#erling

[maloriekane]

if everyone's suddenly obsessed with Haaland...

then where are the fics? 🤨

[dannyak148]

Big mouth strikes again

Pairing: Erling Haaland x reader

Summary: You had a crush on Haaland in high school, then he became famous and you were comfortable being one of his fangirls, until you make the mistake of forgetting DMs are a two way street.

Tw: cussing, thick accent and tall people, drawing made by me

Me having a crush on him was like the moon looking at the sun for light, obvious, inevitable, unexplainable.

But why would a guy like that notice me? I was absolutely clumsy. I was not the prettiest person alive or the most funny or clever. I had the bad habit of devouring books and then using words way too big for anyone’s vocabulary, ending up with guys liking me complaining about having to use a dictionary just to be able to be with me.

Was I the one who made being nice to me impossible? Approaching topics like entropy and the conspiracy theory that all bald men are secretly evil? I don’t actually think they are evil. I like watching people's faces when they debate between playing along and having a banter with me or telling me how absolutely ridiculous I was.

So liking this always-smiling, tall-ass guy from my school who looked like an actual Viking was something so stupid, because in what world would he notice me? And how would that work? I talk until he goes insane?

That’s what I thought at least, until he became famous and then I didn’t have anything to worry about anymore. He would absolutely never notice me now.

So I did what any normal fangirl of Haaland would do. I used his DMs as a personal diary where I sent him my art of him and my grocery list, except I miscalculated something: he can actually answer those.

-“Wow, you draw that?”- he replied to my newest drawing of him, the one I just sent him a few seconds ago even before I got to my usual rant about my process and how I was such a fan.

-“I know you”- I audibly gasped while I tried to think of an answer, a prayer, or a dark forces invocation strong enough to make this stop or keep going forever. Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, be -“we went to school together, hi 👋”-

-“Fuck”- I said -“What in the actual fuck”- I saw the typing emoji as he wrote and rewrote something -“fuck fuck fuck”-

-“I see you write a lot”- he typed -“Are you a writer now? You were always smart”- what do I do now? This is so embarrassing. This might be the actual death of me, the definition of something so stupid no one thinks it might happen.

-“oh, hello Erling, I actually never thought you would see this. I'm so embarrassed omg, forget you ever saw this”- dude, was I the dumbest person alive or what?

-“ Why forget”- gosh, he was so slow to write these damn texts, or was the adrenaline pumping through my veins the one responsible for making me see space-time slowed down? I could absolutely watch a fly with some chopsticks over here -“I thought we can catch up”-

Am I hallucinating or did he just ask me to catch up?

-“Want to go to dinner with me?”-

So I'm absolutely hallucinating.

[haalandpie]

EXTRA TIME.

── synopsis .✦ your boyfriend, erling haaland, returns home broken-hearted after losing to england in the world cup. he's beating himself up over the conceded goal, so you do what you can to comfort him and help him to stop blaming himself for his country's loss.

── contains .✦ light angst, hurt/comfort, haaland gets a little vulnerable, fem!reader, soft!haaland, cuddling, clingy!haaland

── word count .✦ 1.8k!

The sound of the key scraping against the lock was the most terrifying thing you had heard in weeks. 

You stood frozen in the middle of the living room, your hands clasped in front of you, knuckles white. The television was off, the curtains drawn. Oslo hummed quietly outside the window, oblivious to the earthquake that was about to step through your door.

The lock clicked, the handle turned, then the door pushed inward.

And there he was.

Erling Braut Haaland. The man who carried the hopes of a nation on his broad shoulders. The man who – just forty-eight hours ago – had been pushed into shoving another player, mistimed it completely, conceded a goal, and watched Norway's World Cup dream evaporate in a single, cruel moment against England.

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

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

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

“Erling…”

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

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

“Come here.” You cooed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the next few hours, this became your world. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.” He whispered.

“No? But we need to eat, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you too, Erling.”

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

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

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

divider by @/cafekitsune!

[maryfett99]

Still very proud of you Haaland❤️🇳🇴

He was amazing all through the whole world cup run and I hope many successes and blessings come his way❤️

[heyygrrl]

🐥💗

He looks so cuteee 😭

[carryonlethegoodtimesroll]

[mirandasmurder]

i know i should sleep

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the na continent is missing its viking 💔

haaland we miss you 🇳🇴

[fallinforerling]

Hi could you write about erling not liking when his girlfriend wears a bra around the house/when they are alone? Him being in love with her and her body, but her being insecure, especially having natural big breasts? Erling having a thing for her boobs, but like not only sexual, he likes touching them, using them as his personal pillow, massaging them (his gf telling him he acts like they are his stress balls). Basically him being her biggest supporter :))

I LOVE YOUR... - e.h

ೃ⁀➷ erling's masterlist

ೃ⁀➷ erling's taglist

ೃ⁀➷ masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Erling?!” It was the third time you called for your boyfriend in the last five minutes. Was he deaf? “Breakfast’s ready! It’s getting cold!” 

Still no response. 

“I swear to God…” You let out a sigh, going upstairs. The house was completely silent due to the sole presence of the two. When you made it to the bedroom, a laugh almost escaped your mouth. 

Erling was still wrapped on the covers, just as you left him thirty minutes ago. Seems like the constant attempts to wake him up were useless. His face was buried on your pillow, making your heart melt. You tiptoed around the bed until you were next to him, taking advantage of his sleepness to brush your fingers through his hair. A tiny smile drew on his face, letting you know he wasn’t as asleep as you thought. 

“So you decided to sleep in while your servant made breakfast?” You joked, dropping yourself on him. 

“Of course not, baby” He replied with his eyes still closed. “It’s just that I’m too tired.” He grabbed you by the hips, and with one movement, you were under him. “What about if we sleep a bit more?” His hands, as usual, slip past your shirt, looking for your boobs. 

Typical. 

They stopped above your bra, and you heard almost immediately his huff. 

“Why are you wearing this again?” He always complained when you wore a bra around the house. Always. 

“I told you! It’s more comfortable this way, they’re way too big for me to just let them hang free!” You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling his hands roll your bra up so he could grab them bare. “What I don’t get is why you are always touching my boobs… You know? They’re not stress balls.” 

“You sure? They always make me feel better and relaxed after touching them for a while.” His hands were still massaging you. At this point, this type of physical contact wasn’t even sexual. It was more of a weird hug. "And, this is the best pair of boobs in the world. Makes sense, because they're attached to the best body as well."

"Look who's talking" You smiled, feeling your heart do a pirouette, like everytime he said things like that.

“I’m average-looking next to you” His eyes met yours for a brief moment before kissing you the only way he knew. God, you loved this man. “You’re beautiful in any way possible. Sometimes I wonder how I got you” 

“Easy. I saw those lips and it was case closed” You said before returning the kiss. 

“Sounds like we’re both drawn by looks. How shallow.” He joked back, giving a final squeeze to your chest before letting them go. “What about breakfast?” 

“Oh, now you want breakfast?” You laughed, biting your lip when he seemed confused. 

“Of course, that food is as delicious as you are, I’m sure” He went inside the bathroom, leaving your blushing self behind. 

“Idiot…” You whispered, feeling more in love than ever. 

Maybe you should stop wearing bras, they were uncomfortable anyways.