slippery tiles and his massive frame. he’s not even really looking at you, not with that usual burning focus; instead, he hums, low and idle, the vibration rumbling against your cheek as he reaches for the bottle of shampoo, his other hand never leaving your neck.

you whimper, shifting on your toes, the press of his big hand making your pulse race. he just lets out a soft, indulgent “mmm,” as if you’re a song he can’t get out of his head, and tips your chin a little higher with his fingers, watching your eyelids flutter. the pads of his calloused thumb and forefinger stroke lazily over the sensitive skin, making you feel impossibly tiny, breakable, his to play with.

he lathers shampoo into his hair with his free hand, biceps flexing, his body a living wall at your back. even when he’s only half-focused on you, you feel completely overpowered, bracketed by his arm, the breadth of his chest crowding the shower, every inch of you pinned between the tiles and him. you squirm, thighs clenching, but he just clicks his tongue, a gentle warning, and tightens his grip a fraction, not enough to hurt, just enough to steal a gasp from you.

the water sluices white suds down his neck, across his broad shoulders, and you watch, mesmerized, as he scrubs, humming tunelessly, fingers never easing from your throat. when you twist, desperate for more, he smiles down at you, all fondness and soft, knowing cruelty.

“easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a hush, “i’m not done yet.” he turns you with a nudge, big hands guiding you until your back is pressed flush to his chest, his arm looping around from behind, forearm locking you tight against him. his palm stays at your throat, the pressure achingly possessive, thumb stroking thoughtfully along your jawline. you can feel every inch of him—hard muscle, slick heat, the outline of his cock thick and heavy against your lower back.

he leans down, breath warm at your ear, and hums again, low and sweet, almost teasing. the hand not pinning you starts to roam, soap-slicked and slow, gliding over your stomach, your hips, your trembling thighs. he’s in no hurry; he likes to see you squirm, likes the way you melt and shiver in his grasp. his size dwarfs you—there’s no hope of moving an inch unless he lets you, and that helplessness is a drug you can’t resist.

“you like this, hmm?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his hand tightening just enough to make your knees buckle. “how much bigger i am than you? can feel your heart racing, little thing.” his other hand slips between your legs, fingers parting you, slow and deliberate, and your head tips back against his shoulder, a whine catching in your throat.

he just hums in approval, lips finding your jaw, nipping softly, his big body crowding you from behind as he strokes you, teasing and patient, never letting up the pressure at your throat. “was gonna come take care of you after, you know,” he croons, voice all warmth, “can’t wait, can you?” his fingers slide over your clit, rubbing in lazy circles, every movement calculated, every touch designed to unravel you.

a breathless little sound escapes you, high and desperate, as his fingers toy between your thighs while his hand remains steady on your throat. he takes his time—so slow, so maddening—as he slides two thick digits over your slick folds, the pad of his thumb brushing your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. you try to press closer, to grind against his hand, but he just hushes you with a low, amused hum, his chest vibrating against your back, fingers tightening just enough on your throat to make your head spin.

“min kjære,” he hushes, voice honeyed and indulgent, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “you’re trembling so much. can you feel that? your whole body shaking for me.” he punctuates his words with a slow stroke that makes you whine, the heel of his palm pressing hard against your clit while his fingers dip shallow, refusing to give you what you really want. “so sensitive,  such a desperate, pretty girl.”

you try to twist, to buck back against him, but he’s immovable—his thick forearm holding you flush to his massive frame, palm pressed to your windpipe, not hurting, just claiming, just reminding you how easily he can pin you in place. the water continues to stream, hot and heavy, sluicing over both of you in the cramped shower, steam coiling around your tangled bodies.

he hums thoughtfully, fingers still sliding, still tormenting. “you see how good i’m being to you, sweetheart? letting you stay right here, pressed up against me.” his other hand tightens just a fraction, and a gasp tears out of you, sounding pathetic and broken even to your own ears. “you gonna let me finish washing up?”

"n-no," you whine, the sound small and petulant, twisting in his grip despite knowing it won't do a damn thing. "no, no, please—i've been waiting all day for you… i waited all day and now you're— you're just teasing me—" your voice breaks into a high, breathy moan as his fingers drag through your folds again, achingly slow, nowhere near where you need them most. "i waited, i waited hours, please, please can i come, please can you just—"

his low chuckle cuts you off, rumbling through his chest into your back. "mhm," he hums, voice thick with amusement, utterly unbothered by your rambling. "you waited, did you?" he purrs, breath hot against your temple, fingers still moving in that cruel, leisurely pace. "poor baby. so patient for me, hm? all day, just thinking about this?" a single thick finger slips inside you, and you nearly sob at the fullness of it—never mind what the rest of him does to you—your hips bucking uselessly against his forearm.

"i can't—" you gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the pressure on your throat making every breath a small, desperate gulp. "i can't wait, please, please, just let me—"

he hums again, deep and indulgent, leaning down to mouth lazily at your jaw, his free hand flexing around your throat so your breath stutters. "shh," he soothes, even as his finger curls inside you, devastatingly slow. "you'll wait a little longer, sweetheart. just a little longer for me, yeah?"

your body goes slack against him, all the fight bleeding out, replaced by a trembling, boneless surrender. a sound leaves you, barely a noise at all, just a weak, pathetic little whimper that dissolves into the steam. your head lolls against his chest, eyes wet, lashes fluttering. he can feel every tiny quake that runs through you, the way your thighs twitch, the way your breath hitches in shallow stutters each time he drags that finger through you. too much and not enough, his other hand still circling your throat in slow, patient sweeps.

"mmm," he breathes, warm against your ear, and you feel the vibration of it sink into your spine. "there she is." his finger crooks inside you, rubbing meanly against that spot that makes your vision white out, and you gasp, a broken, wet sound, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the arm locked across your chest. "so sweet when you stop fighting it," he murmurs, almost to himself. "just let me do all the work, hm?"

he pulls his finger out, the sudden emptiness making you keen, and you feel his big hand leave your throat for only a second before it returns, gripping your jaw, tilting your head back so it rests against his shoulder. your mouth falls open, panting, and he shifts his other hand lower, his thumb finding your clit again, pressing firm little circles that make your hips jerk. he doesn't slide anything back inside, just teases the slick, swollen bundle of nerves with his thumb while his thick fingers cup your whole cunt, holding you open, keeping you right at that unbearable edge.

a sob tears out of you, quiet and broken. "please—" you whisper, barely audible over the water, "please please please, i can't—it's too—"

"you can," he hums, calm as anything, and presses a kiss to your temple. "waited all day for what, to be finished in five minutes? just a bit longer." his thumb flicks, faster, meaner, and your body seizes, every muscle coiling tight, almost there, almost— and then he stops. lifts his hand away completely, leaving you clenching around nothing, your thighs shaking, tears leaking down your temples.

a whine rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, your body trembling so hard you can barely stand, but his arms are everywhere, thick and heavy, bracing you against him. he just hums, low and pleased, pressing his lips to the hinge of your jaw, his voice a gentle murmur against your wet skin.

"shh, shh," he soothes, palm settling warm and heavy over your throat again, thumb stroking your pulse point in lazy circles. "i know. i know, sweetheart. you're doing so well for me."

the hot water beats down on both of you, carving rivers down his chest, and you can feel him everywhere, his massive frame curled around yours, the thick ridge of his cock pressing firm against the small of your back, a constant reminder of exactly how much he dwarfs you. you try to grind back against it, desperate, seeking friction, but his forearm tightens, pinning you in place with ease.

"uh uh," he chides softly, a smile in his voice. "none of that."

his free hand slides down your body again, this time mapping every curve, fingers dragging through the water streaming over your skin. he cups one of your breasts, weighing it in his palm, thumb swiping slow over the sensitive peak until it's aching, and you whimper, head tipping back against his shoulder. When it returns between your thighs, and you nearly sob at the first brush of his knuckles against your slick heat, your whole body jolting, oversensitive and desperate.

"please," you mewl, voice thin and reedy, vocal cords still pressured, "please, please, i'll be good, i'll be so good, just let me—"

"you are being good," he cuts in, quiet and indulgent, lips brushing your temple. "best i've seen you all night. my sweet, soft little thing, hm?" his fingers dip between your folds again, gathering your arousal, and you can feel how wet you are, how absolutely ruined he's made you without even fucking you yet. "so messy for me. can feel it everywhere. such a needy girl."

two fingers slide back inside you, thick and deliberate, and the stretch makes you cry out, your hand slapping back to grip his thigh, nails digging in. he just lets out a low, satisfied hum, crooking them slowly, finding that spot again, dragging against it mean and precise while his thumb finds your clit.

"there?" he asks, though he already knows, already feels the way you seize up, the way your breath catches against his palm. "mm. that's it. feel that?"

"yes, yes—" you gasp, rocking your hips, riding his hand as best you can with his massive arm locked around your waist. the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly, your thighs shaking, your vision blurring, and he lets you get there again—lets you feel that cresting wave, lets the pleasure burn so bright it whites out everything—and then his fingers withdraw, his hand pressing flat against your lower belly instead, keeping you right on the edge while you sob and thrash and beg.

"so close, aren't you," he murmurs against your ear, not even a question, his voice warm and honeyed, endlessly patient. "feels good, doesn't it? just keep floating right there for me. just a little more."

you don't know how long you stay like that, suspended in that unbearable almost, his fingers occasionally brushing light over your clit, just enough to keep you trembling, never enough to tip you over. your legs give out twice and he just catches you, scooping you up against his chest, his body so much bigger than yours that he holds your entire weight with one arm like it's nothing.

