Fanfic: Question
Title: Question
Author: Me
Pairing/Characters: Dastan/Tamina
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (Warning: Heavily implied sex)
Summary: Pointlessly fluffy one-shot - some months after their wedding, Tamina has a question.
Spoilers: The movie?
Disclaimer: If I owned Dastan, would I really be sitting here writing fan fiction?
Author's note: This is my first attempt at PoP fan fiction, so I'd love to hear your honest opinions. I'm a little worried about how the characterisations came out, especially Tamina.
“Do you plan to marry again?” She tosses the question out lightly, flippantly; pretending it hasn’t been pressing on her heart ever since that moment when he leapt out at her from behind a fountain in the palace gardens, and she fell in love with him.
Dastan, sprawled across their marriage bed, raises his head.
“Bored with me already, are you?” he asks with that lopsided grin of his, which tries so hard to be a smirk, and which never manages to be anything but boyish and open and adorable. He stretches a little and scratches his chest. “Looking to pawn me off on some poor girl after only five months. Has anyone ever told you that you lack stamina, Princess?”
“That’s not what you said five minutes ago, Prince,” she shoots back, flicking her hair over her shoulder and glaring at him. He blushes at that, faint but unmistakable beneath the scruff of his beard, and she can’t resist a triumphant smirk at his expense - it is, she thinks, nothing short of hilarious that her great Persian warrior of a husband, fearless in battle and in the face of death, can be so easily discomposed by a mildly suggestive comment.
Silence settles in their bedchamber again. Outside, the sun is setting, an orange globe hanging just above the horizon. The dying rays play across her husband’s sweat-dampened skin as he dozes, sated and exhausted from their recent activities. He’s beautiful, she realises, for the thousandth time; so different from the pale, delicate temple boys she was supposed to marry, but so, so beautiful. It still makes her breath catch in her throat every time.
“Why?” His voice is soft in the quiet room, and it startles her. She looks up to find him watching her intently, a thoughtful expression in his warm blue eyes. She stares back, caught off-guard.
“I’m your first wife,” she snaps finally, more sharply than she intends. “I think I am entitled to know whether you plan to have a second one.”
Dastan doesn’t say anything to that, which is a good thing, she thinks. That way, maybe she can avoid telling him that the thought of him touching another woman the way he touches her is like a blunt knife in her gut, or that the idea that he, he of all men, might one day talk about her with the same offhand disregard as Tus discusses his wives with makes her want to die.
He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps watching her, head cocked to one side as he takes her in. He looks like he’s thinking, and it makes her uncomfortable: Dastan thinking can lead to all sorts of strange places.
Finally, he seems to make up his mind about something.
“Well, I’m not,” he tells her, in that same quiet tone. There’s a timid little smile hovering on his lips, like he’s wanting to reassure her and be reassured at the same time, and it occurs to her that, for all his muscles and swords and armour, the Lion of Persia probably has more true gentleness in his nature than half the temple boys in Alamut combined.
“Why not?” She sounds petulant even to her own ears, and that only serves to make her crosser. The question gnaws at her spirit and she can’t let it go.
Dastan laughs at her.
“Why would I want another wife?” he demands playfully, eyes sparkling wickedly as he props himself up to look at her. “I can hardly manage the one I’ve got!”
He’s teasing her, she knows, it’s a joke, but it hits too close to home, sounds too much like something his brother might say, and she can’t laugh at it. Instead, she folds her arms across her breast and turns away, feigning a sudden interest in the birds swooping just beyond the window, afraid of what he might see if she lets him look upon her now.
“Tamina…” He’s not laughing anymore.
She doesn’t turn to look when she hears him move across the bed, remains proud and unyielding when his hand brushes hesitantly against her shoulder, quietly pleading.
There is a pause, and then a sharp exhalation of breath, like a horse snorting. She knows he’s blowing his hair out of his face, the way he does when he’s frustrated, and in that moment it suddenly bothers enormously that she does.
“Tamina.” It’s not a request anymore, it’s a statement of fact - he’s talking to her whether she likes it or not - and there’s a faint note of amused exasperation in his voice that can’t help but infuriate her.
“What?” she demands irritably, turning back just so she can glare at him. He’s closer now, sitting slumped behind her at not even arm’s length, legs curled up under him as he props himself up on one arm. Piecing blue eyes gaze up at her from behind a lank fringe.
“Tamina,” he says again. “I won’t marry again. I promise, all right? You’re all the woman I will ever need.”
The sentiment is sweet, and the way he says it, simple and open, even sweeter. It thaws her a little, but still she cannot be satisfied.
