SHE'S NOT YOU
This is just a very simple song fic where Henry thinks about Anne after she's gone and he's "happy" with Jane. Please comment nicely, and if you get a chance, go on YouTube and listen to "She's Not You" by the real king, Elvis Presley!
Sliding into her slowly, so nice and easy, the tired king feels a deep, soothing satisfaction at the end of another long day.
"My love," Jane sighs, gently drawing him inwards and then tightening herself all around him. "My love . . . my lord . . . oh, my love . . . oh, my lord king! Oh yes, yes, yes, yes!"
Henry comes quickly, melting gladly into her softness and warmth. Making love to Jane is always so soothing and peaceful. Not that his third wife lacks energy or enthusiasm. Passion comes easily to her, and in her own ladylike way she's very eager. Yet there's nothing ugly or violent about her desire. She's always praising him and soothing him, even as she gives in gracefully to her own ladylike release.
Afterwards blackness falls like a curtain. A deep sleep enfolds them both, a welcome respite at the end of a long day. Jane slumbers beside him in untroubled innocence, her blonde head resting peacefully on the pale blue satin pillow.
Henry has nightmares that make him toss and turn. He's making love to Jane and all is well. Then somehow his gentle queen becomes a stranger, a she-devil who bites and scratches. She won't submit without a battle. Her wild and wicked ways excite him, and the battle to subdue her pride makes him feel more alive than he has in years. Henry is about to conquer her when he wakes up drenched in sweat, the cool moonlight shining on his face.
"My love," Jane murmurs, reaching out for him in her sleep.
"Hush," the king commands, silencing her with a kiss while at the same time gently withdrawing from her slim, white arms. There are times when Jane almost seems to suffocate him, to strangle him in a web of sweetness and goodness.
Henry drags himself out onto the balcony, the night air cool on his heated flesh and his exhausted, sweating body. The sadness he feels now is worse than the lust he felt in his dream. With an angel by his side, in his bed and in his heart, how can he still lust for that bitch, that she-devil, Anne Boleyn?
How can he still miss her even now?
Not happy with your pretty little simpleton, Harry dear?
He's not a mad king. The voice is in his head, and he only imagines he sees Anne perched on the balcony railing, her green eyes shining, grinning like a monkey in the moonlight.
Jane's nothing, Harry. A sweet blonde bore with big boobs.
"Wrong," Harry says hoarsely. He's talking aloud even though he knows no one is there. "Jane is my true queen. She's sweet and good, everything a man could want."
Oh, she's everything a man could want. But she's not me.
"But she's not you." Guilty and alone, the king stares at the empty space where Anne Boleyn used to sit and tease him after sex.
Inside the bedroom, Jane Seymour sighs in her sleep.