Chapter 5: Ruin Me
The damp, sour smell of her own release still clung to Vanja’s face where he’d shoved it into the soaked sheets. Haaland’s heavy forearm pressed like an iron bar across her shoulder blades, pinning her flat. His breath, hot and ragged, fanned the back of her neck. The triumphant smirk in his reflection, the filthy declaration – ‘Clean. Every fucking drop.’ – echoed in the stunned silence of her bedroom, louder than the distant Manchester traffic humming beyond the large window.
Then he moved.
In one brutal, fluid motion, the pressure vanished from her back. His hands seized her hips again, fingers like steel vices digging into the bruised flesh. He flipped her onto her back with terrifying ease. Her head bounced once on the damp mattress, the world tilting violently. Before her vision cleared, he was over her, straddling her thighs, his massive frame blotting out the soft light, casting her in shadow. His cock, rigid and flushed, jutted obscenely close to her face, the thick shaft glistening with a fresh bead of pre-cum.
"You think you’re in control?" The words were a low, guttural snarl, stripped of all amusement, all trace of the flippant striker. His green eyes, usually bright with predatory mischief, were dark pits of pure, focused fury. He leaned down, one hand slamming her wrists together above her head, crushing the delicate bones against the headboard with crushing force. The other hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her throat. Not choking, not yet, but the pressure was immediate, commanding, a terrifying promise. His thumb pressed against her windpipe, making her gasp. "Think fucking grandpa means you call the shots?"
Vanja bucked wildly, panic flaring. "Get off—" The words choked off as his grip tightened fractionally. Her legs thrashed uselessly beneath his weight. The framed photos on the wall seemed to leer at her – her grandfather’s analytical gaze felt like an accusation burned into her skin.
"Shut up," he hissed, his face inches from hers. His scent – sweat, sex, her – filled her nostrils. "You used a fake name. Hid who you are. Played your little game." His thumb stroked the frantic pulse hammering in her neck, a grotesque parody of tenderness. "But you couldn't hide that tight fucking cunt. Couldn't hide how you soaked my cock screaming." His gaze dropped deliberately to where his erection pressed against her lower belly, thick and hot. "You think Jupp fucking Heynckes knows his precious granddaughter gets off on being pinned down? On having her pussy stretched raw?"
"Don't!" Vanja choked out, shame warring with a terrifying spike of unwanted heat coiling low in her belly at his crude words, at the sheer, undeniable dominance radiating from him.
"Don't?" Haaland’s laugh was a sharp bark. His free hand released her throat only to fist roughly in her hair, yanking her head back painfully. "You don't get to say 'don't'." He released her hair and his hand slid down her body, calloused fingers skimming her ribs, her stomach, leaving trails of fire on her oversensitive skin. They dipped lower, past her navel, through the damp thatch of dark blonde curls. He didn’t tease. Two thick fingers plunged into her without warning.
Vanja cried out, arching off the bed. She was still stretched, swollen, hypersensitive from his earlier pounding and her own gushing climax. The intrusion burned, a deep ache that instantly sparked sharper sparks of sensation. He fucked her with his fingers brutally, knuckle-deep, the wet, squelching sound obscenely loud.
"So fucking wet again already," he growled, his eyes fixed on where his fingers pistoned in and out of her slick entrance. "All that talk of legacy, of professionalism… and your body betrays you for my cock. Begging for it." He curled his fingers, finding that spot deep inside, and pressed hard.
A ragged scream tore from Vanja’s throat. Her hips jerked uncontrollably against his hand, against the weight pinning her lower body. The conflicting sensations were overwhelming: the sharp pain of his grip on her wrists, the relentless pressure on her throat, the deep, bruising penetration of his fingers, and the shocking, electric jolt of pleasure radiating from his touch. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the harsh lines of his face above her.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, holding them up slick and glistening in the dim light. He smeared her wetness across her lower belly, the cool air making her shiver. Then he positioned himself. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against her swollen, sensitive entrance. It felt impossibly large, a burning brand of possession.
