Good Night Irene- Balian Fic
Story being posted in Kingdom of Heaven fan fic community
Title: Good Night Irene
Author: Nuit
Category: movie fan fic- KOH
Type: Dreams, sex, tongues in cheeks
Rating: R
Characters: A couple of OFC's and Balian, sort of
Summary: Two women on a film set in Northern Africa admire the view.
Warnings: Sex and foul language (imagine..) The French I am sure is substandard, but at least is fairly obvious to non speakers. All corrections taken in good heart- should it be Vien or Venez at the end there?? ;P
Good Night Irene
“Do you think he ever keeps that costume on…while he…you know…?”
Across the trestle table her lunch companion coughed a bit on a mouthful of couscous and lamb “While he...you knows?”
“Alright, while he” her voice lowered just a little as she leaned forwards “has sex. Just for a change…to make things more interesting” Two pairs of eyes squinted out from under the billowing canvas into the near distance at the man sitting astride a handsome proud horse. His body encased in chain metal despite the heat, sweltering as the bright light reflection from his helmet half blinded his appreciative observers. His tall frame cast barely a shadow in the midday sun, whilst around him the flags of competing cultures billowed in what passed for a breeze. It was hard to imagine that he wasn’t some kind of vision from the past as the air shimmered and wavered around him
The woman sitting across the twentieth century Formica grinned in the here and now and shook her head “MORE interesting? Jeez Irene what sort of men do you date back home, and more to the point how about you introduce me to some of them?”
“I think you might be disappointed” Irene smiled back and put a hand on her lunch mate’s forearm in a gesture of friendship that said all this might be new but it had already sunk down deep “anyhow, I just meant, you know, that he might consider it, to add a bit of fun”
“No I don’t know as it happens! Never been much of a one for bedroom games truth be told, just a straight…Anyway yeah, lets think it though, since you brought it up and we still got 15 minutes left of lunch hour. Hmmm well that armour might make access a bit of an issue, and the neighbours might be alarmed by the clanking, especially in this here tent city. Any particular reason you ask?”
“Just wondering”
A snort came from the other side of the table “Right Irene! Having nothing better to entertain yourself other than tech assistance to the whole bloody film crew, scraping sand out of every crevice 24/7, and I don’t mean the camera lens, and you are wondering about whether he might consider shagging you in chain metal, just by way of passing some time?”
“SSSH!” a giggle however undercut the seriousness of the reprimand “…Maybe...There’s something about the gravity of the task you know? The helmet hiding the face, all that manly warring honour thing, not to mention needing a compliant young maiden to ease the aching muscles and the sore heart of course. Takes undressing on to a whole different plane right?”
“I should fucking say! CLUNK! “Hey mind my toe with that bloody thing!’ springs to mind”
“Sheena!” Irene was holding her hand to her mouth to try to contain the mirth “Alright alright. But take this Balian fella. You read the script? He brings peace to the Middle East because of his own tortured soul in a way, he is the only man who can because he is out on his own, an outcast from the traditional knight. OK he does all that holding the sword up against his face and killing indiscriminately at the behest of a imperialist war and all that, but all the while wrestling with THE right thing, the moral thing for him as a individual”
“Well except for the fact that he shags someone else’s wife…that aside. Hang on one moment...I see a pattern emerging in these Knights of yours” a wink accompanied the emphasis “what about that Lancelot? You think it mentions that in the Code of the Brethren Knights (Shining) Subsection 3a) If at all possible have tryst with Kings wife leading to much soul searching and self flagellation before thinking ‘Ah Fuck it’?”
“Picky picky…it is not all about lust. He is an honourable man- someone who acts for the greater good and yet his own soul is up for grabs. AND he rides around in chain mail, his hips swaying with the horses movement while his sword is dangerously and portentously sheathed, just waiting for the opportune moment.”
