#halfdan the black x fem!reader

[queenfinehair]

The Bartender

(Pt. || Here)

Pairing: Modern!Halfdan x Fem!reader (No use of Y/N)

Warning: Minors DNI. Alcohol use. Mentions of abuse. Just, please, adults only.

Disclaimer: Moodboard is made by me from photos found on Pinterest. I do not claim ownership.

Plain and simple? It was sleazy. A dive bar to be crowned the best by those who frequented it and labeled trash by those who never set foot in. The drinks were watered down, cheap and bitter. So why were you there in this seedy joint?

Him. Again. Plain and simple, your boyfriend had finally done it this time. This time you meant it when you left with a swelling right eye. This bar just happened to be the darkest one you had come across and by God, you needed a drink and fast.

"What'll it be?" A napkin in place of a fancy coaster is slid in front of you and you look up. A deep pair of inquiring honey-brown eyes are searching your face, waiting for both an answer and explanation.

"Oh, uhm, strongest thing you have. Top shelf, please." You're already beginning to gather the money needed to pay for this liquid therapy. A snort of a laugh makes you look up suddenly though, frowning already at the attitude.

"Lady, top shelf here doesn't exist, but I know just what you need. Tequila, straight up with a splash of lime. Trust me."

He wasn't condescending in tone but in your fragile state it still made you both frustrated and teary eyed. You quickly wipe at your eyes and flinch at the contact. "And a raw steak as well..." you mutter under your breath and put a $50 on the bar counter.

"You wouldn't want that either. Again, trust me." He laughs from his belly this time and nods towards the lame kitchen doors. "Food here'll give you poisoning faster than the drinks."

This gets you to smile small and thank him for the drink, "keep 'em coming. I'd rather not feel this tonight."

Taking the money from you, the man pauses for a better glimpse under the dim lights. They're enough to hide from but he knew better. "You runnin' from this guy?"

Shaking your head you take a gulp of the harsh liquor and hiss, "I wouldn't say running, exactly..."

"But?" He holds up a finger to an already drunk man down the way, signaling that he'd have to wait just a minute longer.

Another gulp, another hiss and you look into his eyes, "I need to get away. I need to hide and this place seemed the perfect fit for that. No offense meant, by the way."

He shakes his head with a large grin forming on his lips. "None taken. I'm Halfdan, by the way."

"Interesting name." you begin with your own introduction to the strange man behind the bar. You take another gander and only then do you see that his face is covered in an intricate and intriguing tattoo. The ink was slightly faded and looked to be a shade of blue... or was it black? In these lights the details were easily blurred into obscurity so you just shrug off the color and continue with your drink, noting that Halfdan had left the bottle on the bar. He'd left to help another patron with his needs.

With him helping the drunk male you take it upon yourself to grab the bottle and fill your glass up, smiling to yourself as the liquid courses through your system. Your eye would hurt like hell in the morning, but for now you were content.

"Mark, I told you, you're at your limit." Halfdan swears under his breath as he walks back to where you're sitting and raises an eyebrow at the bottle plopped in front of you. "And you..." He begins slyly, playfully taking it back and grabbing another, stronger tequila. "This is what you'd rather have, I'm guessing."

You finally omit a laugh and nod with enthusiasm, "what happened to no top shelf?"

"That's mostly for people like him," he points with his head, the hair that sits to only one side oglf his head swaying with the movement. "Mark! Go on, get!"

The two men have words and as Halfdan jumps the bar to escort drunk Mark out you watch his build. Slim was the first thing you notice, his tight black t-shirt clinging to his sweating body. Dark blue jeans cling to his hips legs. You stare a moment longer at his ass before raising your brows in appreciation, turning back to the alcohol in front of you.

-------‐---------

"So you've been with this guy 6 months, think it's true love, he's jealous and finally he beats you?" Plopping a peanut into his mouth, Halfdan blows out a breath and shakes the hair from his eyes. "Shit."

The bar is empty now and the time is late. You both have been sharing the bottle of tequila and have moved to a booth. It's shabby, torn and red in color but it's much more comfortable than the stool you'd been sitting on before. A small bowl of peanuts sits in front of you that's being shared and you snort out a laugh now.

"In a nutshell," a peanut is held up with a smile, "that's what happened." And into your mouth it goes. Halfdan watches the movement with wry fascination before he talks again.

"You deserve better than a raw steak on your eye, ya know." He motions with a finger the the very piece of raw meat that he'd gotten out for you. Noting how brown and out of date the steak had been though, you politely had rejected.

You both take a shot and wash it down with the juice of half a lime, licking salt off of the opposite hand and laugh together at the synchronization of your actions.

The old jukebox plays a slower song and you sigh, closing your eyes and letting your head fall down and you groan.

"Ahh, nope. I don't think so, not on my watch." Halfdan slams his hands on the booth table and stands up, swaying slightly. "C'mon then, darling, let's dance the pain away. I'm not good at it but I'll try."

You take his outstretched hand and stand as well, walking with the taller man to the so-called dance floor, laughing at the scuffed linoleum. "I'm sure you dance fine." Your words slur and he wraps his arms around your waist, bringing you close.

Your own arms wrap around Halfdan and his chin comes to rest on your head. The room sways with both your movements and the alcohol. A tear or two slides down your cheeks as you think of how nice this strange man is, far more kind than your ex-boyfriend.

"Halfdan..." you begin and as you move to look up, his glossy eyes catch your own. He looks from your eyes to your mouth and back again. The though crosses your mind as well and with so much of the liquid courage flowing through you both, you take the first move and kiss him.

He breaks away first, standing away from you now with both hands up in surrender, "I don't know..." He mutters your name and shakes his head before you take full control. Lightning courage has you in its hold as you close the distance.

"For some strange reason, Halfdan the Bartender... I trust you. Make me feel good. Better than I already do. Please."

He heaves a sigh and takes your hands in his, leading you to the door at the front, where he locks up, turns back and motions to you to follow him now, dropping your hands.

There's an upstairs to the bar hidden in the kitchen with slim, creaking stairs. A door stands in front of you as Halfdan works the locks, opening the stained door to a rather lovely living room.

"So," Halfdan admits sheepishly as he scratches the shaved side of his head, "Welcome to my place. Let's get comfortable."

-----------

Tags; @naaladareia

[ryuzakemo128]

Food for the heart and soul - Vikings Drabble

Genre: Fluff/ Angst

Pairing: Halfdan the Black x Freyja Raengyreon [Female Reader]

Content Warning: Possible themes of angst, heart melting fluff and mention of death.

Freyja's cooking was as chaotic as it was beautiful to watch. She insisted that she did it because it was a way of expressing her creativity and individuality. She also said that her father had taught her the importance of knowing what you put into your body, and that cooking was a way of ensuring that she took care of herself and her loved ones. And to make treats that tasted like home.

Halfdan watched her as she moved around the kitchen, humming to herself as she cooked and the reason she had him get the brie cheese became rather clear to him. Although at the time it was rather amusing, now he was quite curious as to why she was so interested in it. He'd never been one to really think much of food beyond the fact that it filled him up and gave him the energy to keep moving. But then again, he'd never been around anyone like Freyja before.

"Food is meant to taste good, give you more than just energy and enough to keep you alive," Freyja said, "I have a contact that gives me a small wheel every week, along with two other types of cheese along with it, just to try. He's a very loyal friend." She paused, giving Halfdan a sidelong glance before she added, "You should try it sometime. It's not just about the taste, but about the experience of enjoying it. You can really appreciate the difference."

He replied, "I'm not sure if I understand. You're saying that food can be more than just something we eat to survive?" She nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "But why?" he asked, genuinely confused. "It's not like it's going to change anything about who we are or what we do."

"It will make it far more worthwhile, enjoyable and at the very least pleasant." Freyja answered with a small smile. "I went to Frankia, I had all sorts of things there, but Brie cheese stood out to me the most during my time there, my father also taught me it was important to know how to stay healthy and still eat well, just because we're Vikings, doesn't mean we can't enjoy what we eat."

From that day forward, she wanted to cook for him more often. He was never one to turn down her food, and after tasting the Brie cheese, he found himself enjoying it more than he thought he would. He began to see the world through her eyes, appreciating the little things in life that made it worth living.

At the end of each night, she would say, 'I love you and get back safely,' Despite never living together as a normal couple, they had become quite close. Halfdan found himself looking forward to the times he spent with her, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have a real home with her, filled with her cooking and the warmth of her presence.

Perhaps one they would or at least they would have in another life, had he not died that day. Had he not died on that battlefield. He would be with her one way or another. Even if it wasn't going to be then. It most certainly would in another lifetime.

[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!

[pearlywritings]

Lend me a helping shoulder

synopsis: The end of the month is always hard on the Twilight Sword, so it’s no wonder that you want to come over and support your hard-working lover. But first, you’ll need someone to help you. Up.

pairing: Dainsleif x fem!reader, feat Halfdan

tw: Khaenri’ah era, established relationship, some crack but mainly fluff

word count: 2.2k+ words

author’s note: I needed a break from what I am working on right now, and the idea of carrying your friend on your shoulders so she could kiss her man through the window has been sitting in my head for years.

Another drop falls from the tip of the quill and hits the paper, bursting into smaller blots of ink, completely ruining the half-written report. A tired sigh and then a hand reaches to crumple the document and throw it in a bin to dispose later. New parchment is laid upon the wooden surface and the quill dips in an inkwell for the hundredth time this evening. Or it would be more accurate to say night already.

The lights within the palace are off, and Dainsleif has just one lamp on, illuminating his working desk and piles of papers stacked on top of it. It doesn't look that bad - the pile with finished work is way bigger than the one that still needs to be tended to. The man though looks awful - dark circles around his stark eyes make his gaze look more miserable than he'd actually let on, hair is quite disheveled from how many times he ran his fingers through blond locks, there is a red mark on his cheek - one yet to disappear after he had that very cheek supported by the fist, or otherwise he pretty much would've hit the desk face first. A cape with a Royal Guard emblem embroidered on its back and black gloves are abandoned, parts of armor that are quick and easy to put back on if there is a state of emergency are neatly placed on a chair near the window, and a couple of buttons on his shirt are popped open. If any of his underlings saw him at the moment, they'd see a sight of what a royal knight should never look like.

However Dainsleif is exhausted. It's the end of the month, there are major reports that need to be passed to the higher-ups at the Court and they really love changing the filling template every now and then, as if they don't have any more important tasks to attend to. This time, regretfully, they decided it's time to replace the format yet again and informed the Captain almost at the last minute. The man would love to be mad, but at this point his brain have only one legible thought: finish the work as soon as possible and maybe, if he is lucky enough, catch a couple of hours of sleep before the time he'll need to pass these stacks to dozens of secretaries and make it their problem, not his.

The document he is rewriting right now is not the first of the kind - it's been two or so hours since his consciousness started to slowly but surely slip from his grasp. It is annoying on its own already, but the next thing that happens makes anger spark in his blood. There is something steadily knocking against his window. He knows for a fact there are no trees growing near the wall, besides he can hear no wind that could've hypothetically made a branch hit the glass rhythmically. A bird? Yeah, it could be, a little irritating thing, that doesn't know that the night is the night and you freaking sleep and not come bothering a busy Captain.

Huuuuh… Well, standing up, cracking some joints and walking to the window and back sounds like a small break. Who knows, maybe it'll even help the man gain his concentration back. Oh, the pitch black sky above, and the night could've been worse, if he had patrolling on his plate as well today.

The chair squeaks against the floorboards and Dainsleif winces - he really needs to ask for a carpet. The paper is placed upon the tall stack and the quill falls near the inkwell - he'll clean the blots later if there are any. Stretching, the blond yawns, cracking his neck and groaning in slight pain, grasping the nape and rubbing it. Tired eyes disappear behind heavy eyelids as he takes the first step in the direction he needs to reach. There are new knocks and it drives the knight mad. He snaps his eyes open and glares at, as he assumes, a bird…

…only to halt in his steps and blink in surprise. There is no bird sitting on the windowsill outside, but there is your figure in the frame. When you see that he has finally noticed you, a smile brightens your lovely face and a hand waves at him excitedly in greeting. Dainsleif rubs at his eyes. Is he hallucinating? He must be, he most definitely must be, his mind playing tricks on him, hinting that it's really time to go and hit the sack. While his office is indeed on the first floor, the window is way too high up from the ground - there is absolutely no way you can stand like this in front of it.

But then you call for his name and he moves quicker than his mind finally registers that yes, you are real. He is at the window in two steps, turning the handle and opening it wide, letting the night air in his stuffy office. The coolness and freshness washes over him and suddenly it becomes so much easier to breathe.

"I see you are as busy as I expected," your voice is even sweeter with the glass barrier out of the way, and Dainsleif almost loses himself in it. He'd lose himself in anything that feels like a glimpse of salvation right now.

"Y/n…" your name leaves dried lips hoarsely, and the man clears his throat to continue. "What are you doing here? No, how are you up here?"

The soft smile on your face suddenly becomes mischievous and you point at something beneath you. Not understanding a thing, your lover puts his hands on a windowsill and leans out of the window. There, keeping you seated on his shoulders, one of his knights is standing, the one Dainsleif knows all too well.

"Good evening, Captain! Or should I say night?" Halfdan is grinning, keeping his hands wrapped around your calves for security. Stunned, his superior redirects his gaze at you and you almost topple over with laughter at how flabbergasted he looks. He wants to ask something, but your lips are on his faster than any sound can leave them. Eyes slightly widen, but then just as fast the lids drop and the kiss is reciprocated. Your hands quickly and with clear impatience find their way in blond soft hair and his palms cup your face in a desperate attempt to pull you closer. He missed it, missed you to the aching of his heart, to the burning in his veins. Your touch feels intoxicating and he hasn't had a drop of liquor in weeks, drowning himself in training and work. Your skin is so warm under his cold hands, and you shiver when he runs thumbs over your cheekbones affectionately. You gasp as the fingertips accidentally brush the sides of your neck and Dainsleif seizes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, mind foggy and body hurting with nagging need…

The kiss is over way quicker than he'd love it to be and you both gasp and pant, still holding onto each other as if one of you is going to disappear. Some part deep inside the man's brain still thinks you are just a mirage, and you feel a small twinge of fear that he'll just close the window and return to his knightly duties.

You stare at each other in silence, unblinking and unmoving, chests rapidly rising and falling. Dainsleif wants to kiss you again, you want to feel his lips on you one and many more times, and just when you are ready to act upon your selfish desires, a polite cough breaks through the entrancing atmosphere.

"Hate to be third-wheeling, but I am still here," a voice from below interrupts the two of you. Heat rises to your cheeks and Dainsleif masks his own embarrassment with a groan. Slipping up in front of his subordinate like this…how unprofessional. It is Halfdan, no less, which means he'll never live his friendly teasing down.

"So…" the blond clears his throat and looks at the man and you in turn. "What's going on and why are the two of you…like this?"

"Don't ask me, Captain, I am merely offering a shoulder - or two - in whatever plan this crazy girl has…ouch!" You gently but tangibly poke his side with the tip of the shoe.

"You agreed to participate in whatever this crazy girl has in mind with no questions asked, aren't you crazy too?"

"Well," the knight chuckles, "it includes a friend of mine, surely his lovely fiancee would do him no harm."

"Fair," you huff, quickly losing all interest in this pointless banter and opting to peck the cheek of your lover, sweetly murmuring, "missed you so bad…"

Halfdan snickers when he hears his superior's shuddering exhale - whatever you told him has the usually collected man crumble because of your words.

"Hey, Halfdan, can you hoist her up?"

At that he hums, unwrapping his fingers from around your calves and putting flat palms under your feet.

"Well, if she manages to stand up and you hold her by the waist, there is a big chance she'll be sitting on your windowsill in a moment."

Dainsleif reaches for your middle section and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. With a powerful tug you are straightened up, held by your lover on one end and weight supported by Halfdan on the other, and with one more push you are lifted and securely seated where the blond wants you to with legs dangling outside.

"What an eventful night," the man dusts his hands off and rolls his shoulders a couple of times, "I deserve a raise for this, don't you think so, Captain?"

