#King Harald Finehair

[author-morgan]

Title: Riverside Rating: M Pairing: Harald Finehair x fem!Reader (and Halfdan the Black) Summary: Harald Finehair may be a fool, but at least he has his brother, and at least he has you. ❤️plot bunny that's been collecting dust for two years by @mrsragnarlodbrok ❤️

down by the river by the boats, where everybody goes to be alone

“YOUR BROTHER IS a fool,” you remark, watching Harald Finehair slip away with the princess who once promised to be his queen—the woman whose husband had only just been murdered in the early hours of the morn. Halfdan the Black watches his brother too, lips twitching as he lifts his cup of ale, taking a short quaff of the weak brew. He’ll be glad to leave England—an army of this size meant dwindling supplies, game, and ever-weakening ale and mead.

He picks off another hunk of meat from a roast pheasant. “Is that meant to be news?” Halfdan asks in turn, smiling as he flicks his stringy blond hair aside and out of his eyes—his dark gaze flitting back to you. Harald’s always been a fool when it comes to women and love, and Halfdan doubts time and age will ever change that.

���Halfdan,” you chide. Harald is a fool—a fool for thinking Ellisif would wait for him, a fool for killing Vik so crassly in the heart of the camp. You both know he is, but watching Princess Ellisif slip away with her husband’s killer makes you uneasy. Grief and the thought of vengeance would not have left her mind yet. And such things can drive people to act in unpredictable ways. “You don’t think it’s odd she wishes to seek a private audience with him only a few hours after he killed her husband?”

Halfdan raises his brow—the blue-black ink of the tattoo on his temple and forehead twitches and wrinkles. At the moment, he’s more content with filling his belly and entertaining your company than fretting over his brother, yet you won’t let the subject rest so easily, and deep down, Halfdan knows you are right, as is the feeling of dread in his liver. “Had it been me, the thought of retribution would not yet be gone, nor the fog of dolor.”

You make a convincing case, and with a sighing frown, Halfdan pushes away from the table and you, heading toward Harald’s tent—hand resting on the hilt of his sword, knowing already he will have to serve as his brother’s protector once more. A moment later, Halfdan emerges from his brother’s pavilion. The sword in his hand is coated with blood, bright and red. And it would seem, after all, he knew women far better than his brother—or at least how to listen to you. 

He frees a cloth from his belt and slides it down the blade, cleaning it with a single long swipe as he looks at you, watching and waiting. Halfdan doesn’t have to say anything as he approaches for you to know, but regardless, your lips quirk upward. “Told you,” you declare, and he makes a low sound of agreement from the back of his throat, taking the cup of ale you offer. You knew Ellisif would not have so easily nor quickly forgiven Harald for his transgression, especially after not upholding her promise to wait for marriage. 

Harald’s curses and fit of rage ring out in the brisk air. You know there’s little that can soothe his heart and pride, but if anyone in the Ragnarsson encampment can make an earnest attempt, it is you—Halfdan knows this too. “I’ll see to him,” you breathe, taking one last drink of ale. Halfdan grips your arm before you can go to his brother and leans close, offering a soft, quick kiss over too soon.

THE RIVER FLOWS slowly, given its breadth near the encampment of the Sons of Ragnar—a hundred longships are pushed up against the banks and moored in the water. Together, you and Harald walk along the water’s edge, heading north, where fewer ships and wandering eyes and ears are. The blood on his hands and chest is nigh dry, and it makes his red woolen tunic stick to him and stiffens his silver-tinged beard.

Harald Finehair looks at you but cannot dispel what you must think of him, of these circumstances—your expression is only a cool mix of solicitude and what he thinks is annoyance. Yet again, he finds himself failing to understand the mind and heart of a woman—one he has known since childhood, no less. “My brother is lucky,” Harald admits, feeling a spike of jealousy stab at him as he thinks about you and Halfdan, “to have only ever loved you.” But had he ever truly loved Ellisif beyond his desire for her beauty? Even he is not sure of the answer.

You stop near the prowl of one of Jarl Olavsson’s ships—his shields and sails marked by white and dark green—and stare at Harald, aghast and confused by his insinuation. “Do I no longer have your love?” You ask, reaching for him and the leather ties at the neck of his tunic.

“I had thought–” his voice trails off as he looks at the flock of blackbirds flying overhead, unsure if it is a sign from the gods or just an ill omen. He lets you draw him nearer, but it’s only when the flat of your hand connects with his bloody cheek that his gaze and attention return to you—his stormy blue eyes filled with bewilderment and indignation. He stares at you, nostrils flared. 

“No, Harald!” You’ve finally grown exasperated by his foolishness—you could tolerate his laments about love and marriage, but to nigh let himself be killed by a recreant woman under such circumstances? “You didn’t think!” You tell him, and Harald steps back, hands curling to fists at his sides. He needs to hear this, though, if not from his brother, then from you. “And if you did, it was with the wrong head.” The same head all men think with first when it comes to women.

“You speak to a king,” he reminds you, puffing out his chest—a weak reply, and you both know it.

You shake your head and reach for him, hands settling on either side of his blood-spattered face—thumbs following the blue-black scrollwork of the tattoos on his cheeks. “And I am also speaking to one of my oldest friends,” you remind him. King or no, Harald and his brother are among your oldest and dearest friends—they could be little more than farmers or simple whalers, and you would think no less of them nor love them less. There’s a shift in Harald’s expression then, as though he realizes the error of his ways in disregarding your and Halfdan’s counsel, and hubris fades to humility. “One whom I care for and love very much.” Love, the word catches him off-guard. Then an ephemeral smile returns to grace your lips. “Even if he is pigheaded at times.”

He forces down the growing knot in his throat. “My brother–” Harald starts, but you press your fingertips to his weathered lips, shushing him and chasing away any apprehension or fear of driving a rift between the three of you with what comes next. “Halfdan knows,” you tell Harald with airy unconcern—fingers slipping down to comb through his silver-tinged wiry beard. Your trysts had never been clandestine, even before whatever this unspoken thing with his brother began before the first raid on Paris. “He’s very astute,” you remark, the corner of your lips quirking upward again. “You could stand to learn a thing to two.”

He huffs, then goes to the river, shrugging off his tunic, and kneels at the water’s edge, splashing the cold water on his face and chest—scrubbing the drying blood of the woman he once intended to marry. He stares at his reflection, shoulders falling forward, accepting his ill-fated pursuit of marriage and defeat, alas. “I’ve been a fool,” he grumbles. You crouch next to him, dipping your hand in the river to help wash the blood from his shoulders and the back of his neck, humming your agreement—gladdened to know it is no longer a whispered secret between you and Halfdan. “You’re not supposed to agree with me,” he admonishes, mirth slipping back into his tone.

There’s a scar on his shoulder, and without thought, you lean toward him, placing the gentlest and quickest of kisses on the raised patch of silvery skin. You can recall how he and Halfdan have gotten most of their scars, but the history of this small mark evades you right now. When you meet his eyes, you see him staring at you with a look of raw hunger and desperation you’re entirely unprepared for, and it sends a wave of heat washing over you. But he’s so gentle when he handles you—even in all his lingering anger and hurt.

He holds your chin until his thumb swipes across your flushed cheek—always touching you like you’re some fragile, precious thing and not a shieldmaiden—and then his lips part, and he exhales a shaky breath, waiting for your permission, spoken or otherwise. You give it with a breathy sigh of his name. Harald. His warm breath hits your cheek, followed by the faint tickle of his scraggly beard at your jaw before his lips are fully on yours. “Let me have you.” His plea is soft against your mouth—and you cannot deny him.  

Skirts rucked up around your waist, Harald grips your hips, drawing you closer to him until his wool and linen-clad thigh presses between yours. His touch is fervent—hot palms, calloused from years of battle, scrape over the bare skin they touch. His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip before kissing you—languid and soft. Your hands grasp at his back to pull his chest to your own. And then he fumbles to loosen his belt, but you knock away his hands, and Harald curses and groans when your hand slides into his undone britches, fingers wrapping around his half-hard cock—stroking him.

Your stomach flutters as his fingers caress you briefly, fleetingly—but gone far too soon. Your hips move towards his touch, but now is not the time for drawn-out caresses and teasing. In truth, he's not focused on your pleasure but more on his desire.

Harald pushes forward, rocking his hips slowly until his cock is fully sheathed inside the warmth of your cunt, and his hips meet yours. You gasp, somewhere between a whine and moan, head tipping back, and Harald takes the chance to press his lips to the base of your neck. He’s gentle as he trails a hand down your side and holds your waist—he and Halfdan have always been two sides of the same coin as lovers.

You lay back—letting him do as he pleases. He needs this moment, this release, far more than you do. His thrusts start slow, lazy almost, as though you’ve all the time in the world—like you’re back in Tamdrup on a spring night in a patch of wildflowers or bale of loose straw in a stable, not lying on a muddy English riverbank on the verge of another battle—not knowing if tomorrow will be the day Valhalla beckons you home.