"I’ll ruin you for anyone else, Jakobsen," he promised, his voice thick and dark, his gaze locked on hers. The pressure on her throat eased slightly, enough for breath, but the threat remained. "Mark you. Make you remember who owns this cunt."
He slammed forward.
Vanja’s world dissolved into white-hot sensation and sound. A raw, guttural cry ripped from her as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The stretch was agonizing, breathtaking. He filled her completely, stretching her sensitive tissues to their absolute limit, the thick shaft pulsing hot and hard against her inner walls. He held deep, grinding his pelvis hard against her clit, the rough friction igniting a firestorm.
Then he pulled back, the drag a searing scrape, and hammered home again. And again. No rhythm, only relentless, punishing force. The wet slap of flesh on flesh, the creak of the bed frame protesting, his guttural grunts, her own broken sobs and choked gasps filled the room. The hand on her throat shifted, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him as he fucked her.
"See me," he commanded, his breath hot on her face. Each savage thrust drove the air from her lungs. His hips pistoned, driving deep, the thick root of his cock grinding against her clit with every impact. The pain was intense, a deep, stretching ache, but laced through it was a terrifying, building pleasure, coiling tighter and tighter in her core, amplified by the sheer force of his possession, the crude reality of his words – ruin you, mark you, own this cunt.
Her body betrayed her utterly. Her inner muscles clenched around his invading length in helpless, rhythmic spasms, gripping him, trying to milk him even as her mind screamed protest. Her hips lifted slightly, meeting his downward thrusts, seeking more of that brutal friction against her clit, more of the devastating stretch. "F-fuck… Erling…" His name escaped in a ragged gasp, stripped of defiance, laced with surrender she hadn't intended.
"Yeah," he growled, triumph blazing in his eyes. He saw it, felt it – the involuntary clutch of her cunt, the desperate tilt of her hips. "That's it. Take it. Take my fucking cock, Coach." He shifted his angle minutely, driving upwards with brutal precision. The thick head slammed against her deepest spot.
Vanja shattered.
A high, keening wail tore from her throat as the coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, not the gushing flood of before, but a deep, convulsive eruption that locked every muscle. Her cunt clamped down on his shaft with viselike intensity, fluttering wildly, milking him as wave after wave of blinding ecstasy crashed through her. She thrashed beneath him, her vision whiting out, her cries dissolving into wordless, animal sounds.
"FUCK!" Haaland roared, feeling her convulse around him. The intense clenching, the raw, broken sounds, the sight of her beautiful face contorted in ecstasy against his hand – it undid him. His rhythm shattered. He drove deep and held, burying himself to the root, grinding hard as his own orgasm tore through him. Thick, hot pulses of cum erupted deep inside her spasming channel, jetting against her cervix, filling her. He bucked wildly, emptying himself with guttural groans, his grip on her jaw tightening as he held her pinned beneath the force of his release.
He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her deep into the ruined mattress, his forehead dropping to her sweat-slicked shoulder. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps that stirred her damp hair. Vanja lay utterly still beneath him, boneless, dazed. The tremors of her climax still echoed through her, mingling with the deep, satisfying ache radiating from her core, her wrists, her throat. The room smelled overwhelmingly of sex, sweat, and the musky tang of their combined releases. His softening cock remained buried inside her, a heavy, possessive weight.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes, still dark but the fury banked now into a smoldering satisfaction, scanned her face. He released her wrists, the marks stark red against her pale skin. His thumb brushed over the bruise already forming on her jawline from his grip. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"Told you," he murmured, his voice rough but edged with dark amusement. He shifted his hips, pulling himself free with a wet, sucking sound, followed by a fresh trickle of his spend down her inner thigh. He looked down at the mess between her legs, at the glistening evidence of his claim, then back up at her. The exhausted defiance he expected wasn't there. Her green eyes were heavy-lidded, unfocused, a strange, hollowed-out look in them beneath the lingering haze of pleasure. Haaland’s grin faltered, just for an instant. He rolled off her, landing heavily on his back beside the wreckage of the bed. He stared at the ceiling, the fierce triumph momentarily edged with something else – a flicker of awareness of the abyss they’d just plunged into. He exhaled sharply, the sound loud in the thick silence.