"I don't remember the protocols saying anything about honoring the knight for helping a woman sneak into their superior’s quarters," Dainsleif smirks, meanwhile helping you get inside the room, and Halfdan finally sees the man his friend is - for a moment he really thought his real self was destroyed by the monthly reports.

"Well, knight protocols maybe do not, but I am sure the woman in question has her conscience. You owe me one, remember it! But for now, have a great night love birds," saluting with a playful wink, Halfdan turns around and resumes the patrolling route Dainsleif suddenly remembers he assigned his friend to.

The window clicks closed and two lovers find their bodies in a tight embrace, almost knocking the chair nearby. Holding his breath, the blond expects the armor he put there earlier this evening to crash on the floor with disturbing loudness, but, thank whoever is listening, nothing falls.

Your lips find his again and all the worries disappear, leaving only one feeling coursing through his system - yearning. The remnants of drowsiness are gone, replaced with the sweet awareness of your proximity, chests pressed and mouths married, the union breathing life into his worn out body.

You two are kissing for what feels like eternity, as you are slowly stepping further and further into the room, until he slides back into his chair, with you descending onto his lap, arms wrapped around his neck and his hands gripping onto your hips. Soft sighs caress each other’s skin, when you draw your faces away, and share a gaze full of love and adoration, both coming back to your senses, too drunk by the intimate display of affection.

The lover of yours relaxes in the back of the chair, smiling contently and bringing one of your hands to press a kiss to your knuckles, not even once taking his eyes off of your beloved face.

“So… Can I have an explanation?”

Your fingers brush against his lips and reach to tuck a lock behind his ear, baring his jawline. Your lips are on his pale skin in a second, ghosting butterfly kisses all over the length of it.

“Mhm… You haven’t come home in a few days and I figured you were busy and, most likely, miserable. I was planning to visit you, even if it meant hours of convincing the guards to let me in - after all I am not yet an official member of your family, - but just when I was crossing the garden I spotted Halfdan and asked him if he’d assist me in getting to you. He agreed, your window was closer than the entrance, and everything else is history. But hey! - it saved me time and efforts to get inside the legal way.”

“‘The legal way’ ,” the man snorts, the hold on your waist tightening and nose burying in your hair. “You know I should actually arrest you for entering the palace without permission?”

“Then arrest me,” you suddenly say and draw your face back to look up at him. “Arrest me for the night and keep me in your office under your unwavering gaze - it’d be such a shame to go and wake the dungeon warden at such an awful hour, wouldn’t it?”

“You,” Dainsleif shakes his head in disbelief, emotions bubbling in his chest, threatening to burst out in a laughter. “Halfdan is right - you are crazy.”

“Crazy with love for you,” you declare, cupping his face with both of your palms and peppering kisses all over his lovely visage. “Crazy enough to be up with you until you finish work.”

“And then?” He quietly muses , and your lips stretch into a soft smile, that promises you’ll stay.

“I think your office's sofa is quite comfortable to fit two people.”

[elegantglossyflowersbitches]

Requests Are Closed!

Please note: this list is not complete (just has 5 characters I prefer), so if you want a specific character, feel free to ask. These characters are just a few of the ones I know and can think of off the top of my head. The same goes for the shows. That being said- it is not limited to that. Also, the female characters will be x fem! Reader, but they can be read as whatever. There are also a couple of exclusions. I just do not feel comfortable doing those characters. I may make some for them later on, but at this present moment, no.

The 100

King Roan

Bellamy Blake

Clarke Griffin

Octavia Blake

Raven Reyes

Vikings

Ivar the Boneless

Ubbe Ragnarsson

Hvitserk Ragnarsson

Harald Finehair

Halfdan the Black

I will not do Sigurd. Sorry.

Game of Thrones

Sandor Clegane

Daenerys Targaryen

Tormund Giantsbane

Jamie Lannister

Cersei Lannister

I will not do Bran. Sorry.

Marvel

Bucky Barnes

Steve Rogers

Tony Stark

Natasha Romanoff

Wanda Maximoff

I will not do Bruce Banner. Sorry.

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Gabriel

Sam Winchester

Lucifer

Castiel

I will not do Crowley or Jack. Sorry.

Twilight

Felix Volturi

Demetri Volturi

Paul Lahote

Jasper Hale

Caius Volturi

I will not do Aro or Edward. Sorry.

So please feel free to send in some requests!

[artemiseamoon]

I hope I'm not too late!

If I can, I would totally appreciate 36 & 55 for either Halfdan the Black or Ivar the Boneless (I'm going through a Vikings phase). Fluff, Black fem reader. Please and thank you! 💜

Always happy to write Halfdan! I’m very happy to create this for you @psychadelichues thank you for your patience as I’ve mostly been away from tumblr.

Modern! Halfdan the Black x Black F reader (fluff) for @psychadelichues

Warnings: none | Gif credit: the one and not @charming-merlin | Prompts in bold 

As always if you are on the PERM list, but don't read vikings stuff, just skip it. 

I’m not going anywhere 

Halfdan x Black F reader

Words: 733  | yes requests are officially being worked on again! 

Leaning into the door frame, you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Gently crossing your arms, you exhale quietly as you admire him.

With a quiet intensity, Halfdan tucks his blond hair behind his left ear before re-focusing on the bike. You know he feels you standing there, watching him, but Halfdan enjoys this just as much as you do.

There was something extra hot about watching him work on his bike. You suppressed your inner voyuer most of the time, but every once in a while you sneak down here to catch a glimpse. Not that he minded, Halfdan usually showed off a little when he knew you were watching.

If someone would have told you two years ago that you’d be here, living with the hot guy you crushed on for months, you would have thought they were joking.

Halfdan wasn’t an easy catch.

He was a wanderer, an explorer, a man with a busy mind and a curious soul. Never the one for settling down or falling in love, unlike his brother who fell in love often and wanted all the things Halfdan avoided.

What started as a casual thing soon took you both by surprise. Days, weeks, months - they all passed by. You knew it was taking on a more serious tone when Halfdan started showing up unannounced, just to spend more time with you.

Halfdan already had your heart by time he realized you had his. After a bit of a rough patch, he finally came to accept those feelings and you two grew closer than ever.

Now, here you were. Sharing this home while exploring the world whenever you could. Your lives, despite having a home, remained expansive and full of passion and wonder. It was better than you ever could have imagined.

You came to know the depth and richness of Halfdans love. He didn’t give it easy. To most he was mysterious and wild, but to you? To you he was your man, your guy, your person and you had no doubts he loved you back. Even if he did have his own strange little ways of showing it.

You think about before, about the times you gave your heart away to those who were undeserving, to those who didn’t really see you. It’s one of the things you loved so much about Halfdan. Not only did he see you, really see you, he was real, honest, deserving of your heart.

Getting lost in your thoughts, you don’t realize he’s stopped working on the bike. Halfdans deep brown eyes now regard you softly, a sly smirk lingers on his lips.

You only snap out of it when he stands before you. Halfdan slides his index finger through a loop on your jeans and tugs you closer.

Taking in a quick breath, you blink and meet his waiting gaze.

“Where’d you go?” He asks.

“I was just thinking…” you pause, feeling that swell in your chest. Halfdan was far from the mushy type but you had enough mush for the both of you. You wrap your arms around his neck and let the weight rest on his strong shoulders, “I'm grateful. For this, for you. You’ve shown me what love can feel like.”

That lingering grin turns into a smile, it makes your heart beat faster. Halfdan leans in, he presses his lips against yours, it's the sweetest kiss.

When the kiss breaks, Halfdan holds you tight, his arms around your body as he buries his nose in that space where your neck curves into your shoulder. He plants a kiss there, his words dance against your skin.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile and close your eyes, allowing your senses to soak up the embrace even more. Just as you could read Halfdan, he could read you. Somonewhere deep inside you were a little afraid the clock was ticking. A little afraid that the man who never stayed would soon leave.

Halfdan moves back just enough to look you in the eyes, his palms come up to meet your cheeks. With an honest and open expression, he repeats his words, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You wink at him and massage the back of his neck with your fingers, “Good, me either.”

More completed requests here

More Halfdan here

Permanent @readsalot73​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @buckysalefty​ @roxypeanut​ @laketaj24​ @lovinglokiforever​ @nerdypinupcrystal​ @tephi101​ @wigwitch​ @gallowsjoker @autumnleaves1991-blog @jedi-mando @ladylothlorien @lilangeldevil006 @rosiefridayrogersunday

Vikings: @naaladareia @oldstuffnewstuff @charming-merlin @laketaj24 @tephi01 @pomegranates-and-blood @fandomfic-galore @sagitariusrising

Halfdan The Black @naaladareia @charming-merlin 

[ijustwant2write]

Masterlist (Updated 12/08/19)

Avengers:

That’s Just Wrong

We Irritating

Steve Rogers:

Come Back To Me

1940′s Day

We Lost Them

‘I Could Never Have This’

Rapunzel

Language Of Love

Wrong Lover Series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

You Abandoned Me Series 11/11:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Bucky Barnes:

1940′s Day

Hold My Hand

Wardrobe Malfunction / Part 2

For You

Delirious Confessions

Mr and Mrs Barnes

Our First Night

The Butterfly Effect (Powers!Reader)

Wrong Lover Series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Tony Stark:

Salt ‘n’ Pepper

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

New Menu

Not Alone

‘We’ve both had a shitty day, so let’s just stay in and cuddle.’

Thor Odinson:

A New Ruler

New Haircut

History of Our Worlds

Looks Aren’t Always Everything

Loki:

Mischief In The Making

Peter Quill:

Mother Figure

Peter Parker:

Stay Out Of My Way

Secret Dreams

A Bad Disguise

Door To Door

Millionaire Mentor

‘You knew I was going to ask you out?’

Hiding

‘I know how much you love her.’

Saying The Wrong Things

Stephen Strange:

The Doctor’s Daughter (Powers!Reader)

Sam Wilson:

Wingman

I Found

Wanda Maximoff:

A Trip To The Museum

A Different Person

Broken Hands

Pietro Maximoff:

A Trip To The Museum

Brock Rumlow:

Workplace Drama

Unprofessional

Jack Thompson:

The Right Kinda Gal

Clint Barton:

High Rooftops (Stark!Reader)

Peaky Blinders

Tommy Shelby:

The Tattooed Lady

‘You’re worth more.’

‘She’s Always Been The One’

Finn Shelby:

Practically Invisible

Difference Doesn’t Matter

The Girl From The Circus

Ada Shelby:

Protesting For Love (Fem!Reader)

Isaiah Jesus:

‘Let me help you!’

Michael Gray:

Snowy Nights

Bonnie Gold:

Thin Ice

Vikings

Cast Imagines:

I Ship It-Alex Hogh Andersen x Reader

Sickly Love-Alex Hogh Andersen x Reader

Drama On Set-Marco Ilso x Reader

Rumours-Alexander Ludwig

Ivar Ragnarsson:

It Wasn’t You / Part 2

A Short Temper

Too Close

Lost In Love

A Typical Love Story

Obsessed

The Benefits of Friendship

A Modern Day Family-Bjorn Ironside x Reader x Ivar Ragnarsson

A Perfect Match

Hvitserk Ragnarsson:

You Must Decide-Ubbe Ragnarsson x Hvitserk Ragnarsson x Sigurd Ragnarsson x Reader

Just Confess

I Don’t Need Your Help / Part 2

I Am One Of You / Part 2 / Part 3

An Unforeseen Future

Certain Affairs

Ubbe Ragnarsson:

Gentle Viking

You Must Decide-Ubbe Ragnarsson x Hvitserk Ragnarsson x Sigurd Ragnarsson x Reader

You’re Both Mine-Bjorn Ironside x Reader x Ubbe Ragnarsson

A Real Farmer

You Look At Me Differently Series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Sigurd Ragnarsson:

You Must Decide-Ubbe Ragnarsson x Hvitserk Ragnarsson x Sigurd Ragnarsson x Reader

Bjorn Ironside:

Useless Excuses

You’re Both Mine-Bjorn Ironside x Reader x Ubbe Ragnarsson

Trapped-Bjorn Ironside x Reader x Halfdan The Black

A Modern Day Family-Bjorn Ironside x Reader x Ivar Ragnarsson

A Missing Piece

Ragnar Lothbrok:

Friends Till The End

The Funny Foreigners

A Strange Bond

Halfdan The Black:

Trapped-Bjorn Ironside x Reader x Halfdan The Black

Vague Memories

Just Be Gentle

Dark Things

I Am Not Small

The Quiet One Series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Margrethe:

Sticking Together

Game Of Thrones

Jon Snow:

The Other Woman / Part 2

A Continuous Nightmare

A Late Present

Men From The North

Stand Up For Yourself

This Cannot Happen

Cold Hearted

How Long Are You Staying For?

Battling For Love

A Twisted Tale

Robb Stark:

This Is My Idea Of Fun

Stop Stepping On My Feet

Bran Stark:

You Don’t See It

Sansa Stark:

A Long Awaited Rescue

Brienne of Tarth:

Matchmaker-Brienne of Tarth x Tormund Giantsbane x Reader

Tormund Giantsbane:

Matchmaker-Brienne of Tarth x Tormund Giantsbane x Reader

Sons Of Anarchy

Falling Into The Wrong Crowd Series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Patched In-SAMCRO x Gay!Reader

Jax Teller:

The Ideal Daughter Part 1/ Part 2

Rebellious

Secrets Revealed

Cutting The Tension

Not Your Typical Woman

Charming’s New Resident

The New Opie / Part 2

Wreck and Repair

Opie Winston:

Spicing Things Up

Happy Lowman:

Love Is Blind, Literally

Chibs Telford:

I’m Too Old For This Shit

Kingsman

Eggsy Unwin:

A Different Background

Time To Meet The In-Laws

Our Friends Across The Pond-Eggsy Unwin x Avengers!Reader

Dangerous Woman

The Secretary

How Romantic (Hart!Reader)

The Hobbit

Thorin Oakenshield:

You Have Changed Part 1/ Part 2

Kili Oakenshield:

Coming Home

The 100

Bellamy Blake:

Contact

The Real Me

Not The Same

Forming An Alliance Series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Clarke Griffin:

The Final List

The Riot Club

Alistair Ryle:

Money Fixes Everything / Part 2

Dimitri Mitropoulos:

‘I like you either way’

Car Share

Harry Villiers:

Reversed Roles

American Horror Story

It All Comes Down To This-Kit Walker x Reader

Merlin

Arthur Pendragon:

A Betraying Secret

Another Protector

The New Rule

In Line For The Throne / Part 2

A Need For Comfort

Merlin:

Second Impressions

A Touch of Magic

A Magic Bond

Sir Leon:

The Silent Maiden

Gwaine:

Expected

[the-coldest-goodbye]

Halfdan (Vikings) x plus size reader headcanons

Halfdan x plus size fem!reader

A/N: These are some headcanons I have about Halfdan falling in love with a plus size reader. They're mostly SFW, but the little bit of NSFW stuff is below the cut I put in anyway for length. Is this me just writing a self-insert? You betcha!

► Halfdan would adore your body. Honestly, the bigger and softer, the better.

► His entire life had been harsh, revolving around violence and inflicting and receiving pain. The feel of your soft, lush curves and rolls would be an amazing contrast to being on the battlefield — a much-needed reprieve for him.

► You might sometimes feel confused as to why Halfdan would choose to be with you because you and your body are so unlike the shield-maidens he fights with. You kind of figured that he would want a woman like that — a fierce warrior with a strong, fit body — but he doesn’t. He falls so deeply in love with you precisely because you are so different from what he knows, and that awakens longing within him.

► He would first notice you eating at a table across the room from him in the Great Hall. He would be entranced by you because you looked so sweet and soft, but judging by the reactions of those eating with you, you also appeared to be amusing and quick-witted. Your friends seemed to be gripped by your stories, and they would often be doubled over laughing at your witty (and often biting) remarks. You looked so stunning when you were laughing or when your lips contorted into a big smirk, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

► He would just watch you from afar for a long time, though, because he was too shy to approach you. He never felt like he was good with women anyway, never the best with words, and he was also very unsure as to how to approach you. Halfdan was aware that people mostly knew him for being vicious on the battlefield, and he feared that someone like you would be terrified by his reputation and would want nothing to do with him.

