request: I’ve been thinking about Haaland’s hands recently, right? They’re big, strong, calloused from training and exercising, and they’re so big that when he holds your hand yours just kinda disappears in it. So what about him with and a reader who has a bit of a choking kink? And his hands are so big they almost close completely around her neck?
warnings: nsfw! choking resulting in bruising but not legitimately restrictive, fingering (f recieving), edging, size kink, dom/sub dynamic, and also just a sprinkling of sweet aftercare
pairing: erling haaland x fem!reader
word count: 4340
notes: hi i'm still obsessed with him and his big ass, need him so badly also requests are open get as freaky as you'd like plz , not proof read
erling haaland always fills a room before you even see him—his presence, the weight of him, the way his laughter rumbles down the hall and makes the pictures on the wall vibrate slightly in their frames. that evening, the door clicks open and you catch that first heady scent: grass stains, clean sweat, the sharpness of deodorant mixed with something earthy and boyish, as if the whole football pitch clings to him.
he drops his keys in the bowl by the door, kicks off his trainers, and pads toward you, hair still damp at the ends, tied back but messy, golden as ever. you’re already curled on the couch, knees hugged to your chest, pretending to read a book but your eyes keep flicking to the clock, to the window, to the spot where he’ll inevitably stand towering, broad, impossibly big.
he catches you looking, a slow, knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “miss me?” he asks, voice soft and teasing, and you can’t help the way your body responds just to that—a flutter low in your belly, a tingle between your thighs. all you can do is nod, a little too eager, a little too obvious. he just hums, dropping down next to you, stretching his long legs out until his feet almost brush the end of the coffee table. one arm slips around your waist, pulling you in, and when he threads his fingers through yours, your hand vanishes inside his, swallowed completely. his skin is rough, calloused from gripping weights and handles and footballs; his knuckles are scuffed, and when he squeezes gently, you feel small and delicate, fragile in a way you never are with anyone else.
you glance at his hands, and you think about how they can palm your whole face, how they settle on the small of your back and bracket your hips with such easy confidence. “why’re you staring at me like that, love?” he teases, voice a low burr. you squirm, embarrassed, but he just laughs, pressing a kiss into your hair. “i need a shower, sweetheart. i’m disgusting.” he stands, stretching, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of hard, muscled stomach. “give me ten minutes, yeah?”
you watch him go, the heavy stride, the way he ducks his head instinctively through every doorway. the bathroom door clicks shut, the sound of water thunders through the pipes, and you try to wait, you really do. but the seconds drag, your skin prickles with anticipation, and your body aches with need. you want him, need him, the way only he can give himself to you—overwhelming and gentle, sweetly condescending, hands everywhere.
after five minutes you can’t take it. you slip out of your clothes, tiptoe to the bathroom, and slide the door open just enough to let out a curl of steam. he’s under the spray, head tipped back, water sluicing down the thick line of his neck, shoulders bunched and glistening. for a second you just look: the sheer size of him, the long expanse of his torso, the way his arms flex as he runs his fingers through his hair. you step in behind him, water hitting your skin in hot, heavy drops, and he startles, just a little, then turns, a smile blooming as his gaze rakes down your naked body.
“couldn’t wait, huh?” he murmurs, stepping aside to make room, though the shower suddenly feels much too small with all of him filling the space. he reaches for you, pulling you into his chest, slick and burning with heat, and his hands cup your hips, thumbs pressing slow, possessive circles. the air is thick with steam and the scent of him, and when he leans down, his mouth brushes your temple, his voice a gentle hum. “so needy tonight…”
you shiver at the sound, at the press of his body, at the way his hands bracket your waist, their size alone making you feel helpless. his palm drifts up your side, fingers trailing over your ribs, then higher, curving around your throat—so easily, so naturally, his thumb settling against your pulse. you look up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, and he smiles, all soft confidence, fondness and control.
he strokes your neck, his hand almost engulfing it, his grip careful but so solid you feel instantly pinned in place. “like this, don’t you?” he says, not quite a question, his voice a low, indulgent purr.
your answer is a breathy whimper, your body arching into his touch, your fingers curling around his wrist. he tightens just a little, just enough pressure to make your head spin, to make your breath catch and your thighs tremble. the contrast between his gentle smile and the strength in his grip makes your heart pound, makes your skin twitch with need.
the water thunders over both of you, steam curling up, everything heavy and hot. his palm stays firm around your throat—so gentle it aches, yet so unyielding you feel like you’re hanging in his grasp, suspended between the slippery tiles and his massive frame. he’s not even really looking at you, not with that usual burning focus; instead, he hums, low and idle, the vibration rumbling against your cheek as he reaches for the bottle of shampoo, his other hand never leaving your neck.
you whimper, shifting on your toes, the press of his big hand making your pulse race. he just lets out a soft, indulgent “mmm,” as if you’re a song he can’t get out of his head, and tips your chin a little higher with his fingers, watching your eyelids flutter. the pads of his calloused thumb and forefinger stroke lazily over the sensitive skin, making you feel impossibly tiny, breakable, his to play with.
he lathers shampoo into his hair with his free hand, biceps flexing, his body a living wall at your back. even when he’s only half-focused on you, you feel completely overpowered, bracketed by his arm, the breadth of his chest crowding the shower, every inch of you pinned between the tiles and him. you squirm, thighs clenching, but he just clicks his tongue, a gentle warning, and tightens his grip a fraction, not enough to hurt, just enough to steal a gasp from you.
the water sluices white suds down his neck, across his broad shoulders, and you watch, mesmerized, as he scrubs, humming tunelessly, fingers never easing from your throat. when you twist, desperate for more, he smiles down at you, all fondness and soft, knowing cruelty.
“easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a hush, “i’m not done yet.” he turns you with a nudge, big hands guiding you until your back is pressed flush to his chest, his arm looping around from behind, forearm locking you tight against him. his palm stays at your throat, the pressure achingly possessive, thumb stroking thoughtfully along your jawline. you can feel every inch of him—hard muscle, slick heat, the outline of his cock thick and heavy against your lower back.
he leans down, breath warm at your ear, and hums again, low and sweet, almost teasing. the hand not pinning you starts to roam, soap-slicked and slow, gliding over your stomach, your hips, your trembling thighs. he’s in no hurry; he likes to see you squirm, likes the way you melt and shiver in his grasp. his size dwarfs you—there’s no hope of moving an inch unless he lets you, and that helplessness is a drug you can’t resist.
“you like this, hmm?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his hand tightening just enough to make your knees buckle. “how much bigger i am than you? can feel your heart racing, little thing.” his other hand slips between your legs, fingers parting you, slow and deliberate, and your head tips back against his shoulder, a whine catching in your throat.
he just hums in approval, lips finding your jaw, nipping softly, his big body crowding you from behind as he strokes you, teasing and patient, never letting up the pressure at your throat. “was gonna come take care of you after, you know,” he croons, voice all warmth, “can’t wait, can you?” his fingers slide over your clit, rubbing in lazy circles, every movement calculated, every touch designed to unravel you.
a breathless little sound escapes you, high and desperate, as his fingers toy between your thighs while his hand remains steady on your throat. he takes his time—so slow, so maddening—as he slides two thick digits over your slick folds, the pad of his thumb brushing your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. you try to press closer, to grind against his hand, but he just hushes you with a low, amused hum, his chest vibrating against your back, fingers tightening just enough on your throat to make your head spin.
“min kjære,” he hushes, voice honeyed and indulgent, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “you’re trembling so much. can you feel that? your whole body shaking for me.” he punctuates his words with a slow stroke that makes you whine, the heel of his palm pressing hard against your clit while his fingers dip shallow, refusing to give you what you really want. “so sensitive, such a desperate, pretty girl.”
you try to twist, to buck back against him, but he’s immovable—his thick forearm holding you flush to his massive frame, palm pressed to your windpipe, not hurting, just claiming, just reminding you how easily he can pin you in place. the water continues to stream, hot and heavy, sluicing over both of you in the cramped shower, steam coiling around your tangled bodies.
he hums thoughtfully, fingers still sliding, still tormenting. “you see how good i’m being to you, sweetheart? letting you stay right here, pressed up against me.” his other hand tightens just a fraction, and a gasp tears out of you, sounding pathetic and broken even to your own ears. “you gonna let me finish washing up?”
"n-no," you whine, the sound small and petulant, twisting in his grip despite knowing it won't do a damn thing. "no, no, please—i've been waiting all day for you… i waited all day and now you're— you're just teasing me—" your voice breaks into a high, breathy moan as his fingers drag through your folds again, achingly slow, nowhere near where you need them most. "i waited, i waited hours, please, please can i come, please can you just—"
his low chuckle cuts you off, rumbling through his chest into your back. "mhm," he hums, voice thick with amusement, utterly unbothered by your rambling. "you waited, did you?" he purrs, breath hot against your temple, fingers still moving in that cruel, leisurely pace. "poor baby. so patient for me, hm? all day, just thinking about this?" a single thick finger slips inside you, and you nearly sob at the fullness of it—never mind what the rest of him does to you—your hips bucking uselessly against his forearm.