The silence stretched, thick with the smell of sex and the fading echoes of violence. Vanja lay absolutely still, staring at the ceiling, the phantom pressure of his grip still tight on her wrists, his scent clinging to her skin like a brand. Haaland turned his head on the pillow, his gaze tracing the angry red marks circling her pale wrists, the bruised print of his fingers blooming on her throat, the sticky mess glistening between her thighs. "You alright?" he asked, his voice rough but stripped of its earlier aggression, sounding almost surprised at his own question.
Vanja flinched. The sound felt like gravel scraping raw skin. She didn't answer, couldn't. The weight of what just happened, the brutal claiming, the terrifying loss of control, crashed over her. This wasn't just a mistake; it felt like a demolition. She squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping to track through the sweat on her temple. Haaland swore softly under his breath, a stark contrast to his earlier roars. He pushed himself up, the mattress groaning in protest. "Fuckin' hell, Jakobsen," he muttered, more to himself, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He glanced at his discarded clothes, then back at her vulnerable stillness. "Bathroom?"
She managed a tiny, jerky nod, still not looking at him. He stood, a mountain of muscle moving with an unexpected quietness, his softening cock swinging heavily. He padded naked across the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The sound of the shower starting a moment later was a small mercy. Vanja finally drew a shaky breath that felt like inhaling glass. Her entire body throbbed – the deep ache between her legs, the sting on her wrists, the raw tenderness of her throat. And beneath the physical wreckage, a treacherous, shameful pulse of lingering sensation, an echo of the brutal pleasure that had ripped through her moments before. She curled onto her side, pulling her knees up, as the sound of water washed over the silence he’d left behind.
The steam from the shower did little to ease the tension knotting Haaland’s shoulders. He braced his palms against the cool tile, head bowed under the spray, water sluicing the sweat and her scent from his skin. His reflection in the fogged glass was a stranger – the feral intensity was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out exhaustion. The marks on her skin flashed in his mind: the bruises, the raw friction burns on the inside of her thighs. Fuck. He’d lost it. Utterly. The challenge in her eyes, the defiance mixed with that raw fucking need – it had unleashed something primal, something he hadn't planned. He punched the tile, the sharp pain a brief counterpoint. He heard the faint creak of the bed frame from the bedroom. Was she dressing? Running? Calling security? The thought sent an irrational spike of panic through him, sharper than any post-coital regret. He shut off the water abruptly, the silence sudden and heavy. Wrapping a towel low around his hips, he pushed open the door.
Vanja stood by the window, back to him, already dressed in simple black leggings and a loose grey hoodie. Her damp hair was pulled back haphazardly. She stared out at the city lights, her posture rigid. The pile of her discarded lingerie – the delicate black lace he’d ripped off her with such urgency – lay crumpled on the floor like a battlefield casualty. "I'm going," she said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. She didn't turn.
"Jakobsen, wait—" he started, stepping forward.
"Don't," she cut him off, still facing the window. Her shoulders hunched slightly. "Just don't. This... doesn't happen again. It can't." She finally turned. The vulnerability he’d seen earlier was locked down tight behind a mask of icy professionalism. Only the faint bruising peeking above her hoodie collar betrayed the chaos of minutes before. Her green eyes met his, hard and unreadable. "We have training tomorrow. Be sharp. Be professional." Her gaze flickered over his bare chest, the towel, then snapped back to his face, utterly dismissive. "Goodnight, Haaland." She walked past him without another glance, scooping up her bag, the door clicking shut firmly behind her. He stood frozen in the middle of his own bedroom, the scent of her perfume still hanging in the air, mixed with the damp steam and the lingering aftermath of sex. The silence felt louder this time, accusing. "Fuck," he breathed, the sound swallowed by the empty room.