"you tired, baby?" he asks, amused, pressing a kiss to your cheek. you nod weakly, tears still streaming, and he makes a soft, pitying sound. "aw, poor thing. you've been so good for me. been so patient."

his free hand finally, finally returns between your legs, and this time his fingers don't tease, don't wander. two thick digits push back inside you, curling ruthlessly against that spot while his thumb locks onto your clit and grinds, hard and deliberate. you wail, hips bucking, and his palm presses back against your throat, just enough pressure to make every sound catch, every breath stutter.

"that's it," he breathes, voice dropping low, rough for the first time all night. "let go for me. come on, sweetheart. i've got you. just let it happen."

it crashes through you like a wave, violent and endless, your whole body bowing in his grip, a choked cry tearing from your lips as you clench around his fingers. he holds you through every shudder, every spasm, his arm squeezing you tight to his chest, his hand never leaving your throat, never easing up. you feel the rumble of his hum against your back, low and satisfied, the press of his lips to your temple as he whispers, "good girl. that's my good girl. knew you had it in you."

soon after, he shuts off the water, carries you out of the shower like you weigh nothing, one arm beneath your knees, the other bracing your back, your wet head lolling against his shoulder. the bathroom fills with steam and the lingering scent of his body wash, musk and mint, and he towels you off with the same methodical patience he shows everything, rubbing the plush fabric slow over your arms, your stomach, between your toes, taking such ridiculous care with each part of you that you want to cry all over again. you’re still shaking, boneless and dreamy, little tremors running through you every time his knuckles brush a tender spot.

he dresses you in the softest thing he can find, one of his t-shirts, swallowing you whole, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. he tugs a pair of his boxers on you too, rolling the waistband until it sits snug on your hips, and presses a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “there we go, sweetheart. all sorted.” you blink up at him, drowsy and syrupy, and he smiles, thumbing away a stray droplet of water on your cheek.

the bed is a cloud when he lays you down, sheets cool against your back, the smell of clean linen and him wrapping around you. he pulls the duvet up to your chin, tucking you in with absurd tenderness, and brushes the damp hair from your face before leaning down to kiss your forehead one more time. “take a nap, baby,” he whispers, voice impossibly soft, his big hand cupping your cheek, cradling your whole face in his palm. you pass out before he even lies down.

when you blink awake, it's to the smell of seared meat and butter and something warm and herbal from the kitchen, drifting lazy through the house. the sheets are cool against your bare skin, tangled around your legs, and the early evening sun is slanting through the curtains in long amber stripes. your whole body aches in the best way—limbs heavy, mind cotton-soft, that floaty, syrupy feeling still clinging to your bones like perfume. you stretch tentatively, cat-like, and catch sight of yourself in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe: your throat is mottled, faint bruises blooming across the curve of it, thumbprints and fingertip shadows. your thighs are still trembling faintly, and the ghost of his grip lingers everywhere he touched.

the bed beside you is empty, but the pillow still holds the dent of his head, still smells like him, and you press your face into it for a second, just breathing him in, before you push yourself up on wobbly legs.

the house is quiet except for the clatter of pans, the soft thump of footsteps, and when you pad down the hallway in his oversized shirt, you find him in the kitchen. he's standing at the stove, hair tied back in a messy knot, wearing a pair of low-slung grey joggers and nothing else, his back broad and golden in the last of the day's light. he's tending to two massive steaks in a cast iron pan, basting them with butter and garlic, the hiss and pop filling the kitchen with that rich, mouth-watering smell. his shoulders shift as he moves, the muscles in his back rolling, and he looks so impossibly big framed against the tiled backsplash, so entirely domestic, like something out of the kind of life you only ever see in romance novels.

you hover in the doorway for a second, watching him flip a steak with practiced ease, before he senses you there and glances over his shoulder. the moment his eyes land on you, his whole face shifts—softens into that particular smile he reserves for you, all warmth and quiet adoration, the kind that makes your knees go weak all over again. his gaze drops to your throat, to the marks just visible above the shirt's collar, and something flickers behind his eyes, a little breath of a hum.

"oh, baby," he murmurs, turning fully now, setting the pan on a low burner, crossing the kitchen in three easy strides, all long legs and casual power. he stops in front of you, tilting your chin up with two fingers, thumb brushing lightly over the bruises with a kind of careful, tentative tenderness. "look at you, hm? look what i did to my pretty girl."

you make a soft, embarrassed sound, cheeks flushing, but he just smiles—soft, a little guilty in that indulgent way of his—and leans down to press a slow, sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. "sorry," he says, quietly, mouth curving against your cheek. "might have to leave you alone tonight." he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, thumb still stroking your jaw, voice warm and low. "wouldn't want to bruise my baby up any more than she already is, hm? wouldn't want to be too rough with my little thing."

the sound that comes out of you is absolutely pathetic, a high, breathless little noise that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any dignity left. "noooo, please—" you reach for him without thinking, fingers curling into the waistband of his joggers, tugging weakly, and he just looks down at you with that lazy, indulgent expression, lips twitching. "please don't, i'll be good, i won't even be loud—"

"hm," he cuts you off, low and amused, thumb pressing gently against your bottom lip. "you say that now." he pulls away from you, easy as anything, your fingers slipping from his waistband as he turns back to the stove, and you make a devastated little whimper that makes him chuckle again, deep and warm.

the steaks are perfect when he plates them—seared, juicy, resting beside a pile of garlicky green beans and roasted baby potatoes. he sets your plate at the little two-seater table by the window, pulls out your chair, waits until you climb in, and then nudges it forward. he settles across from you, his knees brushing yours under the tiny table because he's so ridiculously big, and he watches you take the first bite with a small, satisfied smile, blue eyes soft as he watches you chew.

"good?" he asks, and you nod, still working on getting your voice back. he hums, spearing a green bean with his fork. "you earned it. put you through it earlier, didn't i?" his eyes flick to your throat again, and there's that little pinch between his brows, "sorry, baby. really."

but the way he says it, so gentle, the "sorry" landing all wrong, like a tease, you want to melt through the floor. you shove another bite of steak in your mouth to keep from making another embarrassing sound.

he eats one-handed, his other hand resting on your knee under the table, thumb stroking slow, absent circles on your skin. "maybe just a little bit later, hm?" he murmurs after a while, not looking up from his plate. "let you rest. let those pretty bruises fade a little." his foot nudges yours, gentle. "got a whole night ahead of us, baby. no rush."

you put it on in the car.

he's waiting at the hotel when you arrive, this enormous building of glass and old stone in the middle of the city, all lit up against the dark. he's in the lobby in grey joggers and a hoodie that's too tight across his shoulders, hair down and slightly damp, and he spots you before you spot him. you hear him before you see him—that bright, ringing laugh that echoes off the marble.

"she's here! finally! i've been waiting for ages," he announces to absolutely no one, to the whole lobby, to a woman checking in at the front desk who looks mildly alarmed. he crosses the distance in about four strides and scoops you clean off your feet, lifting you into a hug that presses your face into his neck. he smells like expensive body wash and mint gum, the most addictive smell that really sticks with you. "missed you. did you get the chain? let me see. let me see."

he sets you down and cups your jaw, tilting your head with fingers that could palm a basketball, studying the gold at your throat with the intensity of a man reviewing match footage. his thumb brushes your collarbone. "perfect," he says, then grins, all teeth. "i'm a genius."

the room is the penthouse, obviously, because erling doesn't do anything by halves. floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a bed that could fit four of you, a bathtub carved into the bathroom floor like a small pool. room service menu the size of a novel. he's already ordered by the time you come out of the bathroom in one of the robes—pasta, garlic bread, two steaks, a cheese board, something chocolate, three different types of wine.

"i didn't know what you'd want," he says from the bed, "so i got everything. not the fish, though, it seemed kinda dodgy."

"thank you, baby," you repy, climbing onto the mattress beside him. he shifts immediately, all six-foot-five of him rearranging so your head can rest in the crook of his arm, his hand finding your hip like it's magnetic. he's warm, always so warm, radiating heat like a furnace.

you eat on the bed, which he thinks is hilarious and wonderful. he feeds you pieces of steak off his fork, makes a mess of the garlic bread, gets sauce on the robe and says "they'll wash it" with zero concern. when the chocolate dessert arrives he holds the spoon out to your mouth and watches you take it with those blue eyes gone soft and intent before he kisses you with chocolate on his tongue.

this becomes the rhythm. london to manchester. manchester to madrid. a wednesday in monaco because he has a free day and he misses falling asleep with you. your passport gathers stamps like trading cards, and the texts come without warning—flight's booked, tomorrow, don't pack much, i'll buy you whatever you need—and you've stopped pretending you're going to say no.

in barcelona, he takes you shopping on passeig de gràcia and gets genuinely, childishly excited about everything. he holds up dresses against your body in shops he can't pronounce, asks the sales associates questions in broken spanish that makes them laugh, buys you a pair of shoes you looked at for three seconds too long.

"erling, they're too much—"

"you looked at them," he says simply, like that's the end of it. like looking is enough. he's already handing over his card, and when the bag is placed in your hands, he takes it from you and carries it himself, swinging it as you walk. "next shop. i saw a jacket two blocks back. come on, now."

he walks fast, always, those endless legs, and you have to jog to keep up. he notices after half a block, slows down without comment, and takes your hand.

in milan, the hotel has a terrace with a view of the duomo, lit up amber against the night sky. you sit on his lap on a lounge chair, his chin hooked over your shoulder, his hands linked at your waist, and he tells you about training, about the new manager, about the weird thing his teammate said in the locker room, and he does the impressions, the voices, until you're laughing so hard your ribs ache.

