haalandpie

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

It’s a subtle movement at first – almost imperceptible if you weren’t so attuned to the way his body moves. A slight shift of his hips, a rhythmic bounce in his step as he walks toward the dumbbell rack. 

He looks entirely focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he selects a pair of heavy weights, but his feet are moving to a tempo that doesn’t exist in the room. He takes a step, then a tiny, rhythmic pause, then another step, as if he’s walking through a crowded dance floor rather than a gym.

Then, you hear it. 

A low, melodic humming vibrating in his chest, a rhythmic humming that doesn’t match any of the workout music playing softly in the background. It’s a deep, guttural sound, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning, but it’s there; steady, pulsing, and hypnotic.

You pause, a dumbbell halfway to your shoulder, and blink. You look at him, your head tilting in confusion. 

Erling doesn’t notice you watching; he’s in his own world. He begins his set of bicep curls, his muscles bulging and veins popping under the strain of the weight, but as he exhales, his shoulders do a tiny, playful shimmy. 

It’s a micro-movement, a quick flick of his frame that is entirely too rhythmic for a strength exercise.

A small, confused smile tugs at your lips. You’ve known Erling for a long time, and while he has his quirks – his obsession with sleep hygiene, his specific dietary rituals – he isn’t exactly known for spontaneous, subtle dance breaks whilst working out.

“Erling?” You call out, your voice echoing slightly in the room.

He jumps slightly, his blue eyes snapping to yours. He stops mid-sway, looking like a giant golden retriever caught stealing a treat. A soft, sheepish flush creeps up his neck, contrasting with the pale skin of his chest, which is already glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

“Ja, elsker?” He asks, his voice a low, gentle rumble that always seems to vibrate right through you.

’Yes, my love?’, you translate mentally, feeling that familiar flutter in your stomach. He always uses those Norwegian endearments when he’s feeling particularly soft, and right now, he looks like the softest thing on the planet despite his intimidating size.

“What was that?” You ask, gesturing to his hips and the way he’d been stepping. “Were you... dancing? Just now?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, his large hand covers most of his nape. He gives you a shy, lopsided grin, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle and makes him look far younger than the world-class athlete he is. “I... I have a song. In my head. It will not leave.”

You giggle, the sound bright and airy, breaking the tension of the workout. “A song? Since when do you get earworms?”

"Since this morning," he admits, stepping closer to you. 

He doesn’t just walk. Rather, he glides, his movements fluid despite his massive frame. 

Even now, as he approaches, you notice it again: the way he times his steps. Step, pause, step-step. He’s still doing it, even while talking to you. 

Stopping just inches from you, the heat radiates off his body like a furnace, smelling of salt and something akin to pine. Erling reaches out, his large fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is incredibly light, a stark contrast to the power he possesses. 

“It is very... catchy. I cannot stop it.”

“Well, let me hear it.” You challenge, crossing your arms over your chest, a playful glint in your eyes.

Erling hesitates. He looks around the gym as if checking for an audience, even though it’s just the two of you in the privacy of your home.

“I must show you.” He decides, his voice filled with a sudden, gentle urgency. 

He lets go of your waist, but only to grab his phone from the charging dock. He scrolls through a playlist with focused intensity, his tongue poking out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration, a habit he has when he’s really trying to find something specific.

“Found it!” He announces.

He hits play, and suddenly, the quiet hum of the gym is obliterated. 

A heavy, pulsing electronic beat blasts through the speakers, a high-energy club track with a deep, vibrating bass and a shimmering synth lead. It’s loud, it’s unapologetically dancey, and it’s completely opposite to Erling’s quiet, soft-spoken demeanor.

You burst into a fit of giggles, leaning back against the weight bench for support.

He laughs, a soft, huffing sound, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He finds your amusement endearing, and it only encourages him. 

Moving into your space, his large hands find your waist. He doesn’t pull you hard, he just holds you: his touch grounding and affectionate, his palms warm against the fabric of your gym gear.

“Is it funny, vennen?” He murmurs, using the nickname that he loves to use when he’s teasing you.

“It’s very funny!” You gasp, looking up at him.

He grins, his expression purely playful. “But you have to admit the song is good, no?”

It’s subtle, but he begins to move again. 

Swaying his hips in an exaggerated manner, he guides you to move with him. He doesn’t force you, but he creates a rhythmic pull, a gentle invitation to join the beat that only he can hear. 

The contrast is staggering: his massive, muscular frame moving with a surprising, measured grace, while you are tucked securely against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heart against your chest.

You can’t stop laughing, your head resting against his shoulder. “I have no idea what song this is, but you’re absolutely obsessed.”

“Now you see!” He exclaims over the music, his face lit up with a genuine, childish joy. “This is the one! It is so good, min skatt!”

Trying to lead you in a dance, he’s attempting to show you the “correct” way to move to the beat. He tries to guide your hips, his large hands steady on your waist, but as he does a particularly earnest little side-step and a shoulder pop, you lose it. 

You burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, doubling over and clutching your stomach. The image of this towering, powerful man trying to teach you a club dance in a gym is simply too much.

“I can’t! Erling, stop!” You shriek through your laughter. “You’re too cute! I can’t take this seriously!”

He stops, looking at you with a mix of confusion and amusement. Beaming at you, his love for you radiates from his body rather than being offended. Pulling you back into his chest, he wraps his arms around you in a crushing, affectionate hug, lifting you off your feet entirely. 

You squeal with laughter, your arms wrapped around his thick neck, your face pressed into the crook of his shoulder where he smells like salt and expensive cologne.

He sets you down gently, but he doesn’t let go. He keeps his arms looped around your waist, pulling your back against his chest. His breath is warm against your neck as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Do you like it?” He asks softly, the music still pounding around you, but his tone remains that gentle, soothing rumble.

“I love it.” You admit, leaning your head back against him. “Mostly because it makes you act like this.”

In return, he chuckles, the vibration echoing through your spine. Then, he begins to sway again, a slow, rhythmic movement that feels more like a dance and less like a workout. He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, his lips soft and lingering, treating you with a tenderness that seems impossible given his strength.

“I like it when you laugh.” He whispers. “It’s the best sound in the house.”

You turn around in his arms, looping your arms around his neck and looking up into those clear blue eyes. The playfulness is still there, but it’s layered with a deep, unwavering affection. 

Erling might be a giant on the pitch, a force of nature that intimidates defenders, but here, in the quiet of your home, he is just your Erling: the man who hums club songs and calls you his love.

“We’re supposed to be working out.” You remind him, though you make no move to leave his embrace.

“The dancing is a workout,” he counters with a cheeky grin, “cardio, ja?"

You laugh and shake your head, pulling him down for a slow, sweet kiss.

As your lips meet, the heavy beat of the song continues to pulse in the background, but for a moment, the only thing you can feel is the warmth of his body and the gentle, steady beat of his heart, perfectly in sync with yours.

a/n: what a cutie...

In the doorway, he looked less like a superstar and more like a ghost. 

He was wearing a plain grey hoodie, the hood pulled up despite the warmth of the July evening. A single duffel bag hung from his hand. His face was half in shadow, but you could see the pallor of his skin, the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the tight line of his jaw working constantly.

He didn't move. He just stood there, staring at the floor.

“Erling…”

At the sound of your voice, he flinched. A tiny movement, barely perceptible, but it cut you to the core.

“Hei.” He finally spoke up. The word was a croak, and he cleared his throat; swallowed hard. “Hei, jenta mi.”

“Come here.” You cooed.

He dropped the bag, and it hit the floor with a heavy, final thud. Then he was moving, crossing the foyer in three long, desperate strides. 

He didn't stop until he crashed into you, his huge arms wrapping around you and pulling you so tight against his chest that your feet left the ground.

Burying his face in the curve of your neck, you felt his whole body shake. 

He was crying – making these terrible, quiet, hitching sounds that were nothing like the man you knew: the man who celebrated goals with a savage roar; the man who laughed loudly and easily, who filled every room with his presence.

“Hey, hey…” You whispered into his hair, trying your best to comfort the giant who had awkwardly folded himself into your hold. “I've got you, Erl... I’m here.”

He didn't speak. He just held you, stumbling backward through the living room until his knees hit the edge of the sofa and he fell onto it, pulling you with him. 

Erling arranged you on his lap, his movements urgent and clumsy, until you were straddling his hips, your body pressed flush against his, your arms around his neck.

He pulled your head down, burying his face against your chest. His fingers clutched the fabric of your shirt at your back, gripping it like it was a lifeline he was terrified of losing.

You could feel the slight dampness of his skin; he had been stressing, his mind clearly still trapped in that stadium in the States. 

He didn't admit that he felt like he'd let down his entire country; didn't admit that the guilt was eating him alive. Instead, he just clung to you, seeking the only sanctuary where he was just himself.

For the next few hours, this became your world. 

The sunlight shifted across the floor, the city of Manchester humming outside the windows, but inside, there was only the sound of Erling’s steady heartbeat and the soft friction of your clothes. 

Every time you tried to shift to get a better angle, his arms would tighten, and he’d let out a small, discontented noise in the back of his throat.

“You're so needy today,” you teased gently, rubbing your hand up and down his spine.

“’M not.” He murmured, though he responded by nuzzling deeper into your shoulder, his nose brushing against your skin. “Lille due, just stay. Please.”

The way he said it – the soft, pleading tone – made your heart ache. He was so rarely this vulnerable. To the world, he was an unstoppable force of nature, a man of steel and precision. 

But here, in the privacy of your home, he was soft and sulky and yours.

As the afternoon wore on, the hunger finally started to set in. You had barely eaten since he arrived, and you knew he hadn't had a proper meal in days, surviving on tournament catering and stress.