"i can't—" you gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the pressure on your throat making every breath a small, desperate gulp. "i can't wait, please, please, just let me—"
he hums again, deep and indulgent, leaning down to mouth lazily at your jaw, his free hand flexing around your throat so your breath stutters. "shh," he soothes, even as his finger curls inside you, devastatingly slow. "you'll wait a little longer, sweetheart. just a little longer for me, yeah?"
your body goes slack against him, all the fight bleeding out, replaced by a trembling, boneless surrender. a sound leaves you, barely a noise at all, just a weak, pathetic little whimper that dissolves into the steam. your head lolls against his chest, eyes wet, lashes fluttering. he can feel every tiny quake that runs through you, the way your thighs twitch, the way your breath hitches in shallow stutters each time he drags that finger through you. too much and not enough, his other hand still circling your throat in slow, patient sweeps.
"mmm," he breathes, warm against your ear, and you feel the vibration of it sink into your spine. "there she is." his finger crooks inside you, rubbing meanly against that spot that makes your vision white out, and you gasp, a broken, wet sound, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the arm locked across your chest. "so sweet when you stop fighting it," he murmurs, almost to himself. "just let me do all the work, hm?"
he pulls his finger out, the sudden emptiness making you keen, and you feel his big hand leave your throat for only a second before it returns, gripping your jaw, tilting your head back so it rests against his shoulder. your mouth falls open, panting, and he shifts his other hand lower, his thumb finding your clit again, pressing firm little circles that make your hips jerk. he doesn't slide anything back inside, just teases the slick, swollen bundle of nerves with his thumb while his thick fingers cup your whole cunt, holding you open, keeping you right at that unbearable edge.
a sob tears out of you, quiet and broken. "please—" you whisper, barely audible over the water, "please please please, i can't—it's too—"
"you can," he hums, calm as anything, and presses a kiss to your temple. "waited all day for what, to be finished in five minutes? just a bit longer." his thumb flicks, faster, meaner, and your body seizes, every muscle coiling tight, almost there, almost— and then he stops. lifts his hand away completely, leaving you clenching around nothing, your thighs shaking, tears leaking down your temples.
a whine rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, your body trembling so hard you can barely stand, but his arms are everywhere, thick and heavy, bracing you against him. he just hums, low and pleased, pressing his lips to the hinge of your jaw, his voice a gentle murmur against your wet skin.
"shh, shh," he soothes, palm settling warm and heavy over your throat again, thumb stroking your pulse point in lazy circles. "i know. i know, sweetheart. you're doing so well for me."
the hot water beats down on both of you, carving rivers down his chest, and you can feel him everywhere, his massive frame curled around yours, the thick ridge of his cock pressing firm against the small of your back, a constant reminder of exactly how much he dwarfs you. you try to grind back against it, desperate, seeking friction, but his forearm tightens, pinning you in place with ease.
"uh uh," he chides softly, a smile in his voice. "none of that."
his free hand slides down your body again, this time mapping every curve, fingers dragging through the water streaming over your skin. he cups one of your breasts, weighing it in his palm, thumb swiping slow over the sensitive peak until it's aching, and you whimper, head tipping back against his shoulder. When it returns between your thighs, and you nearly sob at the first brush of his knuckles against your slick heat, your whole body jolting, oversensitive and desperate.
"please," you mewl, voice thin and reedy, vocal cords still pressured, "please, please, i'll be good, i'll be so good, just let me—"
"you are being good," he cuts in, quiet and indulgent, lips brushing your temple. "best i've seen you all night. my sweet, soft little thing, hm?" his fingers dip between your folds again, gathering your arousal, and you can feel how wet you are, how absolutely ruined he's made you without even fucking you yet. "so messy for me. can feel it everywhere. such a needy girl."
two fingers slide back inside you, thick and deliberate, and the stretch makes you cry out, your hand slapping back to grip his thigh, nails digging in. he just lets out a low, satisfied hum, crooking them slowly, finding that spot again, dragging against it mean and precise while his thumb finds your clit.
"there?" he asks, though he already knows, already feels the way you seize up, the way your breath catches against his palm. "mm. that's it. feel that?"
"yes, yes—" you gasp, rocking your hips, riding his hand as best you can with his massive arm locked around your waist. the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly, your thighs shaking, your vision blurring, and he lets you get there again—lets you feel that cresting wave, lets the pleasure burn so bright it whites out everything—and then his fingers withdraw, his hand pressing flat against your lower belly instead, keeping you right on the edge while you sob and thrash and beg.
"so close, aren't you," he murmurs against your ear, not even a question, his voice warm and honeyed, endlessly patient. "feels good, doesn't it? just keep floating right there for me. just a little more."
you don't know how long you stay like that, suspended in that unbearable almost, his fingers occasionally brushing light over your clit, just enough to keep you trembling, never enough to tip you over. your legs give out twice and he just catches you, scooping you up against his chest, his body so much bigger than yours that he holds your entire weight with one arm like it's nothing.
"you tired, baby?" he asks, amused, pressing a kiss to your cheek. you nod weakly, tears still streaming, and he makes a soft, pitying sound. "aw, poor thing. you've been so good for me. been so patient."
his free hand finally, finally returns between your legs, and this time his fingers don't tease, don't wander. two thick digits push back inside you, curling ruthlessly against that spot while his thumb locks onto your clit and grinds, hard and deliberate. you wail, hips bucking, and his palm presses back against your throat, just enough pressure to make every sound catch, every breath stutter.
"that's it," he breathes, voice dropping low, rough for the first time all night. "let go for me. come on, sweetheart. i've got you. just let it happen."
it crashes through you like a wave, violent and endless, your whole body bowing in his grip, a choked cry tearing from your lips as you clench around his fingers. he holds you through every shudder, every spasm, his arm squeezing you tight to his chest, his hand never leaving your throat, never easing up. you feel the rumble of his hum against your back, low and satisfied, the press of his lips to your temple as he whispers, "good girl. that's my good girl. knew you had it in you."
soon after, he shuts off the water, carries you out of the shower like you weigh nothing, one arm beneath your knees, the other bracing your back, your wet head lolling against his shoulder. the bathroom fills with steam and the lingering scent of his body wash, musk and mint, and he towels you off with the same methodical patience he shows everything, rubbing the plush fabric slow over your arms, your stomach, between your toes, taking such ridiculous care with each part of you that you want to cry all over again. you’re still shaking, boneless and dreamy, little tremors running through you every time his knuckles brush a tender spot.
he dresses you in the softest thing he can find, one of his t-shirts, swallowing you whole, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. he tugs a pair of his boxers on you too, rolling the waistband until it sits snug on your hips, and presses a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “there we go, sweetheart. all sorted.” you blink up at him, drowsy and syrupy, and he smiles, thumbing away a stray droplet of water on your cheek.
the bed is a cloud when he lays you down, sheets cool against your back, the smell of clean linen and him wrapping around you. he pulls the duvet up to your chin, tucking you in with absurd tenderness, and brushes the damp hair from your face before leaning down to kiss your forehead one more time. “take a nap, baby,” he whispers, voice impossibly soft, his big hand cupping your cheek, cradling your whole face in his palm. you pass out before he even lies down.
when you blink awake, it's to the smell of seared meat and butter and something warm and herbal from the kitchen, drifting lazy through the house. the sheets are cool against your bare skin, tangled around your legs, and the early evening sun is slanting through the curtains in long amber stripes. your whole body aches in the best way—limbs heavy, mind cotton-soft, that floaty, syrupy feeling still clinging to your bones like perfume. you stretch tentatively, cat-like, and catch sight of yourself in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe: your throat is mottled, faint bruises blooming across the curve of it, thumbprints and fingertip shadows. your thighs are still trembling faintly, and the ghost of his grip lingers everywhere he touched.
the bed beside you is empty, but the pillow still holds the dent of his head, still smells like him, and you press your face into it for a second, just breathing him in, before you push yourself up on wobbly legs.
the house is quiet except for the clatter of pans, the soft thump of footsteps, and when you pad down the hallway in his oversized shirt, you find him in the kitchen. he's standing at the stove, hair tied back in a messy knot, wearing a pair of low-slung grey joggers and nothing else, his back broad and golden in the last of the day's light. he's tending to two massive steaks in a cast iron pan, basting them with butter and garlic, the hiss and pop filling the kitchen with that rich, mouth-watering smell. his shoulders shift as he moves, the muscles in his back rolling, and he looks so impossibly big framed against the tiled backsplash, so entirely domestic, like something out of the kind of life you only ever see in romance novels.
you hover in the doorway for a second, watching him flip a steak with practiced ease, before he senses you there and glances over his shoulder. the moment his eyes land on you, his whole face shifts—softens into that particular smile he reserves for you, all warmth and quiet adoration, the kind that makes your knees go weak all over again. his gaze drops to your throat, to the marks just visible above the shirt's collar, and something flickers behind his eyes, a little breath of a hum.
