Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Consciousness returned in slow, painful waves. Haaland’s head pounded like a bass drum, his mouth tasted of copper and salt. The cool, smooth surface pressed against the side of his face resolved into the polished concrete floor of his apartment. He was sprawled on his back, limbs leaden. Weight pinned his right arm. He blinked, vision swimming before focusing on the spill of dark blonde hair fanned across his bare chest. Vanja. Curled against his side, one leg hooked over his thigh, her face turned into the hollow of his shoulder. The sheer black lace of her lingerie was torn at one strap, the delicate fabric strained against the curve of her breast. The seamed stockings were ripped at one knee. One stiletto lay discarded a meter away; the other was still precariously hooked on her foot.
Her breathing was deep, even. The frantic energy, the destructive hunger that had propelled her into his apartment and against his wall, had vanished. In its place was an unnerving stillness. The harsh angles of her face in sleep seemed softer, the mask of icy control utterly absent. The marks stood out starkly in the dim city light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows: the red pressure points on her jaw from his grip, the beginnings of a bruise high on her left cheekbone where it had pressed against the wall. Lower, beneath the torn lace, the swell of her breast carried the angry imprint of his fingers.
He didn’t move. The urge to shift his numb arm warred with a sudden, paralyzing reluctance to disturb her. The silence was immense, broken only by their breathing and the distant hum of Manchester. He stared up at the shadowed ceiling, the events of the past hour replaying in brutal flashes: the text, the lingerie, the wall, the brutal, desperate fucking that had ended with them both collapsing. Fucking unconscious. He’d never… Christ, he’d lost himself completely, and so had she. The ferocity of her response, the way she’d demanded he break her… it echoed in the ache of his back where her nails had scored deep tracks. He felt raw, scraped hollow, yet an unfamiliar warmth radiated from the point where her body touched his. It wasn’t just her physical heat; it was a strange sense of… containment. Of not being alone inside the storm.
She stirred, a small sigh escaping her lips. Her body tensed infinitesimally against his as awareness flooded back. He felt the exact moment she registered where she was, who she was pressed against. Her breathing hitched. Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her head from his shoulder. Her green eyes, wide and hooded with residual sleep and the aftermath of violence, met his in the gloom. There was no fear, not exactly. Just a profound, wary exhaustion and a dawning horror at their position, at the intimacy of the tangle of limbs on his cold floor. Her gaze darted to the marks on her own skin, visible above the lace, then flickered over the scratches on his chest and shoulders. A muscle jumped in her jaw.
She pushed herself up abruptly, wincing as her muscles protested. The remaining stiletto clattered to the floor. She scrambled to her feet, swaying slightly, her hand shooting out to brace against the back of the sleek black leather sofa. She wouldn’t look at him, her focus on the scattered shreds of fabric that had once been more complete lingerie. She snatched her crumpled panties, useless now, and the torn bra strap. Her movements were jerky, frantic with the need for escape.
"I'm going," she announced, her voice rough, stripped bare. She started towards the door, limping slightly, clutching the ruined lace scraps like shameful evidence.
The words tore from him before he could think, raw and desperate, cutting through the thick silence. "Don't." A pause, then the plea, softer, laced with a vulnerability that startled him as much as it seemed to startle her. "Please. Stay."
She froze, her back rigid. She didn't turn. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep, shaky breath. He saw the tremor run through her. Seconds stretched, thin and tense. He held his own breath, the silence pressing down, the city lights painting cold stripes across the minimalist expanse of his apartment, glinting off a framed photo of him lifting a trophy. It felt like an accusation, a reminder of the world outside this ruined intimacy.
Slowly, so slowly, her shoulders lowered. The frantic energy bled out of her posture. She didn't turn, didn't speak, but the direction of her tension shifted. Instead of heading for the door, she took a hesitant step towards the dark hallway leading to his bedroom, then another. She moved like someone sleepwalking, the ripped stockings whispering against her thighs. She disappeared into the gloom of the hallway.
Haaland pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the protest from his muscles. He heard the faint sound of water running briefly in the ensuite bathroom, then silence. He hauled himself to his feet, every movement echoing the deep ache in his body. He followed, padding silently down the hall.
The bedroom was darker, lit only by the ambient city glow. Vanja stood beside the massive bed, her silhouette stark against the window. She’d toed off the ruined stockings. She was utterly still, staring at the rumpled duvet. The defiance was gone. In its place was a profound weariness that seemed to seep into the very air. She looked small, adrift in the luxury of his space, the torn lace a dark shadow against her skin.
He moved to the walk-in closet, grabbed the first things his hand found: a soft, dark grey City hoodie, far too big for her, and a pair of his own black football shorts. He held them out, not touching her. "Here."