He looks down at you—splayed beneath him and his gut twists with a sickening realization. I’ve been a fool, Harald thinks again, cradling your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb pressed against your parted lips, chasing a woman who could never love me. But you. It did not matter what misfortunes or victories the gods bestowed upon him. You were always there—never faltering from your place at his and Halfdan’s side. He’s only ashamed not to have realized or acted sooner.

Your legs spread wider to welcome him, squeezing at his shoulders to urge him to move faster. Every push and pull of his hips brings him deeper inside you. Harald pants at your ear, his breathing ragged and strained as his pace falters—thrusts growing quicker and rougher as he seeks release. Beneath your palms, the muscles in his back ripple, contracting with each thrust. His lips find yours again, and you pull him down closer until his bare chest presses against the rumpled wool of your dress bodice—nails scraping across his shoulders and the patchwork of tattoos on his shoulder blades.

The look in Harald’s eyes is nigh unsettling—a mix of emotion you do not wish to think about in this moment of lust and carnality—and you squeeze at his biceps, urging him to move faster, and when his trance breaks, he obliges. He breathes hushed praises against your neck and strokes a thumb over the racing pulse in your neck as he rolls his hips up into yours—strokes long and deep. 

You whine and squirm for him, grinding your hips into his. The next time he moves, his cock strikes the place inside you that makes you cry out without thinking, and your toes start to curl—he does it again and again, thrice over. “Harald.” He works himself deeper still, pelvis rubbing against your clit, and he doesn’t miss the shiver that goes through you or the way your muscles tense—cunt squeezing his cock tighter. His breathy, open-mouth kisses grow sloven as you fumble to keep in rhythm, your movements slack—distracted by the fog of ecstasy in your head.

Breath hot against your lips, his eyes drift shut in unison with yours. Behind closed eyes, all that triumphs is the feel of your bodies sinking into each other. He will not last much longer. Harald barely manages a coherent rasp of your name, teeth gnashing, when his entire body shivers and he stills deep, deep inside, cock twitching. 

His livid eyes are dark, like a stormy sea when they open once more, and there’s a crease between his brows that you have a yearning impulse to kiss away—and so you do, and in the wake of your lips, you smooth your fingertips over his brow. “I do love you, Harald,” you tell him—a breathless whisper—and suddenly, the knot in his throat and the offbeat feeling in his heart is back. “Just as I love Halfdan.”

He says nothing, only rests his forehead against your shoulder and shivers when your hand runs along his back, finding his dark braid to run your fingers along. But there’s a new dampness on your flesh—tears for love lost and love found.

HIS TEMPER IS quelled upon returning to the encampment, even if his heart has yet to mend. Halfdan rises from his spot at one of the fires, leaving the waning conversation with Björn Ironside when he sees you and his brother approach. The whispers around the camp of what happened between Harald, Vik, and Ellisif have already faded with new discussions of the army’s next move in Mercia—steadily creeping closer to Wessex and retribution upon King Ecbert for his part in Ragnar’s death. Harald swallows his pride and glimpses you before turning his attention to Halfdan. “Thank you, brother,” he says. “Yet again, I owe you my life.”

“I’ll always watch your back,” Halfdan replies, pressing a cup of ale into Harald’s hand before clasping his shoulder—then his gaze flits to you, and he smiles, a glimmer shining in his dark eyes. “But next time we tell you to kill someone, you should listen, yeah?” Harald shakes his head, looking down into the cup of ale with a dry laugh. You both told him to rid himself of Ellisif before setting sail to England. He should have listened then—knows he was a fool not to have. But once more, it is the three of you, and maybe that is how the gods always intended it to be.

[Harald & Halfdan taglist: @ahotmesswithprivilege / @alicedopey / @certifiedlittleshit / @charming-merlin / @elluvians / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gearhead66 / @gossamarnie / @hc-geralt-23 / @kaexiao / @midnightmuze / @moonlightsspirit / @n0sferatus / @naaladareia / @queenfinehair / @queenyalo / @savagemickey03 / @xinyourdreamsx / @yalos-writing ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Vikings taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[bjornswoman]

Shieldmaiden's Secret

Requested by none.

Author's note: Hey people! I found this in my drafts, changed it a bit and finished it. Sorry for any mistake, I wrote quite fast and I will correct them. I promise. Anyway, I hope you will like this one and I have some more work ready for you. Stay tuned! Until next time, have fun and take care! Bye!

Pairing: Harald Finehair x Fem!Reader.

Genre: Angst, drama, fluff, romance.

Summary: King Harald and you have a secret relationship.

Warnings: Spoilers from season 5B, jealousy, strong language, drama.

Your hands were working on your long hair, braiding it tightly for the upcoming battle with the Christians as you were walking through the camp to catch up with the strictest person you knew – your mother.

Your mother was one of the mightiest shieldmaidens of the shieldwall. She had achieved that long ago by working really hard and alone.

Brunhild – your mother – was one of the best woman warriors, but she wasn't a good mother. Not even close to that to be honest.

She acted like a commander when you were a child, pointing out rules and what you must or mustn't do. She would usually point out the stuff your mustn't do.

You had no father and that worked its way for your mother to despise men. All you could remember was her talking about how better were woman at everything and how you should avoid men, or trick them for your own benefit.

All you knew about your biological father was that he was a rich man – a jarl or a king maybe – and that when she told him about you, he sent her away. She raised you all alone, not to be a woman, but a warrior. You had been training since you were able to walk and carry sword and shield.

Back to her rules, you mustn't talk to men without her being around. She said you were easy to trick and manipulate, so she didn't leave you alone around any man. You were sick of it, sick of her manipulating you. You wanted to leave your life as you wanted, even if that meant that you would get hurt.

When her eyes met you, she started walking your way. You couldn't spot the blue of her eyes because she had narrowed her eyes. You knew it was coming a fight with her, more likely an interrogation coming from her.

"Where have you been?" Her voice was cold as your gaze and her hand grabbed your arm tightly. Your eyes met hers. You weren't afraid of her, at least not anymore.

"What is that supposed to mean?" You asked her trying to free your hand from her tight grip. Your mother didn't let you and tightened the grip more than before.

"Answer me!" Her tone was even colder than before and you could sense her blood boiling inside her veins. It became worse any minute that were passing and you weren't giving her an answer.

"Calm down." You whispered at her and finally freed your hand from hers. "You should really stop this. It's sick you know and by the way I was getting ready for the battle." You spoke, hands gripping your sword.

Her eyes looked at you suspiciously, it wasn't like she believed at you, but she didn't get to continue the questioning, because someone was standing nearby, looking at you. Well, not just someone, king Harald Finehair himself.

"Brunhild." He spoke to your mother smiling and she forced a fake little smile on her face to greet him. You could spot the times she was lying or those she were faking her attitude around others.

After all, it wasn't a big of a secret that she hated powerful men and Harald was one of them. A king.

"King Harald." She responded.

Before she even speak to him, his blue eyes were on you and, of course, your own were studying him. You tried not to look over-excited or suspicious around your mother. She had the ability to caught you lying and pretending as well.

"And you are (Y/N)." He spoke to you this time, but fastly turned to face your mother. He was good to this game. Better than you. "Your daughter, right?" Harald asked like he wasn't sure about that himself, like he didn't know you by hard, all of you.

"Yes, my king." You were the one to answer and his eyes met your figure once more.

"Good." He said and was about to say something again, but a voice distracted him.

"My king!" One of his most loyal men run his way and Harald turned to look at him. They were speaking for a little amount of time and then Harald turned back to you.

"May the Gods bless us to win today." He spoke before both of the men disappeared in the camp.

"Stay away from him." She warned you. You didn't respond to her, or looked at her. Your mind were on the older man, speaking to you just moments before. "Look at me!" Your mother grabbed your face and made you looked at her in the eyes. "Stay away from him!" Her tone was firmer this time and you nodded annoyed by her.

According to her all men – especially those who had the power – were bad and wanted to seduce women and then leave her behind like they were a toy or garbage. She believed that all men were like your biological father who sent her away and even tried to kill her when she was pregnant and their relationship took a serious way.

Well, men could be like that. You knew that for yourself too. But Harald wasn't like that. You knew it. He had been hurt by women before. First, princess Ellisif and after his wife queen Astrid. He was unlucky when it came to women and love. He wanted to have someone by his side, he needed to be loved. Apart from the women, he had lost both his beloved brother and his unborn child. After those tragedies, you came in his way. A woman he cared about.

It was unexpected the way and the fact that you met. You didn't want to start any kind of a story with him, at first. You tried to avoid him, but as everybody knows he is very stubborn and wouldn't let you escape like that from him.

Back then, you were afraid of your mother's wrath when she would find out about your relationship with Harald. She would be furious. She would try to take you away from him even if that meant that she would have to kill him or he kill her. You didn't want that. You loved Harald and your mother, she had raised all alone and you couls understand her, but didn't want to live like that. You wanted your life to be your way, not hers.