"i'm serious, he literally said that. to my face. while naked. i couldn't look at him for a week."

"you're making it up."

"i am not! i'm a journalist's dream, ask anyone." he pinches your side gently, grinning against your neck. "you're lucky to have me. i'm very entertaining."

"you're very something," you say, and he nips your ear in retaliation.

later, in the enormous bed with the egyptian cotton sheets and the city noise muffled through thick glass, he pulls you against his chest and wraps himself around you completely. his arm over your waist, his legs tangled with yours, his breath slow and steady against the back of your neck. he murmurs something sickly sweet half asleep, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through his chest into your back.

the morning always comes too fast. that's the thing about these trips, they're stolen hours, squeezed between training sessions and matches and press obligations and the relentless machinery of being erling haaland.

in paris, you wake up to breakfast already laid out on the table by the window—fresh croissants, fruit, coffee, a glass of orange juice sweating in the morning light. he's sitting across from it in a chair that's slightly too small for him, already dressed, scrolling through his phone. he looks up when he hears you move.

"morning," he says, and his voice is rough with sleep, and his hair is behaving in four different directions, and he is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "i got you the ones with the almond. the lady at the bakery said they were the best. i also got, like, six others. in case."

there are, in fact, nine pastries. you eat two and he eats five and you spend the remaining morning in bed with the windows open, listening to the sounds of the city, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin.

the goodbyes are always the same. always in a hotel lobby, or a car, or an airport lounge, his bag over one shoulder and yours in hand. he gets this look on his face—this specific pinch between his brows, his mouth going flat, like he's physically unhappy about it.

"i'll text you when i get back home," he says, every single time, like a script. and then: "keep wearing my necklace, yeah?"

and then he's kissing you, one hand on your jaw, tilting your face up to his. he kisses you thorough and slow, the kind of kiss that makes the people around you look away, the kind that tastes like everything you're leaving behind. when he pulls back, his thumb drags across your lower lip, and he smiles, small and real.

"bye, baby."

in the car to the airport, you look down at your hands. bags from shops you'd never walk into on your own. new shoes. new dress. the gold chain warm at your throat. a watch he slipped on your wrist in milan, face-soft, silver-bright. your phone buzzes.

already booking the next one. where do you want to go?

and you type back, heart full, hands full, everything full:

"erling," you say, not looking up from your phone.

"mm?"

"read the board for me. the mango one. does it have banana in it? i don't want banana."

he leans back in his chair, squinting up at the board with zero effort. he doesn't even need to squint. he's a head and a half taller than everyone else in here. "mango, passionfruit, lime, honey," he reads. "no banana. you're safe."

"good. order it for me?"

he's already standing, wallet in hand. "ice?"

"lots."

he comes back with both your drinks, sets yours down in front of you with a little napkin underneath it so the condensation doesn't ruin your phone case. he does this every time, the napkin thing, yet you've never asked him to.

"thanks," you murmur, taking a sip.

"anything else while i'm up?" he asks, and there's something in his voice, not quite a edge, more like a gentle ridge. his hand rests on the back of your neck as he sits back down, warm and solid, thumb brushing the top of your spine. "or are we all sorted, princess?"

you hum noncommittally, scrolling through instagram.

this is how the morning goes. you point at things in shop windows and he follows. you try on sunglasses and hold them up to his face and he bends down dutifully so you can check, hands on his knees, smiling at you in the mirror. you hand him your bag when it gets heavy—two seconds into having it—and he swings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, because to him it does weigh nothing, because his shoulders could carry a wardrobe. 

at the third boutique, you're in the changing room and he's sitting on the little velvet bench outside, legs stretched across the entire aisle, and you pull the curtain open in a dress you're not even sure you like.

"zip me up," you say, turning around.

he stands. he has to practically fold himself in half to reach, one hand braced on the doorframe above you, the other drawing the zip up your back slowly. his fingers brush your skin, trailing warmth, and he leans down to press his mouth against the curve of your shoulder briefly. then his chin rests on the top of your head, his arms coming around you from behind, and you look at yourselves in the mirror—his enormous frame folded around you, your body almost disappearing into his.

"pretty," he says against your hair. "get it."

"i wasn't sure about it."

"i'm sure. get it." he's already reaching for his card.

by lunchtime, you're sun-heavy and lazy, sprawled across two sun loungers pushed together on a quieter stretch of beach. your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers tracing idle circles on your shoulder. you keep shifting, restless, and every time you move he adjusts without complaint—shifts his arm, repositions, pulls you closer. you're lying on him more than the lounger at this point, half draped across his torso, and he doesn't say a word about it.

"erling, my water."

he reaches behind him without looking, grabs the bottle, unscrews the cap, and holds it to your mouth. you drink without lifting your head, his other hand cupping the back of your neck so you don't spill.

"more?"

"no." you settle back against him, ear to his chest, listening to the slow thump of his heartbeat. he's so warm, broad and steady, like lying on a heated rock. you wriggle until you're comfortable, which takes approximately forty-five seconds of unnecessary squirming, and he lets you, patient as anything, his thumb stroking the same spot on your shoulder.

"you comfy?" he asks, and his voice vibrates through his ribs into your ear.

"mm."

"good girl."

he says it so easily, so simply, like he’s stating a fact. the sun is hot, the sea is blue, you're his good girl. you feel the words settle somewhere low in your stomach despite not wanting it to affect you.

in the afternoon, you walk along the promenade and you're tired and hot and your feet hurt from the wrong sandals, so you stop walking. just stop, in the middle of the pavement, and look up at him.

"my feet hurt."

he looks down at you. there's a beat where his expression is perfectly still—not annoyed, not amused, just still, assessing you. then he crouches, back to you, and you climb on without hesitation, your arms around his neck, legs around his waist. he stands up like you weigh absolutely nothing, hooks his arms under your knees, and keeps walking. people look, of course they look. he's six-foot-five with a grown woman on his back and he's strolling along like it's a sunday errand.

"you're lucky you're cute," he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

"i know," you reply against his neck.

back at the hotel, you're fresh out of the shower in your pajamas, which on such a hot night is just a flimsy tank top and panties. you’re laying on your tummy on the bed with a bottle of lotion, squirming around. 

"can't reach my back," you say.

erling is standing, back to you, texting someone, probably his dad, and he doesn’t turn around. his thumbs move across the screen, steady and unhurried, and you can hear the faint click of the keys. he's finishing his text before paying any mind to you.

"erlingggg," you say again, drawing his name out, pressing your cheek into the mattress. "i'm waiting."

"mm-hm." still typing. not looking at you.

you kick your feet a little, heels bumping against the mattress. "it's gonna get dry. i'll be uncomfortable."

nothing. he hits send, slides the phone onto the dresser, and you're already opening your mouth to complain again when he moves. but he doesn't come to sit beside you, and he doesn't pick up the lotion bottle.

the mattress dips under his weight, a deep compression that tilts your body toward the center of the bed, and then he's there—all of him, all at once. his chest against your back, his hips settling over yours, his arms sliding underneath you and around your middle, hands splaying flat against your stomach. he's so big that the world disappears. the light from the lamp, the sound of the air conditioner, the city outside the window, all of it vanishes under the warm, crushing weight of him. his chin hooks over your shoulder, his hair falls forward and brushes your jaw, and he exhales slowly against your neck, a long, deliberate breath.

you can't move. you can barely breathe. his forearms are locked across your torso, his hands overlapping on your sternum, fingers so long they wrap around your ribs. you're pinned, fully, completely, pressed into the mattress by what feels like a wall of solid warmth. your fingers curl uselessly at your sides.

"erling—" you start, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended, muffled against the sheets.

"hm?" he shifts slightly, settling in deeper, his mouth now resting right against your ear. "what's the matter? you wanted my attention."

you squirm. it does nothing. your legs kick weakly beneath his and he doesn't even tense, doesn't adjust, just holds you tighter—his arms drawing inward until your back is flush against his chest, until there isn't a sliver of space between your bodies. you can feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blades, slow and easy and infuriatingly calm.

"i wanted lotion," you whine, turning your face sideways so you can breathe.

"did you?" his voice is so quiet. he rests his cheek against your temple, and you feel him smile,  feel it, the shift of his lips against your skin. "you wanted lotion. like you wanted your smoothie this morning. and your bag carried. and your zip done up. and a piggyback because your feet were a little bit sore."

"a lot bit sore," you correct, squirming again.

his arms tighten, just enough to make you feel it in your lungs. "shh," he murmurs, so gently it could be a lullaby. "i'm talking."

you go still, listening intently, because what else can you do? his thumb rubs a slow circle on your stomach, just below your ribs, and his lips brush the shell of your ear when he speaks. "you haven't said please once today. have you?"

you swallow, a whimper slipping out.

"have you, sweetheart?"

"no," you whisper.

"no," he agrees, soft and warm and devastating. "you haven't. not for the smoothie. not for the dress. not for the water. not for any of it. you just said 'erling,' and i did it, because that's what i do, isn't it? because that's how it works with us."

his hand slides up from your stomach, slow, palm flat and wide, fingers spread across your ribs. he traces the curve of them like he's counting, like he's memorizing.

"you just say my name and i come running." his nose nudges behind your ear, and his voice drops, not louder, just lower, a hum you feel in your teeth. "and that's alright. i love doing things for you. you know that. but today, baby... today you've been very, very greedy."

your breath catches. his hand stops, resting right beneath your chest, warm and heavy.