She flinched at his nearness but didn't pull away. After a heartbeat, she took the clothes, her fingers brushing his, sending a jolt through them both. She didn't thank him. She walked into the ensuite bathroom and closed the door, not latching it. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of the torn lingerie being discarded.
He pulled on a pair of sweatpants, the fabric rough against his scraped skin, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, facing away from the bathroom door. The unfamiliar ache in his chest had nothing to do with physical exertion. He felt scraped raw, exposed in a way goals and trophies and roaring crowds never touched. The silence from the bathroom stretched.
The door opened. She emerged, swimming in his hoodie, the sleeves covering her hands, the hem falling to mid-thigh. His shorts were rolled at the waist but still hung low on her hips. Her hair was pushed back messily from her face. She looked impossibly young, the harsh coach and the feral creature from the wall replaced by someone vulnerable and lost. She avoided his gaze, staring at a point near his feet. Without a word, she walked to the far side of the king-sized bed, pulled back the duvet, and slid in, turning onto her side, facing away from him, curling into herself like a comma. The hoodie swallowed her.
Haaland watched the tense line of her shoulders under the thick fabric. The distance across the vast bed felt like a chasm. He turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into near darkness, broken only by the city's sodium glow. He slid under the duvet on his side, the cool sheets a shock. He lay on his back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, listening to her breathe. It wasn't the deep, even rhythm of sleep. It was too controlled, too careful.
Minutes crawled by. The silence was a living thing, thick with everything unsaid, everything violently done. He could still smell her perfume under the clean scent of his laundry detergent, mixed with the lingering musk of sex. He could feel the phantom grip of her cunt, the heat of her skin against his on the floor. Ruin you. Own this cunt. His own words echoed, brutal and ugly in the quiet. He could see the marks on her skin. The image of her rigid back as she tried to leave, clutching the torn lace, flashed behind his eyes.
A sound broke the silence. Faint, almost inaudible. A hitched breath. Then another. He turned his head on the pillow. Her shoulders were trembling. Silent sobs. The hoodie bunched as she curled tighter, trying to stifle it. The raw vulnerability of it, from her, was a physical blow.
He didn't think. Instinct, deeper than strategy, deeper than pride, propelled him. He moved across the cool sheets, closing the distance. He didn’t reach for her aggressively, didn’t pin her. He simply slid his arm around her waist, over the bulky fabric of the hoodie, his palm splayed low on her belly, pulling her back gently until her spine rested against his chest. Her body went rigid as stone. She stopped breathing.
"Shhh," he murmured, the sound rough against the crown of her head. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, his own hoodie, the salt tang of tears. "Just… shhh."
He expected her to shove him away. To lash out. To freeze completely. Instead, after a long, suspended moment where the only sound was the frantic thud of her heartbeat against his forearm, the tension began to seep out of her. Not all at once, but in slow increments. A shuddering exhale escaped her, warm against his wrist. Her rigid spine softened minutely against his chest. The trembling didn’t stop, but it changed, became less frantic, more a deep, bone-weary vibration.
He held her. Just held her. His thumb stroked a slow, absent circle over the soft cotton covering her stomach. He felt the frantic rhythm of her pulse gradually begin to slow beneath his palm, synchronizing with his own. Her hair tickled his nose. The warmth of her bled through the hoodie, a solid, anchoring presence against him. The possessive fury, the desperate lust, the professional distance – it all receded, leaving this strange, silent truce in the dark. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the far wall. The only sounds were their breathing, slowly deepening, and the distant, muted thrum of the sleeping city. Her hand, resting near her face, uncurled slightly. Her fingers, small and pale in the gloom, brushed tentatively against the forearm he had wrapped around her. Not pushing away. Just… touching. Anchoring.
He pressed a feather-light kiss into her hair, a silent acknowledgment, a promise of nothing beyond this fragile moment. Her breath hitched again, but not with a sob. A sigh. Deep. Exhausted. Her body melted the final fraction of an inch back against him, her head finding a more comfortable hollow against his shoulder. The trembling subsided. Her breathing deepened further, evening out into the slow, heavy rhythm of sleep. The iron band around Haaland’s own chest loosened. He closed his eyes, the unfamiliar feeling of her weight against him, the soft rhythm of her breath against his skin, the only things anchoring him in the vast, quiet dark. Safe. For now. Together in the wreckage. Asleep.
The city’s grey dawn light seeped around the edges of the blackout blinds, painting thin stripes across the rumpled duvet. Vanja stirred first, blinking against the unfamiliar softness of Haaland’s pillow, the scent of his laundry detergent and something uniquely him – sweat, musk, clean linen – thick in her nostrils. Her body ached, a deep, pervasive throb echoing the brutal coupling against his apartment wall, the frantic collapse onto the cold floor. Memory flooded back: the torn lace, the desperate grip, the raw, animal sounds tearing from her own throat. Shame prickled hot beneath the oversized hoodie she still wore, its fabric soft against her bruised skin. She shifted slightly, acutely aware of the solid warmth pressed against her back, Haaland’s arm still draped heavily over her waist, his breathing deep and even against her hair.