Sheena laughed and tapped the end of her cigarette into the tin ashtray “Thought you said it wasn’t all about lust?! Ah well fair enough, but since you mention opportune moments have you considered other variations? What about asking him to get his shirt all salty wet, donning a large hoop earring, a moody downcast expression and maybe a parrot on the shoulder for extra authenticity?” Sheena leaned forward to add and extra “arrrgghh” for emphasis before her eyes sparkled again “Hey now! Hold on a minute, I got a better one! Get him to dig out that buttoned waistcoat and his pistol, scabby old hat and a smouldering glance before he gives you one of those larrikin winks “Take a ride into the Bush with me Lass” and you reply “Talk to me like an Aussie Irish outlaw, Babe, and I am yours”
It was Irene’s turn to almost choke on the tagine as she laughed out loud as she tried her hand at the desired accent “Well darlin’ that’s not without it’s merits as a plan fer sure, fer sure”
“No shit” There was another spoonful of couscous and a slurp of a little too warm water before Sheena sat back into her chair and reached for the pouch of tobacco on the table, shoving it back into her pocket without her eyes leaving the outline of the man outside “You thinking of asking him then?”
Irene took a sharp intake of breath “You are joking! He wouldn’t even look at me, never mind accede to my demands for fancy dress”
“Well you never know! Might be a bit lonely out here in the desert”
“Oh thanks! That makes me feel a lot better” Both women however were still giggling as they stood, and having negotiated the maze of tables and chairs laid out like some mad hatters English tea party in the middle of the desert, scraped the remainder of lunch into the plastic trays provided by the catering staff. With renewed vigour brought on by a shared belief in their own ability to make the best of a bad job they braced themselves to step out once more into the blaze of the Moroccan sun.
Truth was she always had had a thing for Knights in shining armour, metaphorically at least. They didn’t need to have polished it with the elbow grease of tradition, didn’t need to be Daz squeaky clean, well hardly clean at all frankly. But they had to be honourable in a way that went beyond slavish duty to Queen and country, or King and religion. Oh alright so that was negotiable as well. Some of them were excused from anything very much and allowed just to be dashing. Blame Robert Plant and his flowing locks galloping across the ocean’s dunes on a white charger, climbing the large tower and vanquishing the baddie with a swing of his not insubstantial knife…blade…hell HUGE sword all in pursuit of a fair maiden in a nightdress, conveniently, and a shag on a deer skin in front of a roaring log fire
But in general they had to have a valiant purpose in life and a passion to match. It was all a little embarrassing to be frank. Irene was not one for a wistful gaze as her love sailed off to vanquish the so called politically incorrect enemy. She was more usually cast in her dreams as the full figured scullery maid, bidding a last friendly, and very enthusiastic, 'Goodbye' from the homeland, rather than the chaste virgin lamenting lost love while strolling around the windy turrets, looking so thin as to be practically translucent. But even if she didn’t see herself needing smelling salts and a someone to catch her in a full damselly swoon, nevertheless a man with a mission, preferably requiring a horse, a large weapon and not inconsequential facial hair was a hit every time.
So it was with some delight that her afternoon passed, with frequent and lip licking daydreams padded out, as it were, by the very real vision in front of her eyes. To all intents and purposes, if she ignored the southern counties accent between takes, a most perfect Middle Ages Knight. Christ, this was one hell of a job, technical assistant to a film crew.