► Even before he ever talked to you, when he was still just admiring you from afar, he would stick up for you when he would hear men near him make rude comments about your body and weight. “Leave the girl alone,” he would growl menacingly. The others would shut up pretty quickly.

► As Halfdan continued to observe you from a distance around the village, he noticed that certain men in particular would harass you regularly, making snide comments and laughing, leaving you with tears welling up in your eyes. You would bustle off away from those men to continue on with your day, trying not to let any of the tears spill down your face, though Halfdan would still catch you wiping a stray tear or two away with your hand when you thought no one was looking.

► Halfdan wouldn't have any of this, so later he would march up to one of the guys who were cruel to you earlier in the day, pull out his knife, and press it against the man’s stomach, threatening to gut him like a fish if he bothered you again.

► (And this was all before Halfdan even got to know you. Later on after the two of you got closer and knew each other better, he would, like, actually beat the shit out of anyone who treated you poorly. People learned pretty quickly not to mess with you unless they wanted to incur the wrath of Halfdan the Black.)

► Eventually word got around to you that Halfdan was sticking up for you. One day when you saw him standing around on his own, you shyly approached him to thank him. He seemed pretty bashful and played it off like it was nothing, but he asked if you would like to join him for supper in the Great Hall that night. “It would be a pleasure to join you for supper,” you answered with a smile. Your smile contorted into a slight smirk. “I mean, if you’re standing up for me, you might as well get to know who you’re actually standing up for.” He blushed at that.

► Your dinner together was a little awkward at first. Here you were, sitting with one of the most renowned warriors alive, a man who you knew nothing about besides the fact that he was considered bloodthirsty and relentlessly violent. You tried to push those thoughts aside to just chat as if he were any other person. He was pretty quiet at first, but he started to open up more and more as the evening carried on and as the ale calmed his nerves. He was actually quite funny and snarky himself. For someone who was allegedly so callous, you were surprised at how soft-spoken and gentle he seemed as you chatted. He thought you were quite brilliant and an absolute pleasure to talk to. Your conversation with him was much different from the types of conversations he’d have with other warriors or with his brother, and it was a breath of fresh air.

► After that night, he was perpetually the heart eyes emoji around you.

► Other men would crack jokes about Halfdan growing soft. Though he had slept with many women during his conquests, he had never actually been in love or in a committed relationship of any sort, so they joked about how the vicious warrior was suddenly following a woman around like a love-sick puppy. Halfdan would let these comments roll off his back. They could say what they want about him. He only got angry when the jokes would have to do with you, especially when they focused on your weight or appearance. Then he’d kick some ass and scare the shit out of them.

► Once the two of you were officially a pair, he would always want you to sit on his lap and in his arms at feasts, during a night of drinking, etc. At first, you’d hesitate because of your size and being worried that you might be too big or might hurt him, but he would just scoff and insist that you sit on his lap, assuring you that you wouldn’t hurt him in the slightest. “I’m covered in scars, Y/N. I’ve suffered through a lot of pain in my life. Having a beautiful woman sit on my lap is a welcome change, my love.”

► (Dirty fucker wouldn’t be able to keep his hands from roaming all over your body once you sat in his lap.)

► Initially, you were afraid to be seen with him in public (especially when it came to PDA) because he was so high-profile, being such a prominent warrior and the brother of the king and all. You didn’t feel comfortable drawing too much attention to yourself, and you feared that Halfdan would be embarrassed to be seen with you. He wasn’t, though. Not in the slightest. He was proud to be with you and always wanted to show you off. After a while, a large part of your insecurity around this would be quelled through his reassurance and just getting used to it all.

► If you ever expressed insecurities about your body or appearance, he would gently run his rough, callused fingers over every inch of you, describing how beautiful he found each and every part of your body, especially the ones you were uncomfortable with. He wasn’t normally a man of many words, so hearing how sweet (and almost poetic) he got when professing his love for you and your body was always a really touching experience for you.

► Sometimes he might be a little less poetic and a little more lewd depending on the situation. If you expressed shyness or hesitation about showing your body to him while things started to get steamy between the two of you in bed, he would grab your hand and guide it to his erection and say, “Do you feel how hard I am? That is all because of you, my sweet. You drive me wild with longing.” He would then pull you into him, lavishing your lips, face, and neck with kisses while his hands roamed your body.

► The only times he would lose his patience with you and your insecurities would be when you’d say things like, “I don’t understand how a man like you could love a woman like me.” His face would flush red and his jaw would clench. With barely restrained anger, he would shakily ask, “A woman like you, how?” When you would reply, “Look at me, Halfdan. Look at my body. Certainly you would be happier with a shield-maiden, or perhaps a woman who looked like [so-and-so],” he wouldn’t be able to contain his anger any longer. He’d scold you. “How dare you try to act as if you know what I want better than I do! I want you, and that is why I’m with you. Don’t ever think otherwise, and don’t you dare try telling me how I feel or what I want.” He would then soften a bit, lower his voice, and regain some composure. He would bring you into his arms and describe how much he loves you and why, reassuring you that he doesn’t want anyone else.

► He had honestly never been in love with anyone until you. At night, when you would lay in his arms, he would whisper, “I think the reason why I had never fallen for anyone but you is because I was destined to be with you. The gods have made us for each other.”

[queenfinehair]

The Bartender Pt. ||

Pairing: Modern!Halfdan x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of sex. Unprotected sex, oral on fem!Reader. MINORS DNI. Just go away if under 18, thanks

Disclaimer: Moodboard made by me with photos found on Pinterest. I claim 0 ownership for them.

The record player sat on a small table with records neatly stacked next to it. A few bottles of already opened liquor rest next to the records and Halfdan reaches for one, half filled with an amber brown liquid and two glasses. He takes his time in filling them as you take a seat on the couch.

It was made in a cheap leather but at least this piece of furniture was well kept with no holes or tears. A glass oval coffee table sits in front of you and you take notice of the bed just off the way of the kitchen. A supreme bachelor studio pad, you note, but clean and you appreciate this.

Before he turns back to you, Halfdan takes an older looking record and puts it onto the player, the needle going down and after a moment; you note the music. Older, a little rock 'n roll and a little classic all at once. The song is happier than what you had danced to and you smile, relaxing.

"I thought we'd switch to a nice single barrel bourbon instead of tequila." He chuckles and hands you the glass, your fingers grazing his as you accept the drink with a nod. He knew his drinks and despite the state of the bar, you could acknowledge, well, his knowledge of things you simply didn't care about.

Small sips are taken as you lean back into the couch, crossing your legs in front of you as Halfdan lets his legs spread with relaxation. One of his hands rest behind his head and with the other he holds the glass steadily.

Watching him from the corner of your eye you take in Halfdan's slim frame, long legs and tight shirt. A stirring in your stomach travels down to your abdomen, a tingling sensation begins in your most intimate parts and you clear your throat to shake it off. Being here now was exactly what you wanted but nerves still made you unsteady.

"Plenty more where this came from," Halfdan sighs as his eyes close, taking a generous sip. "Responsible Lee makes the best bourbon."

You smile at his easiness and knowledge of the liquor and note the caramel taste of the beverage. You continue to watch as Halfdan moves his free hand to straighten out his beard slowly, a sudden, subtle sexiness that makes you squirm in your spot.

He's so sure of himself but lacks the cocky attitude you're so used to. He finally sighs and opens his eyes, turning his head to meet your stare.

"What?" He whispers with a slow grin and leans towards you, "I won't bite..." the sentence hangs in the air with innuendo and you gulp with anticipation.

"Halfdan..." you lean forward, place your glass gently on the table and face him again, "I want you... To make me feel good, for me to make you feel good. I want you, all of you. Now."

He mimicks your glass setting and takes your face into his hands, apologizing softly when he squeezes too hard on the right side. Halfdan's lips whisper over your own before you groan and close your eyes. His teeth nip at your bottom lip in a tease before you take his head into your hands, closing any gap that was there before in a kiss.

Halfdan immediately takes his hands away from your face and grabs your hips, pulling you onto his lap as his fingers trace blank patterns onto your back over your shirt. Your hips roll into his groin, feeling his jeans begin to tighten around his growing erection. His inhale is sharp against your co tinied grinding and he deepens the kiss further, tongue meeting yours in frenzied haste.

The friction and stiffness from Halfdan's jeans causes a small moan to come from your lips and your head drops from the kiss, breathing in a shaking breath. Meanwhile, Halfdan moves his hands under your shirt, calloused fingertips running up and down your back.

You can feel his nose nuzzle at the side of your head, "You wanna feel good? Let me show you what good is." Halfdan grips the bottom of your ass, leans up and scoots forward on the couch. He grunts with the strain of standing up while holding you, your legs wrapping around his waist as you lean down to bite and suck on the tender skin of his neck.

Cursing your name under his breath, Halfdan slowly moves towards the queen sized bed. The sheets are a deep blue and a simple beige comforter adorns the top. It's not neatly made but for the damage you plan on doing it really doesn't matter.

Using only one hand now, Halfdan lowers your body to the bed, standing up slowly after to look you over up and down with animalistic intentions. He kneels down before you on the floor and grabs your legs, sliding your lower hand towards his face.

You begin to undo the button and zipper on your own jeans but instantly feel Halfdan slapping your hands away with a frown on his face. "No, sweetheart, let me."

Your head falls to the bed at the instruction and lift your hips up as the materiel is slid away and off of your legs, Halfdan letting out an almost inaudible groan at the sight of your skin. Your pants are thrown to the side quickly before he tickles his fingers up your thighs causing a heavy breath to escape you.

"Please..." you whimper and sit up for a moment just to take and throw your shirt off.

Underwear come off next and as you relax on the bed you spread your legs slowly, shyly. Beard is the first thing you feel as Halfdan nuzzles your inner thigh, his head traveling further up your legs with small, short kisses placed on your skin.

Halfdan takes his time with teasing you. A nip here and there to extract a back arch and moan, silently pleading with a roll of your hips to meet his touch more. You're almost to the point of begging for his tongue before you let out a loud, animalistic moan.

His tongue finds your swollen clit just in time as Halfdan wraps his hands around your legs, moving each one up to his shoulders as he gets comfortable to eat your dripping pussy.

Your eyes close and fingers grip the comforter, toes spreading in pleasure as you arch your back and plead for him to continue exploring you and he does just that.

His tongue circles your clit a few times before he moves to your inner lips, slowly going down further until you can feel his tongue actually enter you, going in and out as he tastes you fully. It's a brilliant sensation that sends a tingle down your spine as you move your head to look down and meet his brown eyes.

He watches you watch him as he eats you out and you're sure you can see a small smirk on his face. He groans and moans softly as he watches you lay your head back down on the bed, sucking your clit gently.

"Fuck me... now, Halfdan. Fill me." You beg now without abandon. You need this strange bartender in the most physical and intimate sense.

Halfdan immediately stands up and you watch him undress quickly, sensing his desperation to be inside of you as well. Shirt off and it reveals a slim and pale stomach. Pants off and you see the erection fighting his boxer-briefs. Your hand goes down to rub your swollen and aching clit, watching him undress completely until Halfdan is on top of you, looking you straight in the eyes.

"Tell me again... how you need me." He whispers, the scent of you all over his beard and mouth and you roll your hips up once more to his leaking dick.

"Halfdan," you mewl, "I need you. To fuck me right now, so bad baby. So bad."

Immediately he thrusts inside of you, pain at first but pleasure overtakes the stretching around him. His head falls to your collarbone and Halfdan moans.

"Holy shit.... God you're warm. Such a good girl." He growls and bites the skin on your neck, beginning to fuck you roughly without a certain pace.

You have to smile at the comical nickname and decide to scratch your nails up his smooth back and your name is emitted from his mouth followed by a series of "Fuck"s. His hand holds your hip while the other rests above your head as Halfdan looks up and into your eyes.

"Say my name... Please." He whimpers and the sudden vulnerability from this man makes you breathe in deeply.

Your ex only fucked you as a piece of meat, a toy to which his own dick could use and toss away once he came.

Halfdan, though, Halfdan wanted you and you could feel it. You wrap your legs around his ass and drive him balls deep into your pussy, holding him there for a second before he swivels his hips to hit the most precious spot inside of you.

"Halfdan!" The word he wanted and your legs slam down to the bed, head thrown back as he drives into you deep again and again.

"Wanted you all night long," he confesses between grunts, "so fucking pretty. So wet. I want you to cum for me."

You lick your lips in a frenzy before gripping your nails into the skin on Halfdan's back, sighing out a huffing moan. You can feel you're close, you'd never felt like this before with him... the ex.

Walls clenching, sweating from both of you and Halfdan swearing your name like Christ's, you feel a tightening in your pussy, hands gripping his back with the life of you. "Halfdan.... I can't, I'm gonna-"

"Good girl. Pretty woman, cum for me. All over me."

His silly pet names drive you crazy and you do. You cum with intensity all around his penetrating dick, clit swollen with pleasure as your fingers rub over it to ride out your high.

But what about him?

"Halfdan... fill me up. Cum inside me, now." And your teeth find his neck again, biting and sucking to leave a pretty purple mark. You wouldn't be opposed to swallowing his load but tonight you want to feel every last drop this man can do to you.

"Oh, fuck.... gonna cum.... right into your sweet pussy." Halfdans voice is raspy with fuck and you can feel him cum inside you. With a final thrust he buries himself balls deep into your pussy, letting his cum fill you up and leak out around his dick.

He stays there for a moment, pumping in and out in shallow, feverish thrusts. Your name spills from his lips before he pulls out and rolls off of you, settling beside you.

Panting breaths are all that fill the empty space above your heads and Halfdan struggles with the comforter. He rips it out from under your body, throws the blanket over both of you and nestles in beside you.

"Stay or leave. It's up to you, but, I want you to know that I'd love to see you again. And again. And again." He laughs and kisses you gently.

The last thing you hear before drifting off into the safety of sleep is Halfdan snoring quietly into your ear, his arm slung across your side.

-------------

Tags: @naaladareia, @majesticwren, @naps4bats (just so it doesn't get lost in the threads lol)

[ryuzakemo128]

Vikings Headcanons

Content Warning: Mention of death, mention of sickness, mention of possible self-inflicted pain.

Rating: MA15+

Early Life

Freyja is a fraternal twin born from a different father. Her twin, Fenrir Raengyreon is fifteen minutes older than her.

Their mother died in a raid when they were twelve. On this same day Freyja's father set himself on fire in act of sacrifice to the gods. Hoping it would have pleased them enough to bring their mother back home safely.

When she turned seventeen years old. She was exiled for at least ten years, due to her step-father's inability to both mourn the death of their mother and properly care for Freyja.

Freyja's immune disorder was always there, it became more pronounced when she was exiled at the age of 18. During her time in exile, her immune disorder truly manifested into bouts of illness, in addition to her joints becoming more and more strained. More painful and in winter they lock up from the cold.

Fenrir on the other hand, his father was a wealthy nobleman and a great warrior. Unlike Freyja's father, he is still alive and cares for every expense Fenrir might need. Fenrir never particularly understood why Freyja remained inside the small cabin with the farm that was left to her when both their birth mother and her father passed. As he thought it was rather strange and unfair that she had to live such a meager life, he had often tried to convince her to come with him to live in his father's estate.

She inherited the farm after her father passed when she was 12, her father's farm grew things like Bilberries, Blackberries, Cloudberries and Lingonberries.

Later in Life

She spent ten years outside of Norway in Exile. Given a map, a compass and enough money to head to Wessex. Enough money to settle there for a few months. She rarely speaks of where she went during her exile, not because she was sworn to secrecy or sworn an oath to never tell anyone.

When she came back from exile she was 28 years old, her home looked the same and she then realized that she was the one that was different now. Despite the fact that her home remained the same as she left it. As she tried to settle back into her old life, she realized that nothing would ever be the same again. The people who had once been her friends now looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. They whispered behind their hands and avoided her eyes. Even her family seemed distant, as if they were afraid of what she might say or do.

