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"You didn't want to weigh in on the dosage of tramadol?" Remus teases. He begins typing whatever information James has given them into a computer. When James reaches for something, his hand is lightly smacked away. "Don't. You're off the clock."

James looks hurt. "You don't have to tattle if I do a couple of things."

"It'll be a whole load of paperwork if someone finds out, though."

"I want to help."

"Then comfort her, idiot."

James sulks in Remus' direction, but his look turns more content as he sits on the bench beside you. Remus spares a moment to kiss James' head as he goes by.

James perks up even more. "What can I do to make you feel better, lovely?"

You shrug. You're sweating, shaking a bit, and you keep repressing waves of nausea. You can't really picture your situation improving at the moment. "I don't know. It's not so bad."

Sirius makes a poorly-smothered scoffing sound. James' expression pinches.

"You're a good sport," he says, "but your tibia is sticking out."

"I think you could probably feel a bit better," Sirius agrees. He lifts the dishrag James placed over your leg carefully.

You bite down hard on your tongue.

"That's stopping the bleeding," James protests.

Sirius hums. "Dressing will be better."

"Dove." You and James both turn to Remus, who taps your jaw. His eyes are narrowed sternly. "Stop hurting yourself."

Slowly, you force yourself to unclench. Your tongue bleeds an acrid taste into your mouth.

James frowns, his brows hooking as he takes your hand. "Yeah, don't do that, angel. You can squeeze my hand if you need to, okay?"

If you weren't already overheated from the effort of bearing such awful sensation, you think the embarrassment would warm you. "Sorry," you manage. Putting extra focus into keeping your expression locked down.

"You don't have to be sorry." James' voice is gentle. "Just try to relax, if you can. It's okay to make sounds if you need to, too, you don't have to be quiet."

You don't have anything to say to that. Relaxing feels impossible. You can hardly think.

"Alright, I'm going to have to make these snug," Sirius warns you, unspooling bandages over the dressing he's placed around your wound. "I'll try to be quick."

Your head goes to static as he puts pressure around the excruciation of your leg, every alarm in your nervous system blaring urgently. You focus on keeping your jaw unclenched as James coaches you through deep breaths, and you try not to feel sickeningly condescended to. Your eyes well.

"That's it," Sirius promises when he's done. "That's it, baby. That's the worst part for now."

"And the worst part you won't be on pain meds for." Remus bends to kiss your head. "Well done."

You try to subtly blink the tears from your eyes.

"You know," Sirius says conversationally, putting away his supplies, "there's a reason we haven't asked you to rate your pain."

You look at him helplessly.

His brows lift. "Do you want to know why?"

You swallow, praying your voice comes out normal. "Okay."

"It's because," he says, a bit more softly, "we already know it fucking sucks when you have this kind of injury. You're in a lot of pain. That's obvious whether you put on a brave face or not."

You swallow again, harder. "I don't want to stress you guys out."

James laughs. "Sorry," he says, smiling sheepishly when you look. "That's really sweet, but you're not going to stress us out. We see people in pain fairly often. I promise we won't freak out on you."

"Not that we don't hate seeing you in pain," Sirius adds. "But—baby, you don't need to be more worried about us than what you're feeling. That's too much, especially right now."

"When I'd bet you're feeling a lot," agrees James.

You take a breath. It wavers some on the exhale, and Remus finally finishes with the computer, reaching down to hold your cheek.

"You're alright," he tells you. Something about his tone—the compassion in it, or the intimacy, or maybe it's his hand on your face—brings your tears closer to the surface. James makes a sad noise and kisses your cheek consolingly. "I'm going to go up to the driver's seat now, but all you have to do from now on is relax. Sirius, hold the proximal and distal joints while we're moving."

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."

"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.

you couldn't help the blush that crept onto your cheeks as you watched him jog towards his teammates, still smiling to himself after spotting you in the crowd.

"i think you're confusing obsessed with affectionate.” you replied, trying your best to sound nonchalant despite the warmth spreading through your chest.