"oh, baby," he murmurs, turning fully now, setting the pan on a low burner, crossing the kitchen in three easy strides, all long legs and casual power. he stops in front of you, tilting your chin up with two fingers, thumb brushing lightly over the bruises with a kind of careful, tentative tenderness. "look at you, hm? look what i did to my pretty girl."
you make a soft, embarrassed sound, cheeks flushing, but he just smiles—soft, a little guilty in that indulgent way of his—and leans down to press a slow, sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. "sorry," he says, quietly, mouth curving against your cheek. "might have to leave you alone tonight." he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, thumb still stroking your jaw, voice warm and low. "wouldn't want to bruise my baby up any more than she already is, hm? wouldn't want to be too rough with my little thing."
the sound that comes out of you is absolutely pathetic, a high, breathless little noise that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any dignity left. "noooo, please—" you reach for him without thinking, fingers curling into the waistband of his joggers, tugging weakly, and he just looks down at you with that lazy, indulgent expression, lips twitching. "please don't, i'll be good, i won't even be loud—"
"hm," he cuts you off, low and amused, thumb pressing gently against your bottom lip. "you say that now." he pulls away from you, easy as anything, your fingers slipping from his waistband as he turns back to the stove, and you make a devastated little whimper that makes him chuckle again, deep and warm.
the steaks are perfect when he plates them—seared, juicy, resting beside a pile of garlicky green beans and roasted baby potatoes. he sets your plate at the little two-seater table by the window, pulls out your chair, waits until you climb in, and then nudges it forward. he settles across from you, his knees brushing yours under the tiny table because he's so ridiculously big, and he watches you take the first bite with a small, satisfied smile, blue eyes soft as he watches you chew.
"good?" he asks, and you nod, still working on getting your voice back. he hums, spearing a green bean with his fork. "you earned it. put you through it earlier, didn't i?" his eyes flick to your throat again, and there's that little pinch between his brows, "sorry, baby. really."
but the way he says it, so gentle, the "sorry" landing all wrong, like a tease, you want to melt through the floor. you shove another bite of steak in your mouth to keep from making another embarrassing sound.
he eats one-handed, his other hand resting on your knee under the table, thumb stroking slow, absent circles on your skin. "maybe just a little bit later, hm?" he murmurs after a while, not looking up from his plate. "let you rest. let those pretty bruises fade a little." his foot nudges yours, gentle. "got a whole night ahead of us, baby. no rush."
you nod, cheeks burning, and his hand squeezes your knee, and you eat your dinner with that sweet ache in your chest, half-wishing he'd just give in already, half-wanting to be good enough for him to actually keep his word.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ erling haaland fucking the brattiness out of you
♡ (nsfw, pussy slapping, choking, dom!erling)
the night came after that disastrous match where he missed two goals and a collision with the keeper that cost the team three points. he stumbled into the bedroom, jersey sticking to him, sweat dripping from the bruise forming on his body. you watched him peel off his shirt, every muscle in his back coated with exhaustion. arms crossed, you waited until his shoulders slackened, and he turned that broad frame toward you. “maybe,” you said, voice edged with something dangerous, “you’d score more if you spent more time practicing and less time shopping, you would’ve won.”
he paused, halfway out of his strip, the jersey caught loose around his neck. for a heartbeat you thought he hadn’t heard your statement. then he looked at you, his eyes dark and animalistic, his jaw shifting so you could see the tension in his face. no words came; his gaze was fiery. your heart slammed against your ribs, and you felt small under the length of his silence.
he had you bent over his lap before you could blink, the mattress dipping under his weight as he threw you across his thighs like you weighed nothing. your face pressed into the sheets, the faint smell of his sweat and detergent clung to the fabric. his palm came down hard on your bare cunt, the slap sharp and wet, the sting blooming hot across your folds. you yelped, thighs twitching, but he pinned you with one thick forearm across your lower back.
“say it again,” he growled, voice low and rough from the match. his accent thickened when he was pissed. “tell me i don’t train hard enough.”
another slap landed right on your clit, the sound lewd in the quiet room. your pussy clenched around nothing, slick already dripping down your inner thigh. the pain flared bright, then mixed into a throbbing heat that made your hips jerk back for more.
“fuck, erling,” you gasped, but the words came out half-moan. inside, your mind raced.
maybe you shouldn’t have gone too far.
he didn’t wait, dipping two fingers shoved inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your vision spark. he pumped them fast, the wet squelch filling the air, then pulled them out to spank you again, three quick, stinging slaps right on your swollen cunt. each one sent a jolt straight to your core, and you could smell your own arousal now, thick and musky.
“you think i don’t work for this?” slap. “think i don’t hurt for every goal?” slap. his free hand gripped the back of your neck, squeezing just enough to make your pulse beat against his palm. “bratty little mouth on you. gonna fuck the attitude right out.”
he pulled off the bed, yanking your hips up so your ass was higher. the cool air hit your soaked pussy, then his cock, thick, heavy, already leaking, slid through your folds. smearing pre-cum over your clit, he drove in deep on the first thrust, stretching you wide, the burn perfect and overwhelming. you cried out, muffled, toes curling into the sheets.
“take it,” he snarled, hips snapping forward. the bed frame slammed the wall in rhythm. one hand stayed on your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw, cutting your air in little squeezes. the other reached under to slap your cunt again, fingers catching your clit with every thrust. his cock pounding deep and his palm batting against your swollen lips, had you shaking. sweat gleamed on your back where his chest pressed down, his breath hot on your ear.
“feel how wet you are for me? soaking my cock like a needy slut.” he laughed, low and dark, the sound shivering through his body to yours. “you wanted this. now you’re gonna come on it.”
every thrust hit that spot inside that made your walls flutter. his fingers worked your clit in tight circles between spanks, the mix of pain and pleasure twisting tighter in your gut. your inner thighs burned from the stretch, as you tasted salt from your own tears or sweat, you couldn’t tell, as he leaned harder on your throat, vision going out gently.
“beg,” he ordered, voice strained. “beg me to let you come, or i’ll edge this bratty cunt all night.”
“p-please, erling, fuck, please let me come,” you sobbed, voice weak. “i’m sorry, i’m your good girl, just—”
he growled approval and slammed in harder, choking you tighter for three more harsh thrusts until your ears rang. then he eased off just enough for air to rush back as his fingers rubbed your clit fast and mean. your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, cunt pulsing around his cock, thighs shaking, a broken moan tearing from your throat. he fucked you straight through it, drawing it out until you were limp and twitching.
only then did he let go of your throat and hook your knees over his shoulders. he drove back in, deeper at this angle, his eyes locked on yours, hungry and still a little wild. “not done with you yet.”
his hand returned to your cunt, slapping the oversensitive flesh in time with his thrusts while the other pinned your wrists above your head. the sting kept you awake, every nerve lit. you could feel every ridge of him dragging against your walls, the heat of his skin, the way his abs flexed against your thighs. the room smelled like sex and his cologne, the only sounds your wet bodies slapping together and his filthy words.
“come again,” he demanded, voice cracking. “come on my cock like the desperate little thing you are.”
you did harder this time, vision whiting out as he choked you lightly again, the lack of air highlighting everything until pleasure ripped through you in hot waves. he followed with a groan, burying himself deep, his cock throbbing as he filled you, hips jerking through it all.
he collapsed half on top of you afterward, still inside, breathing ragged against your neck. his hand stroked your throat gently now, soothing the ache. “i love you,” he muttered, voice soft again. “even when you’re a brat.”
ugh i cannot wait for football to start so i can see him in action, erling's so handsome and SO damn big ..... just can't stop thinking about him overpowering me
Erling was getting ready to leave for practice. “I’ll see you later, kjære,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips like he did every day.
The moment his lips touched yours, the slick product transferred to his lips. The warm scent of vanilla filled his senses, making him lean back slightly.
“Is that a new lip balm?” he asked, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips.
You hummed in response. “Yeah, I bought it recently.”
While he was used to kissing you with lip balm on, you’d never used a flavored one.