"have i not given you enough today?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely curious, the way someone might ask about the weather, calm and measured. "the dress, the shoes, the dinner last night, the necklace yesterday. the flight here. this room. all of it mine, all of it yours. and you can't say please?"

you're trying to think of something to say, something bratty and deflective, but his weight is pressing you into the mattress and his hand is warm on your ribs and his mouth is soft against your ear and your brain is just white noise.

"i'm not angry," he says, like he's reading the tension in your silence. "i'm never angry with you. you know that. i just think..." he shifts, rolling you both slightly onto your sides so he can look at your face, his arm still banded around your waist, his other hand coming up to brush the hair out of your eyes. his blue gaze meets yours, steady and fond, and he smiles—slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. "i just think we should work on your manners a little bit."

his thumb traces along your cheekbone, following the sweep of it like he's drawing something, and the gesture is so tender it almost disguises the weight of what he's saying. you try to dip your chin, to duck away from the quiet scrutiny of his gaze, but he catches you immediately—fingers sliding beneath your jaw, tilting your face back up with a grip so controlled it could hold an egg without cracking it.

"ah, ah. look at me when i'm talking to you," he says, and there's no sharpness in it at all, which is the worst part, because you could handle sharpness. you could rally against sharpness, fire back, dig your heels in and be bratty about it. but this—this soft, patient, immovable steadiness—leaves you with absolutely nothing to push against. he's a wall of gentle and you're just bouncing off it uselessly. 

"there she is," he murmurs when your eyes meet his again, and his mouth curves into something impossibly fond, his dimples cutting deep into his flushed cheeks. "there's my girl."

your stomach flips. he has to feel it, the way your breath stutters, because his hand tightens just slightly on your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and he watches the movement of his own finger with a kind of lazy fascination.

"now," he says, settling himself more comfortably beside you, pulling you closer until your back is flush against his chest again and his arm is draped heavy over your waist, his chin returning to its spot on your shoulder. you can feel the full length of him behind you—the breadth of his chest, the solid plane of his stomach, his thighs bracketing yours so completely that your legs look almost childlike between them. "i want you to think really hard for me. can you do that?"

you nod, which is difficult with his hand still holding your jaw.

"out loud, baby. use your words."

"i can do that," you manage, and it comes out so much smaller than you intended.

"good." he presses a kiss to the spot just behind your ear, lingering, his lips warm and dry. "tell me what you think happened today. with your manners. where did they go?"

you squirm, and his arm tightens like a seatbelt locking, holding you perfectly still against him. "i don't know," you whisper.

"sure you do." his hand finally releases your jaw, sliding down the column of your throat—slow, deliberate, his palm settling there with a gentleness that makes your pulse hammer against his fingers. the rabbiting beat of your heart pushes uselessly against the cage of his hand, but he doesn't acknowledge it, just keeps his fingers resting there, a loose collar of warmth and pressure. "i think you got comfortable. i think you got used to me handing you everything you want the second you snap your fingers, and you forgot that it's nice to ask properly."

"it's not snapping," you protest, finding a tiny flicker of defiance somewhere beneath the haze he's reducing you to. "i just say your name."

"you do," he agrees, nodding against your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck. "you say my name like it's a magic word. like erling is the same as please and thank you all wrapped up together. and i let you, because i like hearing it. i like being the one you call." his lips drag along the curve of your shoulder, a slow graze that leaves goosebumps in its wake. "but that doesn't mean it's good manners, does it?"

you're quiet, turning the admission over in your head, feeling the truth of it pressing against the inside of your teeth. "no," you say finally, barely audible. "it doesn't."

"mm." he sounds pleased, deeply and genuinely pleased, the way he sounds when you correctly predict the score of a match or remember his coffee order without asking. his hand on your throat shifts, thumb stroking a slow line from your collarbone to your chin, and he turns you in his arms—a slow rotation, his body rearranging around yours like water—until you're facing him, tucked into the space between his chin and his chest, your forehead pressed to the warm bare skin above the collar of his t-shirt. his hand finds the back of your head immediately, fingers threading into your hair, cradling you there.

his heartbeat is right there against your cheek, steady and slow and maddening in its composure while yours feels like it's trying to claw its way out through your ribs. you can smell him this close—warm skin and that expensive body wash, the one in the dark glass bottle that you've started associating so completely with safety and want that catching a trace of it in public makes your knees threaten to buckle. 

his fingers stay threaded through your hair, gentle, rhythmic, combing through the damp strands in a way that makes your scalp tingle and your eyes want to flutter shut, but the low pull in your belly keeps them open, keeps you hyperaware of every single point where his body meets yours.

"so," he murmurs into the top of your head, the word vibrating through his chest and into yours, "now that we've established that you've been a incredibly greedy today—i want to know something else."

his hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, warm palm settling there, fingers curling loosely around the base of your neck from behind. not squeezing, not restricting, just resting, a weight that reminds you with every breath that he's bigger than you, that he could do anything he wanted, that the only reason you feel safe is because he's chosen to make you feel safe. his thumb traces the ridge of your spine, slow, meditative, like he's reading braille.

"when you were lying on your tummy just now, squirming around in that little top, holding that bottle of lotion you couldn't reach—" he pauses, and you feel him smile against your hair, feel the stretch of his lips, the warmth of his breath shifting. "what were you actually hoping would happen?"

the question drops into the small space between your bodies like a stone into still water, and you feel the ripples spreading outward through every nerve ending you possess. your face burns. you try to press it deeper into his chest, to hide in the broad warmth of him, but his hand at your nape tightens—just barely, just enough—and tilts your head back until you're looking up at him, your chin resting against his sternum, his eyes gazing down at you from what feels like an impossible height even lying down.

"don't hide from me," he says softly, and his free hand comes up to brush the hair back from your flushed face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness, every movement careful and precise. "that's not very brave, is it? and you're a brave girl. i've seen you be brave. you walked into a room full of footballers at a christmas party and didn't even flinch. you can tell me what you wanted."

"i just wanted lotion," you breathe, and even you can hear how thin it sounds.

"just wanted lotion," he echoes, and the way he repeats it back to you, each syllable rolled around like he's tasting it for accuracy, makes the lie sound exactly as flimsy as it is. his eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough to signal that he's giving you a chance to correct yourself, a window to be honest, and when you don't take it, when you just press your lips together and stare up at him with the petulant set to your jaw that you know drives him a little bit crazy, something shifts in his expression.

never anger, just… a quiet recalibration, like a man deciding on a different approach. "okay," he says simply, and then his hand comes down on the curve of your ass—firm, precise, barely anything behind it really, just the flat of his palm connecting with the thin cotton of your panties in a clean crisp sound that cracks through the quiet room like a snapped twig. it doesn't really hurt, it's not meant to hurt. it's meant to startle, and it does—you flinch with a sharp little gasp, your hips jerking forward against him, and his hand stays exactly where it landed, warm and heavy and resting there with an unhurried certainty that makes your skin prickle and start to bloom red.

"that's for lying to me," he says, and his voice hasn't changed at all, still that same low and honeyed tone, still patient, still impossibly gentle for a man whose palm is currently molding the shape of your ass. his fingers curve slightly, a reflexive squeeze that's more possessive than punitive, and you feel the pressure of it ripple through your lower stomach, your thighs pressing together on instinct. "try again. what did you want?"

your breath is coming faster now, shallow little pulls that barely fill your lungs, and the heat in your face has spread downward—your chest, your stomach, the insides of your thighs—until you feel like you're glowing with it, a slow internal blaze that his calm is somehow stoking rather than smothering. he watches you struggle with it, watches the defiance warring with the want behind your eyes, and his thumb traces a slow absent circle on the curve of your hip where his hand has drifted, patient as gravity.

"you," you whisper finally, and the word comes out sticky and reluctant, dragged from somewhere deep and honest. "i wanted you."

"there," he says, and the warmth that floods his voice is genuine, rewarding, a sound like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. "that wasn't so hard, was it? just a little bit of truth. thank you, baby." his hand on your hip slides upward, tracing the dip of your waist, the ridge of your ribs through the thin cotton of your tank top, and then back down again, a slow meandering path that makes your muscles jump and tighten beneath his touch. "wanted me to do what, exactly?"

"i wanted you to touch me," you admit, and your voice cracks on the last word, splitting it open, laying the raw want inside completely bare. his hand stills on your waist.

"touch you?" he repeats, thoughtful, rolling the words around in his mouth like he's considering them from every angle. his blue eyes hold yours, steady and unblinking, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "where? here?" his hand moves to your hip, squeezing gently through the fabric. "here?" up to your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your ribs. "be specific, sweetheart. i'm a footballer, not a mind reader."

you squirm against him, the wet heat between your legs pressing maddeningly against the inside of your thighs, and the petulance flares up again—one last flare of it, one last flickering resistance—because admitting it, saying it out loud, guiding his hand there yourself, feels like surrender, and some stubborn part of you doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. but his hand is resting on your waist now, motionless, waiting, and his face is so open and so patient and so handsome in the low golden lamplight, his long hair falling across his forehead and his eyes soft with something that looks a lot like adoration, and the defiance just melts out of you like ice in the sun.

you reach down and take his hand. his fingers are so much larger than yours that wrapping around them feels like gripping a banister, and you feel the subtle flex of his knuckles beneath your palm, the quiet strength coiled in every tendon, as you guide his hand off your waist and down—over the plane of your stomach, past the edge of your tank top, over the slight curve of your lower belly where the muscles flutter and jump beneath his touch, until his palm settles between your legs, pressed flat against the soaked cotton of your panties.

his hand is huge, fingers splayed over your mound, and you feel him exhale, the warm rush of his breath stirring your hair and the tension vibrating through his chest where your cheek rests. he lets you guide him, lets you press his palm down until there’s no mistaking what you want—what you need. his thumb sweeps slowly, circling over the damp cotton, and when you gasp, he grins, bending his head so his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“thank you for showing me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet hush, threading through you and making your whole body tighten with anticipation, “i like it when you’re honest with me. makes it so much easier.”

you arch your hips into his hand, your thighs spread, greedy and restless, and he rewards you with a gentle squeeze, fingers flexing, massaging you over your panties until you’re squirming, desperate for more. the fabric is already damp—nearly soaked—and when he presses two fingers just there, right where you’re aching for it, your breath stutters and your legs clench helplessly around his wrist. he’s so broad, you realize, his whole forearm braced across your hips, pinning you in place, making you feel small and helpless and so deeply, sweetly owned.

he slides his hand beneath the waistband, the backs of his knuckles tracing a slow, teasing path over your bare skin, and then his index finger finds your slit, slick and hot. he groans, low and pleased, a sound that rumbles through his chest and into your cheek, and his finger circles your clit with a care that makes you shiver, each movement deliberate, patient, coaxing.