And Harald. Harald would give you everything he owned, only if you let him. Your relationship was happening all in secret, because you had asked him to be this way. He wanted a real life with you, one he didn't have to chance to live with anybody else. He was a grown man and knew exactly what he wanted.

After your mother's warnings about the king, you didn't have any time for her lessons about men because you had been called from the other shieldmaidens to participate in the shieldwall, the battle with the Saxons was about to believe.

The battle didn't end up the way you wanted because Bjorn Ironside, Lagertha and Ubbe son of Ragnar were fighting for king Alfred and Wessex, that ended up with you retreating back to York.

"King Harald has joined forces with Bjorn Ironside to overthrown Ivar the Boneless from Kattegat. This means we go back to Norway to fight." Brida, a shieldmaiden, spoke to you and she placed her cup on her lips, sipping from the ale it contained.

"I heard he is fond of Gunnhild, the former wife of late Jarl Olavvsonn, but she is with Bjorn Ironside." Revna said laughing and felt your blood boiling inside your face and your hands starting to shake, but you had to remain calm because you were among many shieldmaidens and mostly because your mother was sitting next to you.

"I heard that too! Bard told me he noticed as well." Runa mentioned and all of them laughed and drank. On the other hand, you felt bitter. The wound you got from the battle earlier felt nothing opposed to the pain in your chest after those news you received.

Your eyes met the ones you didn't want to meet, not now, not after the news the girls delivered. When your eyes met, you looked at anything other than him.

You placed your cup on the wooden table, feeling sick being in the same place as him. You couldn't bear watching him after that.

"I will retrieve back to tend. My leg is quite hurting and as I've heard we are going back to Norway so I'll some rest." You said as you stood up from your seat. Your eyes were on your mother, asking for her permission to leave.

You left and walked back to your tend to be on your own for a while. All the lessons and words your mother spoke about men came inside your head replaying themselves over and over again.

Harald wasn't the man you thought he was at the end of the day. You tried to keep your tears from falling when you remembered all the words Harald whispered to you when he thought you were sleeping. The promises and everything.

"Stupid girl." You told yourself in an attempt to forget about him, about all nights in Tamdrum when you sneaked at nights to see him.

"I disagree with you." You heard a raspy voice coming from the shadows. If it was for another day, you would be all happy, but not this night. Not after what you found out about him.

After his statement, Harald came out of the shadows he was hiding and placed his hand on a spike, after he leaned his body on his hand and looked at you playfully.

"If you say so, my king." You spoke formally, like you had no other relationship with him, like he didn't know you and you didn't know him. But it wasn't like you knew him. If you had, you wouldn't have gotten involved with him. "Have a good night." You bowed and turned your back at him.

A move that Harald didn't like at all. He couldn't understand the reason you were acting like that. You were trying to avoid him it was too obvious. He moved away from the spike and came closer to you – who had started to walk away from him – his hand grabbed yours and forced you to stop and turn to look at him. You opened your mouth to protest, but he spoke faster than you.

"Why are you avoiding me? This morning you were alright but now you are not, what is it?" He was frowned and his tone was confused. His eyes were studying your face for any kind of response while you were trying to keep your tears once more. You to be brave and proud, that meant that you shouldn't let yourself be that weak in front of him.

"I am not avoiding you, my king. I am just really tired because I have this wound from the battle and word spread that we are going back with Bjorn Ironside and his company, so I think that I'll need some rest." Your words came faster than you wanted them to. They had to come out naturally, but they did not. You couldn't form proper words when you were that close to him, your heart was beating so fast and his eyes were watching at you like that.

"Don't lie to me." He growled, quite angry and pulled you closer by your arm he was holding.

"I would never dare to lie to you, my king. This Saxon came from behind me while I was fighting another Saxon and he stabbed me on my thigh. The healer said—" You were rambling nonsense, trying to defend yourself and not saying what you learned just like that on his face. But Harald stopped you.

"I know. I know exactly what happened to you and what the healer said. But what I don't know is the reason you are avoiding me and don't tell me it's about your wound because we've been together before when you were wounded and as I remember, I treated your wound myself that night. So tell me." His voice was firm and he knew you were lying, but you didn't want to say the truth. You didn't want him to see that you were that hurt because of him.

Harald was playing with you all this time. So you didn't want him to see that you believed all this could be serious and he meant that one day you would be his wife, that he would give the world.

"I don't want my mother to notice that we – you know." You spoke again and you noticed him getting even more angry.

"I don't get the reason you keep lying to me! I thought we were clear with each other!" He yelled and you feared that somebody heard. Your eyes run around and luckily your saw no one confessing this moment between the king and you.

"I am not lying. You know the problem with my mother. You've known about it since the beginning. Also, my leg is hurting very much. Truly. There is no lie in my words." You ensured him which was partially truth. Your leg wasn't hurting that much, but it hurt and you mother, everything you told about her was truth.

Harald closed his eyes for a while out of his anger and then opened them again. He could read you so easily, because he knew you very well.

His hand left yours and both of his hands touched your cheeks. It was the first time you confessed Harald being like that. He seemed so desperate, he broke your heart. You closed your eyes and then opened them again and they were wet. The tears were ready to fall from your eyes.

"I know those things, but they have never been a problem. It's something else I can see it inside your eyes. Tell me what it is. Tell me I can fix it." His voice was soft after the sight of your eyes. His fingers caressed your cheeks wiping the tears – that fell without you noticing them – away.

"You can't fix it." You broke and finally let the rears fall from your eyes without any care. Your didn't care that you were crying in front of him anymore. "You can't fix it because it's not something that can be fixed." You continued ready to tell him about the things you found out some time ago. You pulled him away from you and he walked to come back closer – confused by your actions – but you raised your hand to stop him. "I heard some very disturbing things about you that hurt me, Harald. I heard that you were very displeased when you heard about the new lover of Bjorn Ironside, a woman named Gunnhild. A great shieldmaiden, I hear. They say you desire her and it's very obvious. So, that means, king Harald Finehair, that you were playing with me all this time. That you didn't mean anything from the things you told me. So my mother was right for you and I did exactly what she told me not to." You confessed. Tears were streaming from your eyes like waterfall. Harald wanted to speak to defend himself, but it wouldn't mean anything. It didn't matter. You moved your hands on your cheeks and wiped the tears away. "That is my problem, do you think that you can fix it? Because I don't."

"That's not the truth! I don't know who spoke such lies to you but I ensure that there is no other in my heart! I love you! Everything I told you it was truth. I want you and only you. Gunnhild is a strong woman and good shieldmaiden, I admire her but not love her. Believe me. I only love you." He was yelling at first, but stopped his speech whispering his last words. The words he admitted his love for you.

You closed your eyes and shook your head. You couldn't believe him, not when everyone had noticed and had spoken about it. You took a deep breath and opened your eyes to look at him. He seemed hurt as well and this image broke your already broken heart.

"I don't believe you. You-you know you won't have Gunnhild, so you come back to the easy option the stupid little girl. I loved you with everything I had. I wanted to prove to my mother that you were different, I wanted to be with you even if that meant, I would go against her, and you proved her point about you." Harald tried to reach you but you stopped him again. He didn't listen at you this time, he grabbed both of your arms with his strong hands and forced you to face him.

"I love you! Why is that so difficult to understand because of some rumors about me? You don't trust me and that's even worse than anything! You just want to find something against me and prove your mother's points of me. That's it, nothing else. I have never made false promises to anyone, especially to you. I had promised Ellisif, the first woman I ever loved, I would be famous and great king for her and I kept my promise, she was the one who betrayed me. I promised you to give you everything I have, you were the one who wanted to keep our relationship secret. I am tired of this game. I won't beg anymore, (Y/N). I have treated the women I desired with love and loyalty, but no one have done the same for me, even you. I thought you were different." His voice was softer than ever before. You had hurt him deeply.

Both of you had hurt each other.

Harald let go of you and moved some inches away from you. You couldn't form a word. You were angry with yourself and with him. You didn't know what to think and what to believe. Harald seemed to say the truth. He seemed deeply hurt.

"I will find who spread those rumors and I will let you know just to prove you that I have never lied to you." Those had been the last words he had spoken to you before he disappeared in the dark of the night.

You stayed on your place for a couple of moments and cried to yourself under the night sky. When you calmed down, you retrieved to your tend trying to find some peace before your mother come in.

When she burst into the tend you were awake. You couldn't sleep at all, you mind was only on Harald.

The first thing she did was to come in front of and started to yell about you talking with Harald. She said someone had seen you talking and Harald being really close to you. You were trying to find a good excuse, but you were sure thag she wouldn't believe you. Although you didn't care anymore about it. After all, it was over.

"King Harald helped me. He was carrying me back here because my leg was hurting and bleeding. He made it stop. That's the reason we were close. He was the only one out there to bother himself with me." You spoke angrily, sick of her questioning and all. It wasn't fair to speak to her like that when she wasn't at fault, but you couldn't help it.

