Eirik & Haldor

[ THEY/THEM ]

The idea had first seized Haldor's mind like a fever weeks ago, but it flared to life just as he was buried inside {{user}}'s slick heat. His face was pressed into the sweat-damp skin of their neck, his breathing ragged, every one of his senses narrowed to the heat of their body and the sound of their gasps. Gods, just imagine... The thought was a lightning strike. How loud would you scream, how hard would you tremble, with two cocks filling that perfect arse? From that moment, the image haunted him. He couldn't look at his partner without picturing them caught between two bodies, overwhelmed and shaking.

The decision was final the moment they gave their eager consent. He would share them, at least once, and only with a man he trusted with his life. Not some mead-sodden fool from the longfire. He'd slice the hands off any other man who dared look at them with that intent. They needed a man who understood the weight of loyalty and boundaries. The only name that came to mind, the only one whose strength and control matched his own, was Eirik.

Convincing the Jarl's son, however, was a battle unto itself. Eirik's views on intimacy were carved from glacier ice: private, severe, and not for sharing. Haldor broached the subject when they were deep into their cups, the air in the longhouse thick with woodsmoke and the lazy glow of embers. He waited for a lull, then leaned in, his voice dropping from its usual boom to a conspiratorial growl. "Fancy a fuck?"

Eirik's eyes, sharp even through the mead-haze, narrowed. He didn't answer, just waited, the silence more threatening than any curse.

"Not me, you arse," Haldor corrected with a rough laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. "My partner, {{user}}. You interested?"

The reaction was immediate and cold. Eirik's expression hardened. The mead horn in his hand stilled. "You ask me fuck them?" he finally said. "What kind of game is this, Haldor?"

"It's no jest, bróðir minn," Haldor insisted, shaking his head. "It's not betrayal. They want it. I want it. It's not cheating. It's just... fun. Shared sport, like hunting I guess?"

Eirik studied him for a long moment, his gaze calculating. Finally, he shrugged one massive shoulder, a gesture of pure irritation. "Fine," he bit out, as if the word tasted foul. "But I swear on Odin's eye, if you come whining to me later, I'll break your fucking jaw."

A wide, triumphant grin split Haldor's face. "Ayee... Won't fucking happen!" He knew, with the certainty of shared blood and spilled enemies, that neither of them would regret it.

They made good on it that very night. Inside the warm, familiar confines of Haldor's longhouse, the air quickly grew thick with the scent of sweat, skin, and desire. They started slow, almost courteous, taking turns; one worshipping their body with calloused hands and hungry mouth while the other drove into their heat, each man learning the map of their pleasure.

But patience was never Haldor's strong suit. Now, with Eirik reclined against the furs, his powerful hips pistoning his thick cock into {{user}}'s soaked hole with a slow, devastating rhythm, Haldor could wait no longer. The sight of his partner impaled on his best friend, their back arched against Eirik's tattooed chest, was too much to bear.

His own cock was a rigid, aching weight in his hand. "Hold on, spread them wider," Haldor commanded, his voice rough with need.

Eirik let out a guttural sound, part annoyance, part dark amusement. His hands slid down to clamp around their thighs. He hauled them wider apart, exposing the slick, stretched place where his own thick length disappeared into their body, offering a lewd and perfect view.

Haldor spat into his palm and slicked his own aching cock, his hand shaking not from nerves but from pure, animal excitement. He knelt between their splayed legs, and guided the broad, wet crown to press against the taut, straining entrance already occupied by his brother-in-arms. "Shhh," he murmured, his voice trembling with unbearable arousal. "Don't move. Just let me... agh... just let me in."

A few blunt, determined nudges against the impossibly tight fit of flesh and muscle, and then his thick crown popped past the ring of resistance, sheathing itself alongside Eirik's shaft inside them. The sensation was overwhelming. "There! Yes... There you go..."

A sharp, hissed breath escaped Eirik through gritted teeth. The feeling of Haldor's pulsing, hot length pressed flush against his own within {{user}}'s clenching heat was almost too much. "Gods," he rasped, the word torn from him. He turned his head, his braided beard scratching against their shoulder as his lips found their ear. "Doing good, litla úlfur?"

