[FICATHON] Bedroom Berlitz, for commodorified
Title: Bedroom Berlitz
Author: borusa
Play: Henry V
Recipient: commodorified
Character(s): Hal, Kate
Warnings: Sex and dreadful French.
Rating: R? Is that right? 18 in UK terms
Summary: Immediately after the play ends. In a bedchamber.
Harry ran his hand over the back of his neck. The situation was desperate. Quite possibly the most desperate he'd ever been in. The mud of the field of Agincourt, where he'd stood looking over his dishevelled mob of an army, where his officers had looked at him with despair in their eyes... that had been simple compared to this. Damn it, a man's bedchamber was supposed to be a sanctum, a haven. And now it had been invaded. No, not invaded, taken over. He was supposed to be the victor, and she was supposed to be part of his prize: a trophy of his success. And there she was, sitting with her hands in her lap, poised and elegant, in command, while he sweated and fretted. He looked at her. French or English?
'Ma Cherie,' he tried. She laughed at him. Again. 'Vous etes mon... oh, what's "wife"?' He cast around for the word. Praying to Saint Denis was hardly going to work again. He suddenly remembered the book that brother Bedford had thrust into his hand just after the wedding ceremony. Where had he put it? He looked around the chamber. Hairbrushes. Her luggage. Her bloody maid, sitting there looking like she was about to explode with amusement. How could someone so old have so much blood in their face? Hat! Yes, there it was, under his hat. He grabbed it, and thumbed through the pages. Aha! '... epouse!' She laughed again. This was no good. Maybe a compliment would work better. 'J'aime votre robe beaucoup,' he tried.
She turned bright red. What had he said? He checked the pages again. Yes, 'robe' was the word for 'gown'.
'You like my cunt?' she said. What? What on earth was this? Perhaps it was the custom of French women to be much more direct after they were married. Still, at least she seemed to be prepared to speak English. Much better. It required a response though.
'Uh, you are very beautiful,' Harry tried. 'And if my rough countenance is not too great a bar, then I would very much like... as is the custom in both our...uh... my... lands...' He trailed off, struggling to find the right words. Poins would have known, for sure. Oh, this was so embarrassing. He almost wished he was back in the tavern, with a cup of sack and Falstaff holding forth. It seemed much simpler for them, just grab the girl and tickle her. Maybe that would work here? No. Even if she was his wife, you couldn't just start tickling a princess of France. Scroope! Scroope was very good in the bedchamber. What would Scroope have done?
'Alice,' she said, startling him out of his confusion and turning to her maid. She fired off a volley of French so rapid that he could barely pick out a word. Alice finally managed to breathe, and stood up. As did the Princess. What on earth was happening? They couldn't be leaving. That would be disastrous.
'My love,' he started. She held a finger to her lips, and he fell silent. Silent, and then overtaken by a feeling of awe, as Alice slowly disrobed his wife. Another volley of French, and Alice, oh wonder of wonders, left the room. He heard the key move the lock. Leaving them alone. Leaving Katherine standing naked before him. He walked closer to her, uncertain whether to touch her, but desperate to press his hand to that pale flesh. He made to speak again, and this time she lifted her finger to his lips. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on her mouth. There was a moment of uncertainty, in which time seemed to elongate, and then their lips touched. As before, the world faded around him. Battlefields, duchies, kingdoms, all disappeared. There was only the contact between their lips, only the warmth of her mouth on his.
Her fingers found his belt, and slowly unbuckled it. He pulled his jacket off, tossing it to the floor, then his shirt followed. Before he'd even disentangled his arms, her hands were stroking his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, noticing idly how much darker his skin was than hers, noticing his scars. They kissed again, her lips parting slightly, her tongue teasing at his mouth. More witchcraft enchanting him. He felt a pressure building, a pressure relieved as she slowly worked his trousers down his legs, taking his underwear with them.
'Mon tres puissant seigneur,' she whispered to him, eyes fixed on his rising manhood. She took a step back, towards the bed, sitting on the edge. Unwilling to break the contact, he followed, sitting beside her. He looked into her eyes, and saw what could only be a rising desire and affection, emotions that he knew were matched in his own. For the first time, without language, unencumbered by the barrier that awkward words placed between them, they communicated freely. Together, they fell back onto the bed, locked in an embrace. He traced a fingertip down her chest, along the valley of her breasts. She matched his action, her touch as light as a cobweb, spidering down across his stomach, until it reached, and then gently caressed his cock. Unbidden, he exhaled a sigh of pure desire. They worked their way up the bed, an inch at a time, hands moving over each other's bodies as if by learning the other's contours they could in some way learn each other's soul.
He kissed her again, the wordless bond giving him confidence, and slowly raised himself, moving to hold himself above her. Her hair spread in all directions from her head, like a halo. He had never seen anything more beautiful. God had blessed his actions in so many ways, and this was the most surprising. She lifted her hands to his chest, and then moved her legs apart.
'Your foot, in my cunt,' she said, her voice husky. He frowned, confused. She shook her head. 'Your majesty understand me well.' Her hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it towards her.
'Oh yes, Kate, I understand,' Harry said, slowly sliding inside her. 'I understand very well indeed.'
When they were finished, they lay still entwined, bodies covered in a light coating of sweat which shone in the candlelight. Harry looked at his bride, her eyes half-closed as he drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, he became aware of something hard and uncomfortable, pushing into his bottom. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he reached a hand down to find out what it was. Hard...and rectangular. He couldn't help but laugh as he lifted it up, and that woke her. She blinked at him.
'Your majesty shall understand me again,' she said, smiling.
'I think so, Kate,' he replied, tossing the phrasebook onto the floor. 'I think that, in the future, we shall understand each other a lot.'
