#kipling the apprentice

Zurkhi swept his bright red hair out of his eyes. Loose, bell-capped sleeves hung off her shoulders, her crop top cut over her midriff, her shorts over halfway down her muscled thighs, showing off enough of the gleaming brown of her skin that it took a moment, and then another, for him to realize that he was staring. Cursing himself internally, he prepared to apologize- but when his turquoise eyes met hers- the Suasor found neither reproach nor confusion- but a faint spark of something else in them. 

Oh. 

“Not at all,” he managed to say, collecting himself, and offering a smile of his own. “I prefer company to solitude. And,” he shrugged, tearing his eyes away from her to gesture to the pots around her. “I see you are at work.” 

“Only dropping off some deliveries.” She said sweetly, picking up one of the pots, the flowers bobbing beneath her wide smile, beneath the glinting turquoise of her nose piercing. “Don’t mind me.”  

She got closer to him, the cowrie shells at her neck and wrists singing with the bounce in her step, and, when she was close enough that she brushed against his chest, she got to her tiptoes to place the pot over the stone-ledge. Her thick, cascading curls, the half of which was not tied into twin-buns, swept over Zurkhi’s arms and the bare skin at his collar.  

Don’t mind me, she said. 

He flushed, all the way down from his scarred cheek to his chest. 

It never happened with him, never happened for him, really- and he had made peace with it as he had made peace with the scars on his face, with the ways of his own history. But he found himself eager as he read it anyway, this spark of her eager interest, this playful coyness with which she dropped back to her feet to read him right back. 

She dusted her palms, her eyes locked on his, and he held out his own. “Zurkhi.”  

He sensed that she could hear the breathlessness in his voice. Sensed too, that it pleased her as much as it surprised her. “Kipling.” 

“Kipling.” He echoed, letting his turquoise gaze trail over her face, lingering on her eyes, the faint flush on her cheeks, the curve of her lips. Her hands were calloused where his were scarred, palms warm where his were cold and grooved. 

 They were hands that built things, he thought, grew things- gentle, beautiful things like the bright begonias that splashed color at the corners of his vision. For a moment, he imagined her tending to them, these hands tilting a can of water, these gentle fingers stroking over tender leaves- her voice whispering to them, perhaps, soothing things, patient things, so that they would rise slowly from the earth and reach towards the light.  

He wondered how they would feel against his lips, against his face, against the tattoo that ran down his scarred back. Wondered if they would feel as the spring rain does to the hungry earth. 

All at once, he wanted to draw her by the hand to hold her in his arms, to rest his head against her shoulder, to breathe in the scent of cocoa butter and soft earth and springtime. 

“Are you alright?” Her eyes softened. Zurkhi nodded, and smiled. “It is a delight to meet you.” He lingered for a moment, and let her go, their fingers lacing gently into each other’s even as they parted. 

She took a step back, the backs of her calves brushing against the leaves. “I’d have thought you’d burn a hole in those plants,” she teased, “that’s how intently you were gazing at them.” 

Zurkhi chuckled, tugging at the end of his ponytail. “I do get lost in my thoughts-” he confessed, “I could only rein them in when I have, or well,” he glanced at the flowers, “pretend to have a listener.” 

Kipling raised an eyebrow, and walked past him to sit on one of the stone benches by the side of the walkway. A stray flower drifted to her lap, and she patted the space beside her. “I can listen to you. I’m rather good at it.” 

“Could you?” He followed her, sitting down close enough, that when she sidled even closer, their legs brushed against each other’s- her bare warm skin against the cotton of his palazzo pants. “I could.” She cradled her chin in her palm. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go back to gazing at the plants.” 

He savored the suggestion in her golden-brown eyes, the barely-teasing touch of her skin. Folding his papers to one hand, he let the other fall to her knee, and caught her eyes, their brilliant turquoise matching the jewels on her piercings, her breath catching at the intensity of his gaze. “I would much rather gaze at you.” 

She beamed at him, her cheeks flushing darker as she leaned forward a little more. “Talk to me.” 