She lay perfectly still, listening to his steady rhythm, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest against her spine. The possessive fury that had consumed him, the terrifying command in his voice – ‘I’ll ruin you for anyone else’ – felt distant now, replaced by this unnerving intimacy. His hand rested loosely on her stomach beneath the hoodie, his thumb unconsciously tracing a slow circle on the cotton. It wasn’t a demand. It felt… anchoring. Safe, despite everything. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, the conflicting sensations warring within her: the lingering sting of his grip on her jaw, the profound exhaustion, and this strange, unexpected comfort in his closeness. The torn black lace stocking lay discarded near the bed, a stark reminder tangled with the scent of sex still clinging faintly to the sheets.
Haaland woke slowly, consciousness returning with the feel of her body curved against his. He didn’t move, savoring the unfamiliar weight, the softness of her hair against his lips. The events of the night crashed over him – the violence, her surrender, her tears – but the sharpest pang was the memory of her rigid back as she tried to flee clutching the ruined lingerie. He tightened his arm infinitesimally, pulling her fractionally closer, burying his nose deeper into the crown of her head. She didn’t stiffen. Instead, she sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and relaxed further into him. Relief, potent and unexpected, washed through him. He pressed a kiss into her hair, a silent apology, a benediction. "Morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
Vanja tensed for a heartbeat, then exhaled slowly. "Morning." Her voice was husky, raw. She didn’t pull away. They lay like that for long minutes, the silence comfortable now, charged with the unspoken acknowledgment of the wreckage they’d created and the fragile truce they’d found. The city outside was waking up, the distant hum of traffic growing louder. Haaland finally shifted, reluctantly loosening his hold. "Hungry?" he asked, his hand sliding from her stomach, leaving a patch of coolness where his warmth had been.
She rolled onto her back, looking up at him. The harsh morning light revealed the bruise blooming high on her cheekbone, the faint red marks still visible on her throat. Her green eyes were clear, wary but devoid of the previous night’s panic. "Starving," she admitted
The admission hung between them, stark and simple in the grey dawn light filtering through the blinds. Haaland pushed himself up, the duvet pooling around his waist, revealing the deep scratches raked across his shoulders and chest – souvenirs of her desperate grip against his apartment wall. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air hitting his skin. "Stay," he murmured, not a command this time, but a quiet request. He padded barefoot towards the sleek, minimalist kitchen visible beyond the bedroom door, leaving Vanja cocooned in the rumpled warmth of his bed, the oversized hoodie swallowing her frame.
Vanja watched him go, the powerful lines of his back shifting under fading scratches, the low-slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. The silence felt heavy, charged with the unspoken violence of the night before – the slam of her body against the wall, the tearing lace, the guttural sounds ripped from both their throats. She touched the tender spot high on her cheekbone, a dull echo of the pressure from his grip. Ruin you. The words echoed, brutal and possessive. Yet, the scent of him lingered on the hoodie, strangely comforting. She heard the clatter of pans, the hiss of the induction hob igniting. The domestic sounds felt jarringly normal after the raw carnality of their coupling. She pushed herself up slowly, every muscle protesting, and shuffled towards the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame.
Haaland stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he cracked eggs into a bowl with surprising deftness. Bacon sizzled violently in a pan, filling the air with its salty, greasy perfume. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping over her dwarfed in his clothes, the hoodie sleeves covering her hands, the shorts revealing the tops of her bruised thighs. His eyes lingered on the marks on her throat. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Coffee?" he asked gruffly, gesturing towards the state-of-the-art espresso machine gleaming on the countertop.
"Please," Vanja rasped, her voice still rough. She watched his hands – the same hands that had pinned her wrists, gripped her throat, slammed into her – whisk the eggs with a focused intensity. The contrast was dizzying. He moved efficiently, plating crispy bacon, sliding perfectly cooked scrambled eggs beside it, buttering thick slices of sourdough toast. He placed the plate on the sleek breakfast bar, then slid a steaming mug of black coffee towards her. The simple act felt monumental. He leaned against the counter opposite her, sipping his own coffee, his gaze watchful, unreadable. The silence stretched, filled only by the sounds of eating and the distant city waking up. The ghost of his cock stretching her, the slick, obscene sounds of their frantic fucking, seemed to vibrate just beneath the surface of this mundane breakfast.