“Ahh,” he muttered. He dipped back down to kiss you properly, his grip on your face tightening as he tasted the vanilla, tongue swiping across your bottom lip. Usually, your morning parting kisses were quick because he liked getting to practice early. Today, however, he lingered. He kept moving his lips against yours, lost in the feel of your mouth as the vanilla mixed with the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue.
For the rest of the day, he couldn't stop kissing you. He kept finding excuses to steal a quick peck, or better yet, pull you into a proper kiss. You were literally just existing, and the man was all over you, constantly leaning in with a quick, “Lemme just...” before pulling you into a smooch. You had to reapply the lip balm dozens of times because half of what you applied ended up on his lips, or directly into his system because he kept licking it off.
A few days later, he kissed you expecting that familiar vanilla flavor he’d grown to love. But instead, a sweet, fruity scent hit him just before his lips landed on yours. He made a muffled noise against your mouth before pulling back, his tongue darting out to taste his own lips.
“It’s different,” he whispered.
“What?” you asked.
“The flavor,” he replied. “It’s not vanilla.”
“It’s peach,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your lips, noticing the sheer nude tint.
“It’s nice,” he murmured. He leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue brushing the corner of your mouth. A tiny amount of the balm transferred to his tongue before it entered your mouth and he deepened the kiss. When he finally pulled back, you raised your hand to his face, your fingers gently wiping away the excess product smeared below his lips.
“If this keeps up, I’m going to run out of lip balm way too soon,” you said.
“You have more than one, so it’s fine,” he said softly with a smile.
The next few days went exactly the same way, with Erling kissing you insistently as if he had absolutely no control over himself.
Then came the day you chose a new flavour —cherry, which left a sheer, slight red tint on your lips. Erling noticed the difference immediately. The day went on as usual, except Erling kept cutting you off in the middle of your sentences just to kiss you. Sometimes, his tongue would brush your lips before his actual mouth even touched yours, making you gasp into the kiss.
You were looking at your phone. “Hey, baby, about dinner, I was thinking—“
He suddenly stepped into your space and captured your lips in a deep, needy kiss, devouring your mouth like he was trying to taste every drop of it. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he murmured against your lips, “Sorry for interrupting you, love.”
You blinked, breathless, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “It’s fine. I was just saying—“
He leaned right back down, cutting you off again. His hands found your waist to pull you against him. Yeah, he wasn’t sorry in the slightest.
Another day brought another flavor — caramel. It amused him because he wasn’t eating any toffee, yet he kept getting the sugary taste of it directly from your mouth. This flavor made him nibble your bottom lip as if he was actually eating candy.
One morning, you were getting ready for the day and and reached out to grab whichever tube your fingers landed on first. Erling, who was sitting on the bed behind you tying his shoes, suddenly stopped you.
“Baby, can you,” he said behind you, looking at you in the reflection of your vanity mirror. “Can you use the cherry one today?”
You paused, processing his words, before a smile spread across your face. “Oh, do you like the cherry one, Erling?”
A blush spread over Erling’s and he smiled at you, finishing tying his shoes and standing up to come behind you. “I do. It tastes the best out of all of them.”
You laughed softly, switching the tube you’d been holding for the cherry one. “You know, you could just use it on yourself, right?”
He stepped closer to you the moment you finished applying it, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “Won’t taste as good as it does coming from you,” he said, before leaning down to kiss you.
requests (i combined 2): size kink for erling!!!!! doggy style would go crazy lmao! // brat tamer!erling? i feel like he gives off soft dom vibes, but if you push him hard enough, i can see him getting a bit more rough, plus the size kink! yeah im dead lol!
warnings: nsfw! unprotected sex, fingering (f recieving), size kink, belly bulge, he makes you take it cuz he's packing, brat/brat tamer dynamic, smidge of spanking
word count: 7.8k
notes: first full smut post on this blog lol enjoy, i've been OBSESSED with him lately so plz request more! , not proof read
you're at this little café near the marina, somewhere on the coast of portugal, the one with the blue umbrellas and the waiter who keeps recognising erling and pretending he doesn't. the menu is chalked on a board mounted high on the wall behind the counter, and you want the mango one, but you can't read the description from where you're sitting.
"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.
he lets you squirm for exactly three seconds before his arm tightens across your chest, holding you still. "where do you think you're going?" he breathes against your ear, and you can hear the grin in it, the dark playful warmth, and his hips roll forward again—a slow deep thrust that makes you cry out, your overstimulated walls clenching around him helplessly. "i'm not done with you yet."
𖤓 SOMETHING BIGGER AND BEYOND BLISS ⁕ erling haaland 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 warnings: 18+ (mdni) + size kink(ish)? + you’re a little squirmy! >.<
you truly don’t know how you ended up here. the cover of the mattress awkwardly sticks to your sweaty back, your smaller hands holding onto erling’s bigger shoulders.
“you can take it,” he breathes above you. his cock is only halfway in, and you already feel so full. he looks at you with hooded eyes, lust-heavy breaths as he pushes you further into the soft mattress. “deep breaths for me, baby.”
the entire night, erling has been treating you as if you’re a porcelain doll. as if you’re made out of glass. your walls squelch around his length, the slick you’re producing not enough to accommodate all of him. you feel so full, and he’s not even fully sheathed in you.
“n-no—” you wince out, “just give it to me, i— please.”
erling lets out a small, but audible chuckle at your eagerness. he grabs your hand from his shoulder to press a warm kiss to the inside of your palm. “you’re clamping down on me, sweetheart,” he laughs, “gotta open up a lil’ f’me.”
his thick fingers slide to your clit, and the moment his digits start rotating, you feel your jaw grow slack. your thighs flex open a bit more, slick dribbling down on the — now soaking wet — sheets. “oh my—”
“just a little bit, yeah?” your boyfriend groans. and despite his build, his length wedged within you, his bulging biceps next to your face, he can’t help but shiver when he pushes himself further into your heat. “doin’ so good.”
and you actually squirm. it feels like he’s in your throat. “move— please, do something,” you plead again, trying to buck your hips upward.
erling grabs your knees all the way up to your shoulders. “last one, okay? then i’ll fuck you, nice and slow,” he presses a quick kiss to your knee, a stark constrast to the lewd position he’s put you in. “biiiig stretch.”
with one last, lengthy push into your pulsing pussy and a helpless whimper from you, his hips end up flush to yours. “ah, fuck,” the blond grunts out, and your eyes actually flutter shut at his intrusion. “s’tight.”
he gives you one experimental thrust, his overwhelming weight pushing you into the bed before springing you right back. his tip kisses your cervix, all warm and snug in your channel.
“y’good, honey?” erling asks, a hint of concern in his stare. you stretch your legs over his shoulders in the process to make yourself feel more comfortable, and your boyfriend’s hands immediately come up to caress your knees, the underside of your thighs. because where you quiver underneath him, he’s stable and sure above you.
“can’t take it?” he questions, acting like you struggling to take him is a joke. like you’re just something to play with.
at his bawdiness, you clench around his cock. all you can do is take it. let him have his way with you. he’s fucking everywhere: above you, inside of you. his big hands caressing your face.
you swallow, all soundless and out of breath as he feeds you shallow, careful thrusts. “you’re so— shit— big.”
erling’s amused face gawks back at you. “aww, baby,” he coos, gripping your chin between his fingers, your lips pouting. you can spot a glint of mischief, of pride in his eyes. “you’re doin’ real good for me.”
maybe it’s just in your hazy mind, but his thrusts go deeper now, sharper. and before your mind can process it, erling grabs your flabby hand and puts it on your abdomen.
fuck, you can literally feel his tip prodding under the fine fibres of your skin. it feels as if your eyes are going to roll out its sockets at any given moment.
“y’feel that, baby?” the only sounds in the room the creaking sounds of the bedframe lightly hitting the wall and your skittish whimpers. your boyfriend looks at you, adoration and elation mingled together in his gaze.
when you don’t respond at all — mind too hazy to even think of an answer — he breathes out a somewhat unnervingly obscene snicker. “‘m all the way in your guts.”
aviso: +18; putaria non sense; funk proibidão; smut: mdni.
summary: você e haaland saem para curtir a noite em uma balada, e um funk brasileiro te deixa muito empolgada e acaba empolgando o craque norueguês também.
a/n: eu meio que não tenho essa conta com o propósito de postar absolutamente nada, tudo aqui pra mim é só sofrimento e depressão basically, mas ultimamente os craques delicious dessa copa me tiraram desse limbo depre e me deram o tesão lol. resolvi soltar essa aleatoriedade non sense com esse gostoso pq estou obcecada e tinha que fazer alguma coisa com essa obsessão. se pah depois eu apago e finjo que nunca fiz nadinha.
Tudo começou com uma música.
Ou melhor dizendo, com um funk putaria.
Após a eliminação da seleção norueguesa, Erling estava livre das responsabilidades da competição, tendo ainda algum tempo até retornar para o restante da temporada no Manchester City.