Returning to the farm, she went back to her old routine rather quickly, adding brief, slight changes like making time to remake the forge her father had before he died, rebuilding the shed to grow her mushrooms inside of, and even starting to teach herself how to weave cloth for blankets and clothing. Teaching herself how to use a loom to make linen cloth, wool cloth and woolen vadmal. All of which she used to trade in the markets in order to get things she needed for her forge.

As time passed, she found solace in her work. The rhythmic motion of her loom became a form of meditation, allowing her to escape the gossip and judgment of those around her. She became known for her high-quality fabrics, and traders from far and wide would come to her humble farm to purchase her wares. She was content with this life, alone but free.

Freyja's Farm

Mushroom Shed: Built when she returned from her exile, close to the farm and her favorite spot by the creek, this small structure is filled with shelves upon shelves of dried mushrooms, hanging from the ceiling and arranged neatly on tables. The earthy scent of mushrooms fills the air, and a small wooden stool sits by the door, inviting visitors to take a seat and rest while she tends to her fungi.

Herb Garden: Surrounded by tall, lush greenery, this garden is home to a diverse array of medicinal and culinary herbs. Rosemary, sage, thyme, lavender, and chamomile grow in neat rows, their vibrant colors contrasting beautifully with the earthy brown soil. A small stone bench sits in the center of the garden, where she often goes to meditate and commune with nature.

Honeybee Hives: Freyja maintains several beehives scattered throughout the farm, each carefully tended to with love and care. The gentle hum of bees fills the air as they busily collect nectar from the surrounding flowers, their golden honey a prized commodity on the farm. Freyja often spends hours observing the bees' intricate dances and symbiotic relationship with the flowers, finding solace in their harmonious existence.

Duck Pond: Nestled amidst a grove of willow trees, the duck pond is a serene oasis on the farm. Freyja keeps a small flock of ducks that paddle lazily in the crystal-clear water, their cheerful quacks echoing across the peaceful landscape. Lily pads dot the surface of the pond, providing shelter for frogs and other small creatures, while a rustic wooden bridge spans the water, allowing Freyja to cross to the other side and tend to her beloved ducks.

Blackberry Bramble: Tucked away behind the duck pond, this secluded area of the farm is dominated by a lush, tangled bramble of blackberry bushes. They grow wild and untamed, their thorns sharp and threatening, but Freyja knows every inch of them, having spent countless hours picking the juicy blackberries that grow in abundance. She uses the berries to make jams, jellies, and preserves, which she then trades with the villagers or sells at the market. The blackberry bramble is her secret garden, a place of solitude where she can escape the demands of the world and reconnect with the wild side of herself.

Forge and Smithy: At the heart of the farm stands Freyja's forge and smithy, a testament to her skill and craftsmanship as a blacksmith. The roaring fire within the forge casts a warm glow across the surrounding area, while the rhythmic clang of metal against metal fills the air. Freyja spends countless hours here, hammering away at hot metal, shaping it into tools, weapons, and decorative pieces. Her anvil, worn smooth with use, sits in the center of the smithy, surrounded by shelves of raw materials and finished products. The walls are adorned with various weapons and armor, a testament to Freyja's prowess as a warrior and her dedication to her craft.

Training Area: Near the forge and smithy, there is a cleared area where Freyja trains herself in combat. A wooden dummy stands in the center, battered and worn from countless blows, while various weapons lie scattered about the ground. She spends hours honing her skills with sword and axe, her movements fluid and graceful despite her strength. The ground is littered with the leaves and twigs she plucks from the nearby trees, using them to mark her progress and track her improvement over time. Despite her solitary nature, she finds solace in the companionship of her weapons and the physical challenge of training.

Halfdan the Black x Freyja Raengyreon

The meeting: They met when Freyja reached the age of 40 and he was 43, three years younger than Freyja. She was in disguise as an enemy solider, in captivity because at the time she was trying to sabotage the other side. The other side being Ivar and Harald. Unfortunately, there was a misunderstanding and she was captured by Halfdan's forces. He, being the honorable man he was, decided to spare her life and instead took her captive as well, believing that she would make a valuable addition to his household.

Life together: Freyja tried to send subtle messages that she was a spy of some sort, yet it never seemed to pan out the way that she wanted it to, as Halfdan was always one step ahead of her. Whenever she tried to ensure her real identity was revealed, he would then simply believe that she was playing a game with him and just laugh it off. Confusing her further, she even wrote messages using her actual name hoping he would find it, yet he never seemed to notice them. Until she placed them in plain sight and still, he didn't catch on.

Real Identity: One day, Freyja decided to try a new approach. She gathered her courage and confessed to Halfdan that she was, in fact, spying on both Ivar and Harald, thus capturing her was basically capturing one of their own. To her surprise, Halfdan simply smiled and nodded, revealing that he knew all along. He had been playing the same game with her, trying to see how far she would go in her attempts to reveal her true identity. It seemed that they had finally found a way to communicate on each other's level.

Secret Meeting: Halfdan met her again when she was getting more cheese, specifically Brie cheese from a trader than regularly delivers her two wheels of the type of cheese to her from all the way from Frankia. Halfdan thinks it's rather interesting to him considering that he didn't know that she had a fondness for such a delicacy. "I spent time in Frankia, I got a liking to it during my time there and I go back there for a month or two sometimes a year to trade goods or services, and in return I usually get more of this cheese." Which earned a reply of, "Ah, I see. It seems we both have our secrets." Halfdan couldn't help but admire Freyja's resourcefulness and adaptability, finding himself drawn to her even more.

Secret Meetings: Despite the fact they were on the same side, Halfdan and Freyja continued to meet in secret, drawn to each other by a shared sense of intrigue and mutual respect. These clandestine encounters allowed them to forge a deeper connection, free from the constraints of their respective roles and obligations.

Link to the Divider Used: Here

Links to my previous work: Masterlist 01 / Masterlist 02

[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!

[author-morgan]

Okay, you have officially made me thirsty for King Harald. 😩🤦🏻‍♀️ So I went through your Prompt Lists and found a few things, especially those two: "What happened? I told you to stay by my side!" and "Are you sure? Once we start, i might not be able to stop." With a young virgin reader maybe? 👀 You absolutely don't have to do this, I'm kinda just dropping my thoughts and ideas. 🥰 Thank you for giving us all this great content! 😭

ask and ye shall receive, tho i cannot say no to Harald. fresh spicy fluff for our smol fierce king. Harald Finehair x fem!Reader

THE WOUNDS LEFT by his brother’s death are still fresh —still bleed if he thinks too long on what could have been had he stayed his blade in the heat of battle. They are wounds he does not think will ever heal —do not deserve to heal. The gods will not forgive him for slaying Halfdan and they punish him now for it, with yet another battle come quick as the last ended.

King Harald Finehair is awake when the war horn sounds outside the walls of his home and settlement. It is hard for him to find rest, and when he does it never lasts long —not even when his bed is warmed by his sweet princess. He sits up, running his hands over his face and through his beard. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut he cannot shake as he looks to his armor and sword lying on a table at the edge of his chambers.

You turn onto your side, having woken with the resounding horn, knowing what it means. Sitting up too, you rest a hand on the center of Harald’s back, thumb tracing a line of fading blue-black ink as you lean into him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder as though to ground him from the stormy thoughts and war waging inside him. “Harald.” His name is a rough, broken whisper.

He shifts, arm moving around your shoulders, fingers twisting into the thin linen of your shift like he needs to hold tight lest you leave him too. It is never easy for a man to admit weakness, less so for a king, but the weight of everything makes Harald’s heart feel heavy. “I cannot lose you,” he breathes. You know the look in his cold eyes —the determination and burgeoning scheme twisting the gears of his mind.

Parting from his grasp, you lean back, lifting a hand to his cheek, fingers combing through his beard. The slightest of smiles kinks his lips when he sighs, leaning into the touch. “But you cannot keep me locked away like a caged songbird either,” you tell him.

“No,” he agrees, gently pulling your hand from his face. He knows to keep you from his side, and the call of battle would only make you hate him —and he cannot, will not, lose you to his own folly. The gods presented him with a woman to love good and well, at last, and by the gods, he will love you as you deserve. Harald lifts his hand to your cheek, thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “Though I could clip your wings.” He means it in jest —the slight curve of his lips and the spark in his eyes tell you so. Smiling, you glance at the patchwork of wolf pelts. “Stay close to me today, elskede mitt,” he whispers. Harald does not think it is a tall task to ask of you.

You nod. “Of course.” If the gods are kind enough, they will not let Harald from your sight. You will stand at his side, shielding his back, and he yours. “I pledged my sword to you,” you remind him, fingertips following a fading scar on his neck and the dark lines of the tattoo just above it. Then you smile. It is not just your sword and shield you have promised Harald. “And my heart.”

Harald thought you naïve when you first came to his kingdom seeking an alliance —a young, beautiful princess with no suitors or family to challenge your title. The thought still makes him feel a fool; you were everything but naïve. It had not taken long for you to play him like a lyre —as most women did. But the longer you remained stranded in Tamdrup given the summer storms, the stronger the easy friendship between you and Harald grew, soon blossoming from a simple alliance to something else, equally as wonderful. He reaches for your hand, lips and greying whiskers brushing over your knuckles. “And I do not take those gifts lightly,” Harald answers, holding your hand against his chest.

Another cry of the horns echoes, and you both know this moment must end. He reaches for his tunic, shrugging the piece of burgundy wool overhead before rising from the bed. You follow after him, helping straighten his dark leather armor, tugging the buckles and straps taut, and tie the laces of his vambraces. Harald returns the favor, helping you into your leather and mail breast piece, and takes a moment of the time slipping away to braid your hair before offering your sword and shield. He reaches for your hand before you can leave the safety of his chambers. There’s a passing second where you study each other, as though you may not meet again in this life, but garbed in armor with sword, shield, and axe, you are both ready for war and whatever the gods may have in store.

“FORWARD!” HARALD SHOUTS, his voice rings clear across the narrow strip of grassland surrounded by thick forests. The first line of his army advances, a slow march to meet those who had come to take retribution for the murder of their previous jarl. You look to him, shield raised, and sword held aloft —feeling the anticipation of his next command rising in your blood and bones. He nods, and you unsheathe your sword, falling into stride with him as he shouts again, moving toward the heart of the bloody fray.

You both sink into the thickest of the fighting, cutting your way to the heart of the battle —among the few places in Midgard one could truly feel alive. The shield wall breaks into a hundred skirmishes. Stepping out of the arc of a two-handed axe, your back presses against Harald’s. He turns, lashing out as you lunge forward, thrusting your sword point into the warrior’s belly. You both share a nod, falling back into place once more.

It happens too quickly for either of you to do anything —both of you are swarmed by a second wave of the enemy pouring out of the forest, ripped apart from one another. “Harald!” You shout, hoping your voice will carry over the grunts of those locked in combat and the screams of the dying. Lifting your shield, you block an axe blow and slash your sword over the assailant’s throat.

The pain seizes you before you know what’s happening. A blade has cut deep into your thigh, cutting through your britches. The warm gush of blood sluicing down your leg sends you to one knee. You lift your sword, blocking the overhead death strike with both hands, pressing up with all your strength until you can spin, breaking the stalemate when you slice the man up the length of his back. But as he falls, you do too.

One of Harald’s vanguards sees you, struggling back to your feet —sword pressed into the ground as a crutch, shield lost. An easy target for those on the opposing side who know who you are. Skane makes his way to you, cutting down the man who raises his axe against you. You give a nod of thanks to him, searching the field for Harald, prepared to fight through the pain. But Skane hefts you up onto his shoulder, ignoring your protests, and turns from the battle to see the long cut on your leg tended. He cannot let Harald lose his future queen.

The battle ends. Harald’s forces are victorious, yet as his army celebrates, he searches the battlefield for you until he hears the news and quickly leaves for the forward camp. The healer ducks out of the tent when he arrives, thinking it best to leave Harald and his princess. You sit up, leaning back on a crate with a bedroll as a pillow. Thick bandages are wound around your thigh, blossoming red in some places. “I told you to stay by my side,” he grits out, pacing the small space in the tent, disguising his worry and anguish as anger. Then the anger ebbs, and he kneels at your side, hand resting on your shoulder. “What happened?”

You look at your hands, still stained with mud and blood, feeling your face grow hot. Hubris found a place in your thoughts as you cut down Harald’s enemies —it almost cut you down too. “I thought,” you start, shaking your head, feeling a fool, “I overestimated my capabilities is all,” you confess. Harald reaches for your hands and lifts both to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then the center of your palms, and allows himself to breathe a deep sigh of relief. The healer assures him you will live. This wound would heal given time, rest, and care. Harald will see you get all three and more.

TO SAY YOU do not enjoy his attention and affections would be a lie, but in the week since the battle, it has almost become an annoyance —how he frets over every little thing. Like now, he insists on carrying you from the mead hall to your shared chambers as if you are a delicate little spring blossom doomed to wilt if your feet dare touch the ground. Harald glances down, finding your exasperated expression amusing. You cross your arms, looking away, indignant. He laughs, the sound rumbling from deep within his belly reverberating through the both of you. “I am not crippled,” you remind him as he places you on the bed.

“No” —he smiles as he kneels before you, hands resting on your knees— “but you see, I wish for you to heal quick as you can.”

You lift a brow. “Why? Do you not enjoy doting on me anymore?”

Harald lifts his hand to your cheek as he rises, sitting next to you. The mirth in his grey-blue eyes fades, replaced by love and longing. “I would carry you to the ends of the world if you’d let me,” he says. Coming from him, it is not an exaggeration. Your breath catches under the weight of his gaze. “I wish to marry you on the summer solstice,” he says, a weight disappearing from his shoulders with the admission, “if you will have an old man like me.”

His proposal does not come as a surprise —you knew when your relationship began, he would seek to take you as his wife and queen. The lure of power is what first drew you to Tamdrup before you grew to know Harald Finehair. You smile for him, finding the gesture quickly returned —the fading blue-black tattoos on his cheeks and forehead wrinkling. “Old man?” You tease. You’ve seen him training, have fought next to him in battle, and seen the dense muscle in his arms and middle —he may not be young anymore, but he is certainly not old either.

“There is silver in my beard and hair now,” he says, laughing as he strokes the short-cropped whiskers on his chin.

“That makes you wiser,” you amend, leaning into him, “not an old man.” His smile doesn’t fade, not even as he awaits your answer. Your kiss is answer enough, sweet and loving. Harald holds your waist, drawing you closer, holding you tighter. And when you pull back, he chases your lips, settling for a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth, letting his beard tickle your cheek and jaw. “I will marry you” —you lay your hands on either side of his neck, thumbs running along his jaw, and kiss him again— “a thousand times.”

IT FEELS ODD to be a stranger sitting on the edge of a bed you have laid on a dozen times over, shared with the same man whom you loved, but tonight it is your marriage bed —and you know the duties expected of you by your husband and your people. Harald skirts around the room, lighting tallow candles and oil lanterns in place of the hearth. The summer night is warm, the air thick and made thicker by the growing tension and anticipation for this moment.

Harald sheds his wine-red tunic, draping it across the back of a chair. You’ve seen him like this before, know the scars on his arms and back as if they were on your own flesh —have memorized the curves and angles of his tattoos and the feel of his muscles beneath your fingertips. And yet, now, it is a sight that brings heat to your face. He studies the sheathed dagger lying on the table at the edge of the room and runs his hand down the length of his braid. He made a promise to himself, and now it was time to keep it.

Unsheathing the dagger, Harald goes to you and kneels —a king before his queen. Swallowing the knot in his throat, never believing this day would come. He peers up at you, eyes dark and kind. Unthinking, you lift your hand to his cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone and along a dark woad ink curve below, fingers slipping down to comb through his silver-tinged beard.

“I swore I would only let the woman of my dreams cut my hair when she married me” —Harald holds the dagger for you to take— “and she has.” You take the blade from him, fingers curling around its leather hilt, the dark lines of the metal ripple like water in the candlelight. “Cut my hair,” he breathes. It's a gentle command. “Please, elskede mitt.”