Though in fact there was never much to stay up for in the evenings- they were too far from the nearest town, too far from anywhere in fact, there was no alcohol and the actors kept themselves to themselves- and since she was pretty much exhausted after a day in that heat, she often retired after supper in the catering tent. Tonight was no exception, apart from that, after a meal spent elaborating on some of her less embarrassing fantasies with Sheena, she found herself hurrying a little more than usual to the welcome cool of a night under canvas
Mostly she retired to her tent to read or to write scribbled notes in a journal or to just lie there amid the gradually rising cacophony of sounds from the desert animals. Who knew such a place could hold such life? But tonight she found herself curling down into her sleeping bag with something of a grin, glad at last to have some peace to let her mind expand into dreams and some privacy to explore the thought
“Excuse the roughness of my hands, they are those of a blacksmith and a knight” At least that was what it sounded like in her head, in fact the words from his mouth so close to hers were whispering “Excusez la rugosité de mes mains, ils sont ceux d'un forgeron et d'un chevalier, ah mademoiselle…” the warm of his breath entering her own gasp, he was swaying with suppressed desire to abandon himself, still surprised, reminded, reliving a gentleness softness of white skin beneath his fingers and raising his eyes momentarily from the nipples that tickled against his palms to look into her face, he focused on a question she did not yet know.
“Ca va…” her own hands in his unruly hair and pulling his mouth to hers in answer to whatever it was, stoking his fire, a tinderbox of promised flame that she would have ignite her own. Under her own hands the muscles of his body moved with ease, smooth with the efforts of warfare and hard riding, and naked but for rough cotton. A stab of her own words in some other place jolted her; here there was no chain mail, no hard iron, just rough cotton which was damp from the desert and his exertions. Damp like his skin. Her hands slid up inside the white shirt to find his body, a broad hairless chest and shivering at her touch, held from pressing down onto her only by the reserve in his arms. His head dropped, the strands of his hair covering the dark in his eyes
“Mademoiselle…petite... J’ai besoin…”
“Oui, mon Chevalier de la France” She didn’t need to touch to know his need, she could breath it, hear it, feel it in her own belly and in the glance of his cock over her hips, though perhaps he had desire for something else too. A dream of his own to ride out into the desert for. “J'ai tous les deux aussi”
His hand pulled at the material that lingered around her legs, allowing his hips to sink against hers as his mouth did not kiss but a made a demand to open for him, to make him imagine, remember, loose it all. The softer hide of his breeches slid down over perfect thighs in the seconds that he moved from her, no clanging metal nor unwelcoming steel, just warm silk limbs and insistent desire, hands struggling to let him free before the caustic heat of penetration burst through into the blissful soft welcome of her body. “Mon Dieu!” he moved steadily and persistently, her body indenting the sand beneath her, his hips rocking against accepting curves and her fevered cries. Outside the whinnying of horses and the soft murmur of the guards patrol passing the tent had them hold still for a moment, his cock deep inside her and his eyes shut tight to not let go there and then, until the silence of the noisy desert returned in the dark. He took a breath of steadfast resolve, the suggestion of his painful withdrawal making her grab at the tensed ass between her legs
“Ma petite…it will be too late to stop”
“Balian of Ibelin, C'est un rêve...a dream…n'est-ce pas? Venez avec moi!” In one corner of her mind a voice winced at ordering around a Knight, but his smile almost took her right then and he nodded in an acquiescent hope that she was either right, or perhaps his duty to a fair maiden overrode other considerations, before he slipped deep and true into her body and into the sounds of her ecstasy.
Irene stirred in the necessary amount of thick brown syrup into her coffee to make it drinkable while she looked over the other side of the canteen tent to where the actors were doing just the same, wincing at the way that their teeth were melting in unison. She could just see him, and for a moment she felt her stomach clench, not unlike being 15 again in the school hall, spotting the boy of that weeks romantic imaginings. A distant memory of the unfounded, but nonetheless terrified, panic that perhaps he might know all of those things one had written in the back of ones exercise books, seen the love hearts or somehow viewed the half denied longing that overwhelmed one while cudding a pillow and sighing to the immature tones of a tinny boy band. 'If he had an inkling he seems pretty damn nonchalant' she mused, But then perhaps he was just used to being wrapped up in the garb of someone elses fantasy. Or the chain mail as it happens.
“Hey, what’s up?” Sheena plonked herself down on the opposite chair and grinned “ You look like you’ve been up all night, don’t tell me he turned up all clanking and rusty and asking you to oil his rivets?”