Como combinado, vocês voltaram para casa e iriam aproveitar juntos o tempo que o mais velho ainda tinha para descansar. O que não significava que vocês iriam ficar trancados em casa, mofando no sofá ou na cama. Apesar do cansaço graças a preparação intensa para a copa, mais a atuação de Haaland em campo durante os jogos, o loiro não era do tipo que se “baqueava” com facilidade.
“Eu posso muito bem descansar depois”, foi o que ele te disse quando você hesitou a respeito de irem a uma balada, a convite dos amigos do próprio. “Os caras querem se encontrar comigo, e eu quero poder aproveitar e curtir a noite com eles também”, completou, demonstrando total animação para a proposta daquela noite.
Você decidiu não contrariá-lo mais. Se ele disse que estava bem para irem à balada, então vocês iriam para a balada.
Você jamais recusaria uma farra com o seu namorado.
E a noite estava cumprindo o que prometera.
Música boa, pessoas agradáveis, uma energia revigorante depois de dias indo a estádios de futebol para prestigiar o seu homem jogando.
A diversão era tanta, que você teve a feliz coincidência de estar naquela balada justamente quando o DJ era um brasileiro. Quando a onda de mixagens virou, trazendo a batida eletrizante e ensurdecedora de um funk brasileiro, você praticamente surtou.
Estivera a noite toda se exibindo, toda gatinha, usando uma camisa da seleção brasileira e calça jeans cargo. Sexy sem ser vulgar. Quando o DJ soltou aquele funk, você não se aguentou. Precisou rebolar a bunda, usando Erling como cobaia, sarrando e rebolando no maior da maneira mais sensual possível.
Ele não se surpreendeu, já conhecia esse teu molho brasileiro. Aliás, ele não escondia que adorava quando você baixava o espírito da ousadia e rebolava nele daquele jeito.
Sua euforia era tanta. Estava completamente descontrolada.
Virando-se de frente para Erling, você o empurrou contra a parede, apoiando as mãos no corpo dele, enquanto descia até o chão. Quando subiu de volta, olhou nos olhos dele e começou a repetir a letra suja e obscena da música.
“Vai me enfia o caralho, quero sentir até o talo”
“Esfregando a minha xereca na tua cara, sabe que eu não paro”
Ele não entendia uma vírgula do que você estava dizendo.
Conhecia um pouco do idioma português, mas longe de ser aquelas frases tão sujas e específicas. Isso você ainda não tinha ensinado pra ele. No entanto, estava achando sexy pra caralho o jeito como você repetia as palavras da música, fazendo caras e bocas, sensualizando na frente dele.
“Vai bandido mau, realiza o meu desejo”
“Me dá linguada que eu deixo, fodendo minha xota na frente do espelho”
Ele começou a ficar curioso. Queria muito saber o que é que significava a letra daquela música — e por que soava tão sexy quando você dizia.
Com as mãos firmes na sua cintura, ele te puxou para perto, aproximando a boca do seu ouvido.
“O que significa?”, perguntou.
“O quê?”, você não entendeu de primeira. A música alta te impediu de se concentrar em traduzir as palavras dele. “Não entendi, amor. Fala de novo”.
“Perguntei o que significa a letra dessa música. Traduz pra mim”.
“Ah!”, você riu.
Com a boca colada no ouvido dele, traduziu, ou pelo menos tentou, os versos do refrão.
“Era isso que você tava cantando, olhando pra mim?”, ele sorriu ladino.
Você nem sequer notou a malícia naquele sorrisinho.
“Era!”, apenas respondeu, divertida.
Para você, apenas uma música, nada demais. Mas Haaland entendeu aquilo como um pedido muito pessoal.
Você não podia simplesmente recitar aquelas palavras olhando diretamente nos olhos dele, e ainda por cima, esfregando a bunda nele do jeito que fez, sem esperar que ele fizesse alguma coisa a respeito.
E isso explica um pouco de como vocês chegaram na situação na qual você se encontrava naquele momento.
“E-Erling! Meu Deus…”, você chorou, quase sem forças para se expressar.
Estava completamente nua sobre o colo do maior, as pernas abertas e flexionadas, os pés apoiados sobre os joelhos dele, enquanto o loiro te fodia rudemente, sentado numa cadeira de frente para o enorme espelho do quarto.
Depois de quase meia hora dele chupando você de quatro, chegaram na parte que ele tanto esperou para fazer: foder a sua xota na frente do espelho — como você bem “pediu” horas atrás, na boate.
“Porra, olha só pra você, amor! Gozando de novo”, ele sentenciou, assistindo você esguichando pra todos os lados, molhando o pau dele inteiro. “Tá gostoso, hein?”, tirou o pau da sua buceta só para esfregar o seu grelinho sensível e te arrancar mais um esguicho.
“PORRA-”, você se engasgou com a própria frase.
Tentou abaixar as pernas, buscar algum apoio, mas ele não deixou.
“Pode ficar onde está. Ainda não terminei com você!”
Colocando o braço em volta da sua cintura, ele botou o pau grande e grosso de novo pra dentro de você, fazendo você quicar no colo dele em seguida.
A visão que ele tinha era privilegiada e incrível.
Nada melhor do que te arregaçar vendo sua bucetinha recebendo a pica dele tão bem, tão fácil. Você deixou ele tão molhado, que o pau entrava e saia todo escorregadio, numa rapidez impressionante.
Assistir a tudo assim também te excitava pra caralho, mas Erling não te deu um minuto de trégua desde que vocês começaram. Era difícil saber por onde você havia chorado mais, se por cima ou por baixo.
Ele te deixou tão boba, que você apenas parou de gemer, terminando só por ficar com a boca aberta, sem fazer som algum.
O quarto parecia estar balançando, mas era só você sendo feita de puta pelo seu namorado gostoso, cheio de tesão.
“Vou gozar, princesa! Posso jogar tudo dentro, hum? Te deixar cheinha, do jeito que você gosta, hein? Eu posso?”
A pergunta era obviamente retórica. Não tinha a menor possibilidade de você conseguir respondê-lo de tão fodida que estava. Mas você queria muito, muito, pedir com jeitinho pra ele gozar dentro, te encher de porra, só pra depois você poder ver o jeitinho que tudo fica pingando, escorrendo pelas suas pernas. Porra, era tão bom!
“Vai… M-Me enche, amor…” Virou o rosto pro lado, apoiando sua testa na dele, no exato momento em que este homem virou uma máquina de foder e te prendeu com os dois braços, usando apenas a força dos quadris pra mandar o pau bem lá no fundo, acertando o seu útero.
Suas unhas se afundaram na pele do braço dele, marcando a pele clara mais ainda do que já estava, também por culpa sua.
Erling soltou um urro quase animalesco, apertando seu corpinho entre os braços exageradamente fortes e te enchendo todinha.
Te ergueu um pouco, fazendo o pau sair do seu interior, deixando só a bagunça que prometeu fazer.
Você resmungou baixinho, admirando a buceta vermelhinha e cheia de porra. Sorriu, totalmente grogue, mordendo o canto do lábio.
Ouviu a risadinha perversa vinda do norueguês, claro, totalmente orgulhoso do seu feito.
“Você gosta disso, né?”, você provocou. “Que bom. Pois é você que vai limpar tudinho… e você sabe muito bem como”.
𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 NSFW, poly relationship (jude bellingham x reader x erling haaland), double penetration (vaginal + anal), rough sex, choking, hair pulling, spanking, creampie, oral (m & f receiving), slight size kink, praise + degradation mix, aftercare, reader is called princess/slut/good girl. very very filthy, slow build to rough, consent is enthusiastic throughout
𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 this is all i've been thinking about amongst the world cup semi-finals - getting my shit rocked by two 6ft+ greek gods. hope you sluts enjoy, i know i did<3. this is probably the nastiest fic i've ever written tbh but it felt good getting it out. if u guys have any more ideas for poly!jude and erling, send 'em in :3.
sex with erling and jude is always slow at the start.
they love taking their time because they know how big they both are, how much your body has to open up for them. it’s never just fucking — it’s connection, praise, making sure their girl feels like the most cherished thing in the world. you’re safe between them, adored even when they’re balls deep and calling you their perfect little slut. tonight is no different. the lights are low, the big bed in erling’s place swallowing all three of you. you’re already naked, skin warm from the shower you all took together earlier, and they’ve got you laid out on your back like an offering.
jude starts by crawling up your body from the side, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. he kisses there slow and wet, lips plush and lingering, then trails down your neck with soft sucks that make your breath hitch.