"It sounds too good to be true. King Harald helped you? He wouldn't help anyone without a cost. What did he ask for repayment?" She asked as she sat next to you on the ground.

"Nothing. He didn't ask me for anything. After all, I don't think he wants to lose any warrior. A battle is coming with Ivar the Boneless, one of the cleverest strategists, if not the cleverest one, and he needs us. He needs every blade he can master." You spoke and treated yourself your bleeding wound.

"That's a fair point." Was the only think she said before she laid on the ground to get some sleep. On the other hand, you couldn't find peace inside your mind, so you couldn't sleep.

It was after midnight when five men burst in out tend, you stood up and grabbed your mother's axe. Your mother grabbed the dagger she had hidden under her belt. She was fast and cut the arm of one of them, but the others took our weapons and they grabbed us.

"What the fuck is happening?" Your mother yelled at them, as she was kicking, trying to break free as you did.

"Shut up!" The one who was holding her told her and kicked her knee.

They took us out the tend and threw us on the ground on our knees, out hands were behind our backs. You didn't know the reason this all was happening, until Harald showed up.

"What is this supposed to mean?" You were the one to yell when the king was in front of you. "We did nothing wrong!" You yelled again.

"I am not sure about one of you." He told you when he were just inches away from you, his hand caressing your cheek. You tried to move away, but one of his men kicked you on your wound. Harald glared at him and moved closer to the man. You didn't get to hear what he told him, but considering his face he was angry. Then he turned back to your mother and you. "Brunhild, do you want to share something with us? With you daughter maybe?" Harald spoke to your mother and you turned your face at her frowned.

"My mother did nothing!"

"Brunhild, tell your daughter what you did." Harald placed his axe on your mother's throat and caressed with it softly her neck. It wasn't enough to hurt her, he did it just to threaten her. "Tell her." He tone was cold, he was getting enraged.

"I did what I had to do to take my daughter away from a man like you." She didn't sound a bit afraid. The quite opposite to be honest.

You were at her confused.

"Continue. I would to be the one to tell her what you did, but I prefer it to be you." Harald spoke again and you saw your mother greeting her teeth out of anger. "Tell her that you knew about us." Your mouth was wide open when you heard.

"What-what are you saying?" You couldn't understand what was happening.

"Did you think that I wouldn't know it? I had known it since the first time it happened. I knew it every time you sneaked out of the house to meet him. You did exactly what I was telling you your whole life not to do. I couldn't let you waste your life like I did." She didn't hesitate a moment.

"I was the waste of your life, right?" After this question of yours you started to understand what was happening in front of you, what she had done.

"That's not what I said, but I didn't want my life to end up this way and, of course, I didn't want your life to end up like that. So, I was the one who spread the rumour about that shieldmaiden and your lover. I needed – you needed him out of your life. I did what I had to do for your sake. I hope you are understanding me, (Y/N)."

"Shut up! I can't hear you anymore! You are the only person who is wasting and destroying my life. Your life isn't miserable because of me or the way you have been treated by my father, but because of you. You, your ambition, your hate towards males, that's what wasted your life all those years. But I won't let you manipulate and destroy me anymore." You were really angry with her and all her scheme. You stood from ground and nobody stopped you. "I must admit though that you are a good manipulator. You knew exactly the way I would react and you found the right time to start with your plan." You stopped in front of her and kneeled to be equal with her. "This is the beginning of my life, Brunhild." You whispered at her, before the men took her and she became Harald's prisoner.

After a while it was just the two of you standing in front of each other, but no one tried to start a conversation. You were just eyeing each other.

"Now what?" You were the one to start speaking first.

"I think you owe an apology for you've told me earlier." Harald came closer and his hand moved a strand of loosen hair behind your ear.

"About that, I think I owe you an apology for that and I am sorry that I didn't believe you, but I was really hurt and I owe you an apology for what my mother did. So I am really sorry for everything." You spoke truly. You didn't want this moment to end.

In your mind, this was the last moment you had with Harald. You couldn't be together again. You didn't believe him when he told you the truth. You broke his heart. And he. He did everything he promised. He said that he would find who was the one who spread the rumours and he did.

"One apology is enough." Harald said in a playful tone.

"I wish that night would never end." You whispered at him and smiled. He looked at you confused, but he smiled genuinely.

"What's so special about this specific night?"

"It's the last I see you. The last time you are that close to me." Each word you spoke, each tear threatened to fall from your eyes.

He frowned, but the smile was still on his lips. His hand made it on your cheek and he caressed your skin softly.

"The last time? Who said that?" He asked smiling and you were the one who was confused this time.

"I thought you didn't want me after what I told. After-after I didn't believe you." You confessed and he chuckled. Both his hands, now, caressing your flesh of your cheeks.

"I told you that I love you and this can't change. Also, I have told you in the past that I wanted you to be my queen and I intend to make it true. I really love you and I know that you love me too." Harald said and his lips touch yours.

It was the first real kiss between the two of you, the first that you weren't afraid to give. It was the most passionate one you had ever shared and Harald was a skilled lover.

Your hands wrapped around his neck, as your lips were on his. His teeth were biting your bottom lip here and there. When you moaned, his tongue moved inside your mouth and started dancing along with your own.

"So what do you say? Will you be my queen?" The man you loved the most asked you when you two stopped kissing and his muscular hands were wrapped around you tightly. When you heard his question you smilled.

"I thought you knew the answer." You answered when your eyes met his.

"I want to hear it."

A wide smile formed on your face.

"I would love to be your queen." You said and he kissed you again. His hands were holding your even tighter and you laughed.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Rewatching Vikings, onto season 6 episode 3 and OH MY GOOD GODS I FORGOT IT OPENED WITH HARALD FINEHAIR WHUMP

Man looks gorgeous beaten up and captured in chains just saying

Also sidenote I got to meet the actor Peter Franzén recently whilst crewing a local comicon and he was absolutely lovely

[charming-merlin]

This was a request from one of my instagram followers ✨️ You want to request an edit? Read here how to do it :) You can also follow me on Instagram

[queenfinehair]

Holy-

@naaladareia send help

[msphagime]

Me, seeing a rerapair with five(5) posts on tumblr and one(1) fic on Ao3 in a dead fandom: Wow! Perfect thing to make fanart for!

There's surprisingly little content for a ship who actually literally kisses on screen (even the subtitles agree)

[artemiseamoon-ficart]

King Harald (Vikings)

Assorted Moodboards below | for A03

Some will feature halfdan, ocs, and more.

My writing masterlist

[presumablystrange]

[alicedopey]

Roo, don’t think I don’t know what you are doing. This is mean 🤣

Oh @therealcalicali my girl. How I miss you and your stories.

[author-morgan]

i see your requests are open!! can you do something sweet with Harald? (and Halfdan if you’re comfortable with polyamory!)

Of courseeeee. Here is some Harald fluff (with a pinch of bittersweetness and angst). I was going to have this be polyamorous (bc those two come as a pair more often than naught in my fics lbr lol), but once I got started it just turned into something more Harald-centric. Hope you don't mind! (I went a little overboard for him again) Harald Finehair x fem!Reader

HALFDAN THE BLACK is the first to enter Tamdrup’s great hall upon returning from a successful raiding season. The doors swing open wide, and those gathered for the tribunal part, making way for the victorious. Rising from the seat of power, you go to him with open arms, smiling. “I see you brought my husband back,” you muse, watching Harald enter the hall at last, surrounded by a score of rowdy warriors and overjoyed denizens—rightfully so, they have returned with riches and have lost fewer than a dozen warriors during the raids.

“I fear what you would do if I didn’t,” Halfdan laughs, tossing down a heavy coin purse on the table before taking you into his arms.

“It is always good to see you again,” you smile, kissing your marriage-brother’s cheek. He is inclined to agree. After long days at sea and many weeks away, it is good to be greeted by a fair and familiar face such as yours. Halfdan clasps your shoulder as he steps around you, pouring himself a cup of mead—leaving you to his brother. “Harald,” you greet, and the hall falls silent as he approaches you.

His breath catches as he beholds you, standing before him regal as ever with a gifted silver circlet resting upon your brow. His wife. His queen. His heart. It is as though the rest of the world falls away when he stops before you, rough hands cradling your face with the gentlest of touches. “By all the gods” —he strokes his thumbs over your cheeks— “you’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

Harald’s kiss is slow and soft—save for the familiar scratch of his beard against your cheek and jaw—and speaks of the months of longing to return to your loving arms. You kiss him like you’ve done a thousand times before, falling into the rhythm as though you never parted. Your fingers comb through his beard as you part, foreheads resting together, but then your smile widens as you wrap your arms around him, holding him tight. “I’ve missed you,” you breathe. But now he’ll be yours again until the next raiding season comes.

THE WHEEL OF time does not slow, and the harvest season fades into winter and then to the first buds of spring. Nigh all the Vestfold gathered in Tamdrup tonight for the feast to celebrate sowing the first seeds of the new crop and seasoning the turned soil with sacred blood. But that is not the only reason the jarls and fighting men have come all this way. In the coming weeks, Harald, Halfdan, and anyone else willing to sail will make their way to Frankia to raid Paris with Ragnar Lothbrok. Festivities last long into the night, but Harald comes to you soon after you take leave.