Vanja ate mechanically, the food tasting like ash despite its perfection. Her body throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a constant reminder. She felt his eyes on her, tracing the bruises, the shadows under her eyes. The ripped black lace stocking was probably still crumpled on his bedroom floor. She finished the eggs, pushed the plate away slightly. Haaland moved then, circling the breakfast bar. He stopped inches from her, the heat radiating off him palpable. He didn’t touch her. He just looked down, his expression a complex mix of something fierce and something unbearably soft. "Vanja," he started, his voice low.
She looked up, meeting his intense blue eyes. The wariness was still there, a shield against the memory of his domination, the feel of him emptying himself deep inside her while snarling ownership. But beneath it, a flicker of something else. Exhaustion, yes. Confusion. And a reluctant, terrifying curiosity. Haaland raised a hand slowly, giving her time to recoil. She didn’t. His fingertips, surprisingly gentle, brushed the edge of the bruise on her cheekbone. The touch sent a jolt through her, a confusing mix of pain and unwanted electricity. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, avoiding the marks on her throat. His gaze dropped to her lips. The air crackled, thick with the memory of his mouth crushing hers, his tongue demanding entry, tasting her desperation.
He leaned down, impossibly slowly. Vanja held her breath. His lips brushed hers, feather-light, a stark contrast to the brutal claiming of the night. It was a question, an apology, a tentative exploration. She didn’t pull away. Her lips parted slightly on a shaky exhale. He deepened the kiss, still achingly gentle, his hand sliding to cradle the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. It was tender, searching, a world away from the raw, animalistic rutting against his wall. Vanja found herself leaning into it, her hand rising tentatively to rest against his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath her palm, the ridges of healing scratches under the thin cotton of his shirt. The kiss lingered, soft and profound, sealing the unspoken truce forged in exhaustion and shared wreckage. When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her skin, the frantic pulse of the night felt momentarily stilled. "Training," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion she couldn't name.
They dressed in silence, Vanja borrowing clean training gear from his walk-in closet – black leggings, a sky-blue City training top that smelled overwhelmingly of him. The drive to the City Football Academy was quiet, the hum of the powerful car engine the only sound. The familiar sights of the training ground felt surreal after the intimacy of his apartment, the violence, the unexpected tenderness. Players milled about, shouts echoing across the pitches. Pep Guardiola gave Vanja a sharp, appraising look as she walked towards the tactical room, her stride purposeful despite the deep ache between her legs, a constant reminder of how hard he’d taken her. Haaland headed towards the locker room, his presence radiating its usual intense focus, though his gaze followed her until she disappeared inside.
Later, under the bright midday sun at a bustling café near the Etihad, Haaland stabbed listlessly at his salad. Martin Ødegaard, leaning back in his chair, took a long pull from his water bottle, eyeing his friend’s unusual quietness. "Earth to Erling. You look like you wrestled a bear. Lose a bet?" Martin grinned, nodding towards the faint scratches visible above Haaland’s collar.
Haaland pushed his plate away, running a hand over his face. He stared out at the passing traffic for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The image of Vanja, bruised and vulnerable yet fiercely intelligent in his hoodie, flashed behind his eyes. The feel of her soft lips yielding under his gentle morning kiss. The terrifying, exhilarating surrender he’d felt when she’d arched against him on his floor, screaming his name as she came around his cock. He met Martin’s curious gaze, his voice low, almost hesitant. "Martin... I think I'm in love with her." The words felt huge, terrifyingly real spoken aloud. "Vanja. She's... incredible. Sharp. Strong. Fucking terrifying sometimes." He looked down at his hands, the hands that had gripped her throat, pinned her wrists. "And... she’s too good for me. Way too fucking good."
Martin choked slightly on his water, then burst out laughing, a bright, incredulous sound. He leaned forward, clapping Haaland hard on the shoulder. "Erling! Listen to yourself! You are Erling fucking Haaland! The best striker on the planet! A Viking giant! A fucking great friend!" He shook his head, still chuckling. "Too good for you? Are you insane? Look at you! If she didn't want you, truly want you, do you think she'd let you fuck her silly like that?" Martin gestured vaguely towards Haaland’s neck, his grin wide and knowing. "She wouldn't be in your bed, bruised and breathless, if she didn't see you. The Viking giant bit is just packaging, mate. She sees the rest."
Haaland stared at his friend, Martin’s words cutting through the fog of his own doubt. The memory of Vanja’s fierce response to his dominance, the way she’d demanded more, harder, deeper, flooded back. The raw, unfiltered need in her eyes when she’d come apart around him. A slow, tentative smile spread across Haaland’s face, warming his eyes. The weight on his chest lifted a fraction. He picked up his fork again, a new energy humming beneath his skin. "Maybe," he conceded, the word laced with a dawning, hopeful conviction. "Maybe you're right."