He bends forward, forehead pressed into your thigh. You run your fingers down the thick, dark brown braid, moving it to lay straight along his spine. Laying the sharp edge against his hair, you shore off his hair just below his shoulders. He feels the weight lift and straightens, smiling when he sees you clasping the severed braid. Harald rises, cupping your cheek —thumb stroking over your jaw, reverently. Then he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. Soft and slow and sweet with a burning heat you have not felt in his kisses before. When he draws back, Harald takes the dagger, placing it back in its leather sheath, and lays it on a low bench at the foot of the bed.

His attention returns to you. Harald has seen you wade into battle without fear, stand up to men of power without a second thought, but now you look like the young naïve princess he first believed you to be. His brows furrow —you have shared his bed for months, relished in his kisses, yet now as his wife, you quiver like an autumn leaf in a cool breeze. “Why do you tremble, wife?” He asks, fingers brushing along your neck.

“Harald, I–” you don’t have to say anything else. He understands your hesitance then; you are untouched, save for his kisses, having never lain with a man. “I” —he starts, jaw clenching. The lust in his stormy eyes gone in an instant. "I will not touch you if you do not want me to." Is all he says, voice deep, calm, and steady like the tides of an ocean. Harald has waited months and knows he is willing to wait many more for you.

You sink with the words, relieved, but the memory of what is expected of you, of the duties of a wife and queen, wash in with the next wave of emotion. You love Harald, yet fear still cuts you deeper than any sword could. Your face sours from your briefly agape expression at the thought. Bending your head, you draw in a long breath, eyes flicking to his. "No” —you shake your head, smiling, this is Harald, the man you loved, the man you now called husband— “I want you to,” you tell him, but the words break in your throat, and you grimace at how desperate you sound, as though trying to prove yourself a good and dutiful wife.

He looks at you, waiting for a more certain answer. It comes when you take his face into your hands, fingers sliding back into his hair, loosening the remnants of his braid, and kiss him with all the fierce desire kept bottled away. Harald rips himself away from your kiss with a low groan from deep in his throat. "You’re sure?” At that, you shatter. Your nod is small but firm. Harald is your husband, and you would know him as only a wife should. His hands curl around your waist. “Once we start,” he breathes in, eyes going dark again, “I might not be able to stop." Your smile tells him all he needs to know.

He begins with the slow drag of rough yet careful hands down the outsides of your thighs, over your hips, pushing your thin shift up around your waist. You can’t stop looking at his face, serious and handsome —only focused on you. Harald moves his hands to the soft insides of your thighs, squeezes them, then leans up on his knees and places a kiss below your navel —scraping the coarse whiskers on his chin and jaw over the soft skin. You jump at the tickle, and his low chuckle reverberates through you both, sending a wave of warmth washing over you, gathering low in your belly.

“Relax, wife,” Harald says, running his calloused hands over your thighs and across your pelvis, urging you to lay back. He can still tell you are tense even if your cunt is eager for his mouth and fingers. The deep rasp of his voice, the puffs of hot air across your slick folds as Harald tilts his head and breathes —warmth shoots through you as though you’ve been struck by one of Thor’s lightning bolts. He hums his contentment, turning his head to kiss your thighs, his coarse beard scraping over your skin before his tongue darts out, drawing quick patterns.

You lose conscious thought the minute he wraps his lips around your clit, hands holding you firmly in place as he laps and licks through your folds, methodical and slow with a long groan —letting you know this is just as torturous for him as it is you. Harald’s fingers brush through your folds, gathering the slick there, and he eases one finger into your cunt, curling, and stroking, then adds a second. He’s doing something devastating —the gentle pressure with each flick of his tongue— your breath coming in short gasps, chest heaving.

His mouth encircles your clit again, and he sucks gently as his fingers thrust deeper. Your moan is shaky, high, and loud, your hips curling upwards into Harald's face. He groans against your frazzled nerves, his free hand stroking over your thigh and stomach until it's crossing over the curve of your back. He sucks loudly, panting and groaning into your cunt, and you're nearly sobbing his name while digging your head back into your bed, body shaking as your pleasure crests.

He slowly withdraws his fingers, their wetness rubbing along your twitching folds as he kisses up your body. You suck in harsh breaths as you quiver, nails digging into Harald’s arms while he rises, hair a mess, mouth wet, and wide eyes wanting.

He slides his hands away from between your legs, pushing the rest of your shift up and off, leaving you bare and vulnerable before him. His hands slip below your hips, pushing you to the center of the mattress as he crawls over you —taking a moment to drink in the sight of you, a goddess lying in his bed, surrounded by soft pelts and linen blankets. Harald presses down over you, kissing you as though it is the only thing to keep him anchored in a raging storm. You sigh with him as he rocks into you, your legs winding around his hips to draw him closer.

The sweet and slow grind continues, and your sigh and plead for him in soft whispers and whimpers —music to Harald’s ears. His mouth showers your neck and chest with wet kisses, leaving your nipples standing hard and need swelling between your legs again already. A warm hand cups a breast up to his mouth, and your gasp as he sucks it deeply, tongue swirling over your nipple.

You twist a hand into his hair, arching back into the furs. Harald groans, hips rutting down into yours. His britches have sagged, and you feel the weight of his hard cock against your hip, his belly keeping it pressed into yours as he mouths across to your other breast.

With a pinched brow, you raise your head to press your forehead into Harald’s, mouth parted. His head had angled to watch your chest heave under his ministrations, but he turns back, nose brushing yours and heavy eyes meeting before he kisses you once more. “Harald,” you breathe. His name is a soft plea on your lips.

His torment has lasted too long. Shuffling back, he undoes the ties of his britches, pushing them down his thighs and off to the floor, quickly settling back between your thighs. Harald strokes his cock, thrice over as he kisses you and swallows the startled little whine you make when he slides the heavy, weeping head through your folds. He curses below his breath, beginning to press into you, slowly, watching your expression for any signs of discomfort —he finds nothing but bliss.

It is a pleasant ache, a dull burn as he presses his hips flush against yours, inch by inch, nudging you open, stealing the breath from your lungs, too full of him to think properly. You gasp, every nerve on fire as you clench your fists into the furs below, Harald’s cock still slowly sinking into your cunt —branching and crackling through your system like lightning. You whimper, pinned beneath him. Harald doesn’t move; instead, he presses soft kisses to your neck and then your lips, his breath shaking —the muscles in arms flexing over your as you draw in a deep breath.

And then he moves, and it’s so deep, and he’s so heavy and thick inside you that you can feel all of it, every ridge and vein, each pulse of blood in cock as he rocks his hips —his thighs already slick with you essence. Harald’s eyelids droop down, his mouth falling open. It’s so good it’s devastating. The pressure and pleasure make you want to cry, scream. You want more of him —harder, faster, deeper. He dips his head down, panting and grunting at your ear.

You see stars behind your eyelids. This must be what the poets sing of you think. For how could anything feel as good as the drag of his cock inside you. Slick and hot, you can feel every twitch of him as he slowly pulls his hips back, then presses back in just as slowly. It bows your back, your hips raising from the bed to meet his with a whine.

He shuffles closer on his knees, rocking his cock within you. He sits back on his haunches, a hand sliding under your bent knee, bicep flexing as he does. You groan when you sink upon him again, his cock pushing another wet sound from your needy body, fisting the sheets around you. You stare up at him, eyes wide, taking in his body and the way it looks between your spread thighs —the way the firelight flickers over the curve of his shoulders, around the muscles that hug his ribs and down over his hips.

Carefully rolling your hips in time with his, you moan, and he pumps inside a little deeper, a little quicker. You grip his arms, move your hands to his face, unsure what part of him you want to touch, which part to anchor yourself to. Harald leans down for a kiss, and you press your fingers to his cheek, kissing him with a burning intensity he’s not seen from you before. He groans against your mouth, and you pant as your bodies work together. It’s almost instinctual, the need to take him deeper, to meet, thighs hard against each other.

He presses your thighs further apart, leaning back to watch himself disappear inside you, the cling of you around him so tight it makes a cold shiver creep down his spine. Harald swipes his thumb across your clit, rubbing circles on the sensitive nub of flesh to watch you writhe and whimper for him. The way your breathing hitches and face twists in pleasure tells him you are riding the edge of a precarious ridge, ready to fall when he wills it. He leans back over you.

You drag your nails along his skin, and he shudders into his next thrust, an elbow giving out to press his body down into yours again. Then the other, curling near your head, his heat all-encompassing as is the rub of his skin into yours.

"Harald," you whimper, rolling your hips with his as he works his cock inside you. You feel lightheaded and breathless and full and– "Yes," he breathes, your name a prayer on his tongue as he kisses across your jaw and neck, back arching as his hips start to work up into an actual rhythm. By the gods, you love the way your teeth clench and your body shakes and how you can just barely take everything Harald has to give —every thrust, every moan, every kiss is yours.

His cheeks and chest are flushing even in the low light, and his hair sticks to his neck and forehead as his pace picks up, unable to withdraw completely from within you. Long, calloused fingers bury into your hair, angling you to look at him, his other slides down to where your bodies are joined, rubbing your clit, knowing by the way your walls flutter you are close, as is he. His forehead and nose press to yours, eyes locked —you’re staring into dark seas, happy to drown.

The budding pressure grows, setting you on a precipice ready to fall. It’s still a foreign sensation as your body begins shuddering against his, limbs limp but jerking, neck tilted back into the furs —shining with sweat and your skin so prettily flushed. Seeing you like this is enough to push him over too. Harald’s body tenses, his hip stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you with a spreading warmth. His groan is strangled, almost pained when he thrusts into you again, lazily —just to feel his seed begin to seep from your ruined cunt.

Harald holds himself above you, breath still coming in pants. He searches your hazy and tired expression, then dips down, taking another kiss —he does not think he will ever tire of kissing you. Sighing into his mouth, you run your hands up his sides and back, feeling the scars below your palms as you urge him to rest atop you. He does, head pillowed on your breast, listening to the beat of your heart, slowing with each passing moment. You brush aside his hair, tracing over the fading tattoo between his shoulder blades. “You have made me very happy,” he admits, looking up at you, “that happiest man in Midgard.”

You smile for him, brushing back his sweat-damp hair. “And I am grateful the gods led me to you.” The gods had woven your fate a millennia ago; they intended for the threads to twine with Harald’s of that you are certain. He turns his head, lips pressing to your breast. You both stay like that, with you tracing patterns on his shoulder, and he runes on your ribs.

On the verge of sleep, Harald rolls off you but is quick to draw you back into his arms. His lips brush against your forehead, and then in a rough whisper, you hear him breathe, “ek ann þér.”

Yes, you sigh, the gods had been good to you, and so had your husband, Harald.

[ Vikings taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @gossamarnie @n0sferatus @alicedopey @charming-merlin @ahotmesswithprivilege @certifiedlittleshit @pats-writing @gearhead66 @elluvians (for Harald) ] if you want to be added to my Vikings (Harald, Halfdan, and Ragnar) taglist, just let me know! if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you.

[author-morgan]

let’s get some dummy hot sex with halfdan now? 🥺🥵

ask, dear nonny, and ye shall receive. behold a little smut with Halfdan where he has to make some amends ;) did i go overboard? absolutely. Halfdan x fem!Reader

IT IS NOT the first time you’ve woken to a cold and empty bed of late, and though you wish for it to be the last, you know it won’t be. You’ve known Halfdan the Black long enough to know it’s best to let him be when he’s this aloof, but the distance between you has grown too large to bear —too large to ignore.

With a heavy heart, you carry about your morning duties and chores around Tamdrup before seeking out Harald. He’s training with his vanguard, and against better judgment, you hope Halfdan will be there too, but Harald claims to have not seen his brother since the prior evening.

The trek up to the promontory overlooking Tamdrup is winding and steep at times, but you press on through the frigid wind, almost certain you’ll find Halfdan. It’s a place he and Harald know well, having used it to escape the trouble they caused as boys. You’ve scarcely made the ascent, but the few times have been on clear nights when the blue-green northern lights dance overhead, and each time has left lasting memories that make your heart flutter and stomach twist.

Cresting the promontory, you see him sitting at the edge —wrapped in his tan-grey fur-trimmed cloak. “There you are,” you call, catching your breath as your draw nearer, “I’ve been looking for you.

He shifts, looking over his shoulder as you approach. There’s a faint smile on his lips, even if it doesn’t reach his dark eyes. “You’ve found me,” Halfdan says, turning his distant gaze back to the fjord and Tamdrup below. You sit next to him, your shoulder just brushing his —he does not push you away, but he does not embrace you either.

There’s a moment of uneasy silence, both you and Halfdan staring down through the low hanging clouds and mist at the dark water and longships. Soon those same ships would be prepared to sail once again —to answer a summons from Björn Ironside, the young and ambitious son of Ragnar Lothbrok. You glimpse Halfdan from the corner of your eyes. It makes your heart hurt to see him so troubled like there’s a war raging inside him. He flinches when your fingers first brush against his cheek, as though he already forgot you were next to him.

You cup his cheek as you draw his dark and troubled gaze to you, not letting him look away. “What is bothering you, my love?” You ask —thumb stroking over the scrollwork of blue-black ink on his cheek up to his brow. “Ever since Paris, you’ve become colder.” You hadn’t gone to Francia with the brothers; instead, Harald charged you with keeping the affairs of Tamdrup and the Vestfold in line. Then they returned, with Halfdan clinging to life over a festered wound from a crossbow bolt. In the weeks after his recovery, something had shifted —between him and you and his brother. Halfdan’s eyes flit over your face, his lips parting as if to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say. “Tell me,” you breathe, a soft plead for him to be honest with you, “so I may help carry your burdens.”

He heaves a long sigh, feeling guilt take hold of his heart for having pushed you away for so long. “The more I think,” Halfdan starts, leaning into your palm, “the more I wish to explore new lands.” His lips kink upward, half-hidden by the scraggly tuft of wiry blond hair on his upper lip and chin. It’s the first he’s mentioned the desire to travel outside of summer raids. Rough fingers curl around yours, gently pulling your hand from his cheek, but he doesn’t let you go —twinning his fingers with yours. “Travel to the ends of the known world.”

Then his distance and despondency make sense, or at least you think it does. “But you do not wish Harald to think you’ve abandoned him.” Halfdan nods. Harald is his brother. They’ve fought countless battles together. Conquered lesser kingdoms and forced jarls into submission. For as long as he can remember, he’s stood by Harald’s side, hellbent on seeing his brother’s dreams of being crowned King of all Norway a reality.

It’s only recently Halfdan has begun to think about what he wants in this life. He wants you, a crew of loyal men, a sturdy longship, and kind seas to take him to lands farther south than even Paris. “His dream is not mine,” Halfdan concedes, lowering his dark eyes, “never has been, but I’ve always supported him.”

“The gods will tell you which path to take when the time comes,” you assure him, smiling. “They favor you and your brother.” Halfdan leans close, his lips just brushing against yours —a soft, quick kiss as though to say thank you. Upon parting, he drapes an arm and his cloak over your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You lean into him, feeling at peace once more in his arms.

The clouds lift moments later, the sun shining upon Tamdrup and the water. The afternoon is just beginning by your reckoning, and you still have a list of chores to complete before the evening to help prepare for the feast. “Will you walk back with me?” You ask, glancing up at Halfdan, and he nods, feeling a weight is lifted from his chest.

WINDING YOUR WAY through the guests and envoys, you find the empty spot next to Halfdan, alas. He’s already two cups of mead into the night, having watched you pace around greeting people —one of the more tedious aspects of being Harald’s closest advisor and informant is during these feasts where hospitality and decorum are expected. You smile for him, nudging his side lightly before reaching for his cup, taking a long sup of the honey-sweet mead. Across the hall, Harald lifts his cup, tilting it in your direction —when he is King of Norway, he’d have you and his brother to thank for helping lay a crown at his feet.

Halfdan’s hand finds the curve of your lower back, his thumb rubbing small arcs through your gown. A mindless and innocent enough action that still manages to send a hot flush to your cheeks and gather warmth in the pit of your stomach. “Is that a new dress?” He asks, a poor excuse for having been caught staring at your exposed shoulders and the glimpse of cleavage he can see from this angle.