He draws lines over the length of your spine as you lay with him, head pillowed on his chest, listening to the slow rhythmic beat of his heat, bare legs entwined, but then you twist in his arms and lean up to kiss him—featherlight and sweet as the mead still on his breath—fingertips following the blue-black scrollwork of his tattoos. Then he tilts his head back, letting you trace the curving lines on his neck and down to the ones on his chest—only your touch could ever make him tremble.

“Paris?” You repeat, following one of the silver scars on his ribs with your fingertips. He’s spoken of the city to the south and of Ragnar Lothbrok before, but with the night’s feast, it became official. Come the spring, he would prepare his ships and set sail to join the farmer-turned-king on his second venture to Frankia.

“Yes,” Harald says, his voice a low rasp. He sees it in your eyes, a flicker of hope that maybe this time you will sail with him and his brother—that you will be able to visit the distant lands so many speak of—but now is not the time for you to venture into the unknown. Your life is not something he can risk so easily and carelessly. Harald curls his hand around yours, then kisses the center of your palm and holds your hand close to his chest. “I need you here, my heart,” he tells you, but you already know that.

“I’ll plan a feast and a sacrifice before you and Halfdan depart,” you tell him—it is what any good queen and wife would do to see her husband and people return safe and with victory. And then he takes your lips and your breath, holding you close. You sigh into his mouth, letting his tongue brush yours, fingers slipping back into his unbound hair. His kiss is reverent, and you cannot help but miss the cracked softness of his lips against yours when he parts, but it is only so he can hold you in his arms.

TEN DAYS AFTER Harald Finehair first sets sail to Kattegat, his brother and the remainder of the fleet are ready to follow. The last of the barrels and crates are being rolled and loaded into the longships when you arrive on the docks to bid everyone farewell and good fortune on their journeys. Six hundred men and shieldmaidens from the Vestfold have gathered over the last two moons, all to leave on this day to join Ragnar Lothbrok in his endeavors—but Tamdrup will feel empty without their presence. Though, there is already a newfound hollowness in the wake of Harald’s departure.

You find Halfdan amongst the chaos, checking the yellow-red shields secured on the side of one of the ships. “Halfdan,” you call, and he turns on heel to face you with a half-bow—nigh teasing in nature, but you are, after all, his queen. Before he can stand upright, you reach out and rest your hands on his cheeks, and he bends a little farther, accepting the kiss you bestow upon his brow. “Be safe,” you tell him, hands moving to clasp his. “Look after your brother.”

Halfdan squeezes your hands. “You know I will,” he assures you. That is something you’ll never have to worry about—the bonds of blood and brotherhood run deep. You nod, and he steps back down into the longship. At your hest, they will set sail for glory and, if the gods deem it so, Valhalla.

One of your attendants hastens to the dock, stepping forward to present the gift commissioned from the blacksmith and jeweler—it's meant to be a surprise in celebration of another year of marriage, but alas, such care and detail took longer than expected. It’s a necklace of bronze and silver with a pendant shaped into the likeness of Mjölnir clasped in the mouths of two silver dragonheads on a chain of alternating links. “It was not finished before Harald left,” you explain, placing the necklace in Halfdan’s palm. “Give it to him, please.” Halfdan nods. “And all my love.”

RESOUNDING HORNS ANNOUNCE the return of Harald Finehair’s fleet in the dark hours of the evening. You rise from bed and make haste to the docks—handmaids following close behind with slippers and a cloak, but decorum is the least of your concerns. So few have returned, you think, counting the dwindling number of ships gathered compared to how many set off. The first wave departs one of the docked ships, and there is no air of triumph in those who press past you—eager to return to home and hearth and for solid ground beneath their feet. “Harald!” You call as he steps from the longship and onto the dock.

But he does not embrace you as he normally would after such a long voyage, and the spark in his stormy blue eyes is faded. It is only when you see who the men are carrying off the ship on a crude stretcher do you understand the cause of your husband’s sullen mood. “Halfdan,” you breathe, looking between him and Harald. You step to your marriage-brother and lift the pelt of fur covering his torso, grimacing—the wound at his shoulder is a festered, blackish mess, and the sweat on his brow in the first chill of winter speaks of the fever that’s set in during the return voyage.

You turn to one of your handmaids. “Call on Mjöll,” you instruct, “quickly.” The years have seen you clean and bind both Harald and Halfdan’s wounds, but this is far beyond your skill, and an herbalist will be needed to call Halfdan back from the cusp of the next life. The girl nods and sets off to the healer’s hut. Looking back at the stretcher-bearers, you point up the way to the great hall. “Take him to the great hall.” In such a state, Halfdan will need several pairs of watchful eyes.

Dark shadows cast from torchlight and iron braziers shroud Harald’s expression—he does not understand how it is you can stand with so much equanimity when faced with such loss. Harald steps to you, and his shoulders fall, then wordless, he slumps into your arms, resting his forehead on your shoulder—another weight you must bear—hands twisting into the fabric of your pale linen shift. You smooth your hand over his back, following the length of his braid-bound hair. “I thank the gods you have returned to me, my love,” you breathe, unwilling to let him part just yet.

Mjöll works to prepare a cataplasm of moss and herbs into the hours of the night, and you kneel at the prepared pallet of fur and pillows, placing a cool, damp rag upon Halfdan’s brow. There is little else you can do for your marriage brother besides trust the herbalist’s remedies, pray to the gods, and hope they are merciful. Mjöll nods for you to leave and tend to your husband. She and her apprentice will care for Halfdan.

He is pacing the length of the foot of the bed when you enter your shared chambers—hands flexing into fists at his side. You step into Harald’s path, hands going to the ties and buckles of his leathern armor. “If the High One truly sought Halfdan’s company,” you tell him, setting aside his vambraces before turning back, “he would already be feasting in the Halls of the Slain.”

To Harald, it is poor consolation but consolation all the same. And deep down, he knows you are right. Shrugging off his worn and stained tunic, he goes to the washbasin and splashes water on his face and chest, scrubbing away a mix of sweat and salt spray, and blood too. Harald returns to sit at your side on the bed—he stares ahead at the flickering flames of tallow candles. “What happened?” You finally dare ask.

“The magic of Ragnar Lothbrok failed,” he tells you. The lingering taste of defeat is bitter on his tongue—the gods had forsaken them on that river, had forsaken Ragnar. As it happened to be, he was just like any other man. “We were humiliated and pushed out of Frankia with nothing to show for it.” He does not remember the last time he returned to Tamdrup, to you, with nothing to show for his travels. It will take time for the Vestfold to recover from such a defeat.

You touch his cheek, fingers combing through his unkempt beard, drawing his gaze to you. “You live, as does your brother.” The rancor in his expression falters, his jaw unclenching, and he leans into you—his nose just barely bumping against yours. Yes, he and Halfdan escaped with their lives. That is more than can be said for many who embarked on the journey to Paris. Ragnar Lothbrok may have lost the favor of the gods, but they still smiled upon Harald and his brother. “That is enough for me,” you say, softly. He kisses you then, and you meld against him with a sigh and a slight smile that he can feel on your lips.

HE SITS ON his throne—slouched to the side and staring into the abyss, twisting his shark-tooth crown in his hands. Your king has returned, yet still, it is only you shouldering the weight of the kingdom. You stop at the dais and extend your hand toward him. “Walk with me.” It is not a request. Harald rises and follows.

The path through the forest is well-worn, both into the Earth and memory. It carves a winding route through the forest and up bare rock to a promontory overlooking Tamdrup and the mouth of the fjord—a place you frequent to look for sails on the horizon when the men are away, a place where Harald promised he would marry you one day what now feels like a lifetime ago.

But the morning fog has yet to lift from the land, just as the fog of bitterness in the aftermath of what happened in Paris has yet to lift from your husband and king. There has been no feast to honor the memory of those lost since his return several days ago and no promise or mention of what comes next for the Vestfold. It is as though he is lost in despair, mourning his brother already despite the day-by-day recovery—just yesterday, Halfdan’s fever broke.

You sit atop one of the boulders there on the promontory. There’s space enough for him to join you, but, for a moment, he lingers and stares. In the morning the light and mist, you seem like one of the winged women—ethereal. A sight that makes his heart twist and ache given the dark thoughts and mood which have taken hold of him since returning to Tamdrup.

Harald sits next to you and hangs his head, letting his hand rest on your thigh—a gentle weight and warmth. “I fear I have not been a good husband,” he confesses. It is never an easy thing for a prideful man to admit weakness and accept his faults, less so for a king. But the failed siege, his brother’s injury, and the long months spent away from you, from home, have been a heavy weight on his heart.