“How can you promise?” she demands, and if her emotions are running a little high now, she feels she can hardly be blamed. “What if Tus commands you to? Or your father? You think Alamut will be the only alliance that would benefit from a marriage to a Prince of Persia? What if the Empire-”
But Dastan doesn’t let her finish.
“The Empire,” he interrups, “will manage.” She opens her mouth again, but he doesn’t give her a chance to protest.
“Tus will manage,” he goes on. “There are other men, men of noble blood, who will do just as well as me, and I’m sure Garsiv will be more than happy to assist if necessary.”
He can no longer hide the laughter dancing in his eyes, an irresistible grin tugging at his mouth. She rolls her eyes at him and turns away in disgust. She feels silly now, and still not entirely reassured, and channelling her discomfort onto him seems like the best course of action.
Dastan sighs, and tries again.
“Shall I tell you something?” and then, without waiting for a response, “When I was a boy-”
“Is this going to be another one of those ‘Dastan the gutter rat learns a valuable lesson’ stories?” she has to ask, not bothering to hide the arch amusement etched on her face.
He has the decency to look mildly sheepish for a moment, dropping his eyes before catching hers again.
“No,” he says, “this is a ‘Dastan the gutter rat decides how he wants to spend his life’ story. Now, do you want to hear it or not?”
A shrug and a raised eyebrow are all the response he receives - she’s curious, she always is about his life before Alamut, but she’s not in the mood to admit it. It’s enough for Dastan.
“When I was a boy,” he starts again, “I used to spend a lot of my time around the market place; we all did. There was always someone who needed a message carried, or help setting up a stall, and most people would give you a bit of food or a few coins if you helped them.”
She swallows, but Dastan is too caught up in the memory to notice. She’s glad; she knows he sees nothing to pity in his childhood, and she knows equally well that it will never stop breaking her heart.
“There was this one place selling sweetmeats that Bis and I used to spend hours around, sometimes all day,” he goes on. “It belonged to an old man and his wife, and the wife took a liking to us, said we reminded her of her sons when they were young. They used to let us man the stall, and eat whatever got too damaged to be sold, so long as we weren’t the ones who damaged it.”
“Anyway, the point is,” he says, grinning a little at her raised eyebrow, “the point is that I used to watch this couple. A lot. They’d been married for god only knows how long - longer than either of them could remember, anyway. They knew each other better than they knew themselves. They fought like cat and dog - the amount of nuts Bis and I managed to scrounge because the wife couldn’t resist throwing the kettle after her husband and hitting the stall instead was incredible - but it wasn’t because they didn’t like each other, it was because they could. They were so comfortable together that they had no secrets, no masks left. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was kind of amazing. They just, I don’t know, they belonged to each other.”
“And then what?” She surprised at how much she suddenly wants to know, in spite of her disdain. Dastan shoots her a lopsided grin.
“And then my father took me in and I was too busy trying to work out my new life to think about the old one very much.”
“You thought about Bis,” she points out. “And the others.”
“Bis was more my brother than either of the princes; working out how to fit him in was the hardest part, it was all I thought about for weeks.” He shrugs. “The others were easy - they didn’t need a place in the palace, just on my payroll. And you’re distracting me from the point of the story, Princess.”
She rolls her eyes at him and earns a smirk in return. “Fine, then, what was the point?”
“When Tus was twenty-one, he married for the first time. It was a political arrangement - she was the eldest child of a powerful warlord from the west, who had only daughters. I was sixteen at the time, didn’t think much of it except that it meant a banquet, and the end of an era: He was no longer a boy, as Garsiv and me still remained.
“He has three wives now, all of them great beauties. And I believe he thinks more about his dogs than he does any of them. He knows the dogs better, too. When he’s with any of them, he’s so polite that anyone might think he was with a courtly lady he has only just been acquainted with.” He gives a little laugh, though there’s nothing funny as far as she can see.
“My brother is a good man. He’s kind to his wives, as far as he notices them, and I doubt they think any more of him than he does of them. It’s perfectly natural, I’m sure my father must have been the same way. It’s the way of the nobility.” He’s not looking at her anymore. His eyes are fixed on the little puddle of bed sheets beside him, and he sounds suddenly very far away. She knows that attributing something to his father is his way of trying to reconcile himself to it when all else fails.
“But?” she prompts gently, running a light touch down his shoulder, trying to bring him back from wherever he has gone. He looks up at her, and something in his eyes makes him suddenly look at the same time very young and very determined.