"no, i'm definitely not." she teased back.

the music echoed around the stadium moments later, signalling for the players to make their way back onto the pitch, and soon the norwegian national anthem was ringing out around the packed stadium. you felt a familiar wave of pride wash over you whilst watching erling stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the norway squad, his eyes fixed ahead as he sang every word.

the first half seemed to fly by, the atmosphere inside the stadium unlike anything you had ever experienced before. the fans cheered every tackle, every save and every attack, leaving you barely sitting down for more than a few seconds at a time before you were back on your feet applauding another chance.

when the referee blew the whistle signalling half time, you followed the rest of the players' families and friends into the hospitality lounge beneath the stands, smiling politely at familiar faces as people chatted excitedly about the first half whilst helping themselves to coffee and snacks.

you made your way over to the refreshments table, and as you reached for one of the bottles of water , a voice beside you pulled your attention away.

"good game so far, isn't it?"

you turned your head and were met with an easy smile from a man who looked around your age. he didn’t look familiar and he was dressed very smartly, so you assumed he was probably one of the many guests invited into the hospitality suite for the afternoon. he wasn’t much taller than you with mousey brown hair, dark eyes and an american accent.

“yeah, it’s been really good.” you smiled politely. 

“my name’s liam.” he introduced himself before explaining that his father worked high up for one of the sponsors. it was very evident that he expected you to have been impressed by this which made you internally roll your eyes, but you did your best to remain polite. you didn’t want any rumours to circulate that erling’s girlfriend had been rude to the sponsors’ family.

liam effortlessly struck up a conversation as though the two of you had known each other for years, asking whether you had caught many of norway’s matches and if you were enjoying the world cup so far. 

despite giving off the impression of someone who had grown up getting everything they had ever asked for, the conversation was pleasant enough, and you answered politely, keeping your reponses short and sweet in the hope that it would naturally come to an end, not thinking too much of it until his questions gradually began to venture into more personal territory.

"so," he smiled, taking a sip of his own drink, "who've you come here with today?"

oh, now this could be fun, you thought.

"my boyfriend.” you answered confidently.

"oh yeah?" he asked, glancing around the room. "where is he then?"

you couldn't help but smile to yourself as you nodded towards the pitch beyond the glass windows.

"he's just warming back up."

liam followed the direction of your finger before looking back at you with an amused expression.

"no, seriously."

you laughed softly, almost a bit offended that he hadn’t immediately believed you.

"i am being serious.” you replied a matter of factly. 

liam frowned slightly. "which one is he?"

your smile widened as your eyes immediately found the familiar blond ponytail jogging across the pitch.

"number nine."

for a few seconds liam simply stared out towards the players before looking back at you with an expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

"you're telling me your boyfriend is erling haaland?"

you nodded, smugness filling your entire body. “that’s him.”

liam let out a surprised deep chuckle, quickly rubbing at the back of his neck.

“well... i have to be honest, i wasn't expecting that."

you smiled politely, assuming that would be the end of the conversation as you grabbed your water bottle. before you had the chance to excuse yourself, liam spoke up again.

"guess you can't blame me for trying, right?” his tone was light hearted enough that you simply laughed awkwardly.

you offered him a small smile out of pity, hoping the conversation would definitely be over now he knew you weren't only in a relationship, but that your boyfriend was currently out on the pitch preparing to play the second half of one of the biggest matches of his career.

noticing that people had already started making their way back towards the seating area as the players began to reappear from the tunnel, you tried to excuse yourself.

"i should probably head back out now.” you smiled politely, taking a small step backwards. 

"wait," he said quickly, taking a step after you. "there's a big event after the game for some of the sponsors and guests. you should come."

you offered him an apologetic smile. "that's kind of you, but i'll be spending the evening with erling."

"bring him then.” he suggested, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"i don't think he'll be too interested.” the last thing erling would want to do after kicking off his world cup tournament was hanging out with some wannabe schmoozers.