Luckily for him, it is. The pale blue gown is only a few shades lighter than his own tunic. You’ve put hours into weaving the soft blend of wool and linen and what seems like even longer to adorn the neckline with leather strips and beads of stone and shell. It may have taken you weeks to make the dress, but the glint in Halfdan’s eyes tells you he could ruin it much quicker. “Do you like it?” You ask. He hums his answer, arms wrap around your middle, dragging you against his side, then finally across his lap. “Halfdan!” You exclaim, laughing as you balance yourself with the edge of the table.

The slight smile on his lips fades, and the mirth in his eyes slips away with a blink —his dark gaze holding you captive. “I fear I’ve neglected you of late,” Halfdan admits, stroking over your flushed cheeks with the back of his fingers. He brushes back your hair —half loose and half bound in braids— and leans in, so his warm breath tickles your shoulder, then your neck.

“Allow me to make amends?” He proposes, a whisper against your lips. The smile on your lips is answer enough, but then you lay your hand on his neck, thumb tracing over the raised silver scar there before dipping your head down. A small, surprised moan rings out from the back of his throat, but then he leans into you, grip tightening on your waist as he returns the kiss with the same fervor and heat.

"I’d like that,” you answer, leaning your head on his shoulder, “but it’s too early for us to leave your brother alone with this lot.” He laughs, and you feel the deep rumble in his stomach against your side as he agrees. You both know Harald well enough by now to know it doesn’t take much for his diplomacy to deconvolve to violence.

Friends come and go. Even Harald joins you and his brother for a short moment to praise the work you’d done for the evening. All the while, Halfdan insists on keeping a hand on your back and one on your thigh, his lips often teasing your neck —a promise. Soon the budding heat and tension between the two of you is too much to bear any longer. Feigning lightheadedness from the warmth of the longhouse and the strong mead, you excuse yourself from the feast with Halfdan trailing behind you and Harald knowing the true reason behind both your sudden departures.

He kicks the door to his chambers shut, hands never straying from your waist and lips never parting from yours. You cling to him, pushing a hand through his hair, holding him close with a hand at the nape of his neck. Then his hands slide up your sides, around to your back, and you know what it is he’s thinking.

“No,” you chide, slapping away his hands with a stern glance. You know what he meant to do —tear the dress from your shoulders in his haste to get his hands on your bare skin. “I spent too much time on this for you to mess it up,” you tell him. Halfdan rolls his eyes but complies when you turn your back to him, working loose the line of black laces trailing up your spine —growing increasingly impatient by the second.

Calloused hands slid across the smooth expanse of your back, up to your shoulders, sliding the gown off your arms and down past your hips until it cascades to the plank floors, forming a pool of fabric around your ankles. Halfdan’s arms snake around your front, his hands sliding across your stomach and up to palm your breasts —tweaking your nipples between his thumb and forefingers. He kisses the crook of your neck, where your pulse is racing, and glances down at the blue dress. “Looks better on the ground,” he teases.

You twist in his arms, smiling up at him —and he’s never felt more a fool for making you feel like you’d grown apart. Settling your hands on his waist, you reach for the hem of his wool tunic, but Halfdan pushes your hands away and hushes your whines of protest with a kiss. “Making amends, remember?” He lays you back onto his bed, crawling over you —still clothed save for his discarded boots. The kiss he places upon your lips is over too soon, but then his mouth moves down, kissing and nipping at your neck, stopping to suckle your breasts before moving lower still, pausing to press a lingering kiss at your navel and tickle your skin with his beard.

Halfdan slides off the bed, dropping low to his knees —both his hands curling around your thighs, drawing you to the edge, spreading your legs wide for him. His kisses and discrete caresses throughout the feast have done their job —the folds of your cunt are wet and glistening by the hearth’s light.

Roast boar be damned, he thinks, this is my favorite feast. He lays a handful of tender kisses on the insides of your thighs and watches the chills disperse over your flesh at the scrape and tickle of his beard. Easing your legs over his shoulders, he breathes in the sweet scent of your cunt and lets his warm breath fan out over you. You jolt upward when he licks a slow, broad stripe over your, stopping to swirl his tongue around your clit. He repeats the action, then looks up at you with wild, dark eyes.

Writhing in his hold, your back arches from the bed, hands twisting into the patchwork of wolf and fox pelts beneath you. You sigh and whimper, almost singing his name to the gods as a sweet prayer as his head dips forward again, laving your cunt with licks, tongue flicking out against your clit. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs to keep you spread open for him.

As with everything Halfdan does in life, he feasts upon you with fervent enthusiasm, taking pride in how quickly he can have you falling apart at the seams. You feel him smile against you before his tongue slips into you, and then he moans —loudly and from deep in his throat like he’s the one being pleasured, and it reverberates through your entire body.

A moment later and your hands are tangled in his stringy blond hair, the strands flopping messily over his whole head. He groans when you tug on his locks, a silent urging for him to continue, to give you more. “Halfdan,” you whine, craning your neck to look down at him —content between your thighs like a parched man finding a desert oasis. You barely notice one of his hands disappear from your thigh until his fingers are brushing through your slick folds as his tongue labors over your clit —hard-and-fast flicks against the sensitive nub, hot breath fanning against your in quick, lustful pants— determined to have you come undone by his mouth and fingers.

He crooks a finger, then adds another, searching for the spot he knows drives you into oblivion. It doesn’t take long for him to find it, and then the wave washes over you —a rogue wave in a storm— the tension built up over weeks of not having him as you should. He thrusts his fingers back into you, thrice over, coaxing you down from the high with soft kisses and nips to the inside of your thighs. Halfdan eases your legs off his shoulders then leans over you, lips finding yours.

His kiss is harsh and demanding and somehow loving at the same time. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue —mixed with the honey mead. “Clothes off,” you rasp, breaking the kiss and cursing how desperate you sound as you tug at him, trying to bring him closer and strip him of his clothes at the same time.

Halfdan laughs as he pulls himself from your embrace, lips kinked into a smile. He pulls his blue tunic overhead and quickly unties his britches, shoving them down his legs. You have a brief moment to admire him —the planes of his chest, the lithe muscle of his arms and abdomen, even his hard cock straining proudly toward you nestled in a coarse thatch of hair the same color as that on his head.

Climbing onto the bed, he maneuvers you both to the center, gripping your ankles and playfully tugging you back to him. He hovers over you on his hands and knees; one hand splayed beside your head, the other moving to grasp your chin with two fingers —a light and gentle hold nigh unbecoming of someone with his reputation for cruelty.

Halfdan locks eyes with you, and it makes your stomach seize and flip. It doesn’t matter that you’ve been with him a hundred times over when he looks upon you as though you are Freyja incarnate, you cannot help but fall further in love. To him, you’re perfect, and you deserved to be treated as such. You lift your hand to his cheek, fingertips barely brushing over his tattoo. “Take me,” you breathe, assurance and permission.

He swoops down, sweeping you into another kiss, his thumb on your chin rubbing sweet circles, tongue parting your lips. You trail your bent legs along his sides, breaking him from a trance with your ankles locking at his lower back, pressing his hard cock into your center. Halfdan reaches between you, lazily stroking his cock before easing into you, letting you feel the slow stretch and drag as he inches his way into you. “Fuck,” he half-chokes and half-groans when your hips meet —leaning down on his elbows and trapping you in his warmth —chest pressing into yours.

You dig your nails into the muscles of his back —hearing your name on his lips like a needy prayer. At first, you rock against each other, movements restrained until he pulls back his hips and begins to move in earnest. It starts as a slow, deliberate grind but hearing your pleas for more and soft whimpers spurs him on. “So,” he pants into your neck, “good.”

Halfdan rests his forehead on your breasts, his hands creating a vise grip on your hips as he pounds into you, harder, harsher, faster. Grunts spewing from his open mouth each time his cock settles back inside you. He’s close —chasing his release— you can tell by his sloppy rhythm and staccato thrusts, but he needs you to fall with him. His lips leave short kisses on your breastbone, one of his hands moving from your hip to press on your clit, rubbing frantic circles and sending a flood of sparks through your veins.

And then, just as you feel yourself coming to the edge of the precipice, Halfdan dares to raise his head from your chest —his dark eyes burning into you, beckoning you to let go. He strikes a place deep within you, pushing you over. Your body tenses, toes curling, heels pressing hard into his back, and your walls flutter, clamping down around his cock as he presses through the tightness.

Halfdan’s hips stutter; a rough groan ripped from his throat as he presses deep inside you —cock twitching with his release. He mutters a string of curses below his breath, holding himself up on shaking arms. Then, just to see you quiver, he gives several more slow, lazy thrusts —feeling his seed slip from your cunt each time.

Breathing heavily, he settles back down, head resting on your chest, hands trailing up and down your sides as you rest one hand on his back, the other brushing through the strands of hair hanging over half his face. Halfdan pecks small, delicate kisses across your clavicle that are a paradox to how he just fucked you. It makes you smile.

His body is slick with sweat where he presses against you, his mouth going to the crook of your neck as you grip onto his shoulders, desperate to hold on to him, and this moment. “You’re too good to me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice deep, thick with love and fading lust.

You smooth over the furrow in his brow with your fingertips —following the curves of the dark tattoo there— a smile on your lips. “Maybe,” you tease, and his warm brown eyes twinkle in the low light. “But you’re the only one for me,” you tell him, feeling his lips twitch into a smile as he turns his face back into your breast. The two of you stay like that for several long moments until he shifts, pulling his softening cock from you with a hiss echoed by your soft whines at the empty feeling left between your thighs.

He clambers off the bed, disappearing behind a reed partition for a quick second before returning with a damp rag, offering it to you to clean the mess he made of your cunt. You nod your thanks, and he moves around the room, picking up your discarded clothing and depositing it onto the trunk at the foot of the bed before rejoining you, this time beneath the wool blanket and fur quilt.

Halfdan pulls you into his side, and you lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He sighs, fingers running up and down your spine, and when he turns his head, his lips brush against your forehead. “Rest,” he breathes, “I’ll be here when you wake.” You smile, settling against him, knowing when the morning sun rises, you’ll still be safe and warm in the arms of the man you love.

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[author-morgan]

Title: The Queen's Gambit Pairing: King Harald x fem!Reader Rating: M Summary: All may be fair in love and war, but a king still must find his queen. Or King Harald Finehair finally meets a woman of equal measure and one he feels he can truly love.

THE MORNING SUN strikes a golden sail on the horizon —the reflection on the water painting a path of light to the trading center of the eastern kingdom. News spreads quickly along the docks of the sighting and overflows into the markets. Everyone eager to know if King Harald of Norway had finally answered their queen’s summons. There’d been much talk of late, of succession and marriage and of an ambitious king trying to assemble all the petty kingdoms of Norway under one crown. While this is not Norway, it is a vast and fertile land filled with strong men and women. An advantageous gain for a king growing his kingdom.

When word reaches the Great Hall of the longships with golden sails, your lady’s maid and shieldmaidens are already preparing you for the day, aiding in daily chores, and sparring with one another. They sing whispers of King Harald Finehair and his brother, Halfdan the Black —of their reputation, prowess, and charming looks. You will have the final say on if the rumors and whispers hold truths.

“King Harald,” you greet as he steps from the longship and onto the wharf accompanied by his brother, Halfdan, and nigh fifty shield men and woman. He looks more a warrior than a king, with his travelworn tunic and cloak —dark hair bound in a long braid, his face decorated with blue-black tattoos and small scars, and the first touch of silver in his beard. His eyes —clear and cold and blue— flick upward to meet yours. “It is an honor to meet one who I’ve heard so much about.”

The praise strokes his ego, his lips twitching upward as he takes your outstretched hand, bending to let his wind-chapped lips and coarse whiskers brush over your knuckles. “Likewise,” Harald replies. Tales of a good and generous queen have traveled far.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” you note, stepping back from the party. Sea voyages were often long and tiring, especially when fighting against the summer storms, and these seafarers have taken a beating —evident in their weary and disheveled appearance. “You all must be exhausted.” There’s a wave of agreement among King Harald’s crew. They’d been at sea since the last new moon, more than two weeks ago. Glancing over your shoulder, you nod to the shieldmaidens, who step forward and motion the crew to follow after them. They will need beds and a warm meal before the evening celebrations. “We shall feast and drink to the gods at sundown!”

Harald and Halfdan glance at each other and back to their people as they begin unloading what supplies were left and the gifts of good faith brought from Tamdrup. “I will see you and your men are well-tended,” you assure —soon tales would spread of the good queen and her kingdom’s hospitality. “King Harald” —you smile, gaze flitting over to his brother— “Halfdan. If you will follow me.”

THE FEAST IS bountiful, with roast boar and stag, fresh harvests from an orchard, warm bread, and soft cheeses delivered by a good friend and goat farmer to the north of the city. Harald and his brother exchange a look at the high table, awaiting the queen’s arrival. Tamdrup will never be able to provide in the same manner this land does. Any fool with half the brain for politics could see the benefit of allying with such a wealthy land.

The Great Hall falls silent when you emerge, garbed in grey and silver —flanked by two of your most trusted shieldmaidens— and wearing a woven summer crown of cornflowers and avens. You smile, pausing to speak with your people and guests, eyes flitting to the front of the hall where the two brothers sit as guests of honor. Halfdan reaches over, nudging Harald in the ribs —hard— nodding for his brother to stand as you turn from a conversation, moving to take your seat. Clumsily, Harald rises, pulling back your chair with a flourish. You nod in thanks at his display of chivalry as he takes his place next to you. Seated, you extend your hand toward the tables with a wave, and the revelries recommence. “You are a generous queen,” Harald says, truth and flattery; even his allies are often not so welcoming.

“Thank you, King Harald,” you smile.

He reaches out, resting his hand over yours. Halfdan raises a brow, knowing the game his brother is playing. “Please,” he says, “we are friends. Titles are not needed.” You nod. And while he has your attention, he will seek the answer to the question which has plagued him since receiving word from one of your riders. “If you are not at war nor planning for raids,” he pauses, gauging the look in your eyes, “then I must ask why did you call upon me?”

Halfdan leans over, eyeing his brother as if to say, you know why, fool. “You’ll have to excuse my brother,” he says, a tinge of laughter mingling with his half-smile, “he’s helpless when it comes to women.”

You can’t help but laugh a little at his chagrin; he is not bothered by the sweet sound. “Need I remind you, brother, you are not wed either,” Harald bites back.

“As you know, Harald, I am queen of this land. From the black sea to the frozen north. It is mine by right of conquest.” Your father did his share to bring the petty kingdoms under a single yoke, but it was not until your rise to power that the unification occurred. The long-lasting vision of your family finally fulfilled. The few remaining jarls and self-proclaimed kings calling for independence fell under heel at the hands of your army and the harsh winters. Those victories are a story for another time, though. Your attention flits between the brothers seated at your side and those gathered to celebrate their arrival. “My people are happy, well looked after” —the smile your wear falters, slipping into despair with a sigh— “but in the years since my ascension, some of those who pledged loyalty to me are having second thoughts.” Even your most stalwart friends and confidants expressed the same concerns. The past twenty years were prosperous and peaceful, but death comes for everyone and everything, even a good queen.

“They worry about the line of succession and it if shall end in bloodshed.” Even if the whispers sting of impending betrayal, you cannot deny the legitimacy behind them. Marriage had long been on your mind during this time of peace, but no man ever garnered both your approval and the approval of your advisors and people. Not even the great King Ragnar would have been a suitable match. You take a drink of ale from your cup, looking between Halfdan to your left and Harald on your right. “For who will take my crown if I do not bear a child before the gods call me home?” The question has brought you many sleepless nights.

“The burden of womanhood,” Halfdan muses, and Harald makes a rumble of agreement.

You shake your head, not wanting to sully the feast with such premature talks, and lay a hand on each of the brother’s arms, smiling once more —a gesture each of them returns. “I did not call upon you to gripe about the babbling of a handful of concerned Jarls and advisors, though,” you say, plucking a golden apple from the arrangement on the table and cutting into the soft flesh. “But I will not dawdle around the purpose of this meeting either.” Danes and Norsemen had never been known for a plethora of patience in political dealings. “Harald” —you lean toward him, resting your hand upon his arm again, fingers curling into the coarse red wool of his tunic— “should you accept, I would like to unite our kingdoms.”