“been thinking about this all day,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and velvet.
one of his hands cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in lazy circles until it pebbles under his touch. he leans in and kisses you properly then, deep and unhurried, tongue sliding against yours while his fingers keep playing with your tits, pinching just hard enough to send little sparks straight to your core.
at the same time, erling settles between your spread thighs, his massive shoulders pushing your legs wider. he’s so tall that even on his stomach he takes up so much space, breath hot against your inner thigh as he kisses and nips the soft skin there.
“so pretty for us,” he rumbles, the vibration traveling right through you. his big hands slide under your ass, lifting you slightly like you weigh nothing, and then his mouth is on you.
he starts with broad, slow licks up your entire pussy, tongue flat and warm, tasting every drop of wetness that’s already leaking out of you. he takes his time, exploring every fold, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips. two thick fingers tease at your entrance, rubbing circles there before sliding in inch by inch, stretching you open while his mouth keeps working. he curls them just right, stroking that spot inside you that makes your hips jerk.
jude doesn’t stop kissing you through it. he moves from your mouth to your jaw, down your throat, across your collarbones, then latches onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other breast. the contrast is dizzying — jude’s sensual attention on your upper body while erling devours your pussy like he’s starving. your hands thread into erling’s long strands as your back arches off the bed.
“fuck, you taste so good,” erling groans between long licks, adding a third finger and pumping them deeper.
jude pulls back just enough to watch your face, eyes dark with hunger. “look at you, princess. falling apart already and we’ve barely started. you gonna cum on erling’s tongue for me?”
your thighs are trembling around erling’s head. he sucks your clit harder, fingers thrusting steady and precise, and jude leans down to kiss you again, swallowing every moan and whimper. your orgasm crashes over you slow at first, then all at once. erling’s fingers curl relentlessly inside your pussy while his tongue flicks firm and fast over your swollen clit.
“oh fuck—erling, right there, please don’t stop,” you gasp against jude’s mouth, your voice breaking into a whine.
jude pulls back just enough to watch your face twist in pleasure, his hand still pinching your nipple as you come hard, thighs clamping around erling’s head, hips grinding desperately against his face. waves of heat roll through you, pussy fluttering and soaking his fingers and chin.
“good girl,” erling praises, licking you through every aftershock, slow and gentle until you’re twitching and oversensitive. he finally pulls back, lips shiny, and kisses the inside of your thigh. “taste so fucking sweet when you come for us, princess.”
they give you a moment to breathe, hands stroking your skin softly. jude kisses your forehead. “ready for more, baby? want us both inside you?”
“yes,” you breathe, still hazy and needy. “want you both. please.”
they move you with ease. jude lies back against the pillows, cock hard and curving up against his abs, thick and veiny. you straddle him slow, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. he holds his cock steady for you, guiding the head through your slick folds before you sink down.
the stretch is delicious, inch by inch, your pussy swallowing him until you’re fully seated, clit pressed against his base. “jude… you feel so big like this,” you moan, rolling your hips experimentally, hands braced on his chest.
jude groans, hands gripping your waist. “ride me, princess. nice and slow at first. let us feel you.”
you start moving, lifting and sinking back down in languid rolls, savoring how full he makes you as his cock drags against every sensitive spot inside, and the way he looks up at you — dark eyes, lip caught between his teeth — makes you feel powerful and cherished. behind you, erling kneels close, his enormous frame casting a shadow. one big hand spreads your ass cheeks, and you feel the blunt, heavy head of his cock pressing against your tighter hole.
“breathe for me,” erling murmurs, voice deep. he pushes forward carefully. the head pops in with a slick pop and a burning stretch that makes you whimper loudly. “that’s it… only the tip for now, love. you’re doing so well.”
he rocks shallowly, barely an inch or two, but it’s enough to make you feel impossibly full — jude’s thick cock buried in your pussy while erling’s massive girth stretches your ass.
“oh my fucking god,” you moan, voice shaky as you keep riding jude in that slow rhythm. “so deep… feels so fucking good. don’t stop, please.”
your words turn into little gasps every time erling gives a shallow thrust, his hands holding your hips steady so you don’t take more than you can handle. jude thrusts up gently to meet your movements, hands sliding up to cup your bouncing tits, thumbs rubbing your nipples.
the pace stays slow and sensual for long minutes — wet sounds of your pussy riding jude, the obscene stretch of erling in your ass, your shared moans filling the room. you lean forward a little, kissing jude deeply while erling leans over your back, kissing your shoulder and whispering praise. “our perfect girl. taking us both like you were made for it.”
you come again like that, the dual fullness pushing you over the edge without warning. “i’m coming— fuck, i’m coming!” you cry out, body shaking, pussy clenching tight around jude and ass pulsing around erling’s thick head.
that’s when they shift.
the moment your orgasm peaks, their control snaps. jude’s hands grip your hips harder, thrusting up sharper. erling growls low and starts fucking your ass with slightly deeper, rougher shallow strokes, the burn turning into white-hot pleasure. “that’s our slutty little princess,” erling grunts, voice rougher now. “coming with both holes full. gonna fuck you properly now.”
they don’t give you time to come down. jude sits up a bit, still inside you, and they maneuver you off him carefully but quickly. cum and arousal drip down your thighs as they position you, erling moves you onto all fours in the middle of the bed, then slams back into your pussy from behind in one powerful thrust, making you scream his name. “erling! fuck!”
jude stands at the edge of the bed, tall and commanding, cock right in front of your face. you don’t even need prompting — you open your mouth wide, tongue out, looking up at him with glassy eyes.
he slides in deep, hand in your hair, and starts thrusting while erling pounds you from behind, erling’s hips slapping loud against your ass, cock hitting deep and relentless, one hand reaching around to rub your clit roughly. jude fucks your throat in steady strokes, groaning every time you gag and moan around him. “fuck, listen to her. choking on my dick while you wreck her pussy. our greedy girl.”
you’re drooling, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity, but you love it. “mmph,” you try to speak around jude’s cock, pushing back against erling desperately.
they give it to you, rough and possessive, bodies moving in sync like they’ve done this a hundred times (in which, they probably have at this point). erling’s free hand smacks your ass lightly, the sting blooming hot as jude’s fingers tighten in your hair, controlling the pace as he fucks your face.
jude’s the first to break. his thrusts into your mouth get erratic, hips stuttering as he holds your head steady. “fuck, princess, gonna come,” he groans, voice wrecked.
you moan around him, sucking harder, eyes watering as you look up at him. he spills down your throat with a deep moan, thick and hot, pulsing on your tongue and you swallow every drop, whimpering softly as he keeps shallow thrusts through the sensitivity, his cock twitching with aftershocks.
“so good… you’re so fucking good,” he pants, finally pulling out slow, a string of spit and cum connecting your swollen lips to his tip. he strokes your cheek tenderly even as his body trembles from how sensitive he is, watching you with adoring eyes.
erling doesn’t slow down, instead he pushes your head down firmly into the mattress with one massive hand between your shoulder blades, forcing your ass higher, chest pressed flat against the sheets. the new angle makes him hit even deeper, his thick cock slamming into your soaked pussy with wet, punishing slaps. “take it,” he growls, voice rough. “take everything i give you, baby.”
you cry out into the sheets, voice muffled. “erling—oh god, yes, harder! please, i need it.” the roughness feels incredible after jude finished, your body already buzzing.
he fucks you harder, hips snapping forward with raw power, balls slapping against your clit on every thrust. his free hand slides up your back, then around to your throat. he squeezes lightly, tilting your head slightly so you can still breathe.
the pressure on your throat combined with the brutal pace has you seeing stars. your pussy clenches tight around him, gushing wetter with every stroke.
“i’m gonna come again,” you gasp out, voice hoarse and broken. “erling, please—fuck!” it hits you stronger than the others, louder too. you scream his name into the mattress, body shaking violently, walls spasming around his massive cock as the orgasm rips through you like a wave. your thighs quake, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity, every muscle tightening and releasing in pure bliss.
erling fucks you right through it, groaning deep at how your pussy milks him. only when your orgasm starts to fade does he let go of your throat, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he chases his own release. “good girl—my perfect princess. gonna fill you up now.” his thrusts turn short and deep, grinding against that spot inside you until he finally buries himself to the hilt and comes with a loud, guttural moan.
thick ropes of cum flood your pussy, hot and endless, spilling out around his cock as he keeps shallow thrusts to push it deeper. he stays inside you for long moments afterward, both of you panting, his big body draped over yours protectively.
jude’s already there, sliding onto the bed beside you, pulling you gently into his arms the second erling eases out. cum drips down your thighs, your whole body limp and glowing. they sandwich you between them, soft kisses on your shoulders, your neck, your forehead.
Haaland amava o autocontrole que precisava ter na hora de te tocar.