Irene may have spat out her coffee but she tried to compose herself "Nah, but I am working on it..."
Title: Good Night Irene
Author: Nuit
Category: movie fan fic- KOH
Type: Dreams, sex, tongues in cheeks
Rating: R
Characters: A couple of OFC's and Balian, sort of
Summary: Two women on a film set in Northern Africa admire the view.
Warnings: Sex and foul language (imagine..) The French I am sure is substandard, but at least is fairly obvious to non speakers. All corrections taken in good heart- should it be Vien or Venez at the end there?? ;P
Good Night Irene
“Do you think he ever keeps that costume on…while he…you know…?”
Across the trestle table her lunch companion coughed a bit on a mouthful of couscous and lamb “While he...you knows?”
“Alright, while he” her voice lowered just a little as she leaned forwards “has sex. Just for a change…to make things more interesting” Two pairs of eyes squinted out from under the billowing canvas into the near distance at the man sitting astride a handsome proud horse. His body encased in chain metal despite the heat, sweltering as the bright light reflection from his helmet half blinded his appreciative observers. His tall frame cast barely a shadow in the midday sun, whilst around him the flags of competing cultures billowed in what passed for a breeze. It was hard to imagine that he wasn’t some kind of vision from the past as the air shimmered and wavered around him
The woman sitting across the twentieth century Formica grinned in the here and now and shook her head “MORE interesting? Jeez Irene what sort of men do you date back home, and more to the point how about you introduce me to some of them?”
“I think you might be disappointed” Irene smiled back and put a hand on her lunch mate’s forearm in a gesture of friendship that said all this might be new but it had already sunk down deep “anyhow, I just meant, you know, that he might consider it, to add a bit of fun”
“No I don’t know as it happens! Never been much of a one for bedroom games truth be told, just a straight…Anyway yeah, lets think it though, since you brought it up and we still got 15 minutes left of lunch hour. Hmmm well that armour might make access a bit of an issue, and the neighbours might be alarmed by the clanking, especially in this here tent city. Any particular reason you ask?”
“Just wondering”
A snort came from the other side of the table “Right Irene! Having nothing better to entertain yourself other than tech assistance to the whole bloody film crew, scraping sand out of every crevice 24/7, and I don’t mean the camera lens, and you are wondering about whether he might consider shagging you in chain metal, just by way of passing some time?”
“SSSH!” a giggle however undercut the seriousness of the reprimand “…Maybe...There’s something about the gravity of the task you know? The helmet hiding the face, all that manly warring honour thing, not to mention needing a compliant young maiden to ease the aching muscles and the sore heart of course. Takes undressing on to a whole different plane right?”
“I should fucking say! CLUNK! “Hey mind my toe with that bloody thing!’ springs to mind”
“Sheena!” Irene was holding her hand to her mouth to try to contain the mirth “Alright alright. But take this Balian fella. You read the script? He brings peace to the Middle East because of his own tortured soul in a way, he is the only man who can because he is out on his own, an outcast from the traditional knight. OK he does all that holding the sword up against his face and killing indiscriminately at the behest of a imperialist war and all that, but all the while wrestling with THE right thing, the moral thing for him as a individual”
“Well except for the fact that he shags someone else’s wife…that aside. Hang on one moment...I see a pattern emerging in these Knights of yours” a wink accompanied the emphasis “what about that Lancelot? You think it mentions that in the Code of the Brethren Knights (Shining) Subsection 3a) If at all possible have tryst with Kings wife leading to much soul searching and self flagellation before thinking ‘Ah Fuck it’?”
“Picky picky…it is not all about lust. He is an honourable man- someone who acts for the greater good and yet his own soul is up for grabs. AND he rides around in chain mail, his hips swaying with the horses movement while his sword is dangerously and portentously sheathed, just waiting for the opportune moment.”