Training the next morning was a masterclass in agonizing restraint. The Etihad Campus buzzed with its usual pre-season intensity – the sharp blasts of Pep’s whistle, the thud of boots on turf, the rhythmic shouts of drills. Vanja moved through it like a ghost in a navy City tracksuit, sunglasses hiding her eyes even under the overcast Manchester sky. Her commands were crisp, her analysis delivered with detached precision as she dissected a defensive drill. She pointed out a midfielder's positioning error, her voice cool, calm, utterly devoid of the tremor Haaland had heard last night. He watched her, tracking her every move from the corner of his eye as he took instructions from Mikel Arteta. She never looked his way. Not once. It was like last night existed in some fever dream dimension, walled off from the stark reality of cones and tactics boards. He trained like a demon, channeling his frustrated, confused energy into brutal sprints and thunderous shots that rattled the crossbar. But his focus kept fracturing. The memory of her gasps, the feel of her clenching around him, the stark terror and overwhelming pleasure on her face, warred with the image of her stiff back at the window, the ice in her voice: ‘This doesn’t happen again.’ He felt raw, exposed, a live wire sparking dangerously close to combusting. Every time she turned her head, he expected her gaze to meet his, to see accusation or pity or, worse, nothing at all. But her attention was always elsewhere – on Phil Foden’s run, on Ruben Dias’s positioning. Professional. Impeccable. Untouchable. It drove him fucking insane.
During a water break, he stood leaning against the goalpost, gulping from a bottle, sweat stinging his eyes. He felt her approach before he saw her. The air seemed to tighten. She stopped a few meters away, consulting her tablet, seemingly focused on data. Her voice, when it came, was low, meant only for him, detached as a machine reading stats. "You're overcommitting on the press, Haaland. Pull back half a step, read the defender's hips before you spring. Don't just rely on pace." She tapped her screen. "Data shows you're getting bypassed too easily." She still didn't look at him. Then, almost imperceptibly, her head turned. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but he felt the weight of her gaze rake over his body – lingering for a heartbeat too long on the damp fabric clinging to his chest, tracing the line of his throat – before snapping back to her tablet. A surge of heat, entirely inappropriate and wildly potent, slammed through him. It wasn't the casual assessment of a coach. It was the look from last night, the one loaded with a challenge and a terrifying hunger. He saw the slight flush creep up her neck, just visible above her zip. "Understood, Coach," he managed, his voice tighter than intended. She gave a curt nod and walked away towards the next group, her stride quick, purposeful. He watched her go, the towel clenched tightly in his fist. Professional. Fucking hell. But the look? That look wasn't professional. It was a silent detonation. He drained the rest of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. The game had changed. Again. And he had no idea what the new fucking rules were.
Midnight. The buzz of his phone on the nightstand shattered the tense silence Haaland had been stewing in for hours. He snatched it up. A single notification lit the screen. An unknown number. The text was stark, devoid of greeting:
`DT2 9FD. Now.`
A jolt of pure electricity shot through him. He knew. He fucking knew. The address was his. The demand was absolute. The detached coach was gone. This was the woman pinned beneath him, bruised and gasping. He was out of bed and pulling on jeans in seconds, barefoot and bare-chested, heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't question it. Didn't hesitate. The drive was a blur of streetlights and roaring engine.
He flung open his front door. She stood on the step, silhouetted against the dim hallway light from his flat. Not in a hoodie. Not hiding. Vanja wore sheer black lingerie, scraps of lace that barely contained the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. A garter belt clipped to the tops of seamed black stockings that drew a mesmerizing line down her long legs to sharp stilettos. Her dark blonde hair was down, cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes, wide and dark in the low light, held none of the ice from the training ground. They blazed with the same raw, unfiltered hunger he’d unleashed, the same terrifying defiance. She looked like vengeance and surrender wrapped in silk and lace. She didn't speak. Just stepped past him, the click of her heels sharp on the wooden floor, the scent of her perfume – that same fucking perfume – enveloping him, rich and dangerous.
