#f!apprentice

[azzandra]

I started writing The Arcana fic which I never finished, but I returned to it recently and I keep waffling about this one bit and whether to keep it or not. 

but anyway

Have some Julian/Apprentice/Asra almost-threesome because I never got around to writing any of the spicy stuff. 

Sprawled as he was, Julian's arms hung over the top of the sofa's backrest, spreading outwards such that it created perfect negative space on either side of his torso for the two magicians to occupy. And, because nature abhors a vacuum, that was why Julian had one of them on either side, under each arm as they cuddled together on the sofa.

One of Philipa's legs was curled up under her, but the other was thrown carelessly over Julian's lap, and Asra had managed to lock one ankle around Julian's, snaring him as inescapably as a hunter's trap. Not that Julian minded being pinned in place at all between the two creatures; even when their attentions were solely on each other, Julian enjoyed being caught in the heat of their crossfire. 

Which was not to say they were always bickering. Or that Julian could even tell when they were--he had yet to fully learn how to interpret the panoply of little gazes and microexpressions they exchanged when they spoke without speaking. Did magicians read minds? That sounded like a thing magicians might do, to Julian. He might have even said so out loud, which brought them into a discussion about auras.

Julian didn't know shit about auras, all he knew was that he liked the sound of their voices as they tried to explain.

"We don't really perceive auras with our regular senses," Philipa was explaining, her fingers tracing a delicate line along the deep V of his shirt. 

Julian was so distracted by the barely-felt path of her fingers, he only belatedly made an interested sound, "Oh?"

On his other side, Asra was watching him from under his eyelashes. Julian could feel the weight of Asra's violet gaze even more than he felt Philipa's physical touch, for all that Asra looked like he barely deigned to acknowledge Julian's existence most of the time. He had a drink in his hand, something fruity and cyan-colored, and as he traced the rim with a finger, ice formed inside the glass; the exterior of the glass was goosebumped with condensation. What a strangely mundane use for magic.

"We do sort of... see auras, as colors, as impressions," Philipa continued, and her fingers slipped the border of Julian's shirt to touch skin and slide across chest hair curiously. Julian had to smother the impulse to arch up and make her touch more solid. His blood sang in a steady thrum as he was caught between these two; not quite arousal, but a pleasant slow boil that might lead to it. Maybe he was feeling their auras. Most likely, it was the satisfaction of being in the presence of two attractive individuals at the same time.

"That, uh... doesn't sound all that useful," Julian said distractedly.

Asra snorted quietly. His disdain was a delicate thing, but it tugged at something hot in Julian's belly. The delicate equilibrium of sensations in Julian's body momentarily tilted, swayed, sent prickles down his back. Julian turned his head towards Asra, quirking an eyebrow.

"You don't really know that it isn't," Asra challenged.

Julian grinned toothily in response.

"Why don't you enlighten me then, O great magician?" he replied.

Asra's lids lowered, and he looked at Julian from under his eyelashes as a smile slowly spread across his face. Then Asra shrugged, as if it was no great burden to him to educate some fool.

"For the skilled practitioner," Asra said, his fingers dipping into his drink to fish out a chip of ice, "auras can reveal a great deal about someone. It can indicate if someone is being deceptive, if they are afflicted by any curses, if they are strong with magic. It can even reveal mundane things, such as state of mind--"

Julian's attention had been on Asra's shapely mouth, the words washing over him almost unheeded, and so he did not notice the quick work of Asra's fingers until he was already pressing the ice against Julian's abdomen. The sudden coolness, sharp and almost painful, made Julian's muscles jump, and his spine arch involuntarily. He hissed in surprise.

"--or arousal," Asra finished his lecture serenely.

Julian's mouth fell open, but words stuck in his throat. As though Asra had knocked down the levees himself, desire flooded through Julian's system, burning and acid in contrast to the pleasant warmth he'd been basking in before. A twinge of humiliation, as Julian found himself revealed so starkly, turned into another spike of arousal, quickly subsumed by the betrayal of his body.

The way Asra smirked wasn't making it any better.

"Asra!" Philipa chided, her cool hand pressing into Julian's chest more firmly now, as though he might float away if she was not keeping him down. The ice had melted into a trickle of water, trailing down past his navel like a cold finger and stopping its progression at his waistband.