He dips his head down, perhaps to hide the breadth of his smile or the way his eyes widen then twinkle, but when he looks back to you, his smile is reserved —kingly. “You honor me with such an offer” —he lifts a hand to his heart, brow wrinkling— “and though my heart is eager to accept, it is one I must carefully consider.”

While you nod, accepting his response, Halfdan scoffs, almost laughing as he picks off a hunk of boar meat from his plate. Any other time he knows his brother would rush into such a proposal cock first. “This is the time you choose wisdom, brother?” He leans forward, catching the heat of his brother’s harsh stare. Halfdan flicks his stringy blond hair aside, turning his dark gaze upward to the wooden rafters before settling back in his hair. You hide a smile behind your cup of ale at the brother’s back-and-forth banter, glad to have the weight off your chest for the rest of the evening.

“Now we have tended that matter” —you rise, bringing silence to the hall without a word— “bring out the mead! Our guests are thirsty.” There’s a thunderous uproar of empty cups knocking against the tables and excited chants as several men disperse to the edge of the hall, rolling forth large barrels. Once cracked open, the honey and berry sweetness filling the warm air. Your lady’s maids bring three cups forth to the high table, presenting them to you and your guests. “Skål!” You cry, lifting your cup. The hall echoes with the same cry.

The evening creeps by with the brothers retelling stories of their victories and even those of heartache. There’s something to them that makes it seem as if you are already the closest and oldest of friends. You tell them of your father, of the hard-fought battles fought to secure your crown and title. There is a fierceness to you, hidden behind a gentle smile and soul. Harald takes leave to relieve himself, and you lean toward Halfdan the Black, having kept eyes on where his attention lingered for most of the feast when not speaking of battles or taking a moment to humor you with tales of his brother’s follies.

“I see your gaze, Halfdan.” He snaps from the trance, looking at you with dark eyes warmed by the reflection of dancing flames. A smile crosses your lips as you cut your eyes to the group of women who ensnared Halfdan’s attention —the very same who spoke so fondly of the brothers and their looks in the morning hours while working the loom and braiding your hair. You wave your bedfellows over —the group have fawned over the king’s younger brother and scarcely taken their eyes off him since his arrival. “They will all be eager to bed a man such as yourself,” you note, lips curling as you lift the bronze cup of mead to take another drink, “if the journey here has left you enough vigor.”

His eyes burn at the challenge. “Skål,” Halfdan says, raising his cup to take another drink before excusing himself for the evening. Harald laughs —low and joyous— as he returns to his seat, seeing his brother stumble from the table with five women trailing after him. And yet, there is a seed of jealously at the thought of having to lie in a cold bed after many brisk nights at sea.

Shifting, you lean against your hand —elbow propped on the table— and skim over Harald Finehair’s features in the warm and low light. Perhaps the rumors about him and his brother are true —they are both handsome. He seems a good man who wears his heart on his sleeve, a good king who cares about his people, their success, and a true Viking.

Absently, you reach for him, pulling at one of the leather strings at the embroidered neck of his scarlet tunic. He leans toward you, warm hand finding your knee beneath the table —a bold move, but not unwanted. “Tell me about your raids on England.” You ask, suddenly breathless, spinning the knot at the end of the leather string between your thumb and forefinger. He smiles, eyes crinkling, and it sets your heart aflutter. Harald runs his hand over his face and leans closer, the hand on your knee sliding further up your thigh as he recounts his and Halfdan’s raids on English soil and the riches plundered from the land. You rest a hand on his thigh and hear his breath hitch as you lean to whisper at his ear —tongue loosened by the mead. “Surely your prowess is not restricted to the battlefield.”

Harald’s eyes flare with unspoken danger. He looks at you and swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple a shadow that quivers, half-hidden beneath his beard and the tattoos curling around his neck. “You challenge me?”

“I do,” you declare, looking up into his eyes —so fixated on you, “but not before an audience.” You let him trace a tendril of your hair, curl it around his calloused finger, and let him take you in —hungry gaze sliding down your throat and the curve of your dress’s neckline.

“Does this start private negotiations?” He asks, lips hovering above your cheek and mirth lacing the question despite the heady drop in his voice. When you smile, he laughs —the serious line of his lips parting to the white slash of his teeth. He curls a hand around your jaw, tilting your head up to place a discrete kiss where your pulse is racing. The small little gasp you make at the tickle of his beard sends a rush of heat through Harald’s blood. Few take notice as you rise from the head table —too busy nursing their cups and picking the bones of the roast beasts clean.

Harald follows, and once free of prying eyes, he presses you against the wood-and-stone wall, kissing you, long and slow and deep, his tongue parting your lips and stealing your breath. The taste of honey-sweetness is thick on his rough lips. Your blood croons, and you crumple in his arms, yours around his neck —he rucks your skirt up and grabs your ass, bold and filthy. “Harald.” His name is a breathy whisper —sweet music— and before the night’s end, he will have you singing.

You tug hard on the thick braid at the center of his back, pulling his lips from your neck, and he sees it written in your eyes, not here. Harald smiles, letting your skirt fall back into place. Rough hands rise to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. A part of him feels guilty, forgetting your title as queen in the heat of his lust —you deserved more than to be taken against a wall like a quick romp. This time his kiss is softer, an echo of how a king should kiss his queen, or a husband his wife. Drawing back, you smack his shoulder, drawing a coy grin as you take his hand, pulling him toward your bedchambers like young lovers.

He glances around the room —modest for a queen of such a wealthy land— but finds his gaze lingering on the bed at the center, strewn with pelts of fur and blankets of wool and linen, warm and welcoming. The lock of the door sliding into place breaks his trance, and when he turns, you stride forward, wearing nothing save the summer flowers in your hair —your dress a heap of fabric at the door. “Are you Freyja made flesh?” he asks, and the gentleman that he is, Harald looks upon your face first, flushed with warmth, before his eyes trail the length of your body —bare and wanting.

You step to him, hands settling on either side of his neck, tracing the dark woad-ink under your thumbs. Harald reaches for your hips, drawing you closer as he leans into you, eager to have your lips on his again. You break from his kiss, hands sliding down his strong chest and arms, finding the hem of his scarlet tunic and dragging to dyed wool up his back. He shrugs off the tunic, tossing it aside, his breath catching when your lips brush against the tattoos on his chest.

Reaching around you, he takes hold of your ass, lifting you without effort. You run your hands up his arms, circle your fingers around the tight clench of muscle in his biceps, legs wrapping around his waist out of instinct. Face pressed against your neck, he turns, striding to the side of the bed, and lays you back in the sea of wool and fur. Harald concedes with a shrug, making room for himself in between your knees as he edges in close with his hips. You bite your lip when you feel his cock through the rough fabric of his britches, and he stutters a breath into your hair while he grinds into your thigh.

He breaks from your mouth only to breathe, words an afterthought. “Beautiful,” he manages, pulling back to admire the sight of splayed before him, practically drooling. You’d laugh if you weren’t so impatient to have him. “Have you ever lain with a king?” He asks.

“Aren’t I now?” You tease, and when he meets your gaze, his eyes are dark, like a stormy sea, and there’s a crease between his brows that you have the sudden, longing impulse to kiss away. He holds your gaze like that a moment before he drops to his knees in front of you to pay homage. Harald peers up at you, his eyes clouded with thoughts similar to your own. Maybe you are trying to seduce him, too. A man could rarely hide a secret when driven by something so primal, and you were not blind to his lingering gaze since arriving in your kingdom. For so long, you’ve only been a queen, something untouchable and unattainable to many, and now you’re tired of being treated like you are glass —a trophy— something to be seen and not touched.

The coarse hair of his beard tickles the inside of your thigh as he closes in on you, hooking a knee over his shoulder and pulling you closer to his mouth. Your heel slides across his back when you arch your hips, and you expect him to tease you —not to bury his face in your cunt like a man dying of starvation. Harald laps into you with slow strokes of his tongue, making you cry out, reaching for him. You fist your hands in his hair, ruining his braid, and he grunts softly, refusing to let up. His tongue is talented, probing, sweeping up through your folds and seeking your clit. The stimulation is nearly too much after the building tension throughout the evening, so much wanting between you. You’re almost embarrassed at how fucking wet and needy you are for him, at the obscene sounds coming from Harald’s mouth as he devours you without qualm.

Placing a hand on your other thigh, he spreads you wider, opening you up further to his ministrations. You pant and moan into the back of your hand, trying not to squirm, trying to keep your hips arched into that spot that grows flame and tightens the knot in the pit of your stomach. Harald feels it, and he focuses on your clit, tapping out a devastating rhythm, threatening to make you come before you’re ready to do so.

“Harald,” you moan —trying to keep a queenly composure— and then he slides two fingers inside you and curls them, and you’re done. It feels like a hammer blow, knocking the wind from you, making your muscles seize, thighs clenching around his head —probably too tightly, but he doesn’t notice. His fingers and his tongue keep moving even as you shake and cry and spasm. The sweet song he knew you’d sing for him.

He only stops when you unfurl, going limp and twitching every time his tongue flicks against you. Harald pulls back and rises to his feet. His lips and beard shining with your essence; you don’t give him a chance to wipe it off before you lurch forward onto your knees, pulling him into a kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue. And paired with his rough hands fondling your breasts —it makes you shudder.

His hands vanish to a disappointing whimper —working the ties of his britches loose. You lean forward, running your nails down his chest and sides, rewarded by a low rumble and shiver. He shoves his britches down, stepping from his boots, and then your hand finds his cock, hard and weeping in your palm. Harald bares his teeth, hissing as you tighten your hold, stroking him, long and slow to feel the veins and ridges along the length. “Gods,” he chokes, pressing his forehead against yours, his hips stuttering forward. You smile, tilting your chin to catch his lips, breathlessly still stroking his cock, quicker, until he manages a breathy one-word command. “Stop.” It halts your movement, and your look up at his face —eyes closed, brow furled, mouth open, and panting. He looks beautiful and broken. A king at your mercy.

“Harald,” you breathe his name, moving back to the center of the bed, spreading your legs, and he follows after you —a predatory gleam in his eyes. He takes you by the knees, dragging you until he’s nestled between your thighs again. You brace yourself with a hand on his chest as he positions himself, not needing a guiding hand to slide deep into your warmth. “Fuck,” you gasp, and he almost laughs at your ear, not expecting such foul language given your public visage. He takes you slowly, thank the gods, and you realize then he’s holding his breath —his eyes closed with concentration— fingers digging into your skin. You will proudly wear the marks come morning.

He works his cock into your cunt, an inch at a time, and you relax in his arms until he’s all the way in, his pelvis flush to yours, the pale scratch of his pubic hair pressed to you. You press your head against his shoulder and stroke his back, finding the little scars and bumps there because it feels right —and he kisses the top of your head before he draws his hips out, all the way, and slams back in without warning.

Pulling you back by the hair, he finds one breast with his mouth, suction tight on your nipple, and you whimper at the overwhelming strength of sensation —of Harald inside you— his hands on you —his mouth, hot and wet, at your breast. He fucks you like a drowning man clawing for the surface, aching for a breath of air. He fucks you chasing the raw savagery of your pleasure, of his, and it’s not long before you feel the tingle beginning again in the depths of your belly.

Then Harald slows to a drawn-out grind that lets you feel every inch of him inside you with each shift of his hips. You cross your ankles at the small of his back and urge him on with your hands at his shoulders, clinging to him. “Harald,” you groan, not needing to say more for him to know.

“Let go,” he breathes, sucking a patch of skin on your neck between his teeth. You do so with a hoarse, wordless shout; clenching around him, against him, and if he thought you were tight before, he’s unprepared for the vise ripple of your cunt clamping down on his cock. He buries himself deep one more time before he breaks, his cock jerking inside you; it feels like it goes on forever.

He comes down to a rushing sound in his ears, a ringing like he’s been deafened by Thor’s thunder. He feels spent but clear. The muggy air crisp in his lungs with each heaving breath. His blood humming in his veins. And for a minute, he forgets everything save you —the welcoming heat of your body, your breasts pressed tight against his chest, the frantic thump of your heartbeat echoing his own. A queen and a woman he feels he can love, well and true. His thoughts break when you run your fingertips across his shoulder blades. “Are you all right?” he wonders aloud, unashamed of the gravel in his voice.

“Better,” you laugh, breath-caught and feckless. You sound giddy, and it fills him with relief and a feeling similar to joy. “Are you?” He answers with a nod, slowly pulling out of you, and you both hiss. You feel stretched-out and ruined, but in the best possible way with the warmth seeping from cunt. This is what you wanted, needed. Harald nods, not leaving the cradle of your legs. You smile, smoothing a hand up his sweat-slick chest, pausing to follow the lines of his tattoos.

“Would you have welcomed me so warmly to your bed if I refused your proposal?” He asks, brow raised.

You rest your hand to the center of his chest, fingers combing through the smattering of dark chest hair, before pressing, urging him to roll off you. Harald does, but you are quick to roll with him, settling into his side. “Only the gods know if I would have,” you smile, but a part of you knows you’d never be able to resist bringing such a man to bed.

Harald cups your cheek, his decision made and shining in his pale eyes. It had not been a difficult one. Your beauty had been the first to captivate him, but now with the whispers of your strength, sagacity, and kindness confirmed, all initial doubts are chased away —he knows you will be the woman he lets cut his hair. His nose brushes against yours, and then his lips to yours, and in the kiss is the sweetness of passion, a promise of a million loving thoughts condensing into a moment. “I will have you as my queen,” Harald whispers. He knows the gods have led him here for this reason.

Returning his kiss, you smile, fingers combing through his beard as he wraps an arm around your middle, drawing you farther into his side. “And I will take you as my king,” you answer, resting your head on his chest —listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart for the first of many nights to come.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia (and @elluvians bc i know you like Harald) ] if you want to be added to my taglist for Vikings, just let me know in the replies or an ask/DM!

[author-morgan]

Title: In This Life Pairing: Halfdan x fem!Reader Rated: T Summary: If not in this life, then you will be reunited in the next to the joyous resounding of Valhalla's horns. I am rewatching Vikings and my love for Halfdan is off the charts again.

THE CACOPHONOUS SOUNDS of battle echo around you, but every cry and clang of iron against steel is muted by the haunting and forlorn voice of Halfdan the Black before either side ever met on the open field. Þat mælti mín móðir, he sang, the woods reverberating with the age-old song, mér skyldi kaupa. With a cry, you lift your shield —painted blue and black for Bjorn Ironside and Lagertha— blocking a blow from one of Harald Finehair’s men and then another.

You push forward through the sluggishness of your limbs and the blood and sweat stinging your eyes, lashing out with a tight sword thrust. The man in front of you bellows in pain, axe falling from his grasp as he looks down at the sword hilt pressed tight against leathers. As quickly as one foe falls, another takes their place. You spin, searching for Halfdan in the madness, and lift your shield once again —nigh too late.

Timbers crack under the weight of a bloodstained maul wielded by a brute, three times your size, his eyes burning with bloodfever. The impact forces you onto your back. You fall, you die. Your father’s words as clear in your mind as if he lay beside you speaking them now. You roll to your side, chest heaving as you watch the maul embed into the soft earth where you had just lain.

The shield shatters —splinters flying— and you scramble back from the berserker. The earth beneath your hands and boots slick with mud and gore, but against your outstretched arm, you feel the leather-wrapped hilt of a sword. Pushing up from the muck, you drive the sword upward into the brute’s neck, ripping it free with a hoarse shout. And still, you can hear Halfdan singing with his brother above everything.

You stumble on your feet, vision blurring and strength fleeting —the battle feels endless, and you have lost count of the lives taken by your blade. Gasping, you press your hand to your side, to the source of the burning pain. A splinter of your blue-and-black shield protrudes at the edge of your mail shirt. Your shaking hand comes away painted bright red. Looking skyward, you find two ravens circling overhead, and everything slows. The Allfather watches. In a heartbeat, you wrench the splinter free from flesh, dropping the jagged piece of wood. Blood sluices down the front of your armor. There is nothing to staunch the bleeding. The threads of fate inescapable.

Through the mist and beyond the bloodshed, there is a lull in the fight as two brothers meet. Your feet carry you of their own accord toward Halfdan and Harald. You are almost there when Harald swings his blade downward, and your scream will forever haunt him.