It does not feel right, leaving you time and time again, each longer than the last, to rule over his lands and care for his people—duties which are his. But you rule so fairly, and his people love you for it. “I have left you too often,” he breathes, a new softness and the tremble of guilt in his voice. “And I have left you to carry a burden meant to be shouldered by two backs” —his hand runs across your shoulders, down your spine— “not one.”

You never expected being wife to a king—being a queen—would be easy. Least of all, the wife of an ambitious man with dreams of uniting Norway under a single crown. Harald Finehair is vikingr. To deny him that would be to deny his true self, and even on the loneliest and coldest of nights, you could and would never ask him to be anything other than who he is—the man you love.

“I knew what was expected of me” —you card your fingers through his beard, the first tinges of silver beginning to appear, and he can find nothing but underserved doting affection in your soft gaze— “of you, when we married.” Harald covers your hand with his own, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into your palm as his hand curls around yours, a sigh on his lips. “And I happily said yes, remember?” 

He remembers the day you married well—the crown of spring wildflowers you wore, the blood-tinged kiss after exchanging rings, the bridal race with Halfdan and your cousins tripping over one another to get to the mead hall first. It is still the happiest day of his life—tied with every other day the gods let him wake up beside you.  

Shifting, you lean your forehead against his and gently slip your hand free from his. “You will always have my love and support, wherever you may be.” Harald closes his eyes and curls his hand around the back of your neck, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear. And you press your hand against the center of his chest—feeling the outline of the Mjölnir necklace under your palm. “And I will be here or at your side,” you tell him, a soft whisper dancing over his lips, “wherever you need me to be.” And now he’s certain—you are too good to him.

[Harald-Halfdan taglist: @ahotmesswithprivilege / @alicedopey / @certifiedlittleshit / @charming-merlin / @elluvians / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gearhead66 / @gossamarnie / @hc-geralt-23 / @hereforreadandwrite / @moonlightsspirit / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @n0sferatus / @naaladareia / @queenyalo / @rigshak / @savagemickey03 / @xinyourdreamsx / @yalos-writing ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Murder Bro taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form! if I missed you, I am sorry! but make sure to mention it in the replies or fill out the linked Google Form!

[charming-merlin]

Get yourself someone that looks at you like Peter looks at Jasper 🥺

[queenfinehair]

@naaladareia he looks so proud, our dearest King

[thezombieprostitute]

My Sun

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's December Daze Challenge.

Prompt: it's too cold, stay in bed.

A/N2: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.

Warnings: Smut. Please let me know if I missed any!

Winter was well known as a time for more sleep. Unfortunately, as a King, Harald was not allowed to sleep. There was always work to be done. While his people had plenty to eat during the warmer months, they often looked to him to make sure they would have plenty to eat during the harsher months. There was also the upcoming solstice celebrations to prepare for.

He sighs, resigned to the work he has ahead of him, and moves to leave from under the furs. He don't get very far as your arm has a tight hold on him around his middle. He tries a few times to gently remove your arm without waking you but each time it doesn't work.

He feels you chuckling against his back. "Why are you trying to escape me, my King?"

"I would never leave you by choice, my Queen," he admonishes. "But there is work to be done."

"It's too cold," you gripe. "Stay in bed with me."

"You are a temptress," he jokingly complains as he turns underneath the furs to face you.

"And you are warm," you purr against his chest, making him chuckle.

"If I am warm, it is because of you. You are my sun." He kisses the top of your head. "My warmth," another kiss, this time on your forehead. "My light," another kiss, this time on your nose. "My comfort in the cold of the world," he proclaims before kissing your lips.

"Then why would you leave our warm bed? Stay with me," you plead.

His hand trails down your front, reaching your mound. He feels how wet you are and grins, "I think my Queen needs some attention." You moan into his ear, confirming his assertion.

"What kind of king would you be if even your queen is left wanting?" you tease.

"Then I shall have to see to your every need that none can say I am lax in my duty," he smiles.

He gently pushes one of his large fingers into you, making you gasp. "You're so wet already, my love. Makes me wonder what kinds of dreams you were having."

"I dreamt of you, my husband," you confess. "Dreamt of our first time together and how insatiable we both were."

"Mmm, we were both so fiery," he remembers. He removes his finger, making you whine, and rolls so that he's on top of you. "But while age may have tempered things, I promise, me fervor for you will never fade."

You feel the truth of his words in both the hardness you feel against your legs and in the passion with which he looks at you. Rather than telling him this, though, you meet his ardor with your own. Wrapping your arms around his head you bring his lips to yours while opening your legs for him. He welcomes your passion by groaning and kissing you in return as he lines himself up with your pussy.

"You're so wet already," he grunts, "I believe I could just fill you in one thrust."

You moan at the idea, encouraging him. He thrusts into you and you gasp in delight, wrapping your legs around him. When you start to kiss his tattooed shoulders he takes that as his signal to start moving, making you both groan appreciatively.

"So warm for me," he grunts. "My love is always ready for me to take her. Always ready to warm me during these cold months."

He hits a spot inside you that has you frantically asking him for more. He increases his pace and you arch your back in pleasure. He alternates between kissing and sucking on your nipples and your moans and whines become needier.

"How could I not love a woman such as yourself?' he continues lavishing you with praise. "So strong yet so soft for me. The most intelligent person in any room you walk into. A spirit as fiery as the sun itself." He groans as you squeeze around his cock. "All of that and you agreed to be mine. I am the luckiest man who as ever walked this world."

Between his words, his kisses, and knowing exactly what spots to hit, your quick to reach your climax. He follows only after he's certain you're satisfied. Both of you exchange gentle kisses, caresses, sweet nothings.

After a few minutes Harald grumbles, "I should get to work now."

"That would be ill advised, husband," you smirk. "You're covered in sweat. Should you leave the comfort of the bed now, you will feel even colder and fall sick."

"You are truly devious, my love," he teases. "Like the sun in winter, so bright but withholding your warmth. How am I to leave your arms now?"

"Not all the blame is mine," you counter. "If you'd truly wanted to get to work, you would have."

He sighs, "you speak truly. But what man in his right mind would ever leave your side? I am only human."

"No, you're no mere human" you smile. "You're my husband, my love, my king."

"And I'll stay in your arms as long as you'll have me."

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly;

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In His Thrall

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, age gap, power imbalance, size kink.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You serve the king but one day, he assigns you a new duty. (short!reader)

Characters: Harald Finehair (Vikings)

Note: This turned out longer than I intended. It’s my first fic for this fandom. Also tagging @alicedopey for her encouragemnt.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Mario loves pipes. Take care. 💖

Harald Finehair. The man who made himself king. So the tales say.

Spurned by a beautiful princess, he swore to seize a crown, to make himself wanted by every princess across every realm. Often it is that lives are woven like sheep's wool, to lend an air of romanticism to rejection or war or death. You're not certain what to believe about the king but he does not fall short of his name. His hair braided down his back with fine ornaments of silver and gems collected from lands you'd never know.

It doesn't matter what a thrall believes. You will never make yourself a queen, nor be a princess to deny a suitor, nor even dream of being a wife in her home, minding a hearth and a husband. Your fate is to toil, to serve those who have been chosen to claim a place in Valhalla.

So it is that you watch through the grey mist, receding as if in deference of the king, the Finehair stride by, a cape stitched with the image of a howling wolf swathed in flame, silver on red. He has the bearing of a warrior, confident but stealthy, laughing as he greets a smith and smiles at a passing maiden. 

You keep your head down, boning fish with the short curved blade with the wooden handle grooves to your fingers' grasp. You toss each limp body into a bucket as voices swirl in the damp air. Boots mulch on the beaten path as the smell of guts pervades your world. Your bloodied hands are slimy and the blade slips in your hold dangerously. 

You balance the knife on the edge of the wooden pail and wipe your hands across the stained apron around your middle, a ribbon of blood streaking past the hem and down your skirt. The mess doesn't bother you much as you check your fingers for damage. The din quiets and a static silence invades as soles kick across the dirt. You sense the change and raise your chin as you reach for the fish knife again.

Another hand scoops it up first, fingers decorated in inky markings above the leather gauntlet. Your breath catches as Finehair's eyes meet yours. As blue as the sky, they see the whole world beneath them. You swiftly retreat and watch the iron blade instead. He stands straight and raises it to the dull daylight 

"A fine tool," he remarks.

At first, you can't speak. You don't know if you should. You're not certain if he speaks to you or another under the hide ceiling shucking fish.

"Many thanks, my king," you wisp out at last.

He turns it in his clutch and clicks his tongue, "I'm afraid the scales are too small for my hand," he refers to the knife's bone handle, "but I see it is well used."

"My king," your lashes flutter as you keep your eyes perilously neutral, "I crafted the scales myself. For my hand."

"Such small hands indeed," he squats and holds out the knife, "but toughened and strong."

He offers the knife scales first and you stare at it. Slowly, you reach for it. You gasp as his other hand comes up to catch yours and he clasps you tightly with his thumb, trapping your knuckles against his palm. You think to pull away but know you mustn't. 

"But gentle when need be," he turns your hand over and pushes the knife into it, "I'm certain of it."