“mmm, you’re always so warm here,” he breathes, his words a lazy drawl against your ear, “so soft for me. you know i love how tiny you feel in my hands, don’t you?” his finger dips lower, sliding between your folds, collecting your slick, and then he’s pressing—not too hard, just enough—at your entrance, testing.

he knows how it always is, how his fingers stretch you so much more than anyone else’s, how just one feels like your body is barely containing it, every nerve ending lit up, fluttering with the effort. he eases his finger inside, slow and steady, watching your face, lips parted, eyes fluttering, your breath coming in shallow, needy gasps.

“that’s it, good girl,” he croons, and you whine softly, your hips rocking involuntarily, trying to take him deeper. he moves with you, never forcing, always guiding, his thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit as he works his thick finger in and out of you, careful not to push for more. he knows you can never take more than this, that even the suggestion of a second finger makes you clench up, overwhelmed by the stretch of just one.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his tone endlessly proud, teasing, “always so eager and still so tight for me. such a perfect fit.” he curls his finger, finding that spot inside you that makes you cry out, your legs trembling, your thighs pressing desperately around his wrist. your hands clutch at his forearm, nails digging into the hard muscle, and he laughs, soft and indulgent, watching the way you writhe and mewl in his grasp.

his thumb keeps that maddening slow rhythm on your clit while his finger works inside you, curling and pressing with a patience that feels almost cruel, and just when your thighs start to shake and your breath turns to thin desperate little pulls, he slows. not stops—slows, his movements going syrupy and languid, his finger barely moving inside you, just resting there, filling you, his thumb still circling but so lightly it barely counts as contact. your hips chase the pressure instinctively, grinding down against his hand, and he lets you, watches you do it with those half-lidded blue eyes and that quiet fond smile like he's watching something endearing, maybe a cute baby animal.

he pulls his finger out out slowly, the drag of it making you whine, and then he's pressing forward again—but this time there are two fingertips nudging at your entrance, blunt and broad and slick with you, and your whole body tenses, your hand shooting down to grip his wrist.

"erling—"

"shh, shh. i know," he murmurs, and his mouth finds your forehead, pressing a kiss there, warm and firm. "i know it's a lot…" his fingers don't push, just rest there, a promise and a question, and his thumb resumes its slow stroke over your clit, keeping you slick and trembling and open. "just wanna make it easier for you later,"

the statement lands between your legs like a pulse of heat and you feel yourself clench around nothing, your body responding to the implication before your brain catches up. he waits, his fingers patient at your entrance, his eyes on your face, and when you don't say no—when your grip on his wrist loosens just barely, just enough—he pushes forward.

the stretch is immediate and overwhelming, a slow burning fullness that makes your mouth fall open and your eyes squeeze shut, your thighs falling open wider on instinct because there's nowhere else for them to go, your body making room the only way it knows how. he's so careful, easing in millimeter by millimeter, his thumb working your clit in steady circles to keep you wet and pliant, and when his fingers are finally seated inside you—both of them, buried to the knuckle—you feel like you're being split apart in the most devastatingly gentle way possible.

"there you go," he breathes against your temple, and you can hear the pride in it, the restrained heat, the way his composure is fraying at the edges just slightly. "that wasn't so bad. look at you, taking it so well."

he doesn't let you adjust for long. his fingers begin to move—a slow curling thrust that drags against your walls, stretching you open with each stroke, and your hands fist in the sheets beneath you, your back arching, sounds coming out of your mouth that you can't control. high thin whines and broken little moans, your hips stuttering between trying to escape the intensity of it and trying to press closer, take more, and he watches all of it with that same steady gaze, his dimples deepening every time you cry out.

and then he stops, his fingers slide out of you slowly, leaving you empty and clenching and gasping. your hips are chasing him before your brain registers the loss, and when you open your eyes he's already pulling back, sitting up on his knees above you. he's enormous from this angle—all that broad chest tapering to his waist, his shoulders blocking out the lamplight behind him, his hair falling forward around his face as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion. the muscles of his abdomen shift and flex, golden skin stretched over all that impossible width, and you're still trembling from his fingers, still soaking wet, still desperately empty.

he reaches for his waistband, pushing his joggers down over his hips, and then his boxers, and then he's there—hard and flushed and so thick that your stomach actually tightens with something close to fear, your thighs pressing together involuntarily. he's long, yes, but it's the girth that's devastating, the heavy width of him resting against his stomach, the head dark and slick already, and you think every single time you see it that there is absolutely no way, no physical way, that—

"don't worry, love," he says softly, reading your expression like a headline. he settles over you, one knee between your thighs, his arms bracketing your head, and his free hand reaches down to hook behind your knee, drawing your leg up along his ribs. the breadth of him covers you completely, shadows you, the heat of his body radiating into yours like standing too close to a bonfire. "don't do that thing where you get in your head about it. we always figure it out, don't we?"

he reaches between you, wraps his hand around himself, and presses the head of his cock against your entrance. you're so wet that the sound of it is obscene, a slick parting, the heat of him nudging against where you're swollen and desperate, and your hands come up to grip his biceps, fingers digging into the hard warm muscle there.

the first inch alone makes you cry out—a sharp high sound that you muffle against his shoulder, your teeth grazing his skin—and he groans, low and long, his jaw tightening, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables. his arm beneath you tightens, pulling your hips up to meet his, and he keeps pushing, keeps that slow relentless forward pressure that doesn't feel like forcing, just feels like inevitability, like the tide coming in.

you're shaking beneath him, your walls clenching and fluttering around the next few inches of him in rapid desperate waves that you can't control, and he's barely even started—still less than halfway, his cock stretching you open so completely that you can feel your body resisting, tightening around the intrusion like a fist trying to keep him out while simultaneously pulling him deeper. the pressure is extraordinary, a deep aching fullness that radiates outward from your core and turns your bones to liquid, and when he rocks forward another centimeter your hand flies back against his hip, pressing flat against the hard slab of muscle there.

"i can't," you gasp, the words tumbling out wet and broken against his shoulder, "erling, i can't, it's too much, i can't take more—"

he stills. not immediately, not abruptly—there's one last tiny roll of his hips, a gentle nudge that makes you both groan before he settles, half-buried inside you, his breathing heavier now but still controlled, still infuriatingly measured while you're falling apart beneath him. his mouth finds your hair, pressing a kiss there, and you feel him smile again, that slow quiet curve of his lips that means he's thinking, that means he's about to be annoyingly reasonable about something that feels anything but reasonable.

"can't take more like this, hm?" he says, and his voice has dropped, gone rougher, a gravelly edge creeping into the warmth that makes your stomach clench. his thumb traces the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up toward his, and his blue eyes are dark now, the pupils blown wide, the steady composure still there but thinner, stretched taut over something hungry. "that's alright. let's make it easier for you."

the drag of him leaving you is almost worse than the push—your walls clinging to him, the wet sucking sound of it filling the quiet room, and you're left empty and gasping, your hips tilting up instinctively before you can stop yourself, chasing the fullness that's just been taken away. his hand runs down the length of your spine, palm flat and warm between your shoulder blades, and there's a weight to it, a gentle insistent pressure that tells you exactly what he wants before he says it.

"over, baby."

you turn onto your stomach without even thinking about it, your cheek pressing into the cool sheets, your arms folding beneath you. his hands find your hips immediately—those enormous hands that span your waist almost entirely, fingers wrapping around your hipbones—and he lifts you, pulling your ass up toward him until you're on your knees, face still pressed to the mattress, your back arching in a deep curve that he molds with one long slow stroke of his palm from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine. the position makes you feel vulnerable in a way that sends heat flooding through you—open and displayed for him, your thighs trembling, and when his hand smooths over the curve of your ass and squeezes, a slow appreciative handful, you whine into the sheets.

"there we go," his voice comes from above you, from somewhere impossibly tall, and you can feel the heat of him behind you, the broadness of his chest radiating warmth against your back without quite touching. "you always take me so well from behind, such a good girl for me." his thumb traces down between your cheeks, over the soaked cotton of your panties bunched to the side, through the slick mess of you, and you push back against his hand with a desperate shameless little roll of your hips that makes him laugh softly. "so eager now. where did all that attitude go?"

he notches the head of his cock against you again and your breath catches, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and this time when he pushes forward your body opens for him like a key turning in a lock—the angle different, deeper, gravity helping, your hips tilted and ready. the stretch is still enormous, still overwhelming, still enough to make your vision blur at the edges and your mouth fall open in a silent cry, but he slides in inch by slow careful inch and you feel yourself melting around him, your walls yielding and fluttering and adjusting to the impossible girth of him.