[🤍AVISOS:] haaland namoradinho, muito size kink, muito strength kink, sexo sem proteção (não né xuxus), dacryphilia, cum, menção à anal, menção à oral e acho que é isso :)
— Notes: "Ai, mas eu tenho medo dele!" — amores, eu rio na cara do perigo 🫦✨️
Haaland amava o autocontrole que precisava ter na hora de te tocar.
Era alto demais, forte demais, grosseiro demais... Mesmo que as palavras fossem doces e o coração batesse somente por você, sabia que não poderia te foder com toda a força que tinha, ou machucaria a sua bucetinha linda e molhada, que já lutava para acolhê-lo dentro.
— Tá tudo bem, uh? — ele sussurrou, só para garantir.
— Uhum, não para... — choramingou baixinho, rebolando no caralho enorme.
Dava para ver na sua carinha manhosa que estava estufadinha como sempre sonhou, tão cheia de pica que precisava lembrar a si mesma de respirar. Agarrava os fios loiros como ouro enquanto sentia os lábios gordinhos marcando o seu pescoço, arfando… Erling tentava inútilmente se esconder no seu corpo pequeno enquanto metia rápido, mas numa intensidade atenta, cuidadosa.
E ele era obcecado com a tarefa de medir a força. Deixava-o mais sensível a tudo e o obrigava a reparar em cada detalhe da sua linguagem corporal — como sempre ficava molinha só com as metidas sutis, sendo que ele podia fazer bem pior. Como estava livre para esmagar o pau dele a cada contração, gemendo como uma putinha burra que não sabe o que fazer de tanto tesão, com os peitinhos e cada parte macia do corpo balançando a cada investida…
Ele podia ser o mais forte ali, mas era o seu corpo que o dominava. Sua buceta era a coleirinha que o impedia de cometer as atrocidades que ele costumava fazer em campo.
Ele ergueu o rosto tão vermelhinho quanto o seu, a boquinha ainda mais inchada de tanto chupar sua pele:
— Porra, você geme igual uma putinha…
A frase completa passou por sua mente, mas conseguiu balbuciar apenas duas perigosas palavrinhas:
— Só sua…
Ele abriu aquele sorrisinho travesso, as sobrancelhas quase imperceptíveis de tão clarinhas se arqueado em desafio:
— Tá falando que é minha putinha, é?
Seu rosto corou, seus gemidinhos ficaram ainda mais agudos… Mas você não negou.
Haaland riu:
— Então dá pra mim igual uma, amor.
Antes que pudesse sequer pensar em como, as mãos enormes agarraram seu quadril e te mudaram de posição como se pesasse menos do que as plumas dos seus travesseiros, te moldando como se fosse só uma bonequinha estúpida.
Mas o estúpido mesmo, em segredo, era ele te vendo de quatro, imobilizada com as mãozinhas para trás, dando o seu melhor para escapar do aperto dele por puro charminho. Esticando as mãozinhas para acariciar os gominhos do abdômen masculino enquanto fingia tentar se soltar...
— Que foi? É assim que as putas são fodidas, gatinha — brincou.
E você continuou com o teatrinho, como se não amasse ficar com a bunda empinadinha para o seu namoradinho:
— Mas eu quero te ver, Haaland… — o nome dele saiu de uma forma tão obscena da sua boca que ele cogitou seriamente em te colocar de joelhos para engasgar pateticamente.
Ah, seria tão facinho, tão delicioso te assistir tentando colocar pelo menos a metade na boquinha…
— Foda-se — te respondeu, revirando os olhos quando a sua risadinha satisfeita ecoou nos ouvidos dele. — Porra, você não tem noção do perigo? — sussurrou, a palma livre e enorme cobrindo uma das suas bandinhas. — Fica toda atiçada quando eu falo palavrão mas não aguenta nem um dedo meu nesse rabinho — apertou a carne macia de levinho, mas acabou deixando o contorno avermelhado dos dedos mesmo assim. — Se eu te tratar igual uma cadelinha vou ter que te carregar a semana inteirinha, sabia?
— Gosto de ficar no seu colo — sussurrou —, eu fico tão quentinha…
Erling piscou atônito com o quão atrevida estava rebolando aquela bunda pra ele, sentindo o pau enorme e pesado dando uma guinada, expelindo pré-porra só de pensar em como poderia te deixar com as pernas fraquinhas demais.
Mas, ele devia ser o sensato ali, não é?
— Aham, eu meto um pouquinho mais forte e você já chora…
— Você gosta.
— Não gosto, não.
— Quando eu te deixo lamber elas você até joga melhor!
Claro que virou o rostinho para trás para capturar as bochechas pálidas como neve ficando ainda mais vermelhas, num misto de irritação e tesão em ter que te ouvir falando a verdade. Observar as lágrimas escorrendo pelo seu rostinho tiravam ele de eixo, o fazia ter vontade de te consolar com mais pica e, merda, isso só te fazia chorar ainda mais… Era um ciclo vicioso que ele amava observar e degustar enquanto continuava se controlando pra não te partir ao meio.
Agarrou o seu queixo e te puxou para cima facinho, te dando um beijo molhado enquanto te sarrava por trás:
— Palavra de segurança, amor?
— Remo — sussurrou, abrindo um sorrisinho enorme. Claro que ele te daria o que estava pedindo!
Era tudo o que Haaland precisava para sorrir daquele jeitinho quase assustador e te atirar no colchão, estapeando sua bunda com vontade — uma técnica imunda para te preparar e fazer a sua bucetinha escorrer até pingar nos lençóis. Ah, e como ele ficava encantado com o seu jeitinho meigo de estremecer todinha e mas empinar para ganhar mais… O deixava com tesão pra caralho!
E quando ele meteu até o talo de uma vez, com a glande gordinha abrindo a sua bucetinha apertada sem nenhum aviso prévio…
— Grita mais, vai — ronronou no seu ouvido, o barulho alto das investidas fortes inundando o quarto e, com certeza, o hotel. — Grita a porra do meu nome igual quando tá torcendo pra mim, vadia!
— Haaland, caralho! — obedeceu imediatamente, mal conseguindo se agarrar aos lençóis ou se manter de quatro, pois as metidas faziam até seus bracinhos falharem.
E é claro que o norueguês riu do quão patética estava:
— Não pediu? Agora aguenta ser a minha bonequinha de foda — rosnou.
Agarrou seu quadril para continuar te fodendo como um maníaco, garantindo que o pau não pudesse nem escorregar demais para fora para te dar descanso. Os gemidinhos manhosos e desesperados dele combinando com a força, a vontade de te sentir em cada pedacinho da forma mais bruta possível, afundando até nos seus cantinhos mais sensíveis e insistindo neles para te fazer se contorcer de prazer. A cama rangia e, diante das suas experiências anteriores, corria um risco seríssimo de quebrar.
E é claro que suas lágrimas começaram a molhar o único travesseiro que restou ali:
— Ownt, tá chorando… — os lábios gordinhos capturaram uma gotinha da sua bochecha, os braços te cercando numa tentativa falha de te proteger dele mesmo.
— A-Amor… — manhou, mordendo um dos bíceps bem definidos.
— Vai gozar é?
Você nem precisava responder, ele entendia a sua linguagem corporal, a sua carinha ainda mais chorosa:
— Goza, minha putinha, goza enquanto eu arrebento a sua buceta!
Foi tão forte que pensou que iria desmaiar.
Seu corpo estremeceu inteirinho e suas pernas se fecharam embaixo dele, tendo o corpinho engolido no abraço dele e sendo assolada por um gritinho mudo enquanto os olhos se reviravam.
Linda pra caralho, foi impossível não jorrar dentro de você! O rosnado gutural te arrepiou da cabeça aos pés enquanto seu interior sofria deliciosamente para continuar aguentando o pau dele e segurar toda a porra quentinha que estava recebendo daquele homem delicioso e enorme. Os fios dourados cobriam sua linha de visão, ouvia os delírios de êxtase no pé do seu ouvido e a cintura latejava com os dedos enterrados ali, como se você pudesse desaparecer depois de ele te fazer todinha dele.
Foi virada de barriga para cima e sentiu os beijos cálidos por todo o seu rostinho:
— Eu te amo, caralho — ele sussurrou, ofegante.
— Também te amo, Erling…
O beijo doce destoava de tudo o que haviam acabado de fazer. Chupou a língua grossinha com tanto carinho que Haaland se sentiu um pervertido por estar ficando duro de novo:
— Gatinha… — sussurrou, te puxando para ver o gozo escorrendo da sua entradinha judiada.
Olhou-o desconfiada. Só era chamada daquele jeitinho quando o loiro queria alguma coisinha.
— Fala, amor.