Julian's face turned to her next, and his tongue felt too thick to form words, but he wanted to plead with her not to stop this--yet the look on Philipa's face now was too much a mirror of Asra's, and it was Julian's sudden realization that he was caught between them.

"Don't let him scare you, Julian," Philipa said, her voice buttery-sweet as she looked at him. "Auras can't reveal everything about you. Most of the time, you can use your own eyes and see about the same things." 

Her palm still pressed against his chest, and her fingers played with the russet hairs as though fascinated by their existence. 

"You certainly don't need to read auras to know the signs of arousal. You can learn that from your medical textbooks. Dilated pupils, flushed skin..." 

Her fingers trailed a path to the nearest nipple, circling its hard peak in a way that made lightning shoot through Julian's body, and he was certain that was not magic either. He panted under the onslaught of unexpected sensations, trying to keep from unraveling.

"...labored breath..." Philipa continued, her voice lowering as her lips coming up to his ear as though imparting a secret, "...engorgement of the--"

"Hah," Julian's head fell back as he tried laughing but found himself merely exhaling a sharp breath. Yes, yes, he recalled what the textbook said. His... relevant anatomical feature was... decidedly engorged at the moment, straining against his trousers in a way that he was absolutely certain could not escape anyone's notice.

They were enjoying this, making him squirm, seeing him cut open before them like a specimen, spilling out all the raw and ugly things inside.

"His condition seems serious," Asra remarked with an impressive imitation of medical detachment, but his cheeks were flushed as he looked to Philipa, and Philipa giggled in response, and so Julian did not feel like the only one revealing himself at that moment. This served to do nothing but stoke his desire even more.

"Ought to do something about it," Philipa agreed--and then her hand fell to Julian's thigh.

Asra made a noncommittal sound, but the way a smile curled around his lips made him seem more coy than aloof.

Julian would have spared a few stray wits wondering how he'd gotten into this situation, but then, that was not necessary at this very moment.

[memaidraws]

The beautiful Ashlyn for @ghostfacefun ♥ What a beautiful apprentice, I’m so happy to work on her (and with such a cute theme too!)

Just a couple more to do, guys! I’m so sorry it’s taken this long, but I’m back on my feet now!

[adjectivebear]

Tales From The Clinic (Chapter 1)

Rating: G Pairing: Julian + F!Apprentice Summary: A series of vignettes from the plague years. Chapter summary: In which one (1) overworked doctor takes on an apprentice.

Julian jolts awake.

No. No no no, when did he fall asleep? He can’t afford sleep, not when the city is being ravaged by plague! What sort of doctor is he?

He gazes forlornly at his journal. He’d been using it as a pillow, and the most recent pages are irreparably smudged. What was the last thing he’d written before nodding off? Damn it, he can’t remember! He might have discovered the cure, and now it’s lost forever because he couldn’t stay awake a bit longer. God, isn’t that just like him!

A loud knock interrupts his thoughts.

A patient.

Julian laughs bitterly, scrubbing at his eyes. Of all the doctors in Vesuvia, this poor soul decided to come to him.

Heaven help them.

“No. Run. Save yourself,” he mutters.

His visitor takes no heed, their knocks growing louder as he makes his way to the front door and flings it open.

A lovely young woman stands on his doorstep, her small fist poised to knock again. Her golden eyes are bright and alert, her complexion rosy, and nothing in her carriage suggests pain.

“Doctor Devorak, I presume?” Her voice is soft and clear, ruling out a number of ailments of the throat.

“At your service, Miss--?”

“Hale,” she says. She sticks out her hand. “Shayara Hale. I’ve come to help.”

Julian blinks.

She frowns slightly, letting the hand drop back to her side. “You’re treating those afflicted by the Red Plague, aren’t you? I want to help.”

“Oh. Ah… yes, I... Yes,” Julian says.

A job. She wants a job.

Well. He hadn’t been in the market for an assistant, but it couldn’t hurt to have an extra set of hands around, could it? He belatedly rakes his fingers through his unkempt curls, vaguely aware that he’s in no shape to conduct an interview. “Right, then. Languages spoken?”

