Long ago…

They said his presence was sun. Without him your life plunged into eternal night. You could love him from afar, they whispered, and get warm from his shine. Could step forward and be blinded. Touch him and burn.

She did.

Oh, but what a fire it was.

Yes, she loved their quiet moments. The comfort his arms brought, the warmth of his skin under her cheek, his steady breathing and calming murmur. His almost shy eyes when he was uncertain of her response. He could be lovesick or attentive, stroke her hair and look at her like she was the most precious thing in his world. And she felt loved and cherished and utterly mesmerized by the tenderness in his eyes. But there was more to him, and for better or worse, she loved him whole.

It would be easy to pretend that she fell for Henry that wrote her letters full of adoration and devotion, who carefully compelled words together to please her and express his heart's desires… but how could she when even through most gentle endearments his impatience to possess, to swallow her whole was unmistakable. When through ink-drawn lines she sensed controlled fire.

And possibility of untaming it excited her.

She'd like to say that she hadn't seen the gleam of insanity in those blue orbs (by the way, his eyes were the stuff poetry is made of). That when rage transformed Henry's face into the mask of a beast she was frightened. That when hate and anger rolled off him she wanted to cower. That at the sight of him she along with other courtiers feared for her position and when his voice boomed she trembled...

I am the King of England! – his favorite thing to shout. It was self-explanatory and gave reasons for his just rage. Because can there be an unjust rage of a monarch? – the one who answered only to God – she as one of people who made sure he was aware of that, knew the answer.

…In those moments his figure was fear-inspiring and she trembled alright. Just not for the reason everyone else did.

So, their screaming matches?

She would call him 'Majesty' and he would hiss 'Madam', then they would say (scream) what they thought about each other. Their breathing would get labored with skin flushed and as his sight lowered to her breasts his gaze turned lusty. She lost the thought of why she was so angry with him (because even if he was the instigator being cowed and humbled in response wasn't usually an option). There appeared a coil in her belly that she long ago came to associate with her lord and king, tightening with every breath. Wetness between her tights pulsed with the tempo of heartbeat... It was no fault of hers that he was making her swoon with desire. In his eyes was everything: want to hold his hands around her neck and squeeze until there was nothing but his victory, take her so hard the walls would shake, bury himself so deep that her screams would make his courtesans shiver. He was the sin before sin and avenging angel at once: larger than life, powerful, scalding hot, and capable of taking her whole… possessing her swallowing… all of her. Just her.

Did he know? Of course he knew. Because as masochistic was she so vain was her King. It would be a lie to tell that her arousal didn't turn him on.

So their fights never lasted long – either he stormed off or they came too close and, you must know what it means.

Maybe in retrospect it was better to happen in more secluded areas. And not as loud. And maybe not so often.

But they could not control every servant's tongue (or themselves). Anyway, rumors about witchcraft and serving the Devil would have found way after some time – for no proper wife would behave so shamelessly with her lord husband. Nor would they go at it for hours. Certainly not scream for more while the whole palace could hear. No God fearing English woman should find her marital duties so pleasurable, after all. (That might be but she considered herself more French than English. And Frenchmen had entirely different notion of a good Christian woman.)

So maybe theirs wasn't the healthiest or natural of relationships. Maybe with every little fight and shout and moan they destructed something within each other. Maybe with every hiss and thrust and roll there was less love and more hate. But she could not tell and the fire most certainly never went out.

So he was the sun and he burned. But he burned so good.

Some almost five hundred years later…

Anne doesn't know why she pauses outside of her car on the parking lot. Because really two drivers arguing about who did not let whom out was not a seldom occurrence. Especially on this parking with a really stupid layout. Nothing worth a second thought.

Except one of them is tall and very well built (a shirt hides nothing of his broad shoulders, his slacks outline very well shaped long legs, his body screams health and fitness) and he is furious. She can't see his face fully, but his jawline is pronounced, muscles of his neck tremble with tension, fist clenched – his figure emanating power and rage.

And God, isn't he hot.

AN So I based most of my ideas on Tudors. Although there when they argued Anne found herself on the verge of tears more often than not, in my head she reacts a bit... differently. Then, apparently for most of his life Henry VIII was the definition of fitness and hotness, and he'll stay just that.

Give me your thoughts!