“But I’m not really a noble,” he says, a fire in his voice that makes her wonder just how much time he has spent thinking about this, “and I can’t imagine looking at any person I am to spend my life with like she’s a pretty bird in a cage. If I don’t care enough about her to have a screaming row in the middle of the throne room, then I’m doing something wrong. And I can’t care that much about more than one person.”
As quickly as the fire comes it vanishes, and he softens.
“Tamina,” he murmurs quietly, reaching up to cup her face with a sword-calloused palm. “Believe this if you will believe nothing else: I would rather be a market seller in the streets of Nasaf with you by my side, than a king with a dozen pretty trinkets on my arm without you.”
“How fortunate for you, then, that you don’t have that choice to make.” The words are playful, teasing, but there’s no strength in her voice. She feels suddenly breathless, as though his words have filled her to the point where not even one more gasp of air could be forced down her throat. She doesn’t quite know why, but he’s close to her now, so close that she can smell the olive soap on his beard, and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore, and all there is left to do is lean forward just a bit and melt into him.
She kisses him gently, sweetly, relishing the feel of his mouth parting beneath hers, sliding her arms around his shoulders as he holds her close. For the first time since they were married, she feels rather than hopes that he belongs to her as completely as she ever could to him. It’s a heady sensation, if not one she has realised she was missing, and it demands not to be wasted. She pushes her husband onto his back, feeling a shiver run through her at the sight of her own anticipation reflected in his bright blue eyes.
**
Later, when they are both sticky and exhausted, she lies on top of him, sated and boneless. Beneath her, his skin is hot and slick with drying sweat, but she can find not the slightest desire to move. His arms lie across her back as he dozes, heavy and protective, and although she will never admit it to anyone outside their bedroom, the solid weight makes her feel safer than all the soldiers in Alamut. It is difficult to find the strength to lift her head, let alone speak, but she forces herself - there is something that needs to be said before they close this chapter.
“Dastan?”
“Mmm.” It’s not so much a response as a reflexive rumble in his chest, but she takes it.
“Just so you’re aware, we are not having a screaming fight in the throne room.” She waits for the sharp shudder of laughter that rips through him to pass before lying back down.
“Whatever you say, Princess,” he mutters, giving her back an absent-minded caress as she carefully pretends not to hear the mischief in his voice, “whatever you say.”
Author: Me
Pairing/Characters: Dastan/Tamina
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (Warning: Heavily implied sex)
Summary: Pointlessly fluffy one-shot - some months after their wedding, Tamina has a question.
Spoilers: The movie?
Disclaimer: If I owned Dastan, would I really be sitting here writing fan fiction?
Author's note: This is my first attempt at PoP fan fiction, so I'd love to hear your honest opinions. I'm a little worried about how the characterisations came out, especially Tamina.
“Do you plan to marry again?” She tosses the question out lightly, flippantly; pretending it hasn’t been pressing on her heart ever since that moment when he leapt out at her from behind a fountain in the palace gardens, and she fell in love with him.
Dastan, sprawled across their marriage bed, raises his head.
“Bored with me already, are you?” he asks with that lopsided grin of his, which tries so hard to be a smirk, and which never manages to be anything but boyish and open and adorable. He stretches a little and scratches his chest. “Looking to pawn me off on some poor girl after only five months. Has anyone ever told you that you lack stamina, Princess?”
“That’s not what you said five minutes ago, Prince,” she shoots back, flicking her hair over her shoulder and glaring at him. He blushes at that, faint but unmistakable beneath the scruff of his beard, and she can’t resist a triumphant smirk at his expense - it is, she thinks, nothing short of hilarious that her great Persian warrior of a husband, fearless in battle and in the face of death, can be so easily discomposed by a mildly suggestive comment.
Silence settles in their bedchamber again. Outside, the sun is setting, an orange globe hanging just above the horizon. The dying rays play across her husband’s sweat-dampened skin as he dozes, sated and exhausted from their recent activities. He’s beautiful, she realises, for the thousandth time; so different from the pale, delicate temple boys she was supposed to marry, but so, so beautiful. It still makes her breath catch in her throat every time.
“Why?” His voice is soft in the quiet room, and it startles her. She looks up to find him watching her intently, a thoughtful expression in his warm blue eyes. She stares back, caught off-guard.
“I’m your first wife,” she snaps finally, more sharply than she intends. “I think I am entitled to know whether you plan to have a second one.”
Dastan doesn’t say anything to that, which is a good thing, she thinks. That way, maybe she can avoid telling him that the thought of him touching another woman the way he touches her is like a blunt knife in her gut, or that the idea that he, he of all men, might one day talk about her with the same offhand disregard as Tus discusses his wives with makes her want to die.