"then just come for one drink. by yourself.” liam suggested and at this point, you were getting a little fed up of how persistent he was being.

you did your very best to remain calm. "i'm alright, thank you.”

he nodded, although it was clear from the expression on his face that he wasn't quite ready to leave it there.

"another time then.” he spoke confidently, not willing to just admit defeat. that would’ve clearly damaged his ego too much.

you gave a small shake of your head. "i don't think so."

"why not?” he asked and his arrogance was beginning to outstand you.

you blinked slightly, surprised that he had asked the question so openly. "because i've got a boyfriend." you reminded him.

"yeah," he replied with a grin, "but surely you're allowed friends."

you shifted your weight slightly, your smile becoming a little more forced than before.

"i don't really think erling would appreciate me going out for drinks with another man."

he laughed as though you'd made a joke.

"he never has to know.” your heart sank ever so slightly as his suggestion. from your first date with erling, he treated you with the upmost respect. he was a true modern day gentlemen; opening car doors for you, ensuring you always had what you wanted, looking after you when you were ill, but also loving how you were able to speak up and stick up for yourself when needed. it was evident early on in your relationship that he was the one for you, and the idea of so much as looking at another man quite frankly repulsed you.

"i'm going to go and find my friends before the second half starts.” you simply replied, ready to walk away now even if it did mean you were called rude.

"hey," he called after you as you began to turn away.

you glanced back over your shoulder.

"if you ever change your mind..."

you simply smiled politely.

"i won't."

without waiting for another response, you made your way across the hospitality suite towards a couple of your girl friends, feeling yourself breathe out a quiet sigh of relief as soon as you reached your familiar group.

you mumbled a quick hello to them as you settled back into your padded seat. you couldn't help yourself from glancing down towards the pitch as erling emerged from the tunnel alongside his teammates, completely unaware of what had happened during the break as he jogged back into position, and the second his eyes found yours amongst the crowd once again, he offered you that same boyish smile from before kick-off along with a small wave, making your heart soften despite everything.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

the final whistle was met with an eruption of cheers as norway secured a deserved 3-1 victory, two goals curtosey of erling.

by the time you and erling had had some dinner and finally made it back to the hotel, it was several hours later and both of you were exhausted.  

you quietly closed the bedroom door behind you before slipping your shoes off by the entrance, letting out a content sigh as the silence of the hotel room replaced the constant noise that had surrounded you for the entire afternoon and evening.

“do you want me to run you a bath, baby?” erling asked and you smiled, your routine from home following you to america. 

you disappeared into the bathroom, having some time to think about the day’s events, but mostly how proud you were of erling for performing so well in such an important game. he hadn’t let the pressure get to him, and you were sure you were the prouder girlfriend to ever exist in that moment.

after a while of relaxing and soaking in the bubble bath that erling had prepared for you, you reappeared wearing one of your favourite t-shirts that was previously erling’s but had long been claimed by yourself. you padded barefoot across the room towards the bed where he was already lying against the headboard, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweats signalling he was ready for bed. he was scrolling absent-mindedly through messages from teammates and family congratulating him on the result.

he instantly smiled seeing you join him on the bed, his heart beaming as he took in your appearance, makeup removed, natural damp hair and wearing only his clothes. he would never tire of the sight.

you got settled onto the mattress beside him, pulling the duvet up to cover both of your legs as you picked up the tv remote and flicked through the channels. after just a few moments you found yourself glancing across at erling.

"you'll never guess what happened at half-time."

he looked up immediately, an intrigued look on his face. “what, baby?”

“this guy was trying to chat me up at half time.” you sniggered a little at the memory, as though the idea of another man trying to chat you up was laughable. you were so committed to erling.

erling immediately locked his phone and placed it onto the bedside table, his eyebrows furrowing and a stern look appearing on his face at the mention of a guy bothering you.

"he was fine to begin with," you continued, absent-mindedly playing with one of the loose threads on the duvet. "then he started asking who i'd come with."

erling's expression became a little amused, already picturing the look on this loser’s face when his beautiful girlfriend told him she was taken, let alone who by.

