Sanguine
Title: Sanguine
Date posted: 01-10-13
Fandom: Defiance (shut up)
Word count: 500
Disclaimer: These characters definitely don't belong to me, but instead to SyFy.
Characters: Stahma and Datak Tarr.
Notes: No, you read that correctly, I am writing fic for a show that isn't airing until April and it is all hearts_blood's fault! Well, her fault, and Jaime Murray and Tony Curran's, for being so damn enthusiastic and charming. So everything is probably going to be totally wrong! hearts_blood gave me the prompt "diamond in the rough."
Everything was coarser with Datak, less polished. The burrs and snarls of his accent, his hands, the fabric of his coat were rougher than Stahma was used to. It set a flame beneath her skin to think of it, the difference between Datak and the men who had courted her on Casti. Their manners had been slick with perfection, oozing courtesy with dropped eyes and hands that hovered but never touched. Datak looked at her openly, close to glaring, and when he reached he gripped and held.
He was different, but her blood sang to think of it, her soft hands itching to hold on in return. A proper lady would demur with gentle phrases and turn her face, but Stahma knew that this was a man whose gaze she could hold, whose challenge she could meet.
(And his cheeks were rough but his kiss was tender, oh, and Stahma yearned.)
Datak didn’t stammer courtesies. What he didn’t know he made up, and if there were barriers he shouldered through without a thought to the damage. He made no apologies for his actions, but he tilted his head to better hear what Stahma murmured: ideas or corrections or a pleasantry that might smooth ruffled feathers. He was a great man, she realized, but she could help him. Together they could form whole universes in the dark, the tips of their noses just brushing as they whispered, his fingers curving on the ridge of her hip. What they could achieve together was greater than they ever could apart.
And still, beneath his bravado, there was the quick intake of breath upon seeing her, the tremble of his hands as they rasp down her sides, the sweet hesitance of his lips at her throat. It took him their entire voyage to learn to sleep through the night, without jerking awake to protect what was his as he had on the streets; it took only two weeks of the negotiations to unlearn it. Datak Tarr may not know pretty verses or high courtesies, but he could sell a pelt to a Liberata with his words alone and feared no one, Human or Votan.
The friends she had on the arks, who had married the landless princes of their caste, had eyed Datak with barely concealed fear. Is he a beast? they asked, picturing dramatic scenes wherein he had carried her off against her will, sniggering with heartless glee, his hands leaving lurid marks on the pristine white of her cloak.
One would never guess that steadied his wife when she reached for a high shelf, that he taught her bawdy brothel songs to make her laugh and sought her counsel over all others. Stahma relished the ferocity of his emotions, his roars in politics and growls in her bed, and shuddered to think of the bloodless life she might have had with others.
Datak’s ambition was matched only by his passion, and Stahma couldn’t imagine having anyone else.
Date posted: 01-10-13
Fandom: Defiance (shut up)
Word count: 500
Disclaimer: These characters definitely don't belong to me, but instead to SyFy.
Characters: Stahma and Datak Tarr.
Notes: No, you read that correctly, I am writing fic for a show that isn't airing until April and it is all hearts_blood's fault! Well, her fault, and Jaime Murray and Tony Curran's, for being so damn enthusiastic and charming. So everything is probably going to be totally wrong! hearts_blood gave me the prompt "diamond in the rough."
Everything was coarser with Datak, less polished. The burrs and snarls of his accent, his hands, the fabric of his coat were rougher than Stahma was used to. It set a flame beneath her skin to think of it, the difference between Datak and the men who had courted her on Casti. Their manners had been slick with perfection, oozing courtesy with dropped eyes and hands that hovered but never touched. Datak looked at her openly, close to glaring, and when he reached he gripped and held.
He was different, but her blood sang to think of it, her soft hands itching to hold on in return. A proper lady would demur with gentle phrases and turn her face, but Stahma knew that this was a man whose gaze she could hold, whose challenge she could meet.
(And his cheeks were rough but his kiss was tender, oh, and Stahma yearned.)
Datak didn’t stammer courtesies. What he didn’t know he made up, and if there were barriers he shouldered through without a thought to the damage. He made no apologies for his actions, but he tilted his head to better hear what Stahma murmured: ideas or corrections or a pleasantry that might smooth ruffled feathers. He was a great man, she realized, but she could help him. Together they could form whole universes in the dark, the tips of their noses just brushing as they whispered, his fingers curving on the ridge of her hip. What they could achieve together was greater than they ever could apart.
And still, beneath his bravado, there was the quick intake of breath upon seeing her, the tremble of his hands as they rasp down her sides, the sweet hesitance of his lips at her throat. It took him their entire voyage to learn to sleep through the night, without jerking awake to protect what was his as he had on the streets; it took only two weeks of the negotiations to unlearn it. Datak Tarr may not know pretty verses or high courtesies, but he could sell a pelt to a Liberata with his words alone and feared no one, Human or Votan.
The friends she had on the arks, who had married the landless princes of their caste, had eyed Datak with barely concealed fear. Is he a beast? they asked, picturing dramatic scenes wherein he had carried her off against her will, sniggering with heartless glee, his hands leaving lurid marks on the pristine white of her cloak.
One would never guess that steadied his wife when she reached for a high shelf, that he taught her bawdy brothel songs to make her laugh and sought her counsel over all others. Stahma relished the ferocity of his emotions, his roars in politics and growls in her bed, and shuddered to think of the bloodless life she might have had with others.
Datak’s ambition was matched only by his passion, and Stahma couldn’t imagine having anyone else.