Zurkhi took a moment to blink, distracted by her proximity. 

And then, he did.  

He ran through his address and then some, offering her his hope, his conviction, his beliefs, the parts he still had to parse through and string together, the parts he had considered and discarded, until the papers, and his voice, nearly ran themselves out.  

Kipling listened to him, her eyes brightening with every lift in his voice as though it held her in some form of thrall, her bracelets brushing against his knee, her legs knocking against his- nodding where he paused, asking questions where they needed to be asked, redirecting him gently when he went on a tangent for too long, and bringing him back when his words flew from him as they so often did.  

There was nothing life-changing about this address- Zurkhi knew that; only a few rather routine ideas- but she listened as though they held more meaning than he thought it did, with stars in her eyes and her palm to her cheek like she had hardly listened to anything so striking before. 

And by the seven seas, it felt so good. 

“And that,” Zurkhi sighed, finally, “was what I was thinking of- before you came along.” 

He tucked his papers into his pockets, feeling the knots in his chest ease, his heart lifting and rushing at that sudden lightness. At her.  

Kipling tilted her head, still curious- as though she had not heard quite enough. “And what were you thinking of, after I came along?” She was teasing, the lilt in her voice suggesting that she expected him to respond in jest. 

He chose earnest, instead. 

“Of you,” Zurkhi dropped his voice to a whisper, and took her hand again. “Of your hands.” 

Kipling swallowed, and looked away to catch her breath. “What about my hands?” 

“That they are hands touched with light.” He clasped them tighter. “That they are hands that could grow things- that they are hands that could hold the springtime and bring it home.” 

Kipling bit her lip, lashes fluttering. But she did not miss the faint wistfulness in his voice. “Anyone can grow things, Zurkhi.”  

He dropped her hands, opened his own palms in the space between them. Kipling reached out, tempted to trace over the deep lines of old scars on his brown skin. But then, she settled on placing a hand on his slender shoulder, instead, her throat tightening at the sight of them, so many of them, just as they were on his face, disappearing down his neck, running up his sleeves- 

“I cannot.” He said quietly, cutting into her thoughts. “I have not. Flowers do not bloom by these hands.” 

“Of course they do.” She argued, pressing his shoulder insistently. “Have you tried?” 

“I have-” Zurkhi’s smile was a tired thing. “I have never had the occasion to.” 

“Until now.”  

He searched her face, took in the quiet, sweet stubbornness of her expression.  

Until now. 

He remembered the voice of an old, distant friend. 

Seasons change, Zurkhi. 

“Until now.” He admitted. 

She got to her feet, and he rose with her. Kipling tucked a strand of his wild red hair behind his ear, lingering to graze his earrings with her fingertips as she drew back. “I have a shop, down at South End. You could ask anyone around for me. I can prove you wrong about that.” 

“Will there be roses?” He murmured. “Will you show me how to grow roses?” 

“All kinds of roses.” 

“I do love wildroses.” 

“I could bring you wildroses.” She stepped away, before he could reach for her. “Come over, after your address.” 

He had nearly forgotten all about it. 

She turned to go, but she did not. As Zurkhi laced up his boots, he noticed that she was pausing to fuss with the plants, straighten every pot, a subtle sway in her hips- her gait carefully languorous. 

As breathless as he was, as riveted and astonished, Zurkhi had enough of his faculties about him to know what it meant. 

She was waiting. 

“For the roses, or for you?”  

Kipling stopped in her tracks, looking over her shoulder, the sun pouring gold into the teasing, triumphant quirk of her lips. “What do you mean?” 

He jogged a little to get closer to her. “What I said, Kipling.” He leaned against one of the ledges, letting his eyes rove hungrily over her. “For the roses, or for you?” 

In the space of a heartbeat, Kipling closed the space between them, leaned up ever so slightly, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lip, right where his scar seamed to skin. Her warmth suffused him, spread through him like wildfire from only the soft touch of her lips- but before he could wrap his arms around her waist and hold her in place, she had pulled back, sauntering away from him, throwing another, beckoning glance over her shoulder. “You’ll have to see for yourself, Zurkhi.” 