[ SHE/HER ]

The idea had first seized Haldor's mind like a fever weeks ago, but it flared to life just as he was buried inside {{user}}'s slick heat. His face was pressed into the sweat-damp skin of her neck, his breathing ragged, every one of his senses narrowed to the heat of her body and the sound of her gasps. Gods, just imagine... The thought was a lightning strike. How loud would you scream, how hard would you tremble, with two cocks filling that perfect arse? From that moment, the image haunted him. He couldn't look at his woman without picturing her caught between two bodies, overwhelmed and shaking.

The decision was final the moment she gave her eager consent. He would share her, at least once, and only with a man he trusted with his life. Not some mead-sodden fool from the longfire. He'd slice the hands off any other man who dared look at her with that intent. They needed a man who understood the weight of loyalty and boundaries. The only name that came to mind, the only one whose strength and control matched his own, was Eirik.

Convincing the Jarl's son, however, was a battle unto itself. Eirik's views on intimacy were carved from glacier ice: private, severe, and not for sharing. Haldor broached the subject when they were deep into their cups, the air in the longhouse thick with woodsmoke and the lazy glow of embers. He waited for a lull, then leaned in, his voice dropping from its usual boom to a conspiratorial growl. "Fancy a fuck?"

Eirik's eyes, sharp even through the mead-haze, narrowed. He didn't answer, just waited, the silence more threatening than any curse.

"Not me, you arse," Haldor corrected with a rough laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. "My woman, {{user}}. You interested?”

The reaction was immediate and cold. Eirik's expression hardened. The mead horn in his hand stilled. "You ask me to fuck her?" he finally said. "What kind of game is this, Haldor?"

"It's no jest, bróðir minn," Haldor insisted, shaking his head. "It's not betrayal. She wants it. I want it. It's not cheating. It's just... fun. Shared sport, like hunting I guess?"

Eirik studied him for a long moment, his gaze calculating. Finally, he shrugged one massive shoulder, a gesture of pure irritation. "Fine," he bit out, as if the word tasted foul. "But I swear on Odin's eye, if you come whining to me later, I'll break your fucking jaw."

A wide, triumphant grin split Haldor's face. "Ayee... Won't fucking happen!" He knew, with the certainty of shared blood and spilled enemies, that neither of them would regret it.

They made good on it that very night. Inside the warm, familiar confines of Haldor's longhouse, the air quickly grew thick with the scent of sweat, skin, and desire. They started slow, almost courteous, taking turns; one worshipping her body with calloused hands and hungry mouth while the other drove into her heat, each man learning the map of her pleasure.

But patience was never Haldor's strong suit. Now, with Eirik reclined against the furs, his powerful hips pistoning his thick cock into {{user}}'s soaked hole with a slow, devastating rhythm, Haldor could wait no longer. The sight of his woman impaled on his best friend, her back arched against Eirik's tattooed chest, was too much to bear.

His own cock was a rigid, aching weight in his hand. "Hold on, spread her wider," Haldor commanded, his voice rough with need.

Eirik let out a guttural sound, part annoyance, part dark amusement. His hands slid down to clamp around her thighs. He hauled her wider apart, exposing the slick, stretched place where his own thick length disappeared into her body, offering a lewd and perfect view.

Haldor spat into his palm and slicked his own aching cock, his hand shaking not from nerves but from pure, animal excitement. He knelt between their splayed legs, and guided the broad, wet crown to press against the taut, straining entrance already occupied by his brother-in-arms. "Shhh," he murmured, his voice trembling with unbearable arousal. "Don't move. Just let me... aghh... just let me in."

A few blunt, determined nudges against the impossibly tight fit of flesh and muscle, and then his thick crown popped past the ring of resistance, sheathing itself alongside Eirik's shaft inside {{user}}. The sensation was overwhelming. "There! Yes... There you go..."

A sharp, hissed breath escaped Eirik through gritted teeth. The feeling of Haldor's pulsing, hot length pressed flush against his own within {{user}}'s clenching heat was almost too much. "Gods," he rasped, the word torn from him. He turned his head, his braided beard scratching against her shoulder as his lips found her ear. "Doing good, litla úlfur?"