"that's it," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked now, finally, the composure cracking properly for the first time—a ragged exhale that sounds punched out of him. his hands tighten on your hips, fingers dimpling the soft skin there, and he rocks forward, sinking deeper.

you're sobbing, wet gasping sounds muffled into the mattress, your whole body shaking with the effort of taking him, the pleasure and the pressure blurring together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. he's barely halfway and you feel like you're being filled to your throat, every nerve ending in your body firing at once, your thighs shaking violently on either side of his hips. his hand slides up your spine again, anchoring at the back of your neck, and he leans forward, his chest draping over your back, his mouth hot against your ear.

his weight settles over you like a warm avalanche, his stomach pressed flush against the curve of your lower back, his hips flush against your ass, and the new angle pushes him just a fraction deeper—a fraction that makes you keen, high and thin and desperate, your fingers tearing at the sheets. you can feel him everywhere, the impossible breadth of him stretching you in ways you didn't know you could be stretched, and when his hand leaves the back of your neck and slides slowly around your side, tracing the ridge of your ribs, the dip of your waist, you don't think anything of it until his palm flattens against your lower belly.

he stills a bit as his fingers press in, gentle, exploratory, and you feel the pressure of it from both sides—his hand on the outside, his cock on the inside—and the realization hits you at the same moment a low pleased sound rumbles through his chest and into your back. there's a swell there, a faint rounded prominence just above your pubic bone that wasn't there before, a soft visible outline of exactly how deep he is inside you, and his thumb traces over it with a slowness that makes your entire body clench.

"mmm," he hums, and you can hear the smile in it, the quiet wonder, the satisfaction underneath. his fingers spread wide across the swell, pressing down just enough to make you feel it—to make you feel everything, the pressure of his cock and the pressure of his hand meeting through the thin wall of your body, and your arms give out entirely, your chest dropping to the mattress, your face turning sideways against the cool sheets while a broken moan tears out of you. "look at that. look at how brave you're being for me."

his hand stays there, molding over the shape of himself inside you, and he rocks his hips—a slow shallow thrust that barely moves, just grinds, and the bulge shifts beneath his palm, pressing outward against his fingers. he groans, the sound raw and unguarded, his forehead dropping to the back of your shoulder, his blond hair spilling across your skin.

you can feel the weight of his palm pressing him deeper, feel the way his fingers trace the outline of himself inside your body like he's committing it to memory, and the intimacy of it is so devastating that tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your mouth falling open against the sheets. you try to speak and nothing comes out—just a wet shaky exhale, your hips twitching weakly beneath him, and his free hand smooths up your spine again, a slow grounding stroke.

"shh, i know," he says, and there's that condescending tenderness again, the soft patronizing warmth that makes your chest ache and your walls clench simultaneously. "i know it's a lot. you're doing so well. such a good girl when she wants to be, isn't she? didn't want to say please all day but look at you now, taking all of this, being so sweet for me."

his hand presses harder against your belly and your vision whites out at the edges, a sobbing moan catching in your throat, and he holds himself there—buried to the point your body simply refuses to take more, his hand cupping the swell of himself inside you, his chest blanketing your back, his mouth warm against the curve of your neck.

"maybe this is what you needed all day," he whispers, his lips brushing your skin with every word. "not smoothies and shopping and someone to carry your bag. maybe you just needed to be full and quiet and good for a little while. is that what all the fussing was about, sweetheart? you just wanted my attention here?"

he punctuates the question with a slow deliberate roll of his hips, his cock dragging out halfway before pressing back in, and his hand tightens over your belly, feeling the bulge retreat and return beneath his palm. the sound that comes out of you is barely human—a broken wavering cry, your thighs shaking so hard the mattress trembles with it—and he hums against your shoulder, pleased and patient and utterly in control.

you whine, high and thin and pathetic, your fingers twisting so hard in the sheets that the fabric bunches and wrinkles beneath your clenched fists. he responds by rolling his hips so agonizingly slowly that you feel every single inch of him, every ridge, every vein, the broad head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision sparkle and your thighs clamp together on instinct. his hand returns to your belly, pressing flat, and the dual sensation of being filled and held and mapped all at once makes a sob tear out of your chest.

"still can't take all of me," he observes, and there's no disappointment in it—just a quiet factual tenderness, like he's noting the weather, his thumb stroking over the soft swell where his cock is buried inside you. his hips draw back, almost all the way out until just the head is notched inside your entrance, your walls clenching desperately around the tip of him, and then he pushes forward again in one long unhurried slide that makes your mouth fall open in a silent cry. "but you're taking so much more than you thought you could. aren't you?"

"yes," you gasp, the word ripping out of you, "yes, i'm—please—"

"there it is," he says, and the warmth that floods his voice is genuine, luminous, a sound like sunlight breaking through curtains. his chest presses tighter against your back, his arms wrapping around you from behind—both of them now, banding across your chest and stomach, pulling you up and back against him until you're kneeling in his lap, impaled on his cock, your back against his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder. the new position drives him somehow deeper and you keen, your head falling back against his collarbone, your hands gripping his forearms where they cross over your belly. "there's that word. took you all day to find it, but here we are. such good manners when you try."

he presses his palm over your belly again from this angle, fingers splaying wide, and the bulge is more pronounced now with gravity pushing you down onto him—his hand cupping it, kneading gently, feeling the shape of himself through you while his other arm bands across your chest, holding you flush against the furnace of his body. you're so close. you've been so close for what feels like hours, the tension coiled tight and trembling in your lower stomach, and every tiny movement—the flex of his thighs beneath yours, the press of his hand, the shallow grinding thrusts that barely qualify as movement at all—sends you spiraling closer to an edge you can't quite reach.

"please what?" he murmurs into your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it, and you can hear the smile, can feel it radiating through every point of contact between your bodies. he's barely moving now, just holding you there, full and stretched and trembling in his lap, his cock buried as deep as your body will allow, his heartbeat thudding against your shoulder blades. "use your words, sweetheart. tell me what you want and i'll give it to you. you know i always give you what you want."

"please let me come," you whisper, and your voice cracks on the last word, splitting it clean in half, and his arms tighten around you—a convulsive squeeze, like even he can't help it, like the raw honesty of the request gets to him despite every effort to stay measured and composed. his breath shudders against your neck.

"since you asked so nicely," he says, and his voice is rougher now, the gravel in it more pronounced, the careful softness beginning to fray at the seams. his hand slides down from your belly, fingers tracing the junction of your thighs where you're stretched impossibly tight around him, and then a bit higher, finding your clit with a precision that makes you jolt—swollen and oversensitive and dripping, and his fingers begin to circle it with the same maddening patience he's applied to everything else tonight.

each thrust now rocks you forward in his arms and he pulls you back, impaling you again, his cock hitting that devastating spot inside you with unerring accuracy while his fingers work your clit in tight slick circles. the sounds filling the room are obscene—wet, rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin, your sobbing breathless moans tangled with his low steady groans, and his mouth is hot against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin, his arms locked around you like he's keeping you from flying apart.

"come on," he murmurs against your neck, and his voice has lost the teasing edge now, the condescension stripped away to reveal something raw and desperate beneath—the quiet ferocity of a man who has been patient for as long as he possibly can. his fingers tighten on your clit, pressing harder, faster, and his hips snap forward with a thrust that punches the air from your lungs. "come on, baby, give it to me, you've been so good, so good for me—"

it crashes through you like a wave breaking—a full body convulsion that starts at your core and radiates outward through every limb, your back arching against his chest, your walls clenching so hard around him that he groans, actually groans, a raw gutted sound that you feel vibrate through his ribs into your back. your thighs are shaking violently, your fingers white-knuckled on his forearms, and he holds you through it—all of it, every aftershock and tremor—his arms steady and immovable around you, his mouth pressed warm against your shoulder, his hips slowing to a deep grinding roll that draws your orgasm out until you're whimpering and oversensitive and trying to squirm away from his fingers on your clit.

Erling grins above you, blonde hair loose for once, framing his face. "Please what, elskling?" His brow is pulled into a confused furrow, one you know is meant to tease you even more. "I'm doing what you wanted, am I not?"

As if to prove a point he curls his fingers inside your sopping cunt, fingertips catching on the spongy spot inside you which has you seeing stars, air getting kicked from your lungs. Before you can react, the wide, calloused pad of his thumb settles on your swollen bud, rubbing tight circles. Your back arches off the plush mattress, one of his hands keeping your hips glued down, your nails digging into the wide planes of his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. He groans, a ragged, sinful sound, and before you realise that his hand has moved to grab your jaw, to pry your mouth open, he's spitting in your mouth, the taste of him coating your tongue.

You moan, greedy in your swallowing, his fingers relentlessly bullying into you, your thighs slick with your pearlescent arousal. The wet sound of him fucking into you echoes around the room, so loud you're sure your neighbours can hear. You don't seem to care.

"Please, baby, please—" You're sobbing now, tears dampening your hairline as you're so close once again. Its right there, right at your fingertips and you swear you can taste it, just a little more—

Erling pulls his fingers out without much premonition. You cry out, frustrated, nails leaving angry welts down his back. He coos at you, leaning down to kiss the tears from the corners of your eyes. "Shh," his voice is sweet, lips soft against your cheeks, your forehead, your mouth.

"Gonna fuck you so good, baby." His voice is warm and sweet like honey in your ear, his teeth affectionately nipping at your neck. "Just had to stretch you out, hm? Didn't wanna break my favourite girl."