Author: borusa
Play: Henry V
Recipient: commodorified
Character(s): Hal, Kate
Warnings: Sex and dreadful French.
Rating: R? Is that right? 18 in UK terms
Summary: Immediately after the play ends. In a bedchamber.
Harry ran his hand over the back of his neck. The situation was desperate. Quite possibly the most desperate he'd ever been in. The mud of the field of Agincourt, where he'd stood looking over his dishevelled mob of an army, where his officers had looked at him with despair in their eyes... that had been simple compared to this. Damn it, a man's bedchamber was supposed to be a sanctum, a haven. And now it had been invaded. No, not invaded, taken over. He was supposed to be the victor, and she was supposed to be part of his prize: a trophy of his success. And there she was, sitting with her hands in her lap, poised and elegant, in command, while he sweated and fretted. He looked at her. French or English?
'Ma Cherie,' he tried. She laughed at him. Again. 'Vous etes mon... oh, what's "wife"?' He cast around for the word. Praying to Saint Denis was hardly going to work again. He suddenly remembered the book that brother Bedford had thrust into his hand just after the wedding ceremony. Where had he put it? He looked around the chamber. Hairbrushes. Her luggage. Her bloody maid, sitting there looking like she was about to explode with amusement. How could someone so old have so much blood in their face? Hat! Yes, there it was, under his hat. He grabbed it, and thumbed through the pages. Aha! '... epouse!' She laughed again. This was no good. Maybe a compliment would work better. 'J'aime votre robe beaucoup,' he tried.
She turned bright red. What had he said? He checked the pages again. Yes, 'robe' was the word for 'gown'.
'You like my cunt?' she said. What? What on earth was this? Perhaps it was the custom of French women to be much more direct after they were married. Still, at least she seemed to be prepared to speak English. Much better. It required a response though.
'Uh, you are very beautiful,' Harry tried. 'And if my rough countenance is not too great a bar, then I would very much like... as is the custom in both our...uh... my... lands...' He trailed off, struggling to find the right words. Poins would have known, for sure. Oh, this was so embarrassing. He almost wished he was back in the tavern, with a cup of sack and Falstaff holding forth. It seemed much simpler for them, just grab the girl and tickle her. Maybe that would work here? No. Even if she was his wife, you couldn't just start tickling a princess of France. Scroope! Scroope was very good in the bedchamber. What would Scroope have done?
'Alice,' she said, startling him out of his confusion and turning to her maid. She fired off a volley of French so rapid that he could barely pick out a word. Alice finally managed to breathe, and stood up. As did the Princess. What on earth was happening? They couldn't be leaving. That would be disastrous.
'My love,' he started. She held a finger to her lips, and he fell silent. Silent, and then overtaken by a feeling of awe, as Alice slowly disrobed his wife. Another volley of French, and Alice, oh wonder of wonders, left the room. He heard the key move the lock. Leaving them alone. Leaving Katherine standing naked before him. He walked closer to her, uncertain whether to touch her, but desperate to press his hand to that pale flesh. He made to speak again, and this time she lifted her finger to his lips. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on her mouth. There was a moment of uncertainty, in which time seemed to elongate, and then their lips touched. As before, the world faded around him. Battlefields, duchies, kingdoms, all disappeared. There was only the contact between their lips, only the warmth of her mouth on his.
Her fingers found his belt, and slowly unbuckled it. He pulled his jacket off, tossing it to the floor, then his shirt followed. Before he'd even disentangled his arms, her hands were stroking his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, noticing idly how much darker his skin was than hers, noticing his scars. They kissed again, her lips parting slightly, her tongue teasing at his mouth. More witchcraft enchanting him. He felt a pressure building, a pressure relieved as she slowly worked his trousers down his legs, taking his underwear with them.
'Mon tres puissant seigneur,' she whispered to him, eyes fixed on his rising manhood. She took a step back, towards the bed, sitting on the edge. Unwilling to break the contact, he followed, sitting beside her. He looked into her eyes, and saw what could only be a rising desire and affection, emotions that he knew were matched in his own. For the first time, without language, unencumbered by the barrier that awkward words placed between them, they communicated freely. Together, they fell back onto the bed, locked in an embrace. He traced a fingertip down her chest, along the valley of her breasts. She matched his action, her touch as light as a cobweb, spidering down across his stomach, until it reached, and then gently caressed his cock. Unbidden, he exhaled a sigh of pure desire. They worked their way up the bed, an inch at a time, hands moving over each other's bodies as if by learning the other's contours they could in some way learn each other's soul.
He kissed her again, the wordless bond giving him confidence, and slowly raised himself, moving to hold himself above her. Her hair spread in all directions from her head, like a halo. He had never seen anything more beautiful. God had blessed his actions in so many ways, and this was the most surprising. She lifted her hands to his chest, and then moved her legs apart.
'Your foot, in my cunt,' she said, her voice husky. He frowned, confused. She shook her head. 'Your majesty understand me well.' Her hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it towards her.
'Oh yes, Kate, I understand,' Harry said, slowly sliding inside her. 'I understand very well indeed.'
When they were finished, they lay still entwined, bodies covered in a light coating of sweat which shone in the candlelight. Harry looked at his bride, her eyes half-closed as he drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, he became aware of something hard and uncomfortable, pushing into his bottom. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he reached a hand down to find out what it was. Hard...and rectangular. He couldn't help but laugh as he lifted it up, and that woke her. She blinked at him.
'Your majesty shall understand me again,' she said, smiling.
'I think so, Kate,' he replied, tossing the phrasebook onto the floor. 'I think that, in the future, we shall understand each other a lot.'