Sheena laughed and tapped the end of her cigarette into the tin ashtray “Thought you said it wasn’t all about lust?! Ah well fair enough, but since you mention opportune moments have you considered other variations? What about asking him to get his shirt all salty wet, donning a large hoop earring, a moody downcast expression and maybe a parrot on the shoulder for extra authenticity?” Sheena leaned forward to add and extra “arrrgghh” for emphasis before her eyes sparkled again “Hey now! Hold on a minute, I got a better one! Get him to dig out that buttoned waistcoat and his pistol, scabby old hat and a smouldering glance before he gives you one of those larrikin winks “Take a ride into the Bush with me Lass” and you reply “Talk to me like an Aussie Irish outlaw, Babe, and I am yours”
It was Irene’s turn to almost choke on the tagine as she laughed out loud as she tried her hand at the desired accent “Well darlin’ that’s not without it’s merits as a plan fer sure, fer sure”
“No shit” There was another spoonful of couscous and a slurp of a little too warm water before Sheena sat back into her chair and reached for the pouch of tobacco on the table, shoving it back into her pocket without her eyes leaving the outline of the man outside “You thinking of asking him then?”
Irene took a sharp intake of breath “You are joking! He wouldn’t even look at me, never mind accede to my demands for fancy dress”
“Well you never know! Might be a bit lonely out here in the desert”
“Oh thanks! That makes me feel a lot better” Both women however were still giggling as they stood, and having negotiated the maze of tables and chairs laid out like some mad hatters English tea party in the middle of the desert, scraped the remainder of lunch into the plastic trays provided by the catering staff. With renewed vigour brought on by a shared belief in their own ability to make the best of a bad job they braced themselves to step out once more into the blaze of the Moroccan sun.
Truth was she always had had a thing for Knights in shining armour, metaphorically at least. They didn’t need to have polished it with the elbow grease of tradition, didn’t need to be Daz squeaky clean, well hardly clean at all frankly. But they had to be honourable in a way that went beyond slavish duty to Queen and country, or King and religion. Oh alright so that was negotiable as well. Some of them were excused from anything very much and allowed just to be dashing. Blame Robert Plant and his flowing locks galloping across the ocean’s dunes on a white charger, climbing the large tower and vanquishing the baddie with a swing of his not insubstantial knife…blade…hell HUGE sword all in pursuit of a fair maiden in a nightdress, conveniently, and a shag on a deer skin in front of a roaring log fire
But in general they had to have a valiant purpose in life and a passion to match. It was all a little embarrassing to be frank. Irene was not one for a wistful gaze as her love sailed off to vanquish the so called politically incorrect enemy. She was more usually cast in her dreams as the full figured scullery maid, bidding a last friendly, and very enthusiastic, 'Goodbye' from the homeland, rather than the chaste virgin lamenting lost love while strolling around the windy turrets, looking so thin as to be practically translucent. But even if she didn’t see herself needing smelling salts and a someone to catch her in a full damselly swoon, nevertheless a man with a mission, preferably requiring a horse, a large weapon and not inconsequential facial hair was a hit every time.
So it was with some delight that her afternoon passed, with frequent and lip licking daydreams padded out, as it were, by the very real vision in front of her eyes. To all intents and purposes, if she ignored the southern counties accent between takes, a most perfect Middle Ages Knight. Christ, this was one hell of a job, technical assistant to a film crew.
Though in fact there was never much to stay up for in the evenings- they were too far from the nearest town, too far from anywhere in fact, there was no alcohol and the actors kept themselves to themselves- and since she was pretty much exhausted after a day in that heat, she often retired after supper in the catering tent. Tonight was no exception, apart from that, after a meal spent elaborating on some of her less embarrassing fantasies with Sheena, she found herself hurrying a little more than usual to the welcome cool of a night under canvas
Mostly she retired to her tent to read or to write scribbled notes in a journal or to just lie there amid the gradually rising cacophony of sounds from the desert animals. Who knew such a place could hold such life? But tonight she found herself curling down into her sleeping bag with something of a grin, glad at last to have some peace to let her mind expand into dreams and some privacy to explore the thought
“Excuse the roughness of my hands, they are those of a blacksmith and a knight” At least that was what it sounded like in her head, in fact the words from his mouth so close to hers were whispering “Excusez la rugosité de mes mains, ils sont ceux d'un forgeron et d'un chevalier, ah mademoiselle…” the warm of his breath entering her own gasp, he was swaying with suppressed desire to abandon himself, still surprised, reminded, reliving a gentleness softness of white skin beneath his fingers and raising his eyes momentarily from the nipples that tickled against his palms to look into her face, he focused on a question she did not yet know.
