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author-morgan · 10 months

Note

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!

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author-morgan · 11 months

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Title: Pleasures of Politicking Rating: M Pairing: King Ecbert x fem!Reader Summary: Sometimes, you’re the only one King Ecbert desires to see. Can be read as a sequel to The Best Laid Plans. Part one of the planned birthday fics for wifey: @mrsragnarlodbrok. 🎁❤️🍻 Happy Birthday!!!

THE PROBLEM OF the Northern invaders weighs heavily on his mind —and the crown upon his brow is a heavier weight still. Ecbert may only be the King of Wessex, but he shoulders the weight of all England. None of the other petty kings have his strength and will, not even Ælla of Northumbria, for all his pride and bloodlust.

Lesser lords, nobles, and smallfolk alike fill the great hall of Wincestre —all come to voice their concerns and woes. Most are piddling requests to appeal to and stroke Ecbert’s ego. Others have come with calls for justice against supposedly broken oaths, unfaithful spouses, and stolen sheep. It’s dull and tiresome and wears on the king’s patience. He loves his subjects, as all good kings should, but one can only endure so much yapping over insignificant squabbles in the face of the pagans who have come to murder, rape, and plunder riches from Wessex and the entire English countryside.

Ecbert lifts one of his hands from the throne’s armrest and shakes his head, cutting off Ealdorman Wulfstan’s declared grievance against his neighbor and known political rival, Leofric. “I will hear no more today,” he announces —the morning court has worn on his nerves enough as it is.

Whispers of indignation rustle through the hall, even amongst the nobility and gathered clergymen. It is not like the king to end court so soon and after hearing so few of those who have traveled far to reach Wincestre. “All of you” —Ecbert looks over those gathered, anger stirring in his gut— “leave.”

The doors of the great hall open wide, letting people shuffle out and to the courtyard. Æthelwulf stays, lingering after most have cleared —he does not understand the cause for his father’s short temper this morning. He steps to the dais, and Ecbert’s gaze falls upon his son —his only son. “This includes you, Æthelwulf.” There are protests on his son’s tongue and lips, but Æthelwulf quells the extempore thoughts and bows low before leaving too.

You step from the shadows near one of the great stone pillars —gaze lowered in piety. “What of me, my king?”

King Ecbert almost laughs —it’s an absurd question for the one he considers his closest confidant to ask. No, right now, you are the only person he wishes to speak with. The only one who truly understands the inner workings of his mind and heart. “Never you, my dear,” he answers, extending his hand toward you. “Come,” he beckons, motioning to the space beside him on Wessex’s throne. “Sit with me.”

You go to him and take the space at his side. Ecbert swore never to marry another after the death of his wife, but there are times when he wonders if such an oath is worth breaking or if you should both carry on as you do now —as king and fidus Achates. If nothing else, marriage would finally make the bishop and priests’ woeful complaints of his sinful ways out of wedlock null. But even without ceremony, you are the Queen of Wessex in all but name —everyone knows it, and nobody with half a mind would dare say otherwise.

He draws you into his side, arm draped over your shoulders as you both look ahead at the empty hall. “Did you hear?” Ecbert inquires —his hand slipping from your bicep to the nape of your neck. “Ragnar Lothbrok and his band of pagans have left our shores.” The news reached him in the early hours of the morn, and he had not wished to wake you so early for such affairs. Where once there were ten longships anchored on the river, now there are only two and a handful of lingering tents. The scouts watched from the forest for hours, but Ragnar Lothbrok was gone with his dark raven banners and shields.

“So suddenly?” You were there when Ecbert made his offer to Ragnar Lothbrok, not but five days past —an exchange of land for the help of the Northmen in strengthening Wessex. It seems a strange thing that such a fearsome and capable man as Ragnar would tuck tail and run after coming to treat with King Ecbert. You cannot imagine what drove him and his kin back across the sea with so little to show for their travels.

“A smaller party remains,” he tells you —twisting a lock of hair around his ring finger and tugging on it every so lightly, just enough for you solely focus on him. “Though, it does raise the question of what is to be done.” He’s thought of summoning the most senior of those left to treat with, but that will only serve to anger the lords and residents of Wessex even more.

“We cannot trust these Northmen.” It’s obvious, of course. In truth, it is likely foolish to put any trust in Ragnar —or any pagan. An oath not sworn to the Father or on the Holy Book is hardly an oath at all. Ecbert smiles and nods his agreement. “Nor should we entertain their presence and whims.” Their supplies are not endless. Soon they will turn their gaze to villages and towns to plunder. Such behaviors cannot be tolerated.