YOU SIT NEXT to Halfdan as he sharpens the edge of his axe. One final stroke of the whetstone, and he sets the weapon aside, turning to you, his beloved. Halfdan presses his forehead against yours, rough fingers trailing over your soft cheek and around to the braid binding your hair. “You are ready?” You ask, unable to hide the tremble in your voice and bottom lip. This battle is more than just a squabble for land or a title. It is a war amongst brothers. And this morning feels different.

For so long, you stood by Harald and Halfdan. A shieldmaiden and stalwart friend, unwavering. Harald believed you to love him and his brother equally, and yet, when the time to choose came —you broke oath and faith, following your heart. You know you would make the same decision a hundred times over without regret when Halfdan places his lips upon yours. His kiss is bittersweet, both a promise and a goodbye.

“The gods have already decided the outcome of today,” he breathes, unable to look away from your eyes —as though he can see his fate within. The strings of destiny had been woven by the Norns long ago, and no one could escape the knots and threads. “If I am meant to die” —his lips brush over your cheek— “then I am ready for Valhalla.” Should either of you fall today, the Valkyries would be waiting to carry you home, and there would be celebrations in Odin’s halls.

You lean back, gaze flitting across his face —committing the soft look in his dark and warm eyes to memory and tattoos and scars on his face too. Reaching for him, you push aside the strands of golden hair that fell across his face. You will make sure you remember him if the gods mean to part you this day. “If we are meant to live?” You ask, cupping his face in your hands.

His lips twitch upward. “The sea calls,” Halfdan answers. If you are meant to survive the day, Halfdan will ferry you away from this life of bloodshed with a crew of trusted drengr to sail the open waters. A dream you and he discussed many waking nights since seeing the distant lands to the south and beyond. If you are meant to live, he will take the only woman he’s ever loved to be his wife.

The cry of a war horn is both far off and too near. Its low rumble echoing through the misty woods. Silence falls over everyone within the camp —the time had come. Before you part, you take another kiss. You would remember the feel of his lips against yours to spur you through the coming fight. “I will see you on the other side,” you whisper, tracing the fading blue-black of his tattoos. “In this life or the next.” Halfdan has a sinking feeling in his gut that it will be the latter.

TIME FALLS STILL when Halfdan falls to his knees before his brother. Odin and Thor breathe strength into you yet. You punch through those standing in your path, sliding to your knees to break his fall. “Halfdan.” You breathe, looking upon him through hot tears. His dark eyes are unfocused and unblinking. His blood stains your hands as you press against the weeping gash on his neck. It is too late. The Valkyries must keep him now. Drawing in a slow breath, you place your split lips against his forehead, a final kiss, before laying him gently on a field watered with blood. In this life or the next, you think, turning your gaze skyward again, wailing at how it feels to have your heart snatched from your chest.

On shaking legs, you rise —barely able to stand straight— sword in hand. “What have you done?!” You cry, moving toward Harald, swinging your blade in a sloppy, wide arc. He steps back, and you come for him again. This time, he blocks the blow, knocking the sword from your blood-slick hands. Harald lowers his sword. Already he had slain his brother. He will not raise his blade against another he loves today.

He shakes his head. “I will not fight you,” he grits out, voice shaking. I cannot, is what he means. Harald knows the look in your fevered eyes —one of grief and madness that will see you follow his brother into the Hall of the Slain. “Do not ask me to kill you.” It is almost a plea, even with the taste of betrayal bitter on his tongue.

"Bacraut!" You shout, falling to your knees as he turns his back to rejoin the fray. The moment’s reprieve brings another wave of pain, washing over you like the sea breaking on a rocky shore. Head hanging low, you know the Valkyries call to you on this day too. The front of your mail shirt and tunic beneath are stained red, as is the thigh of your britches. There is no going back.

You press your hand against the gaping puncture and reach for your sword, using it as a crutch to stand. The gods grant you one final breath. Gripping tight to the hilt, you run, shouting for all to bear witness, and when Harald turns, you fall upon his sword. His eyes are wide, lips parted in disbelief as he looks down. You drop your sword and grip onto Harald’s shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him and farther onto the blade. You inhale, then choke, sputtering as blood fills your mouth and trickles from your lips. Despite the pain, you are at peace —ready to greet the winged women and the Allfather with a smile upon your lips.

Harald pulls his sword back, then drops the bloody blade and holds you against him, unable to hide his anguish. Your legs give, and he eases you to the ground, feeling your lifeblood seep betwixt his fingers —a permanent stain no water will be able to cleanse. Ravens circle in the grey clouds. The horns of the Valkyries resound across the battlefield, heard only by the dead and dying. Harald glances to the sky. “Go,” he sighs, lips ghosting over your brow, “Valhalla awaits.” They will have gained two of the strongest fighters he’s ever known, and the battles will be all the richer for it. “Halfdan awaits,” he whispers. A faint smile twists your lips. You can taste the honey-sweet of Odin’s mead on your lips already. One final breath, then your eyes slip shut, never to open in this life again.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia ]

[author-morgan]

more halfdan, please? 🥺 he needs more love. could you maybe do something for Halfdan where he's traveling and meets and stays with a fem reader?

bless i am not alone in the simping. have a little fluff for Halfdan, as a treat. Halfdan x fem!Reader

THE HOUR IS late, but the storm raging outside makes it seem far later. Lightning streaks across the sky —Thor striking his hammer on anvil, the clash of iron echoing over the sky. The winds howl, and winds lash, shaking the planks and shingles of the wood and earth home. It’s been years since you’ve endured a storm such as this, and it shows no signs of stopping, having raged on since midday. It would be nearing sundown soon by your reckoning. You pity the poor souls who must endure Thor’s wrath without shelter and a warm hearth.

There’s a deceptive lull in the bedlam, the lightning and thunder subsiding though the wind and rain do not. Pausing in an attempt to tidy up after dinner, you take the moment to urge your daughter to bed. Þóra protests, with it still being so early, but there’s scarcely anything else to do on a dark and stormy evening. It takes a small bribe with half a honey cake and a tale of the gods for her to settle in, eyelids drooping shut —curling into the raised cot lined with wool and pelts. With a long sigh, you rise, having pressed a kiss to her brow.

Stripping down to your linen shift, you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers combing through the knots in your hair —watching water drip down into a bucket at the edge of the room, a leaky roof in need of fixing. You barely hear the knocking above the wailing wind, but when you crack open the door, you find a man looking up from under the hood of his oiled leather cloak. “Refuge from the storm?” The stranger asks. His stringy blond hair clings to his face —hiding part of the dark tattoos on his cheek and forehead— and his dark eyes are warm but dangerous.

Snapping from a trance, you move aside, opening the door farther for him to step into your home. “Of course,” you nod, offering a kindly smile. The gods often showed themselves as weary travelers. He steps over the threshold, untying his cloak, hanging it on an empty hook by the door. Out of the night and the storm, you recognize him as the brother to King Harald —Halfdan the Black— as he stands with water running off his sodden clothes and dripping from his hair. “I’ve some spare clothes,” you tell him, quickly moving behind one of the partitions blocking your bed from the rest of the home.

Rummaging around in the chest kept bedside, you return with a dry tunic and pair of britches in hand. Clothes you have no need of any longer but haven’t the strength to give away yet, so you keep them tucked away with part of your heart. “Please, take these” —you hold them out for Halfdan to take— “elsewise, you’ll catch your death.” He lowers his head in thanks and begins working the ties of his tunic and britches loose. Turning, as not to stare at the lithe muscle spanning his chest, you set the table with a bowl of the pot of stew still simmering over the hearth and a cup of ale. A warm meal always did the belly wonders after being soaked to the bone.

You motion for Halfdan to help himself to the stew and ale, taking his sodden clothes to string up to dry on a line spanning the low hanging rafters. “Far better than pickled fish and salted deer,” he jokes when you slide onto the bench opposite him.

“It’s been years since last I saw you and your brother,” you tell him, pouring a cup of ale for yourself and refilling his cup. You’ve rarely returned to Tamdrup in recent years, and the few times you had gone to market to trade livestock or buy fabric, Harald and Halfdan were scarcely around —too busy conquering and unifying the petty kingdoms under one crown. Once, you might have called the two brothers friends, but those days were long past, and many friendships were lost upon your marriage.

“Harald is why I am caught in this torrent,” Halfdan laments, none too happy about it. The two brothers are rarely parted from one another, but there are times when Harald only trusted one person, aside from himself, to deliver word and accept oaths of fealty. This is one of those times. It’s ill luck that his journey back to Tamdrup has been plagued by storms and exiles who unwisely mistook him for a simple vagabond.

“Well” —you reach across the table, resting your hand over his— “you are most welcome here, Halfdan.” His lips twitch upwards, his hand loosely curling around yours.

“Móðir?” A small voice calls, and then there’s the patter of small feet on the rough wooden floor.

“Þóra,” you sigh, knowing it was a fool’s hope to think she would sleep through the storm and night, especially given the arrival of an unexpected guest. She potters to the table dragging a ragged blanket behind her. Þóra stops, looking between you and Halfdan. Her wide amber eyes are glassy and still heavy with sleep.

“A little shield-maiden,” Halfdan notes, flicking his hair away from his eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. Þóra grins, giggling, swaying on her feet. She’s been bugging you of late about training with her cousins —pointing out if she’s to become as famous as Lagertha, she needs a sword and shield. “Or maybe a princess.”

It surprises you when she goes to him, but Halfdan doesn’t hesitate to lift your daughter onto his knee. He’s not particularly versed with children or women, but he tries his best to be decent company, at least. You see the sharp flash of light through the crack under the door; a heartbeat later, the house rattles —it sounds as though Ragnarök is upon you. Þóra jumps. “It is only Thor, little one,” Halfdan reassures her.

“Is it just the two of you then?” He queries, eyes darting around the single-room home for any signs of Þóra’s father —your husband. His quick search yields nothing besides hastily made arrows, a rusty sword, and a shield with fading orpiment and hematite paint. You glance at your hands —the first wrinkles beginning to show among rough patches from years of doing the duties of both a mother and father.

“My family is not far,” you answer, meeting Halfdan’s curious stare, smiling. It’s a rare occasion when your brothers do not come for a daily visit and to help with the farm labor. Your sister and her husband make sure to come weekly too, bringing their children for Þóra to play with. It’s not always easy, but you make do. Halfdan glances down at the little girl, holding her blanket tight as her head rests on the center of his chest, almost asleep once more. He’s met with your smile, wider than the last, and a silent thank you, though you still see the question lingering in his eyes.

“My husband was killed in the raid on Paris,” you explain, remembering how you waited in the central street of Tamdrup to see your husband return, only to hear he was taken to Valhalla. It was not a day you were like to forget, especially given the little girl holding tight to your hand, waiting to meet her father for the first time.

Halfdan nods. Many women were made widows by Ragnar’s pursuits against his brother. There’s a tingle at his shoulder as he remembers the crossbow bolt that could’ve killed him and the scar it left behind. “He waits for you in Valhalla then.” The encouragement somehow lightens a weight on your chest —that one day you and your beloved will be reunited, but until then, you must care for Þóra and maybe, in time, find someone to love as you once loved your husband.

Þóra is fast asleep by the time you and Halfdan finish reminiscing about the days when you were both younger and twice as foolish. Halfdan lays your daughter down in her small bed made of wool. “Thank you,” you breathe, lightly touching his arm before kneeling to cover her with a wolf pelt and her cherished blanket, parting with a kiss upon her cheek.

“I’ll take the floor,” he offers, reaching for the wool blanket and the pelt draped across your arms —he’s slept in far worse conditions than a warm and dry home.

You shake your head, extending your hand toward the bed. He has been on the road for many days and still has at least four more before. A good night’s rest would do him well. “You are my guest, Halfdan, I insist.”

Halfdan looks between the bed and down at himself —he’s never had the same breadth as other warriors, not even the same as his brother and given the size of the lumpy mattress. There’s mirth shining in his eyes. “I do not take up that much room,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. You laugh softly, knowing this back-and-forth banter could go on the rest of the night. Instead, you fold back the blankets, sliding between them, and gesture for him to take the space next to you.

THERE’S A GLIMMER of light and a low rumble of thunder —the storm is dissipating or at least moving farther away. You stir, feeling a heavy warmth draped across your middle. It takes a moment to remember Halfdan lays next to you, occupying a space that’s been empty for years. You’ve woken him too, or he has failed to find rest. His eyes shine with the embers still glimmering in the hearth, a warm amber —like dark honey or fresh soil. “What is it?” He asks, voice rough and low, hand curling unwittingly around your hip, warm breath hitting your neck and shoulder.

Your heart leaps at the thoughts crossing your mind, but you’re quick to shake them away —it would be improper. “It’s silly,” you whisper. Halfdan raises his brow, and though it’s dark, he can see the flush on your cheeks. “I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since my husband left for Paris,” you admit, eyes flicking down, unable to hold his intense gaze. A piece of him finds it difficult to believe —if he recalls, you had a fair number of willing suitors. He imagines the number has not dwindled should you wish to remarry. Halfdan’s fingers uncurl from your hip, tracing a long line up your arm until he pauses, cupping your cheek —thumb running just under your bottom lip.

He’s so close and warm and handsome, and you can’t help the fluttering in your chest or how your stomach twists. You press your hand against the bare skin of his chest exposed by the tunic’s open neck, unwilling to back down from the newfound boldness. “Halfdan?” He moves closer as if anticipating your next words. “Will you kiss me?” His dark eyes flit down to your lips, and he does. The hand on your cheek slides back into your hair until he leans your head back and kisses you, softly at first, then with a swift increase in intensity that makes you cling to him. His lips are warm and soft, opening you to his insistent mouth, parting your shaking lips, sending wild tremors racing through your veins, and you kiss him back with the same fervor and longing.

You part with a hazy smile —it is good to know you remember how to kiss a man. He presses his forehead against yours, fingers still trailing through your hair. For a moment, you draw back, tracing the intricacies of the blue-black tattoo on his brow and down his cheek, until Halfdan pulls your hand away and draws you into his arms, repaying your kindness by taking away the deep-seated loneliness plaguing your heart, if only for the night.

HALFDAN SLIPS FROM your arms at first light and dresses in his dried clothes, laying the borrowed tunic and britches at the foot of the bed. When he turns back, Þóra is awake and staring up at him with eyes that mirror his own and blond hair to match. Is this what my children will look like? He wonders, crouching down, level with Þóra, and lifts a brow as if to question her intentions. She grins, shoving him back and off-balance, and so begins a silent tussle with kindling stacked by the hearth as swords. “Our battle cries are heard,” Halfdan proclaims from the floor, seeing you emerge from behind the partition. He sits up, brushing back his dirty-blond hair. “This one is a fighter,” he says with no uncertainty. “She should have a sword and shield.”

Þóra clambers over to you, giggling, and you scoop her up into your arms as Halfdan rises, brushing the dust from his shoulders. “We’ll have to see if one of her uncles can fashion her a sword and shield that’s her size,” you concede, seeing no use in denying her dreams. She could be both a farmer and a warrior —just as her hero, Lagertha. Þóra wraps her arms around your neck, hearing the decision.

You share a simple breakfast of smashed berries and brown bread and soft sheep’s milk cheese made in yesterday’s morning hours. And afterward, Halfdan readies to leave, buckling his sword belt and replacing the cloak on his shoulders. He musses Þóra’s hair, leaving her laughing and grinning. “Maybe another storm will bring you back,” you think aloud, leaning against the doorframe, each of you looking at the clear skies left in the wake of the gods' anger.

“Only the gods know,” Halfdan tells you, a glimmer in his dark eyes. He steps toward you, his hand extended —the backs of his fingers brushing across your cheek. It’s unspoken when you both move at the same time, closing the distance. His lips brush yours, hesitant then firmly —unwavering. You draw him closer, hand at the back of his neck, thumb following a raised scar wrapping around his neck. “Though, I do not think it will take Thor’s wrath for me to return,” he whispers upon parting. Smiling, you watch him step back, turning down the path that will lead him to his brother and Tamdrup and the same path that will lead him back to you.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @charming-merlin (because i know you like Halfdan) ]