“Er... just the one, I’m afraid,” Miss Hale says, her cheeks growing rosier. “Is that going to be a problem?”

It was totally irrelevant, in fact; it had just been the first question to pop into his drowsy mind. Julian opens his mouth to tell her as much, but decides to simply move on. “How many years of medical training have you had, Miss Hale?”

She looks a bit sheepish. “Oh. Well... none, actually. I’m a magician. But I’m quite skilled in potion-making and--”

Julian shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Hale. No offense, of course, I’m sure you’re absolutely marvellous at what you do, but this is a medical clinic. There’s no place for witchcraft here.”

She grasps his hand before he can close the door.

“Please,” she says, staring beseechingly up at him. “Doctor, this is my home. People I love are dying out there. I just… I can’t be useless.”

And whether it’s because Julian knows that feeling all too well, or because of how painfully his heart clenches at the sight of those big, sad eyes, he hears himself saying, “Fine,” before he quite realizes what he’s doing.

“Really?”

Apparently.

“You’ll be starting small,” he says firmly. “Learning the basics of medicine before I let you anywhere near anyone infected with plague.”

“Yes, of course, I would expect nothing less. Thank you, Doctor!”

“And I meant what I said. I’ll have none of your hocus pocus in my clinic.”

“You have my word,” Miss Hale says, crossing her heart.

Julian scrubs a hand over his face. “Right. I guess we’ll start your training, then? And I’m... going to need a lot of coffee.”

“Perfect,” Miss Hale says brightly, brushing past him in a rustle of skirts and a cloud of orange blossom perfume. “I make excellent coffee!”

So, he has an apprentice now? Is that what just happened?

Julian closes the door with a sigh and follows after her.

Hopefully she was serious about the coffee.

[mexi-doodler]

Kind of jumped into The Arcana bandwagon and made my own f!apprentice...  >v>;  Anyways, meet Rina!

[befooled]

“What do you think, Julian?~ 💖” does a friggin twirl

[adjectivebear]

Complications

You know I’m in too deep when fic starts happening.

Rating: G Pairings: Current Asra x F!Apprentice, past Asra x Julian Summary: Julian just generally has a lot of feelings.

“Do you still have feelings for him?”

Julian starts, a hot flush rising in his cheeks. Of all the things he could have expected to hear from Asra’s little darling, that is perhaps the last.

Dread settles heavily in his heart as he turns to face her, but he finds no accusation in her warm golden eyes. No jealousy. No, she’s just regarding him calmly, a quizzical tilt to her pretty head, asking him an honest question.

God, he’s never been more uncomfortable in his life.

He opens his mouth, willing some clever deflection to emerge, but his tongue is lead. And his silence, it seems, is all the answer she needs.

Shayara smiles gently.

Julian wants to crawl under the floorboards and die.

“It’s alright,” she says.

It isn’t, actually. Quite the opposite, in fact: it’s The Worst, and Julian would absolutely love to tell her so provided he’s able to find his voice again before the earth swallows him whole.

“Julian,” she says softly, enfolding his hand in both of hers. “I’m glad he had you.”

He swallows hard as she rises up on her toes to kiss his burning cheek.

Because how do you tell a woman who can’t remember a second of the countless hours she spent at your side that you still have feelings for her, too?

[adjectivebear]

Sleepless

Julian, why are you such a goddamn joy to write?

Rating: G Pairing: Mention of F!Apprentice x Asra Summary: TFW the hardest part of your job is keeping your boss alive despite his best efforts. (Spoilers for the plague years.)

Dawn has not yet broken when Shayara lets herself in to the clinic.

Brundle, curled in her bed by the entrance, barely lifts her head in acknowledgement, and Shayara smiles wryly.

“You are an absolutely useless guard dog,” she says quietly, crouching down to scratch behind the hound’s floppy ears. Brundle thumps her tail loudly against the floor, unperturbed by the criticism.

Shayara continues deeper into the clinic, lighting the lamps as she goes. She finds Doctor Devorak in his office, already wide awake and scribbling frantically into his journal.

No, she realizes, noting his wan complexion and the purpling skin around his eyes. Already is the wrong word. He is still awake.