“No,” Ecbert concurs. “That is why I am sending Cuthberht and a score of men to remedy this.” To either drive them back across the sea or slaughter them. He hopes it will be the latter. A slaughter will be cleaner —no loose ends. You nod. It is a sound choice, an easy one too.

Still, even with one encampment eliminated, more will return —of this, you are certain, and so is Ecbert. There has been no peace since the first raid on the monastery at Lindisfarne, and now their gaze has turned southward. But England will not be able to fend off the Northern invaders if every petty king is at each other’s throats as they are now. With Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, and Wessex divided, England will have no choice but to fall into ruin. “England must be better prepared for the future when Ragnar and other Northmen return,” you advise.

“Yet we cannot unite amongst ourselves,” he sighs, reaching for your hand, thumb running over your knuckles —and the bare spot on your finger where he’s considered putting a ring too many times to count. Perhaps that should be his ambition —to become the King of all England and finally crown you as his queen. Ecbert lifts your hand and presses a lingering kiss on your knuckles.

You twist your hand in his grasp, threading your fingers with his, and fall silent as you ponder what can be done, what should be done. “If you could bring Mercia under heel and yoke.” It is not the first time you have considered such measures, but it is the first time you have spake of them to Ecbert.

He shifts on the throne. His curiosity piqued by the proposition, and his hand slips from yours and to your thigh, fingertips pressing into your flesh through the linen and silk of your dress. Ecbert always enjoys listening to your ploys. Often, they are taken to heart and implemented too. If you’ve a plan to unite England, he will hear it. “How would I do that, my dear?” He asks, brow raised. “Since Offa’s death, there are no less than a dozen claims to the Mercian throne.” Mercia would sooner tear itself apart than cooperate —a large host of Northmen may even be able to take the kingdom for themselves and instill Dane Law.

“Ælla.” Ecbert smiles at the mention of the boisterous King of Northumbria. Mercia lies between Wessex and Northumbria. The two kingdoms could serve as pincers and bring the unruly lords of Mercia to heel. “Ally with King Ælla,” you tell him, reaching for the golden pendant set with a polished black onyx resting on his chest, “and quash this petty rivalry among kinsmen.”

The King of Wessex goes quiet, a hand stroking over his beard while he thinks over everything you’ve said and what he’s long been considering. “Split the kingdom?” He proposes. A fair bid to share the land of Mercia, so long as it's divvied equally.

“Or install a puppet ruler,” you supplement, tugging on the pendant to draw him nearer.

Ecbert shifts again, and this time he gathers you in his arms, pulling you across his lap. The smile beneath his golden and silver-speckled whiskers twinkles in his steel-grey eyes —as do the golden flames of the candles burning in their wrought iron candelabras. “Sometimes I believe you are crueler than even I am,” he muses, one hand squeezing your waist, the other cradling your cheek. It is not the first time your advice has led to bloodshed. “And then I thank God you whisper in mine own ear and not another lord or king’s.”

You smile for him, reaching to comb your fingers through his beard, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours before either of you can think further about the consequences should someone decide to barge into the great hall and see such sinful deeds. You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer.

Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Surely you have already considered such things, though.” You refuse to believe this is the first time he’s considered such actions.

“Perhaps,” he professes —one of his hands slides over your long skirt and then under it, his fingers running over your ankles and calves —masked from his touch by wool stocking— and finally to your knees and thighs, bare and warm. His palm is hot, resting against your inner thigh, his thumb rubbing distracting circles. “I do so love to hear you speak of politics,” he admits, his voice suddenly rough with want.

You shiver under his touch and burning gaze. “Ecbert,” you chide, doing your best to keep a stern tone and countenance —you cannot deny your desire for him, but here of all places to commit such sacrilege? You’ll not be able to look upon the throne of Wessex the same afterward. Ecbert cares little, though. He is king, and he would gladly take you at the foot of a church altar were you willing.

He knows how to play you like the court bard does his lute, and he kisses you again, but this time he catches your bottom lips between his teeth and gives a light tug, pulling a muffled cry from your throat. A final detrimental crack in your resolve, and then the tips of his fingertips stray farther, brushing against the damp folds of your cunt, and you shatter completely, caving into him. Ecbert makes a strangled noise of approval upon finding you so ready and willing for him.