“Ca va…” her own hands in his unruly hair and pulling his mouth to hers in answer to whatever it was, stoking his fire, a tinderbox of promised flame that she would have ignite her own. Under her own hands the muscles of his body moved with ease, smooth with the efforts of warfare and hard riding, and naked but for rough cotton. A stab of her own words in some other place jolted her; here there was no chain mail, no hard iron, just rough cotton which was damp from the desert and his exertions. Damp like his skin. Her hands slid up inside the white shirt to find his body, a broad hairless chest and shivering at her touch, held from pressing down onto her only by the reserve in his arms. His head dropped, the strands of his hair covering the dark in his eyes
“Mademoiselle…petite... J’ai besoin…”
“Oui, mon Chevalier de la France” She didn’t need to touch to know his need, she could breath it, hear it, feel it in her own belly and in the glance of his cock over her hips, though perhaps he had desire for something else too. A dream of his own to ride out into the desert for. “J'ai tous les deux aussi”
His hand pulled at the material that lingered around her legs, allowing his hips to sink against hers as his mouth did not kiss but a made a demand to open for him, to make him imagine, remember, loose it all. The softer hide of his breeches slid down over perfect thighs in the seconds that he moved from her, no clanging metal nor unwelcoming steel, just warm silk limbs and insistent desire, hands struggling to let him free before the caustic heat of penetration burst through into the blissful soft welcome of her body. “Mon Dieu!” he moved steadily and persistently, her body indenting the sand beneath her, his hips rocking against accepting curves and her fevered cries. Outside the whinnying of horses and the soft murmur of the guards patrol passing the tent had them hold still for a moment, his cock deep inside her and his eyes shut tight to not let go there and then, until the silence of the noisy desert returned in the dark. He took a breath of steadfast resolve, the suggestion of his painful withdrawal making her grab at the tensed ass between her legs
“Ma petite…it will be too late to stop”
“Balian of Ibelin, C'est un rêve...a dream…n'est-ce pas? Venez avec moi!” In one corner of her mind a voice winced at ordering around a Knight, but his smile almost took her right then and he nodded in an acquiescent hope that she was either right, or perhaps his duty to a fair maiden overrode other considerations, before he slipped deep and true into her body and into the sounds of her ecstasy.
Irene stirred in the necessary amount of thick brown syrup into her coffee to make it drinkable while she looked over the other side of the canteen tent to where the actors were doing just the same, wincing at the way that their teeth were melting in unison. She could just see him, and for a moment she felt her stomach clench, not unlike being 15 again in the school hall, spotting the boy of that weeks romantic imaginings. A distant memory of the unfounded, but nonetheless terrified, panic that perhaps he might know all of those things one had written in the back of ones exercise books, seen the love hearts or somehow viewed the half denied longing that overwhelmed one while cudding a pillow and sighing to the immature tones of a tinny boy band. 'If he had an inkling he seems pretty damn nonchalant' she mused, But then perhaps he was just used to being wrapped up in the garb of someone elses fantasy. Or the chain mail as it happens.
“Hey, what’s up?” Sheena plonked herself down on the opposite chair and grinned “ You look like you’ve been up all night, don’t tell me he turned up all clanking and rusty and asking you to oil his rivets?”
Irene may have spat out her coffee but she tried to compose herself "Nah, but I am working on it..."