"i told him my boyfriend had brought me and he asked where you were."

that made the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. "what did you say?” he asked, leaning back slightly agains the headboard more amused than before.

"i pointed out onto the pitch.” 

erling grinned at that, chuckling lowly. "and?"

"he thought i was joking.” you said, your voice showing that you weren’t sure if you should’ve been offended.

a little laugh escaped erling. "did he?"

“mhm." you couldn't help smiling as you remembered the look on the young man's face. “i did enjoy the look on his face when i pointed to you.” you laughed recalling the memory.

erling let out a proper laugh at that, shaking his head to himself. "i wish i'd seen his face."

you giggled, "it was priceless."

his smile lingered as he reached across to gently tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. "bet that shut him up."

you hesitated ever so slightly, debating whether to just leave it there, but you decided not to. you and erling had no secrets.

"...not exactly."

the smile slowly faded from his face. "what do you mean?” his bright eyes searched yours.

you shrugged. "he asked me if id like to go for a drink with him even after i told him about you.”

erling frowned, and the room seemed noticeably quieter now.

“i obviously said no.”

erling was looking at you properly now, his heart breaking at this loser potentially making his girl feel uncomfortable whilst he oblivious to this going on.

"he said it was only a drink and that you didn't have to know.” you continued and for a second, erling didn't say anything at all.

he simply looked at you, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“he knew you were my boyfriend. i told him twice.”

erling paused before speaking up, trying to keep his anger at bay. he wanted to direct it to this guy, and he didn’t want you to think he was getting angry with you.

"should've been enough the first time.” he mumbled angrily and your heart melted.

you reached over, resting your hand against his forearm.

"erl, honestly, it's okay."

he looked down at where your fingers rested against his skin before meeting your eyes again.

"was he making you uncomfortable?"

you thought about it for a moment. "a little."

that was all it took.

without saying another word, erling reached for you, his hands settling gently around your waist as he guided you across the mattress until you were sitting sideways on his lap, his arms wrapping around you almost instinctively before pulling you firmly against his bare chest.

"erling..." you laughed softly.

he simply buried his face into your shoulder. “don't say it’s fine when it’s not.”

you smiled to yourself, your arms naturally finding their way around his neck as you stroked your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"i'm okay, i promise. he was just so persistent it was annoying.”

he tightened his arms around you ever so slightly, the embrace somehow becoming even more secure as though every protective instinct inside him had quietly taken over, leaving you almost completely cocooned against his broad chest.

after a few moments, he shifted the two of you further up the bed until he was lying back against the pillows with you tucked comfortably into his side, one of his arms beneath your shoulders whilst the other remained firmly around your waist, keeping you so close that there wasn't even the smallest gap between your bodies.

"comfortable?" you teased, smiling to yourself as you realised there was absolutely no chance of escaping his grip.

he simply hummed. “very."

you laughed quietly, attempting to readjust your body slightly. "i can't move."

"good." he replied.

"you're squashing me." you half complained but really, you loved it. you never felt safer than being all wrapped up in his arms, even if that did mean struggling to breathe.

he loosened his hold by the tiniest amount before immediately pulling you straight back against him again, pressing a kiss into the top of your head as he intertwined his fingers with yours beneath the duvet.

"better?"

"not really." you spoke, sarcasm clear in your voice as you exaggerated a little sigh.

"good."

you couldn't help but laugh as you felt him smile into your hair, his fingers absent mindedly rubbing slow circles against your side whilst the steady rise and fall of his chest gradually lulled the room into a comfortable silence.

"you're being very clingy."

he shrugged against you. “i’m allowed."

"are you?" you glanced up at him, his eyes now closed. he just mumbled in agreement. “why?"

he was quiet for a moment before kissing your forehead. “because i spent ninety minutes on a football pitch today."

you looked up at him. “and?"

"and whilst i was out there..." he murmured, gently brushing his thumb across your waist, "...some idiot wouldn't take no for an answer."

you smiled softly before nestling yourself impossibly closer, earning another content little squeeze from the giant norwegian wrapped around you.