— Se eu ganhar a Copa você me deixa foder o seu cuzinho, deixa? — Os olhinhos azuis brilharam para você. Ah, ele só tinha tamanho naqueles momentos…
Você tentou empurrá-lo para trás mas, obviamente, não teve sucesso:
— Nem pensar! Você vai perder pro Brasil no domingo!
— Não vou não!
— Vai sim!
— Uh-uh… — negou travesso, se deitando em cima de você.
— Uhum! — você insistiu, mas ele tomou sua boquinha de novo.
Haaland amava o autocontrole que precisava ter perder na hora de te tocar.
miga do céu sempre que eu vejo você atualizando seu perfil minha mão soa de ansiedade pra ver muito do haaland por aqui 😭🙏🏼
Erling Haaland in...
⛓️SELF CONTROL II
Após a eliminação da Noruega, você precisa consolar seu namoradinho...
🤍 Notes: Missão dada, missão cumprida amores! Tentei misturar algumas coisinhas relacionadas a maioria das asks para não ficar repetitivo, mas também combinar com o resultado do jogo de hoje (eliminaram minha loira do tchan 🥺). Espero que gostem e muito obrigada de novo!! 🖤✨️
[⛓️AVISOS:] conteúdo adulto/+18, oral!masc, cum, dirty talk, bastante size kink, menção à anal, menção à trisal, romantismo pq é fic minha né e acho que é isso :)
Já era quase madrugada quando Haaland finalmente chegou. A frustração da derrota e o cansaço tiveram que esperar devido aos eventos de pós-jogo: entrevistas e satisfações sobre a perda para a Inglaterra, conversas com colegas do time sobre erros, acertos, pensamentos positivos e negativos… Caramba, tudo o que ele queria agora era mais um banho — quentinho, diferente da banheira de gelo que se enfiou para recuperar os músculos.
Te viu deitada, aparentemente adormecida, e preferiu nem acender as luzes para não perturbar o seu sono. A figura alta se inclinou sobre você e selou seu rostinho, arrancando as roupas do corpo às pressas.
Seus olhos se abriram.
Certo, já tinha captado como seu namoradinho estava.
Assim que ouviu o som da ducha quente sendo ligada desceu da cama, tirando o robe de seda vermelho e engatinhando até o banheiro. O vapor colidiu com seu rostinho, arrepiou sua pele, mas avançou mesmo assim.
Até os olhos azuis te acharem do outro lado do box.
Depois de horas difíceis, ele finalmente deu uma risada tranquila:
— O que você tá fazendo aí? — a mão grande afastou o vidro temperado que lhes separava. — O que você tá fazendo assim? — arrancou dele mais um riso incrédulo ao te ver nua e com a bunda empinadinha.
— Sinto muito pela Noruega ter perdido hoje, Erling — você falou, ignorando as perguntas.
Ah, mas ele negou com a cabeça e fez um bicão:
— Mentirosa, você jogou praga em mim por que eu eliminei o Brasil!
— Não joguei!
— Jogou, sim!
— Amor…
— Nem vem, ficou sem falar comigo por quase dois dias!
Bem, aquilo realmente aconteceu. Ainda se lembrava de ter sentado nele com raiva, segurando cada gemidinho manhoso e devotado que costumava dar, aguentando cada centímetro grosso dentro de você por pura birra… E ainda tirou aquele pau delicioso da sua bucetinha antes que Haaland pudesse te encher de porra como sempre.
Mas, quem tem boca vai à Roma. Seu namoradinho acabou com a sua raivinha no dia seguinte, te chupando com os lábios gordinhos até você esguichar e perdoá-lo por ter colocado seu país para fora da Copa.
— Mas eu te defendi pra minha família e para as minhas amigas, okay?! — ressaltou, pousando as mãos nas coxas definidas. — Te defendi com unhas e dentes, mesmo quando eu ainda tava puta contigo!
Haaland abriu um sorriso largo:
— Ah, é?
— Uhum… — mordeu o lábio inferior, assistindo o pau enorme guinar tão perto do seu rostinho. Foi impossível não agarrá-lo com uma das mãos, que mal se fechava na grossura. — Disse que você só tava fazendo o seu trabalho… — selou a glande vermelhinha, ouvindo o arfar pesado do loiro. — Que a Noruega nunca tinha chegado tão longe… — Espalhou mais beijinhos pela extensão cada vez mais dura. — Que a gente tem que aprender a dividir também…
— Igual eu te divido com o Bellingham, é? — debochou, tocando naquele assunto que fazia seu íntimo se contrair.
Tinha dois namoradinhos. A mídia surtaria se soubesse que aqueles “bons amigos” eram tão próximos que até dividiram a mesma boquinha, a mesma bucetinha, a mesma mulherzinha…
— Uhum, igual! — concordou, deixando mais um selinho estalado na cabecinha.
— Eu tô tão puto com ele, não sei se vou te dividir mais… — as mãos grandes já foram até o seu cabelo molhado, fazendo um rabo de cavalo desleixado. — Tava metido pra caralho no pós jogo, sabia?
— Eu vi, ele tava uma delícia… — provocou.
Haaland revirou os olhos e bufou.
Prontinho, o suficiente para tentar enfiar o pau inteirinho na sua boca.
— Te amo pra caralho, mas cala a boquinha na minha pica, cala, amor — sussurrou.
Ah, mas você ficou caladinha com gosto!
Era meio obcecada em tentar engoli-lo inteiro, mesmo que soubesse que era impossível. Sabia que ficaria rouquinha de tanto forçar a garganta contra a cabecinha inchada, mas não ligava, babava na extensão com vontade e mamava olhando para Haaland com a maior falsa inocência do mundo.
O gosto da pica dele era viciante, assim como tudo o que o envolvia — num instante estava encontrando com um carinha engraçado num evento, no outro estava fascinada por futebol e por ele, com uma aliança no dedo e gritando “Haaland” a cada gol que presenciava. Mal conseguia respirar, mas algo em você tinha certeza de que morreria mesmo era se parasse de chupá-lo.
— Ei, ei, se controla! — Erling riu, tendo que te afastar. — Você sabe que nunca vai caber.
— Vai sim!
— Sua boquinha é muito pequena, gracinha — acariciou seu lábio inferior, quase rosnando quando seus lábios inchadinhos capturaram o dedão dele, numa carência que quase o fez gozar. — Já pedi pro Jude te ajudar a engolir e nem ele você aguentou, lembra?
Injustiça! O pau do Bellingham também era enorme!
Contudo, você estava burrinha demais para debater naquele momento.
— Mas eu quero… — choramingou ao tirar o dígito branquinho da boca, com os olhinhos lacrimejando. — Eu preciso te consolar, Haaland…
Porra, você ainda o mataria chamando-o assim!
— Quer me consolar? — se abaixou, selando sua boca: — Chupa minha cabecinha igual uma putinha e me deixa esporrar nesse seu rostinho lindo, uh?
Você sorriu como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho, abocanhando-o de novo e masturbando o restante com as mãozinhas num vai-e-vem lentinho, apertando, fazendo Erling gemer seu nome como um gatinho adestrado — ah, ter aquele homem tão grande literalmente na palma das mãos…
Haaland precisou de mais autocontrole para não investir o quadril contra a sua boquinha linda. Sabia que podia te machucar, te fazer engasgar pateticamente várias e várias vezes… Ah, mas ele imaginou! Imaginou muito…
Você mal recuperou o fôlego ao ser afastada quando sentiu os jatos quentinhos e espessos de porra caíndo no seu rostinho úmido.
Continuou punhetando, com os olhinhos fechados, a bucetinha carente ardendo de vontade enquanto o sentia gozar mais e mais — Haaland gozava pra caralho quando ficava estressado, era o segredinho sujo de vocês.
— Vem aqui… — os braços fortes te ergueram de uma vez para que ele pudesse ver o estrago que havia feito de pertinho.
A língua quentinha lambeu sua bochecha meladinha, a boca cheinha do seu namoradinho ficando suja com a própria porra.
— B-Beijinho… — você pediu, já fraquinha demais por ele.
Haaland te deu o que queria, enfiando a língua grossinha na sua boca enquanto dedilhava sua bucetinha, indo mais para trás…
Algo geladinho.
Separou a boca da sua, totalmente incrédulo de que a mulherzinha dele estava com um plug.
— Era só se eu ganhasse — balbuciou, não controlando o impulso de mover mais, vendo seus olhinhos se revirando.
— Você sempre vai ser… Meu campeão — arfou baixinho, se agarrando aos ombros largos. — Eu só preciso me preparar direitinho, né?
— Uhum, direitinho… — agora era ele quem sorria como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho.
Empinou mais, amando a atenção que estava recebendo onde nunca havia sido estimulada antes. Segurou o rostinho de Haaland, olhando no fundo dos olhos dele:
origamiaround
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
amandla
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
snowghoul