Shayara tuts disapprovingly as she sets her basket at the edge of his desk, but the doctor pays her no mind until she uncaps the carafe of fresh coffee she’s brought. At once, his weary grey eyes focus on her with the intensity of a bird of prey. He lets out a moan of pleasure.

“Dear girl, you are a goddess of mercy made flesh. Give it here.”

Shayara laughs, producing a pair of earthenware cups from her basket. She pours the steaming liquid--brewed double strength, just the way he likes it--into the larger, and passes it to him. She cries out in alarm as he downs the entirety one swig, but if it burns his throat he gives no indication of pain. Though perhaps, she supposes, the poor man is too exhausted to feel much of anything.

He hands the cup back to her. “More. Please,” he adds as an afterthought, looking slightly sheepish.

Shayara obliges, filling the cup once again. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

“No time for that,” Doctor Devorak says briskly, reaching for his cup. “I just need--”

“Ah!” Shayara scolds, holding the coffee aloft. “You will eat, or you will not get another drop.”

“There’s no time,” the doctor says, a whine creeping into his voice as he tries for the cup. Shayara raises it higher. “I’m so close to a breakthrough I can taste it.”

“And you’ll reach it all the faster on a full stomach.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, darling,” Doctor Devorak insists, making another half-hearted attempt for the coffee. “I’ll have you know I do all my best thinking in precisely this condition. I shall cure this plague or die trying.”

“And if you die trying--a likelier scenario by the day--who is going to carry on producing this cure you’re on to, hmm? Heaven knows I can’t read your writing.”

Doctor Devorak has no response to that.

Keeping the coffee just out of reach (it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that he need only stand to seize it), Shayara one-handedly unpacks the hearty repast she’s brought: bite-sized egg tarts, cold meat and cheese, a loaf of bread, and butter and honey for the same. “Eat,” she says sternly. “Don’t test me.”

She lowers the cup as incentive, and Doctor Devorak accepts it gratefully, a crimson flush staining his pale cheeks.

“You... present a reasonable argument,” he mutters defeatedly, obediently selecting an egg tart from the spread.

Shayara stares him down until he’s taken a bite.

“Good man,” she says cheerfully, lowering herself into the chair in front of the desk. She pours her own coffee over a generous serving of cream, then sets about slicing the bread.

Shayara is exhausted and sore by the time she returns to the clinic in the evening. Even so, her work is not finished. There are medicines to prepare, instruments to sterilize, bandages and blankets to launder. She’ll be here well past midnight.

It’s overwhelming. All of it. The plague. The disrepair into which Vesuvia is falling. The desperation increasingly consuming every man, woman, and child. The wretched knowledge of how very little she and Doctor Devorak are really capable of against this pitiless disease.

Shayara rests her forehead against the dry plaster wall, and for a moment she allows herself to feel overwhelmed. To feel helpless. To fear for her Aunt Vee, already quarantined in the Lazaret. To miss Asra, wherever he’s gone, and wish fervently--selfishly--that she could feel his arms around her; that she could look into his sweet face and hear him tell her everything will be alright.

But only for a moment.

And when the moment has passed, Shayara plants her feet squarely on the weathered terracotta floor and makes herself breathe. In through the nose for the count of three, out through the mouth for the count of four. Her aura pulses, warm and soothing, to the rhythm of her breath, and gradually her anxiety is wicked away into the night.

When she has calmed herself suitably, she straightens. She glances at her basket, filled to the brim with soiled bedding and bandages, and hopes Doctor Devorak is in a helpful mood.

He is far from it, in fact, and Shayara must stifle a laugh when she finds the dear man fast asleep on the couch in his office (for which he is a foot too long), an enormous book clutched to his chest.

“Ah, well. You’ll be helping with the next round of washing,” Shayara whispers. She carefully prizes the tome from his long fingers, sets it on the table beside him, and fetches a clean blanket from the linen closet.

He stirs, mumbling inarticulately as she drapes the blanket over him.

“Shh,” she says, smiling as she tucks it snugly around his lean frame. His coloring has already improved, just a little. “Rest now.”

And she sits beside him, stroking his hair, until he falls still once more.

[befooled]

some new hair stylin for apprentice-cerise

she sad about julian, send her some lovin