With that, she turned a corner, muffling a delighted giggle behind her palm, and was gone. 

Later, as he was rushing up the Palace stairs, smiling unabashedly, his cheeks still flaming from where she had touched him, one of his aides, predictably, took notice. 

“Spring in your step today, Suasor,” They narrowed their eyes playfully. 

Asra hadn’t had time to dress for the occasion. As the permanent Court Magician, he was always swamped with research and ongoing experiments. He knew his partner, Kipling Bronne, wouldn’t mind that he came to her as he was. In fact, she probably preferred it.

Still, the cloud-haired magician felt himself sticking out like a sore thumb. Guests were serving more body than costume. Their clasps and chains and streaks of laced fabric were mere highlights to the generous amounts of skin that shone and glistened even under the weakest of candle light.

Meanwhile, Asra kicked up a breeze with the trailing ends of his outer jacket and the layers within. His signature red scarf came along for the ride. He walked with purpose, parting the wave through the masqueraders like a headmaster going about their midnight rounds. 

By the time Asra made it to the rendezvous point, he had broken out in a fine sweat. He opened an iron gate into an enclosure overrun with plants and outdated stonework.

“Kipling?” He called out to the leafy dark. “I’m here.”

Ears sharpened by long term magical training, Asra heard the sound of a ward being activated. He was in her realm now.

“Magus Alnazar,” Kipling greeted as she stepped out from the shadows. His breath caught at the volume of coils and curls, interrupted by corkscrews of silver near her temple. Even from a distance, Asra could sense that she walked as tall as him that night. Her costume was a blend of nightcall temptation and black cat. 

Or rather a fox, but in black morph.

“Kip,” Asra breathed, both hating and loving when she addressed him by a formal title. It meant she wanted to play games. As much as Asra loved to tease and taunt his partners, it was always Kipling that knew just the right jab to throw him off. If neither of them backed down, the two of them could go all night.

Kipling approached with a lump of corded binders slung over her forearm like it was a handbag. But it had to be heavy. She dropped it at Asra’s feet unceremoniously when they were face to face.

“Burning the midnight oil again. How was my map?”

Asra carded a hand through his shaggy white curls. “You took me along the scenic route. So, I’m a little sweaty. Didn’t have time to stop for a bath.”

Behind the simple black mask, Kip’s face was unreadable. She kept her mouth set in an easy smirk regardless of what he said.

“That’s all right. You came to me when I called. That’s all that matters.”

She came forward to remove his reading glasses – Salim’s old glasses. Since becoming a full time Court Magician, Asra had taken on the habit of shaving less and growing his hair long and untamed. It drove the other courtiers crazy. It had a likewise effect on Kipling, but for entirely different reasons.

“Rules?” Asra asked as Kip gently set the glasses to the side before beginning the lengthy process of disrobing him.

A tilt of the head. Eyes fixed on their task. “You can talk. But you know better than to touch wild animals. And while you’re at it, you shouldn’t touch yourself either.”

Asra’s white eyelashes shuttered over brown eyes. There were hues of astral purple as well, but less than when he was younger. He wet his lips when the base layer of his robe came off. 

“What happens if I do, Vixen?”

Kip looked up at that. “Then it’s over. This realm disappears. And I with it.”

“Fair enough,” Asra huffed. Part of him wanted to test that to see if Kip was bluffing. But after his pants came down, he decided it wasn’t worth losing this moment with the dark fox kneeling down by his feet.

Kip made him wear a collar. 

“Bring the rope.” 

Asra scrambled to pick up the bindings. Kip was already pulling him along by a leash. He gathered the black cords and entered the slack, following Kip deeper into the stone garden where a stool waited for him.

Asra sat and swallowed through the dryness in his throat when Kip brought out the blindfold. She jerked his head back while putting it on.

“Stop squirming, Magus.”

“I want to see you.” 

Besides, it was within the rules. She hadn’t said anything against squirming or resisting. 