He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps watching her, head cocked to one side as he takes her in. He looks like he’s thinking, and it makes her uncomfortable: Dastan thinking can lead to all sorts of strange places.
Finally, he seems to make up his mind about something.
“Well, I’m not,” he tells her, in that same quiet tone. There’s a timid little smile hovering on his lips, like he’s wanting to reassure her and be reassured at the same time, and it occurs to her that, for all his muscles and swords and armour, the Lion of Persia probably has more true gentleness in his nature than half the temple boys in Alamut combined.
“Why not?” She sounds petulant even to her own ears, and that only serves to make her crosser. The question gnaws at her spirit and she can’t let it go.
Dastan laughs at her.
“Why would I want another wife?” he demands playfully, eyes sparkling wickedly as he props himself up to look at her. “I can hardly manage the one I’ve got!”
He’s teasing her, she knows, it’s a joke, but it hits too close to home, sounds too much like something his brother might say, and she can’t laugh at it. Instead, she folds her arms across her breast and turns away, feigning a sudden interest in the birds swooping just beyond the window, afraid of what he might see if she lets him look upon her now.
“Tamina…” He’s not laughing anymore.
She doesn’t turn to look when she hears him move across the bed, remains proud and unyielding when his hand brushes hesitantly against her shoulder, quietly pleading.
There is a pause, and then a sharp exhalation of breath, like a horse snorting. She knows he’s blowing his hair out of his face, the way he does when he’s frustrated, and in that moment it suddenly bothers enormously that she does.
“Tamina.” It’s not a request anymore, it’s a statement of fact - he’s talking to her whether she likes it or not - and there’s a faint note of amused exasperation in his voice that can’t help but infuriate her.
“What?” she demands irritably, turning back just so she can glare at him. He’s closer now, sitting slumped behind her at not even arm’s length, legs curled up under him as he props himself up on one arm. Piecing blue eyes gaze up at her from behind a lank fringe.
“Tamina,” he says again. “I won’t marry again. I promise, all right? You’re all the woman I will ever need.”
The sentiment is sweet, and the way he says it, simple and open, even sweeter. It thaws her a little, but still she cannot be satisfied.
“How can you promise?” she demands, and if her emotions are running a little high now, she feels she can hardly be blamed. “What if Tus commands you to? Or your father? You think Alamut will be the only alliance that would benefit from a marriage to a Prince of Persia? What if the Empire-”
But Dastan doesn’t let her finish.
“The Empire,” he interrups, “will manage.” She opens her mouth again, but he doesn’t give her a chance to protest.
“Tus will manage,” he goes on. “There are other men, men of noble blood, who will do just as well as me, and I’m sure Garsiv will be more than happy to assist if necessary.”
He can no longer hide the laughter dancing in his eyes, an irresistible grin tugging at his mouth. She rolls her eyes at him and turns away in disgust. She feels silly now, and still not entirely reassured, and channelling her discomfort onto him seems like the best course of action.
Dastan sighs, and tries again.
“Shall I tell you something?” and then, without waiting for a response, “When I was a boy-”
“Is this going to be another one of those ‘Dastan the gutter rat learns a valuable lesson’ stories?” she has to ask, not bothering to hide the arch amusement etched on her face.
He has the decency to look mildly sheepish for a moment, dropping his eyes before catching hers again.
“No,” he says, “this is a ‘Dastan the gutter rat decides how he wants to spend his life’ story. Now, do you want to hear it or not?”
A shrug and a raised eyebrow are all the response he receives - she’s curious, she always is about his life before Alamut, but she’s not in the mood to admit it. It’s enough for Dastan.
“When I was a boy,” he starts again, “I used to spend a lot of my time around the market place; we all did. There was always someone who needed a message carried, or help setting up a stall, and most people would give you a bit of food or a few coins if you helped them.”
She swallows, but Dastan is too caught up in the memory to notice. She’s glad; she knows he sees nothing to pity in his childhood, and she knows equally well that it will never stop breaking her heart.
“There was this one place selling sweetmeats that Bis and I used to spend hours around, sometimes all day,” he goes on. “It belonged to an old man and his wife, and the wife took a liking to us, said we reminded her of her sons when they were young. They used to let us man the stall, and eat whatever got too damaged to be sold, so long as we weren’t the ones who damaged it.”
