Final Fantasy XII (Ashe/Vossler) [week 2, prompt 1]
Title: Taste of Almonds Author: Sister Coyote Rating: Not worksafe/adult Word Count: 500 Warnings: Mild spoilers? Summary: "I should not be here at all," he said, and she could tell by his tone that he was in one of his moods. AU.
Ashe did not quite realize how much secrecy had become a habit with Vossler until she found him waiting for her in her chambers with the balcony doors locked and shuttered, lit only by the oil lamp on the ornate bedside table.
"We are not rebels in hiding, any longer," she said, using exasperation to mask the sadness she felt. She went to the window and threw open the laquered shutters and then the glass doors, so that her room was open to the cold desert air, the silver-blue light of the moon riding high and full above the shadows of the city buildings. "We need not be so careful here."
"I should not be here at all," he said, and she could tell by his tone that he was in one of his moods. He studied his scarred hands, scarred arms, the old burns that she knew he saw as marks of his shame. She had never been able to tell him that she loved the marks of his body, even the burns; the map of his history writ in fire on his skin.
"You should be where I bid you," she said, lightly, "for I am your liege and queen and wife, so stay your mouth from such thoughts." She shed her robe and then, for a moment at least, he obeyed her.
But he came back quick, words swift to his lips: "I do not merit -- "
"We have been over this," she said, "again and again, and I tire of the conversation." She caught his hand, kissed the palm with its pink scar. "Lie back."
He did so, and she cast off the blanket and knelt over him, drawing from the bedside-table a cut-glass bottle of amaretto, sweet gold. He smiled, all despite himself, when she tilted it a little and a little more, until a drop fell in the hollow of his throat. "We shall make a mess of the bedsheets."
"The maids are overzealous," Ashe said, "they change them daily." She poured a little more, on the hollow of his throat, his breastbone, the dip of his belly; his skin was sweet from the bath and sweeter still with the taste of almonds, and she found each scar as she went, and the skin between them.
He spoke her name as she went lower, softly, and made no move to hold her shoulders or her hair as she licked him from root to tip, though she saw his fingers clench in the crisp bedsheets. She fumbled a moment to put the bottle back on the table, her mouth still sweet with it, and then salt-sweet when she took him in. After a little while he put his fingertips under her jaw to draw her up, and she went until she was kneeling, licking her lips, looking at him.
Before he could speak, she said, "I want all of you," and he smiled, finally, and nodded, and let go of her; and she moved over him once again.