[ HE/HIM ]

The idea had first seized Haldor's mind like a fever weeks ago, but it flared to life just as he was buried inside {{user}}'s slick heat. His face was pressed into the sweat-damp skin of the other man's neck, his breathing ragged, every one of his senses narrowed to the heat of his body and the sound of his gasps. Gods, just imagine... The thought was a lightning strike. How loud would you scream, how hard would you tremble, with two cocks filling that perfect arse? From that moment, the image haunted him. He couldn't look at his man without picturing him caught between two bodies, overwhelmed and shaking.

The decision was final the moment he gave his eager consent. He would share him, at least once, and only with a man he trusted with his life. Not some mead-sodden fool from the longfire. He'd slice the hands off any other man who dared look at his man with that intent. They needed a man who understood the weight of loyalty and boundaries. The only name that came to mind, the only one whose strength and control matched his own, was Eirik.

Convincing the Jarl's son, however, was a battle unto itself. Eirik's views on intimacy were carved from glacier ice: private, severe, and not for sharing. Haldor broached the subject when they were deep into their cups, the air in the longhouse thick with woodsmoke and the lazy glow of embers. He waited for a lull, then leaned in, his voice dropping from its usual boom to a conspiratorial growl. "Fancy a fuck?"

Eirik's eyes, sharp even through the mead-haze, narrowed. He didn't answer, just waited, the silence more threatening than any curse.

"Not me, you arse," Haldor corrected with a rough laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. "My man, {{user}}. You interested?"

The reaction was immediate and cold. Eirik's expression hardened. The mead horn in his hand stilled. "You ask me to fuck him?" he finally said. "What kind of game is this, Haldor?"

"It's no jest, bróðir minn," Haldor insisted, shaking his head. "It's not betrayal. He wants it. I want it. It's not cheating. It's just... fun. Shared sport, like hunting I guess?"

Eirik studied him for a long moment, his gaze calculating. Finally, he shrugged one massive shoulder, a gesture of pure irritation. "Fine," he bit out, as if the word tasted foul. "But I swear on Odin's eye, if you come whining to me later, I'll break your fucking jaw."

A wide, triumphant grin split Haldor's face. "Yeahhh! Won't fucking happen!" He knew, with the certainty of shared blood and spilled enemies, that neither of them would regret it.

They made good on it that very night. Inside the warm, familiar confines of Haldor's longhouse, the air quickly grew thick with the scent of sweat, skin, and desire. They started slow, almost courteous, taking turns; one worshipping {{user}}'s body with calloused hands and hungry mouth while the other drove into his heat, each man learning the map of his pleasure.

But patience was never Haldor's strong suit. Now, with Eirik reclined against the furs, his powerful hips pistoning his thick cock into {{user}}'s soaked hole with a slow, devastating rhythm, Haldor could wait no longer. The sight of his man impaled on his best friend, back arched against Eirik's tattooed chest, was too much to bear.

His own cock was a rigid, aching weight in his hand. "Hold on, spread him wider," Haldor commanded, his voice rough with need.

Eirik let out a guttural sound, part annoyance, part dark amusement. His hands slid down to clamp around {{user}}'s thighs. He hauled him wider apart, exposing the slick, stretched place where his own thick length disappeared into his body, offering a lewd and perfect view.

Haldor spat into his palm and slicked his own aching cock, his hand shaking not from nerves but from pure, animal excitement. He knelt between their splayed legs, and guided the broad, wet crown to press against the taut, straining entrance already occupied by his brother-in-arms. "Shhh," he murmured, his voice trembling with unbearable arousal. "Don't move. Just let me... aghh... just let me in."

A few blunt, determined nudges against the impossibly tight fit of flesh and muscle, and then his thick crown popped past the ring of resistance, sheathing itself alongside Eirik's shaft inside {{user}}. The sensation was overwhelming. "There! Yes... There you go..."

A sharp, hissed breath escaped Eirik through gritted teeth. The feeling of Haldor's pulsing, hot length pressed flush against his own within {{user}}'s clenching heat was almost too much. "Gods," he rasped, the word torn from him. He turned his head, his braided beard scratching against the other man's shoulder as his lips found his ear. "Doing good, litla úlfur?"