“Anyway, the point is,” he says, grinning a little at her raised eyebrow, “the point is that I used to watch this couple. A lot. They’d been married for god only knows how long - longer than either of them could remember, anyway. They knew each other better than they knew themselves. They fought like cat and dog - the amount of nuts Bis and I managed to scrounge because the wife couldn’t resist throwing the kettle after her husband and hitting the stall instead was incredible - but it wasn’t because they didn’t like each other, it was because they could. They were so comfortable together that they had no secrets, no masks left. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was kind of amazing. They just, I don’t know, they belonged to each other.”
“And then what?” She surprised at how much she suddenly wants to know, in spite of her disdain. Dastan shoots her a lopsided grin.
“And then my father took me in and I was too busy trying to work out my new life to think about the old one very much.”
“You thought about Bis,” she points out. “And the others.”
“Bis was more my brother than either of the princes; working out how to fit him in was the hardest part, it was all I thought about for weeks.” He shrugs. “The others were easy - they didn’t need a place in the palace, just on my payroll. And you’re distracting me from the point of the story, Princess.”
She rolls her eyes at him and earns a smirk in return. “Fine, then, what was the point?”
“When Tus was twenty-one, he married for the first time. It was a political arrangement - she was the eldest child of a powerful warlord from the west, who had only daughters. I was sixteen at the time, didn’t think much of it except that it meant a banquet, and the end of an era: He was no longer a boy, as Garsiv and me still remained.
“He has three wives now, all of them great beauties. And I believe he thinks more about his dogs than he does any of them. He knows the dogs better, too. When he’s with any of them, he’s so polite that anyone might think he was with a courtly lady he has only just been acquainted with.” He gives a little laugh, though there’s nothing funny as far as she can see.
“My brother is a good man. He’s kind to his wives, as far as he notices them, and I doubt they think any more of him than he does of them. It’s perfectly natural, I’m sure my father must have been the same way. It’s the way of the nobility.” He’s not looking at her anymore. His eyes are fixed on the little puddle of bed sheets beside him, and he sounds suddenly very far away. She knows that attributing something to his father is his way of trying to reconcile himself to it when all else fails.
“But?” she prompts gently, running a light touch down his shoulder, trying to bring him back from wherever he has gone. He looks up at her, and something in his eyes makes him suddenly look at the same time very young and very determined.
“But I’m not really a noble,” he says, a fire in his voice that makes her wonder just how much time he has spent thinking about this, “and I can’t imagine looking at any person I am to spend my life with like she’s a pretty bird in a cage. If I don’t care enough about her to have a screaming row in the middle of the throne room, then I’m doing something wrong. And I can’t care that much about more than one person.”
As quickly as the fire comes it vanishes, and he softens.
“Tamina,” he murmurs quietly, reaching up to cup her face with a sword-calloused palm. “Believe this if you will believe nothing else: I would rather be a market seller in the streets of Nasaf with you by my side, than a king with a dozen pretty trinkets on my arm without you.”
“How fortunate for you, then, that you don’t have that choice to make.” The words are playful, teasing, but there’s no strength in her voice. She feels suddenly breathless, as though his words have filled her to the point where not even one more gasp of air could be forced down her throat. She doesn’t quite know why, but he’s close to her now, so close that she can smell the olive soap on his beard, and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore, and all there is left to do is lean forward just a bit and melt into him.
She kisses him gently, sweetly, relishing the feel of his mouth parting beneath hers, sliding her arms around his shoulders as he holds her close. For the first time since they were married, she feels rather than hopes that he belongs to her as completely as she ever could to him. It’s a heady sensation, if not one she has realised she was missing, and it demands not to be wasted. She pushes her husband onto his back, feeling a shiver run through her at the sight of her own anticipation reflected in his bright blue eyes.
**
Later, when they are both sticky and exhausted, she lies on top of him, sated and boneless. Beneath her, his skin is hot and slick with drying sweat, but she can find not the slightest desire to move. His arms lie across her back as he dozes, heavy and protective, and although she will never admit it to anyone outside their bedroom, the solid weight makes her feel safer than all the soldiers in Alamut. It is difficult to find the strength to lift her head, let alone speak, but she forces herself - there is something that needs to be said before they close this chapter.
“Dastan?”
“Mmm.” It’s not so much a response as a reflexive rumble in his chest, but she takes it.
“Just so you’re aware, we are not having a screaming fight in the throne room.” She waits for the sharp shudder of laughter that rips through him to pass before lying back down.
“Whatever you say, Princess,” he mutters, giving her back an absent-minded caress as she carefully pretends not to hear the mischief in his voice, “whatever you say.”