"My king."

He lets out a soft breath, something akin to laughter but less. He squeezes your fingers around the antler bone and lets you go as he stands. He looms above you as you sit frozen on the low wooden stool.

"A king rewards those who work diligently in his name," he declares, "and King Harald the Finehair will ever be the most generous of kings. Little one, your prize will come. Carry on in your steadfast labour."

"Yes, my king," you bow your head lower, watching the toes of his sewn boots until he goes.

You're uncertain what's occurred. Why he came to you. How he even noticed you among the dozens of thralls. You don't tarry on it however as you must fill the bucket for the king's next meal.

🌙

The drunken din of the feast rumbles from the longhouse, doors open to the early embrace of spring. Dag sits whittling a piece of dingy pine as you sit in the doorway of the thrall's hut, most of the denizens sitting in the grass enjoying the new warmth. You watch the moon, like you do every night, and ponder. The great beacon seems to reflect you in each stage, a sliver worn down only to grow full again, waxing and waning, sinking and rising.

"Hopes there's some scraps left for us," Dag mutters, "last time, I got a whole leg of lamb one of them maidens only nibbled on."

"Mm, this weather doesn't make me very hungry," you drawl as you rise, "and it feels too early to sleep. I may walk a while."

"Ah, but it is too the season of the wolves," he girds as you stretch your arms above you between the lintels.

"I will be aware," you promise him, "and I will keep my knife with me."

You feel the hook paring knife at your belt and look out at the bodies lolling in the grass, watching the stars. Some snore, some whisper, others writhe together as with stifled groans. You don't stare as not to intrude upon their fleeting moment of joy. It is not unusual, many of the thralls seek comfort in each other, though they may not wed.

Your bare feet flatten the dewy grass as it glistens beneath the silver light. A flicker catches your eyes from the open doors of the royal longhouse, figures pass in and out  torches licking amber within and glowing through the archway. You continue around the hovel that houses the sleeping mats and sparse possessions of the thralls, nothing more than a pair of boots and a cloak, some less, few more.

You walk along the stalls that house the smiths' anvils and those with the large cauldrons that fire near all day and night, and those further down where you slice marrow and meat. The laundries further to the south and the weavers to the west. Beyond, the sparse forest of still winter-shorn trunks and broken branches. You near as a breeze rustles the untrodden grasses, critters rustling and twigs snapping. You're not afraid, you've never met more than a nosy snowfox or a fleeing rabbit. 

The trees tower above as if your strolling among the giants of Jotunheim. You follow the winding pattern of trees, unruly and wild, the noise of the calm river just ahead, drawing you in with its calm babbling flow. Your feet carry you without hesitation, the low buzz of the evening luring you further from the king's house.

Moonlight ripples in the dark waters. You're so fixated on the eerie rings that you don't notice the figure sat upon the shore, a cloak spread beneath him as he tosses pebbles into the pool, further disturbing the rolling surface. You stop, staying close to the nearest tree, thinking to hide behind it as he looks over his shoulder. He hums and you're unsure if you've been sighted.

"Come, little one, you needn't hide," he beckons to you with a large hand, a familiar timbre as the rings on his fingers catch the nightly glow.

You obey. A thrall does nothing else. As you cross the soft ground to him, you're heart leaps at the recognition of his profile, limned by the moon as he turns back to the water, tattoos stark against his complexion. Harald Finehair. You stand by his shoulder, awaiting his next order.

"Sit," he pats the empty space of his cloak beside him.

"Yes, my king," you quickly lower yourself to your knees beside him and fold your hands in your lap, "my apologies, I didn't know you through the dark."

"No? You do not know your king?"

"My king, it isn't my meaning. I did not…" you cover your mouth, "I speak beyond my means. Forgive me."

"Do not be so fearful, and settle," he taps your knee, "stay with me a time. I don't mind the company."

You shift and free your legs from beneath you, bending them instead before you as you hug them. You look ahead to the water and he skips a stone easily, sighing. You sit in the lull of his unspoken thoughts, unnerved by it.

"I know you, even through the dark," he says. "I thought I knew you before… for you remind me of a princess I once met. A woman who is now old, now wed and whelped."

You listen, bringing a hand to your cheek as you turn to watch his hands toy with a stone. He is watching you, you know it, but you cannot return his gaze. It would be undue. He is king, you are thrall.

"My king, I'm not princess."

"And I was not always a king," he says as he tosses the pebble, "but we must listen to the norns when the sing to us."

You nod and flinch, surprised as he reaches to take your hand away from your face. He cradles it as if admiring how small it seems in his calloused palm. Long fingers forged for battle, strengthened by the destruction they've wrought, cleansed in the blood they've shed.

"The norns call me to serve you, my king," you say as he closes his fingers around yours. You tremble at the warmth of his touch.

"They do. I hear them too." He clings to you, admiring your knuckles, "do you know, the soft lords across the sea, when they see a beautiful woman, they kiss her hand. Like this."

He lifts your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles. You clutch him without thinking, squirming at the tickle that flows from the spot. He lowers your hand, petting it with his other.

"You shake. You are frightened?"

You gulp, "you are king."

"Which means?" You bat your lashes and try to turn away but he grabs your chin, forcing it up, "look at me and tell me what it means, lamb?"

His eyes gleam in the moonlight, bold and brilliant like gems. You cower as you look into them, swallowed by their depths, stormy and swirling. 

"That you command all to your will," you eke out.

"Yes, that is what it means," his thumb trails up your chin and pushes against your lower lip, "and my will… is that you, my princess, will not turn me away like the one before. For I am king now and will claim my right."

“I am not a princess–”

“I am king. I may deem you princess.”

You close your mouth, foolish to argue before. You demure to him, looking down as he toys with your lip.

“Your king would like a kiss,” he says.

You inhale and your lips part just slightly. A kiss. So simple but you haven’t an inkling how to proceed.

“Must a king show his princess how to give him a kiss?” He asks, half a chide.

“Yes, my king,” you breathe, “I do not know how.”

“You do not? A beautiful princess like you?”

You dare to look up again. He leans in slowly as he tilts your head up, finger curled beneath your chin. His scent surrounds you, musky sweat underlined with a hint of some fragrant herb. His lips meet yours and you squeak, his lips soft despite the rest of him. He moves them gently, sliding his tongue between yours. He pokes past them, tasting you, the act growing more fervent, more hungry the longer you’re enmeshed.

He turns completely, urging your arms away from your legs, a hand on your shoulder as his other slips around the back of your head. He lays you down as he holds himself over you, mouth still crushed against yours. He snakes his arm under you as he consumes you, groaning as he traps you under him. His knees push down between yours, pinning you tighter as his weight strains on your skirt.

“Move your mouth with mine, lamb,” he whispers as he parts for only a moment.

You obey. He calls you princess but you are thrall still. If you don’t do as he commands, he will have you whipped. Like any other master, like any other slave. He moves his pelvis strangely, rubbing against you he drones.

He lifts himself on his elbow and shifts his knees as he blindly tugs at your skirts. You have no strength to move. You have no right to resist. The king wants this and so he will have it. Just as he took his crown. He proclaimed it to be, and so it was.

He pushes your skirt to your thighs, the thin wool brushing roughly against your goosepimpled skin. His fingertips make you twitch as they graze the tender flesh and he tears his lips from yours. He smears his wet mouth down your cheek.

“I always wanted to… taste a princess,” he growls as he drags his lips along your jaw, “you must be sweet, lamb…”

He kisses down your neck and chest, his hand coming up to feel you through your bodice. You shudder and flatten your hands against the ground. He trails further, burying his face between your breasts and nuzzling with a snarl. He gropes you as he descends, his other hand hook up to trace the crease of your legs.

You tense as he brushes along the coily hair, twisting it around his fingers as he flips your dress over your stomach. He kneels, bending over you as he hovers his head over your pelvis, his breath scouring you as he swipes a digit between your folds. You suck in air and your fingers clasp a wrinkle in his cloak beneath you.

He exhales as he lowers himself on his elbows, framing the angle of your pelvis with his index and thumb. You fidget as his nose touches your thicket of hair and he breathes you in. A coolness meets your heat, parting it as you let out a yelp of surprise. He spreads his hand across your pelvis, holding your still as his tongue explores you.

It’s strange. It feels wrong. You wouldn’t know and it can’t matter. The king will have whatever part of you he desires. His fingers flutter up your thigh and poke along your lips. He rubs you in time with his tongue, up and down, around and around, stirring an unknown tide within you.

Your breath hitches and your eyes close on their own. You tilt your head back and arch your back, the sensation leading you. He prods at you, dipping a finger past your entrance, only the tip as he wiggles it. You mewl as his lips circle your bud and he sucks, the pressure thrumming there, pulsing.

He slides his finger to the first knuckle, then the last. You whimper as he pulls it back and forces it back in. The loud lapping of his tongue mingles with the noise of the river and the wet clutch of your cunt. He tends at you steadily, building and building, until you’re quaking and crying in an eruption of fiery delight.