Resignation passes over your expression, alas, and Ecbert’s lips twitch upward —another victory, even if it is small compared to winning a battle or kingdom. A gasp and weak moan escape your lips as the pad of his thumb circles around your clit, his other fingers slipping through your slick folds —teasing. “Shh, my dear.” He hushes you with his mouth as he strokes his fingers through your heat, feeling your muscles tense and flutter and his cock twitch —already straining against the ties of his britches. Ecbert nuzzles his face into your neck —lips dragging over your pulse, the beard on his jaw scraping against your skin. He’ll see you come undone by his own hand before taking his fill.

Nimble fingers fill you without warning, first one, then two. He bites his lower lip, twisting and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm, then repeats the same motion —this time slower, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his knuckles. You can’t help but softly moan as Ecbert curls his fingers inside you, sweeping repeatedly over just the right spot for your vision to blur and your limbs to tremble. Ecbert watches your face twist and the warmth rise to your cheeks, his name a hushed whisper on your lips.

He curls his fingers again —moving faster— his thumb pressed tight against your clit as you rock your hips, trying to increase the friction. “Ecbert!” You plead, a little louder and breathier than before. The coil in your stomach tightens, and when you gasp aloud, he presses his mouth to yours, swallowing the noise as a man starved does a warm meal.

But his impatience wins over —he needs to be sheathed within your warmth— and Ecbert withdraws his fingers, letting you up. He fumbles with the laces of britches once your rise, just enough to free his cock, and you quickly ruck up the skirts of your dress and straddle him fully. He’s so hard and warm beneath you, cock twitching —aching— all for you. Ecbert’s cheeks are flushed in the summer air, fighting to keep his regal and temperate composure. But you hold an obscene amount of power over him —even without sitting astride his lap with a hand lazily stroking his cock, guiding him into your cunt.

Ecbert helps lower you onto him, grabbing handfuls of your thighs and bottom, and as you sink onto his cock, you clutch at his back, nails digging into the rich-blue fabric covering his shoulder blades. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, groaning as he slowly slips into you, inch-by-inch, letting you reacquaint yourself with every vein and ridge of his cock dragging along the walls of your cunt. When your hips meet, you both still —a moment to adjust. But then he rocks his hips against yours, urging you to move too. His thrusts soon meet yours, hips rising from the throne. You squirm atop him, the head of his cock striking that place deep inside you with every roll of his hips.

The coil in your stomach tightens again, and this time you’ll have your end —you can feel it build inside you like a million sparks racing through your veins. “Ecbert,” you whimper, the fire in your core burning brighter, stomach fluttering with each husky grunt rumbling through his chest. He lays his lips on your neck, and you know he’ll leave more than just a small mark there —you’ll have to conceal it at mass so as to not draw more scrutiny from the bishop. Sighing into him, you direct one of his hands to your clothed breast, silently begging him to touch you there. He obliges a merciful king, indeed.

You balance yourself better with a hand on his shoulder, sliding your other hand between your bodies, but Ecbert pushes your hand aside, replacing it with his own. He tussles around, moving your skirts out of the way, and presses the pads of his fingertips against your clit, rubbing tight circles. The friction draws a long, drawn-out moan from your parted lips that you do your best to muffle against his neck as you cling to him.

The falter of your pace causes you both to fall out of rhythm, but it doesn’t matter. Not with how your cunt is clenching around his cock with each thrust. Ecbert makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and moan when your fingers twine into his gold-silver hair, tugging lightly at the roots, then your name spills like a prayer over his lips, and you can’t help it —between the smooth grind of your hips and the little whimpers and groans betraying both your lips— you press your mouth to Ecbert’s, feel the warmth of his tongue against yours. He relinquishes beneath you, giving himself over wholly in a surge of heat.

Ecbert ruts up into you thrice over, fingers still rubbing at your clit until it's too much. The warmth of his release, the friction, the tightness in your gut. Your head lolls back, eyes closed, and lips parted, and only when you are descending does he pull his hand from between your bodies. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you flush against him. You rest your head against his shoulder, labored breathing slowing in unison with your beloved king’s.

He presses his cheek against the crown of your head —all the annoyance and ire he felt earlier during court is gone. Perhaps he will be more amicable now should he invite the leeches and lepers back into the great hall to continue the morning’s affairs. He’ll have to reconvene at some point anyways.

But his thoughts stray from duty to desire again —though there is no reason why those cannot be one and the same given some circumstances. Ecbert runs his hand up your back, under a veil of hair, and comes to rest on the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the edge of your jaw and cheek affectionately. You lift your gaze to meet his, smiling lazily, but his expression is one of curious intent. “How would like to become Queen of Wessex?” Ecbert queries.

All you can do is kiss him —and it is both an answer and a promise.

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