“Erling, honey, I'm gonna get up and make us some dinner. Or maybe I'll run down to the shop and get those snacks you like?”

The reaction was instantaneous. He didn't let go; instead, he shifted his weight, effectively pinning you further into the cushions. He let out a soft, annoyed groan, his forehead resting against yours.

“No.” He whispered.

“No? But we need to eat, baby.”

“Don't go…” He muttered, his voice taking on that mildly pissy edge. 

He wasn't angry – he could never be truly angry with you – but he was stubborn. He was in a sulk, and the idea of you leaving the immediate radius of his body was unacceptable. “Stay here. I don't want food. I want you.”

You giggled, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “You can't live on cuddles alone, Erling. Just five minutes, ‘nd I'll be right back.”

He let out a huff, his brows knitting together in a pout. He looked genuinely offended by the suggestion that you would leave the sofa. He didn't yell or argue – he just became a heavy, immovable weight. 

He shifted his leg, draping it over yours, locking you in.

“Five minutes is too long.” He grumbled, his voice muffled against your neck.

“You are being so dramatic!” You laughed, kissing his cheek.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes wide and swimming with a mixture of sadness and longing. “I just... I don't want to be alone right now. Everything is too loud in my head. When I'm holding you, it's quiet.”

The pout vanished, replaced by a raw honesty that stopped your heart. The guilt of that foul was still there, a ghost haunting him, and you were the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Your heart melted, and you stopped struggling. You sank back into him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck.

“Okay,” you conceded, “I'm not going anywhere. We can just stay here, and I’ll look for something to order, yeah?"

A small, triumphant smile touched his lips. He let out a contented hum, pulling you back into the cocoon of his arms. “Good idea, min skatt.”

For the rest of the evening, Erling remained in his state of clingy bliss. He was a gentleman in every sense – he made sure you were comfortable, he adjusted the pillows beneath you, and he spoke to you in those low, melodic tones that always made you feel safe – but he was also completely possessive of your time.

When the food arrived, he barely let you walk to the door to retrieve it. 

He’d practically trailed behind you, his hand resting on the small of your back, his presence looming and protective. The moment the bags were on the table, he guided you back to the sofa, insisting that you eat together, huddled under a massive wool blanket.

As you ate, you tried to bring up the game, thinking that perhaps talking through it would help him move past the guilt.

“You know, Erl, the fans still love you. One mistake doesn't erase everything you did for the team this tournament.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The softness remained, but the melancholy returned with a vengeance. He stopped chewing, his gaze dropping to his plate. 

He didn't snap at you, but he became quiet: that heavy, oppressive silence that signaled he was spiraling back into his own head.

“It was a stupid foul.” He huffed, his voice devoid of its usual confidence. “I gave it away. I cost us.”

“You didn't cost us, the game is a team effort—”

“I did.” He interrupted softly, his lip curling into that characteristic pout. He shifted away from you just a fraction, a sign of his internal distress.

Seeing him withdraw was worse than the clinginess. You immediately dropped your food and slid across the sofa, throwing yourself back into his space. You grabbed his face in both your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Look at me, Erling. You are one of – if not the – best strikers in the world. You are a hero to those kids in Norway. One penalty in a World Cup quarter-final doesn't change that. You're human, love. You’re gonna make mistakes”

He searched your eyes, his expression crumbling. The wall of the 'professional athlete' finally broke, and he leaned forward, burying his face in your chest and letting out a shaky breath that sounded almost like a sob. 

He didn't cry again – he was too stubborn for that – but he clung to you with a strength that would have been frightening if it weren't so full of love.

“I just wanted to win for you,” he admitted into your skin. “I wanted to come home with the trophy so I could give it to you.”

You felt a tear prick your eye. He was so incredibly soft, so deeply devoted. He had carried the weight of a nation on his shoulders, and in his mind, he had failed not just them, but you.

“I don't want a trophy, you big idiot.” You objected, stroking the back of his blonde hair. “I just want you. I want the man who cuddles me like a koala and pouts when I go to the kitchen. That's the only prize I care about.”

He let out a small, wet chuckle, his chest heaving against you. 

He pulled back, his eyes shimmering, and pressed a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but one of profound gratitude and relief. He tasted like the salt of his skin and the sweetness of the home he had finally found again.

As the night deepened, the mopiness evolved into a heavy, sleepy contentment. 

Having refused to let you go to the bedroom,  Erling insisted that you both sleep on the sofa. He wrapped himself around you, his large body acting as a living heater, shielding you from the world.

“I love you, lille due.” He murmured, his voice trailing off as sleep began to claim him.

“I love you too, Erling.”

He let out one last, satisfied sigh, his grip tightening just a little more, as if making sure you were still there. 

On the pitch, he was a warrior, but here, in the quiet of the night, he was just your big, cuddly boyfriend, and you wouldn't have had it any other way.

a/n: first post on this account kinda nervous sweats