A chuckle. “You see me every day.” She moved on to tying him up with shibari knots.

“Not like this.” Asra was trying very hard not to whine. He turned his head as naturally as he could, hoping he would bump into Kip in a way that would make her want to caress him. Or kiss him.

He was only shoved backwards.

“Nice try.”

Asra shouted at the loss of his balance. But he was caught, the shibari knots kneading pleasantly into his back. He was pulled forward slowly until he had his balance again.

“Okay, okay. I’ve learned my lesson.” 

A crude comeback rolled off Kip’s tongue.

You’re a liar.

She had said it in Zadithi, which made Asra’s cock twitch against the knots. Then, two fingers walked down his chest. Two became one at his navel, tracing a line through his pale happy trail until they found his erect tip.

Another dry swallow.

“I’m not allowed to touch you, but you can touch me. s that right?”

“That’s right.” And then. “You think you can tempt me, don’t you? To touch you in earnest. You think you can make me drop the act and skip this very important lesson.”

Asra smiled. “I know it won’t be easy, but yeah, I do.”

A breathy laugh. 

Asra’s ears pricked when he sensed Kip leaning close to them. She had no words for him. Only the sound of her breath. It came out husky and full of want. The kind of want that came from a carnal, lawless place. Asra listened to all the ways she was already hot for him, just so he was aware of how much she suffered herself from holding back. The sound of her ragged, unchecked exhales was enough to make a little piece of him break.

“At least touch me, Kip. Fuck, touch me somewhere. Anywhere.”

A heavenly scrape of nails against his scalp. He let them tilt his head back. He heard the shift in weight as Kip straddled him, but didn’t sit.

“Open.”

Her gloved fingers went in. Her own slick coated the supple leather. It was so generous of her. Asra moaned, sending vibrations through the leather to Kip’s bones. He bowed his head forward, taking her hand down with him. 

Gods.

“... You have permission to struggle.”

Asra snarled when Kip danced back. He was tied to the stool and she had gotten away. He twisted against the ropes. They bit into his skin. It burned so good.

“You should see yourself, Asra,” Kip said from afar. Asra didn’t miss the awe she fought to conceal in her voice. “How careless you are with yourself… just to get to me.”

Blood creeped from the corner of his mouth where he had bitten himself. His vixen was trying to make him angry, but it only made him hard.

When he had no more fight left in him, the blindfold came off.

Kip was there. The amber in her eyes full of challenge. Of knowing what he would say and knowing nothing.

“How far would you go for me, Magician?”

This was Kipling’s realm. One of darkness and of truth. A Door she had learned to open long ago.

In her eyes Asra saw the reflection of his vulpine smile.

“As far as I have to. But only in this place,” he confessed. “Only here. I swear it.”

Kip stood up tall.

“Swear again, Magician.”

Her leg came up by his ear. She leaned in, tilting her head in that foxlike way that he knew because he was one too.

“I swear it.” 

He turned and placed a kiss on her inner thigh. 

“You broke a rule.”

Asra was the one chuckling now, dragging his nose along her skin, leaving imprints of his teeth as he went.

“Punish me then.”

Asra struggled again, this time to tear the fabric hiding her wet core. His hands were tied. All Kip had to do was dance off into the dark. He couldn’t chase her. The magical walls could collapse around him at any minute.

But they didn’t and Kip didn’t move. She only swore as Asra greeted her kitty with a slow kiss. Before putting his tongue to work.

“Asra.”

That was better. 

The Vixen’s gloved hands came to hold his jaw steady. She moaned deep enough that Asra felt the vibrations in her pussy. With her hips, she started her own rhythm for him to eat her out to. After some time, his head was drawn back. Kip dipped her head to kiss him soundly and lap up the blood from earlier. 

“My love.” Kip purred. “My magician.”

Kipling sank into his lap and embraced him. But he could not hold her because his hands were still tied. His whole body hurt from how much he had thrashed earlier. His cock was still throbbing from neglect.

But Asra had never been so at peace. Here.