He slammed the door, the lock clicking with finality. He turned. She stood in the center of his minimalist living room, bathed in the city glow from the large window. Her gaze swept the space – the modern furniture, the clean lines, the framed photo of his first professional goal. "I like your place," she said, her voice a low, husky rasp that scraped along every nerve ending. It wasn't casual. It was a challenge, a dare.
He crossed the space in two strides, yanking her hard against him. His hands slid roughly over the lace covering her ass, pulling her tight against the rigid proof of his own raging need. Her gasp was sharp, her eyes flashing. "You're welcome any time," he growled, the grin spreading across his face feral, triumphant. Then his mouth crashed down on hers.
It was a collision, not a kiss. Teeth clashed, tongues clashed, a desperate, furious claiming. He backed her roughly towards the nearest wall, his hands fumbling with the tiny clasps of her lingerie, tearing at the flimsy fabric in his urgency. She clawed at his back, her nails scoring his skin, meeting his violence with her own. The bra gave way. He palmed her breast roughly, thumb scraping over her stiff nipple, drawing a ragged moan from her throat. He shoved the lace and satin of her panties aside, fingers finding her already slick and swollen, plunging deep. She cried out, arching against him, her wetness coating his hand. "Fuck me, Haaland," she gasped against his mouth, her voice raw with demand. "Fuck me like you mean to break me."
He needed no further invitation. He spun her around, shoved her hard against the wall, her cheek pressed to the cool surface. He kicked her legs wider apart, the stilettos scraping the floor. His cock, thick and painfully hard, nudged against her slick entrance. He gripped her hip with one hand, wrapped her long, dark blonde hair around his other fist, pulling her head back sharply. "Open," he snarled, and slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
"OH GOD!" Vanja screamed, the sound muffled against the wall. The stretch was immediate, agonizing, exquisite. He filled her completely, the thick shaft driving deep into her tight, clutching heat. He didn't pause, didn't tease. He pulled back almost entirely, leaving only the swollen head stretching her entrance, then hammered back in with the full force of his body. The wet slap of flesh echoed in the apartment. Again. Again. Each savage stroke drove the breath from her lungs, each withdrawal a searing drag that made her inner muscles spasm helplessly around him. He fucked her with relentless, punishing force, his hips pistoning, the root of his cock grinding against her clit with every deep plunge. Her cries escalated – broken gasps, sharp whimpers, guttural groans. "Yes! Fuck! Harder! Ruin me!" she chanted, her voice cracking, her body pushing back against his thrusts, meeting his violence with desperate need. He shifted his angle, driving upwards, the thick head slamming against her cervix. She shrieked, her body locking, her cunt clenching in a vice-like spasm around his invading length. "Cumming!" she wailed, the sound raw, animalistic. "I'm cumming!"
The intense, rhythmic clenching pulled his climax violently from him. "FUCK! VANJA!" he roared, his own control shattering. He buried himself impossibly deep, grinding hard as thick, hot ropes of cum erupted inside her, jetting against her womb in powerful, unrelenting pulses. He held her pinned, shuddering, emptying himself completely, the world narrowing to the feel of her convulsing heat milking his cock, the sound of her broken sobs of pleasure echoing in his ears. The intensity was blinding, a physical detonation that locked his muscles, stole the air from his lungs. He saw stars, the edges of his vision blurring, darkening. His grip on her hair slackened. Her body went utterly limp against the wall, held up only by his fading strength and the pressure of his body. The last thing he registered was the sensation of her inner muscles still weakly pulsing around his softening shaft before the darkness rushed up and swallowed him whole, his consciousness winking out as he slumped heavily against her back. Her head lolled forward, her own breath shallow, the world fading into silent, blissful oblivion as she followed him down.