You sob but nod nevertheless, thighs parting even more, inviting him in. He breathes out a laugh, lining his flushed tip up with your weepy cunt. The stretch burns even with his prep and you choke on air, feeling him in the back of your throat. He's long and girthy and for a moment you see stars, vision blurring. "Can't take it." You gasp, hands hitting at his shoulders, desperate to push him away. "Erling, I can't—"

His palm settles over your mouth, tenderly leaving your nose uncovered. He noses at your jaw, kissing the skin in apology as he bottoms out, only to forcefully slam back in. "Yes, you can." His voice is rough, sweat beading at his hairline. "Be good for me, lille due."

He's too big. Too big for your cunt, too big for you to overpower, not that you really want to. All you can do is lay there, gripping onto his shoulders, and let him fuck into you so hard your vision swims. You know you'll feel it when he pulls out, when you wake up tomorrow and his hand slips between your thighs, gently coaxing another orgasm from your spent body as an apology for being so rough. You don't mind it, you never do.

Your orgasm washes over you in waves, making your whole body tremble beneath him, muscles coiled up tight. You're completely, utterly gone, not even registering that he keeps fucking you, chasing his own high. It doesn't take him long to reach it.

He releases in you with a deep, heady groan, one that makes your bones rattle. He whimpers, kissing your temple as he pulls out, big hands pawing at your skin, pulling you close. "Love you." He breathes, flushed, content, handling you as if you are a doll, nothing more. You make an incoherent sound in response, fingers cradling through his damp hair. You kiss his jaw, his neck, hands settling on his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart. You know, and you love him too, but can't bring yourself to speak just yet.

Erling stopped in his tracks, his blue eyes scanning the room until they landed on the heap of blankets on the sofa. He didn't even stop to change out of his training shirt, which still smelled of fresh grass and hard work. 

In three long strides, he was across the room, his massive frame casting a shadow over you, but his expression was one of immediate, heartbreaking concern.

“Oh, no... what is it? Are you sick?” He asked, his voice dropping to a low, gentle rumble. 

He knelt beside the couch, his large hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. His touch was incredibly light, a stark contrast to the power he displayed on the pitch.

“Period…” You groaned, the word muffled by the pillow you were hugging. “It just– it hit me an hour ago. Everything hurts, Erling.”

The look of pure sympathy on his face was almost enough to make you cry. Erling wasn't just a powerhouse of an athlete; when it came to you, he was a giant teddy bear with a heart of gold. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“Min lille mus…” He whispered – ‘my little mouse’. “I’m so sorry… Why didn't you text me? I would have come home sooner, or– or brought you something from the shop.”

“You were busy training.” You murmured, shifting slightly and letting out a small hiss of pain as a particularly sharp cramp rippled through you.

Seeing you wince caused a flicker of distress to cross his features. He hated seeing you in pain – he truly did. Shifting his position, moving from his knees to sit on the edge of the cushion, carefully lifting the edge of the blanket to check the hot water bottle.

“It's getting cold.” He noted, his brow furrowed. “Stay right here. Don’t move a single muscle. I'll fix this.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, and you could hear the sound of the kettle whistling and the cabinets opening and closing. You closed your eyes, focusing on the rhythm of your breathing, trying to ignore the heavy pressure in your pelvis. 

A few minutes later, he returned, carrying a freshly filled, steaming hot water bottle and a glass of water with your favorite pain relief tablets resting on a coaster.

“Here, love. Let me help you.” He insisted. 

Rather than just handing it to you, he gently shifted your body, sliding his arm beneath your back to lift you just enough to swap the lukewarm bottle for the scorching new one. 

As he settled you back down, he lingered, his large palm resting flat against your lower stomach over the blanket. He didn't press hard, just provided a steady, grounding warmth.

“Is that better?” He queried, searching your eyes.

“Uh huh... thank you…” You’d whispered.

Erling didn't move away. Instead, he climbed onto the couch behind you, pulling your back against his broad chest. 

He was like a human radiator, his body heat seeping through your clothes and the blankets. He wrapped his long arms around you, enveloping you completely, and tucked his chin over your shoulder.

“I have a plan.” He declared, his voice vibrating through your spine. 

“First, we get the pain under control. Then, I’m going to make you the best pasta in the world. And then, we are going to stay right here and watch whatever movie you want until you feel better. Does that sound okay, elskling?”

You leaned back into him, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. “You're too good to me.”

“Impossible.” He chuckled, pressing a series of tiny, fluttering kisses to your cheek and jawline. “I just want my girl to feel happy again.”

For the next hour, Erling remained your anchor. 

Every time you whimpered or shifted uncomfortably, he was there with a soothing word or a gentle squeeze. He began to pepper your face with kisses – your forehead, the tip of your nose, your eyelids – as if he could literally kiss the pain away.

“I hate that you have to go through this every month,” he murmured between kisses, his voice thick with affection. “If I could take the pain from you and put it in my own body, I would do it in a heartbeat. I’m much stronger, I can handle it.”

You let out a small, watery laugh. “You're such a dork, Erling.”

“A dork who loves you.” He countered, nipping playfully at your earlobe before kissing the spot he just bit.

Eventually, the medication began to kick in, and the sharp edges of the pain softened into a dull ache. Erling noticed the change in your breathing and the way your muscles finally relaxed. He gave you one last squeeze before reluctantly pulling away.

“Now,” he began, standing up and offering you his hand. “Pasta time. But you’re not walking to the kitchen, that’s too much effort for a sick girl.”

Before you could protest, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you bridal-style. You felt tiny against him, your head resting against his chest where you could hear the steady, strong beat of his heart. 

He carried you into the kitchen and, instead of putting you on a chair, he sat himself down on a sturdy kitchen stool and settled you firmly in his lap.

“Erl, you can't cook while I'm sitting here!” You giggled, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“I can do anything if it means keeping you close.” He replied with a confident grin.

He managed to navigate the kitchen with surprising grace for a man of his size, keeping you tucked securely against him. He put a pot of water on to boil, and while he waited, he focused all his attention on you. 

He began to massage your lower stomach again, this time sliding his hand under the hem of your shirt. His palm was warm and calloused, the texture grounding and comforting. He used slow, circular motions, applying just the right amount of pressure to soothe the cramping muscles.

“Does this help, skatt?” Erling looked at you with hopeful eyes.

“Mhm... so much.” You sighed, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against his shoulder.

He continued the massage, his touch patient and tender. 

He talked to you in a low, rambling stream of consciousness, telling you about the funny things that happened at training, how the coach had been shouting about something trivial, and how he had spent the whole session thinking about coming home to you. It was hypnotic, the combination of his voice and the warmth of his hand.

As the pasta boiled and the sauce simmered – a rich, creamy garlic and parmesan blend that smelled heavenly – Erling didn't stop being affectionate. 

He kissed your neck, your shoulders, and the top of your head, murmuring sweet nothings in Norwegian that you didn't always understand but felt in the depths of your soul.

"You’re so pretty, y’know that? Even when you’re in pain.” He whispered, his breath hot against your skin.

Once the food was ready, he didn't make you move. He simply plated the pasta and held the bowl in one hand while you used the other to eat, leaning back against him. 

He fed you a few bites himself, making sure you were eating enough to keep your strength up.

“Is it good?” He ensured, kissing your temple.

“It's perfect!” You replied, leaning back to kiss his cheek.

After dinner, the cycle of comfort continued. He carried you back to the couch, wrapped you back up in your blanket cocoon, and spent the rest of the evening as your personal servant. 

He brought you tea, he rubbed your feet, and he never stopped touching you – whether it was holding your hand, stroking your hair, or keeping his hand rested protectively over your stomach.

As the night wound down and the movie credits rolled, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. 

The pain was almost gone, replaced by a warm, fuzzy glow that had nothing to do with the hot water bottle and everything to do with the man holding you.

“I love you, Erling…” You whispered, yawning.

He tightened his grip on you, kissing your forehead with a lingering, soulful intensity.

“Jeg elsker deg mer, pen jente.” He responded – ‘I love you more, pretty girl’. “Now sleep. I've got you, ‘nd I'm not going anywhere.”

a/n: i liked this so much.. he'd be the best hugger i just know it

taking a glance over at him, you watch him for a couple of seconds. he’d been scrolling through his Instagram, occasionally chuckling at videos he’d been tagged in by fans, or finally answering his dms that you filled with reels.

his legs were sprawled wide, the top sheet covered just up to his calves. occasionally, one hand would slip and readjust his shorts lower down his thick thighs. you didn’t have to look hard or even long to know he was big. just his height and his body were enough to keep a woman’s mind occupied with imagination.

most nights, alone, lately you’d found yourself thinking of him. having spent many hours now watching him play football, you watched the baby blue or white shorts ride up him. the white shorts were probably your favorite and were often what left you hot and bothered. there was no need to imagine what was under those white shorts when it was right in front of you for 90 plus minutes.

you’d never felt these types of feelings for any man. ever. not really until erling. you’d never explored further than the imagination and they always seemed to die down, but being up close to to the man who occupied your wild thoughts, your needs seemed to amplify.

erling never pressured you. he knew you’d never gone further than a few hickeys and kisses down your body, so he took your pace. he never seemed upset when you’d stop him from going further, but you always felt awful when he had to run a cold shower.

tossing your phone onto the night stand, you crawled yourself closer to him, practically seated on one thigh.

“hi, baby.” he said looking up from his phone, and tossing it amongst the mess of the sheets. he wrapped his arms around your waist and under your shirt, his hands roaming across your skin.