He eases you through your climax, letting you down little by little as he spreads his tongue against your cunt, drinking you up greedily. He lifts himself, his short beard glistening as he licks his lips. He sits back on his heels, thick legs bent in his legs as his hand settle in his lap.

“You taste like Valhalla,” he snarls as he picks at the laces, “you must feel like it too.”

You pant as you put your hand over your chest, feeling how your heart pounds. You cannot speak, you wouldn’t dare too. Your fear has sunk to confusion, your body torn between torture and longing. He moves closer and grabs your hip with one hand, pushing you onto your side.

You roll over as he guides you wordlessly, his long, heavy breathes like wolfish growls. He braces your waist and pulls your ass up, forcing you to your knees. You plant your hands on the wrinkled cloak as he squeezes you. He impatiently runs his hands back to bunch your skirt and twists it as he holds it above your ass.

You’ve seen it before. The other thralls sometimes engage in the same position. The sounds of their flesh claps as their shadows buck furiously. Your walls clench as you think of it. His free hand kneads your ass and he taps you lightly. You moan and he scratches his nails up your skin before he pulls his touch away.

He presses his tip between your cheeks, following the line as he lets out a deliberate grown. He rubs his swollen head against your wet folds, his voice drones louder at the slick friction. He grunts as he angles himself against your entrance. He pushes in and a dull pain spreads through your cunt.

He gets his tip past the slight resistance of your body. He snarls and grips your rumpled skirt tighter. A heavy agony aches in your bones as he dips deeper, stretching you around him painfully as stunted breaths escape his lungs. His sneering grows loud, more impatient, and he jerks his hips so you cry out.

It's as if you’re being rented in two. Your pelvis rings and a pang rolls up your spine. You heave as your arms collapse beneath you. He thrusts again and you shriek. You’re not prepared. You could never be for this. But you must allow him his will. You are bound to serve him.

“Oh, princess,” he clutches your skirt in his fists and lets it rest against your lower back, guiding you with the tension in the fabric, “oh, my little one, how you welcome me. As if you were…” he grunts and sinks to his limit, lingering as he wiggles his hips, “built for me…” he pulls back, “by the gods themselves.”

You whine as your eyes well and spill onto his cloak. His scent seeps into you as your fingers furl stiffly. He rocks, long strokes echoed by longer groans as he brings his pelvis to meet your ass over and over. His pace builds, little by little, faster, harder, deeper, as the impact carries with the river, your pathetic whimpers lost to his greedy growls.

You turn your face down and hide your head beneath your arms as you holler. You can’t hold back anymore. It hurts. It hurts so bad and you want him to stop. And he will. Eventually. When he is spent, when he has deemed your duty done.

“Little one,” he wraps his large hands around the curve of your waist, framing your sides as he ruts into you relentlessly, “the king has found his princess. The king— will have his queen.”

[oddsnendsfanfics]

I am not sure how I feel about Vikings Valhalla, but I am half way through S2.

What I do know is Vikings named Harald may be my downfall.

[vikingschristiansff]

Chapter Thirteen

 Since the weddings Hvitserk had become determined to find out why Elsie was so angry with him. She no longer cuddled with him, instead keeping her body as close to the edge of the bed as possible. She ignored him throughout the day, and would pretend to already be asleep when he came home. After days of this Hvitserk had enough. Fairly drunk, he stumbled into their home where again, Elsie was pretending she was asleep. Hvitserk angrily tossed the furs off of her, turned her over so that she was laying on her back and crawled on top of her. He hovered menacingly over her.

“What do you want?” Elsie snarled through clenched teeth. 

“Why are you behaving like a child?” Elsie almost gagged from the stench of alcohol on his breath as he spoke. “We were happily married a few days ago, now you despise me. What happened?”

Elsie gave him a look of disgust, refusing to answer his question. “TELL ME,” he scream.

“I saw you with the slave. The blonde one. I am not stupid, as I said before my affection for you  was a momentary lapse in judgement. This isn’t a marriage, it a business arrangement. And I think, from now on, we should keep it as such.”

Hvitserk's demeanor softened, and he rolled off of his wife so he was now sitting beside her. “I didn’t know that would hurt you, and I will never do it again. Not with Margarethe, not with anyone.”

“No need. I don’t care what you do. I’m not hurt, I’m not angry. I know what men do, Scottish men have mistresses all the time. It’s just… my father didn’t and growing up I was promised a marriage like my parents. I forgot that promise was broken when my father made his deal with Bjorn.” With that, she tucked herself back under the furs and turned her back to her husband to go to sleep. Hvitserk, however, didn’t get much sleep that night. 

* * * *

Olivia sat upon a boulder, drawing a landscape of Kattegat. However, her peacefulness was soon interrupted. 

“Hello Princess Olivia,” Cella said. Olivia remembered her, she was the thrall that dressed her for the Viking wedding. 

“Hello Cella. Can I help you?”

“Prince Sigurd has ordered me to accompany you throughout the days. He said you were lonely and having a hard time adjusting to life here.” 

Olivia just smiled and nodded. She knew what Sigurd was doing, having Cella with her all day everyday would deter her from having a friendship with Harald. She felt the anger boil within her but she kept a calm demeanor, not wanting to take her emotions out on someone as sweet as Cella. 

Olivia waited up for Sigurd to come home that night. 

“Why are you still awake?” He asked when got into their bed. 

“Is having a thrall become my shadow really necessary?”

“You’re the one who wants someone to talk to,” he smirked. 

“I don’t understand you!” Olivia stood from the bed and began to shout. “You don’t want me and yet you won’t allow me to even speak to another man!”

Sigurd stood up as well. “I don’t need you being seen constantly with King Harald! Embarrassing me! Making a fool out of me!”

“You make a fool out of me everyday! You are always with Margarethe!” She spill out the thralls name with vitriol. “If you hate me so much, why don’t spend your nights with her as well!” 

“I will!” Sigurd grabbed his clothes and stormed out of their house, slamming the door behind him.

* * * *

Per request from Ivar, Aslaug and Bridget began to spend time together. Aslaug hated Bridget, and Bridget hated her back. Aslaug insisted Bridget was a bad wife and was not keeping Ivar happy. And of course, it was Bridget’s fault that she was not with child. 

Bridget had to bite her tongue form tell her mother-in-law that Ivar lacked the skill to make a baby and it was most certainly not her fault. They hadn’t tried again since the wedding night, Ivar was too scared of being embarrassed again. Instead each night he had his wife hold him tightly like she did that night. He found calmness and comfort in her arms, though she could not say the same. 

* * * * * 

Lagertha decided it was important to teach Leith sword fighting. It was not going well, but they were both enjoying their time together. 

Once again Lagertha knocked the sword out of Leith’s hand. “You are excellent with the shield, but you lack strength.” She grabbed Leith’s thin arm, that was sore beyond belief, and let it flop back to her side, making both of the women laugh. Ending their lesson, they took a seat to catch their breathes.

“How is your marriage going, Bjorn is a lot like his father in some ways, so I’m sure it is not easy?” 

Leith thought for a moment. “I think, for an arranged marriage, it is going well.” 

“But?” Lagertha questioned. 

“It is just still very awkward,” Leith paused, thinking if she wanted to say what was on her mind. “I fear — Bjorn may not like me. I would like us to be friends, to make this situation easier.”

“Oh darling,” Lagertha laughed. “Trust me, Bjorn likes you. Perhaps even more.”

Lagertha’s words lingered in her mind the rest of the day. Leith knew she and Bjorn needed to have an honest conversation when he returned home that night. 

* * * * * 

“I am sorry for accusing you the other night. I should have trusted you when you said you were with your sister.” 

Greer turned in bed to her other side, becoming face to face with her husband. “Why didn’t you?”

“I do not have the most experience with women emotionally. I was worried about you, and I —,” Don’t let that Christian make you stupid brother. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Greer smiled, pulling her Halfdan in for a kiss.

* * * * * 

Ubbe had left for the day when Isla went into labor. Thralls flooded their house, preparing everything they needed and shouting instructions at Isla. The pain, the chaos, the noise was all too much for her. She mustered her strength and pushed the women out of the room, locking the door behind them.

“Princess Isla, open the door!” The eldest thrall, Agnes shouted and banged on the door. “We need to help you! The baby is coming early it is dangerous!”

Isla let out another agonizing scream, “I will do it myself! I do not want anyone to help me! I do not need help! AHHHHH!”

Agnes continued to banging, “Princess, if you do not open the door I will get your husband to break it down!”

“I am not letting anyone in here!” 

Isla didn’t hear Agnes tell another thrall to go find Ubbe and tell him what was happening. 

“AHHHHHHH!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Gifs not mine

It's been like 3 years so I don't now if anyone will read this...my laptop broke and I finally got a new one!

@browneyed-babyy @ivarthebloodyking @heavenly1927​ @darkwhisperswolf @-thatgirloverthere-​ @mdlady​ @anteatingbitchlizard