"i only want you.” you replied and he tutted, hating the idea of you thinking you had to defend yourself to him all because some guy wouldn’t leave you alone.

“i know baby, and i only want you. forever.”

"Well…" Sirius passes off the two drinks and starts on a pint. "What did you think of the one you had last time?"

Your eyes blink wide. "I, um. It was good. I don't remember what it was called…"

"Mojito," he supplies. A customer down the bar calls for his attention, and Sirius slides a napkin to you, his fingertips touching yours briefly. "Sorry, lovely, can you excuse me for just a minute? I promise not to forget you."

He gets that customer's order and a few others, pouring some shots quickly to quell the urgency surrounding the bar for a little while. While he darts around, Sirius is conscious of the feeling of your eyes following him, like a shiver held at the base of his spine.

"So," he says when he circles back, "what'd you think of it? The mojito."

You make a sound like a puff of air turned to a laugh. "I can't believe you remember that." Sirius raises an eyebrow at you while he pours vodka into a shaker, and you go on almost shyly, "You must serve so many people every night."

"You remember certain faces."

And Sirius remembers yours. He thinks of it as his right, after putting up with so much shit from customers, to pay the pretty ones a bit of extra attention. You came in first a couple of weeks ago. Since then, you've been back fairly regularly, though usually with various other friends. This is the first time Sirius has seen you here alone.

"You can tell me if you didn't like the mojito," he says, looking you in your eyes. Indulging in a private delight at the way your lashes flicker when you have his full attention. "I won't take it personally, promise. We can make you something else."

Honestly, Sirius hopes you didn't like it. Mojitos are a bitch to make. He'd do it again for you, though.

"No," you say, "I liked it. I'd have another, if—only if it's not too much trouble."

"None at all," Sirius lies, and gets out the muddler.

"Thanks," you say, with enough quiet sweetness to make him happy to do it.

He finishes the drink he was making, delivering it to its customer and starting on yours. You watch his wrist twist as he muddles mint in the bottom of a clean shaker. Sirius flicks his eyes up, and yours move away quickly.

"You don't seem like a barfly," he says.

"Oh?" You lean closer as if to hear him better. "I don't know, what makes someone a barfly?"

"Hours logged, I reckon. Gotta do at least ten a week."

Your eyebrows fly up. "Ten?"

"Ten's really on the low end."

"Oh—then, yeah. I guess I'm not one."

Sirius snickers. No shit—you don't even know what a mojito is. "You've been coming around a fair amount, though."

You hear the question he isn't asking. Your bottom lip dents sheepishly. "I just like it here, I guess."

The shiver chooses this moment to zip up Sirius' spine, the feeling tingling all the way to his fingertips. Despite your obvious bashfulness, you hold his gaze across the bar. He almost spills simple syrup on the counter.

"It seems like you're always here," you say after a moment.

"Well, I actually work here," Sirius tells you.

You smile. "I mean that you're here every time I've come in. Do you work every night?"

"From five to two," he confirms. Your smile dims a bit, and Sirius feels himself frown in response. He sets your drink on the bar. "Try that for me, lovely."

You pull the straw towards you dutifully and take a sip. The soft breath you let out after does something funny to his knees. "That's really good, thank you."

"Yeah? It's okay? We can try something else if you like."

"No, it's perfect. I think this is my favorite." Well, Sirius has done it now; he owes an apology to all other bartenders you encounter. But you smile at him again, your eyes crinkling endearingly, and fuck all other bartenders, actually. Sirius will get out the muddler for you as often as you like. "Thanks very much."

"You're very welcome," he tells you. Sincerely, though not without a heavy dose of flirting. Your lashes kiss at the corners. "I do work every night, but that means I'm free during the day. I like coffee."

Your voice softens as though you're trading secrets. "You do?"

"I do."

"There's a coffee shop I like down the street from here. Would you want to go sometime?"

Sirius grins. "Would you be there, too?"

"Um. Hopefully."