“I’ve been thinking,” you started, feeling heat prickle across skin. he raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interject, just lets you get the words out, “what if we did it?”

for a split second his eyes widened. worrying his bottom lip, he thought for a moment, “are you sure?” he asked, anxiety bubbling through him. he didn’t want to mess this up for you, he knew how important your first time was to you, and that you’d been waiting to put your trust in the right man. he was certainly honored you trusted him.

“I am.” you nod. unable to look him directly in the eyes, you focused on the muscular thigh below you. the very ones you’ve been itching to claw and climb. you’d wanted this for awhile now, and there was no better time than now.

grabbing a hold of your chin, he forces you to meet his eyes, “y/n, this is serious. you really want this?”

you nod, words stuck in your throat. carefully, he moved you off of him and laid you down onto the bed, “you can tell me when to stop, and I will.”

nodding, you watch him rise up off the bed and enter his bathroom. he came back shortly with a towel and a condom, “you really want this?”

“erling, I’ve wanted you for the past month now.” you say, finally finding your words. crawling up onto your knees, you move to where he’s stood at the end of the bed, and tug on the hem of his shirt, “take this off.” you demand.

obeying, he removed his shirt revealing the hard years work of football and training to you. it was more than a six pack, and it was even more defined than what you’d seen on television.

practically drooling at the sight of your boyfriend, you hardly notice that erling had removed his shorts, the only thing left before his cock was free was his boxers. you could see how hard he was against the black fabric, you could see just how large he was.

“shirt on or off?” he asked, his hands tugging on your shirt now, you didn’t have much care for the fabric and let erling rip it off you.

“god I’ve dreamt of these.” he mumbles, his index finger tracing the bra line that held your breasts together, and tight. you found the clasp and let them free.

shaking his head in disbelief of how perfect you were, this wasn’t about him. he would have plenty of more times to explore your body, but tonight wasn’t his night for that. it was about you.

laying you down like he did before, he climbed up onto the bed. you watched him with wide eyes. he moved closer, carefully lifting your hips up, he shimmied down your pants and panties in one swift motion.

“you have to tell me if it hurts, okay?” he says, trying to find any worry or discomfort in your eyes, but all he found was lust. you, staring at him with desire and need did things to him that wanted him to think with his cock rather than his brain.

you watched him take out the condom, you eagerly wanted to reach out and pull down his boxers, but you weren’t sure he’d want you taking control. you knew how much erling loved being in charge on the pitch, you were sure things were the same in the bedroom.

pulling down his boxers, his cock stared you down with intimidation. he was much larger than you thought. the little white football shorts didn’t even seem to show half of him to the world. he was huge, and you were now sure he wouldn’t fit.

“relax,” erling said, drawing your attention back to him. he moved closer, his body hovering over yours, “it’ll be just the tip.”

nodding, you jut your hips upward, your pussy pressing against his cock earned a moan from him. smiling in satisfaction, you felt his hands grip your hips with force.

he began to pepper your neck with wet sloppy kisses, that began to leave you breathless. you’d done this a dozen times with him, but tonight it all felt different. he took his time sucking your skin, he could feel your heart racing in sync with his of anticipation and excitement.

slowly, you could feel him inching his way in. he took it at a snails pace that was agonizing. he pulled away from your neck, and watched for any signs of discomfort.

you were tight, and certainly stiff at the pain of him in you, “you’re doing so good.” he whispered.

you spread your legs a bit more open, you weren’t sure his tip would fit. there was pain, but it all dissipated when he began to slowly start a rhythm.

“does it feel okay?” he asked, but you could barely form an answer with your legs shaking trying to hold you up, and your body vibrating with pleasure.

smiling to himself, he watched your face soften, your eyes, slightly lidded, open up a bit and nod, “feels good. maybe more?”

“more?” he asks, you grunted back a yes and were nodding vigorously, “please.” you beg sweetly.

slowly, again, he inches in. he was just now past the tip and still not all the way in. continuing, to grind his hips against yours, he watched you grow more comfortable with him in you. he’d only go further if you asked, and he’d easily pull out of it all became too much.

you probably begged for more, more times than he could count. you were taking him well, and he’d not even got the chance to let you feel the pleasure of him rubbing your clit.

“it’s all in.” he said, taking one hand off your hip, he cupped your cheek, “you did so good.”

pleasure was at an all time high for you. your brain wasn’t even forming any words, just grunts and moans were all you could muster. he took a mental picture of you, wanting to remember the moment of your sweet pussy wrapped around his cock for the first time.

you couldn’t get the words to come out, you just felt the pleasure finally releasing from your body. all those hormones that were pent up for months got what they needed.

pulling out, erling quickly grabbed the towel from the night stand and instantly began to clean you up.

“I made a mess.” you said, slightly embarrassed.

“no you didn’t.” he scoffed, throwing the condom and the towel into a pile that he would pick up later, but for now just wanted to be close to you.

“you were perfect.” he said, climbing into bed next to you, wrapping his body around yours.

“you’re bigger than I expected.” you chuckled nervously, hoping that you didn’t offend him.

“biggest one you’ve seen?”

“well the only one I’ve seen, though I guess I’m not opposed to seeing ruben dias—“

instinctively, he pulls you closer, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, while he uses the other hand to scroll through his calendar.

“I’m busy that day, I have a haircut.”

“your haircuts take about ten minutes, we could totally go out for dinner.” you scoff at his excuse and reach for his phone that he pulls away.

“who says I’m not cutting it all off?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you. for a second, you take him seriously, feeling your heart drop to your stomach, but his shit eating grin has you knowing he’d never do that to you without consulting you first.

“don’t even joke about that.” you say crawling into his lap and snatching the phone from his free hand and edit yourself into his calendar.

“okay so we see each other in two days, what about after that?” he asks watching you flip through social media and to your calendar that is full of erlings games, practices, training, etc. there were a few of your own appointments scattered in there, but you kept it light to be able to see your boyfriend as much as possible.

“how about next Monday?” you ask watching him tap on the date and find he had gym training and sponsor meetings all day.

“Tuesday?” he asks, his attention now to your screen as you quickly swip up on an unknown phone number text.

“ohh you got a new boyfriend?” he jokes now snatching your phone and finding the message, he taps on it to see a coworker had asked to meet you for coffee.

“ohh ‘maybe Nathan’ wants to have coffee on Monday, you’re free that day.” he chuckles starting to pretend type on your screen.

“I am not free that day! give me the phone back!” you try reaching for it, but erling is already standing up holding the phone in the air.

the only way to get the phone back was to jump up off the couch and climb his body. so naturally that’s what you did. you threw your arms around his neck and then your legs around his torso, “give it back!” you say just shy of his fingers, you use your legs to shimmy up and finally take hold of your device.

untangling your body from his—phone successfully in your hand— you see he hadn’t even typed anything at all. he was just pranking you.

“I’m not going out to see him.” you say slumping back down onto the couch and he did so beside you.

“well no shit.” he scoffs, throwing his arm over your shoulder again, he pulls you into his lap, “you climbing me like a koala proved that point.”

blushing, you nuzzle your face into his chest, “sorry.” you grumble, embarrassed.

“so what about Wednesday?” he asks changing the subject. he only had a light cardio training session booked, and would be free in the afternoon.

“I think I can do Wednesday. can I spend the night though?” you ask with pleading puppy dog eyes. he’d have a match the next day, and instead of taking the tube back to your place for a change of clothes, it was just easier to stay here and be closer to the stadium.

“sorry only people who aren’t going to coffee on Monday with ‘maybe Nathan’ can stay.”

you’d never told anyone about this problem. you thought maybe you just weren’t ever able to come, or maybe you needed someone to show you.

enter erling haaland, your boyfriend. he could get you wet with just his tip, but you didn’t dare tell him that even in the lonely nights of thinking about him with your hand or a toy, you couldn’t come.

it was embarrassing, at least well you thought it was embarrassing.

“it’s just a minor problem, I’m sure it’s nothing—“

“how bout I watch?” he suggested. it sounded completely harmless to have him sit in the corner of the bedroom and watch, but it still felt wrong.

“watch? isn’t that weird?”

“only if you make it weird.” he shrugged like it was nothing and then guided you up to the bedroom.

now here you were.

legs spread open, fingering yourself while your boyfriend watches. you thought of him and his body. the scratches he had down his back from your nails and the occasional ones from football. you thought about his large hands, and how he would finger you, but nothing could seem to get you bothered enough to come.

“you’re too stiff.” erling commented.

he came over onto the bed, his cold hand gently pressing your hips down an inch and widening your legs, “if you’re thinking of me, which I know you are, I’m much bigger than this.” he scoffed at your unconscious error.

he carefully guided a second one of your fingers in, “you’re not even close to your clit, that’s why.” he says it gently, in a way that wasn’t judging but helpful.

he carefully guides your fingers to the spot he knew well. a spot he could find with his eyes closed and been spun around several times.

he pumped your fingers slowly, so you could feel yourself actually tightening and the pleasure you should feel.

“fuck,” you whispered slowly taking over the rhythm, erling’s hand still on top of yours for guidance.

he could feel his own cock harden in his boxers. aching to be free at the scene of you coming undone to your own fingers.

“good isn’t it?” he asks, gently he removes his hand from yours, slipping his own finger in making it three, “you can take it.” he smiled down at you, your tits bouncing, your body aching to release.

“good girl,” he purred, feeling his own cock dripping in precum now, just you clamping around his finger was enough to send him to the moon.

“come, y/n.” he demanded and following his orders you yanked your own fingers out and allowed yourself the release. he didn’t remove his fingers until they were dripping in cum.

opening your eyes, you saw he had come undone with you. his grey sweatpants were yanked down, his boxers completely ruined.

“thanks for the help.”