oh my god someone else please write this too because I am so thirsty for any variation on this prompt
--
It is interesting, the way that Caleb Widogast takes to dunamacy so well.
Granted, Essek gave him a relatively simple task: to use his understanding of the gravity spell Essek had given him to keep a wine goblet aloft. A matter that could easily be handled by a simpler spell, but tested an understanding of this particular magic.
His first attempt fails, spilling red wine across Essek’s study floor that Essek banishes with a wave.
But the second keeps the goblet aloft. The wine slowly forms into a ball, floating from the cup.
“Oh, oh, I see,” Caleb says, his eyes keen and focused. “A moment. I will adjust it.”
A breath, two, and the wine settles back gently into the goblet, its surface flattening out. Essek raises his eyebrows. It’s precise, clever work, to focus the area of the spell enough to affect the goblet, but not the wine inside.
Essek plucks the wine goblet from the air, seeing Caleb’s brow furrow as he lets the spell ease enough to allow Essek to hold the goblet. He takes a sip, meeting Caleb’s eyes, then holds the goblet out again and lets his fingers loosen, and—the goblet doesn’t drop, taken up again by the spell.
Even Essek took weeks to perfect a fine control with it. But he was the one to formulate the spell in the first place, after all.
“Can you continue to hold it with another spell going?” Essek says.
Caleb considers this, and nods. “Hm. I think so.”
He sees Caleb close his eyes, his brow furrowing. Then, a spectral hand appears at his side. The goblet does not shudder. Essek raises his eyebrows.
It is impressive enough to juggle spells, let alone spells in two different systems, one of which is entirely new. Though the spectral hand is a simple spell, to continually re-cast the spell and maintain its position to compensate for its limited duration—well, it is impressive enough.
The hand gives a little wave, and Essek thinks of the cat's paw, quirky and deceivingly powerful, delicately opening a door.
The man is a challenge, a puzzle, strangely akin to the courting gifts Essek receives on occasion, delicate puzzle-boxes inlaid with turtleshell to be unraveled with deft fingers.
Well. Except the puzzle box was a foreign turncoat mage with fire at his heels and an equally volatile set of companions. A diplomatic incident waiting to happen, clad in a dynasty-purple coat covered in a fine coat of fey cat hair and shifting awkwardly in his chair.
“Very good. And what if I attempt to break your focus?”
“I—ah, my focus?”
There's a tension in his shoulders, suddenly. Strange.
"Distract you, I mean," Essek says.
"Distract me. Yes. I see. I can handle that.” Caelb pauses. “I, ah, have had practice. To keep multiple spells going under challenging circumstances."
His face goes a little distant. Essek waits. Perhaps he'll elaborate.
Caleb only looks at him, his face perfectly neutral.
But when he approaches Caleb, Caleb flattens his back against the couch, tension threaded through his body.
Essek frowns. He draws back.
Caleb’s face quirks in a grimace, frustrated at himself, before he straightens his shoulders, squaring himself once more.
That won't do. After all, he wants to find Caleb's full capabilities, to know what the dynasty could stand to gain from his abilities and what to be wary of, should he choose to defect. And to have him on edge will not help.
To ask Caleb to trust him would be too much to ask for. After all, Essek doesn’t trust him, either. But. But he wants to make a space where they can pretend to, perhaps.
He turns and sits back down on the armchair by the sofa, letting his robes swirl and settle around him pleasantly. Close enough to maintain a connection, but far enough to create a comfortable distance.
Caleb’s shoulders relax minutely. Good.
“Well then, please cast something else, as well. Let’s see how many of these you can hold at once, yes?” Essek says, crossing his legs and leaning back, propping an elbow on the arm of the couch. “And then I can set about distracting you.”
Caleb’s eyelashes dip, veiling his eyes, before he meets Essek's gaze. His mouth slants into a wry smile, suddenly bold again.
“You can certainly try.”
Oh. Oh, well. Essek grins.
Caleb nods, his fingers moving in the motion for another spell.
It’s a little cheeky to reach out for the wine goblet once more and force Caleb to manipulate that spell while casting another. He deliberately meets Caleb’s gaze, raising his eyebrows in an innocent expression.
Caleb huffs, blowing loose hair out of his face, but catches the goblet back up in the spell’s grasp when Essek holds it out. The wine is sweet on his tongue.
Caleb seems to change his mind, his gesture for one spell lingering half-finished as his fingers find a component in his coat and flow into another gesture.
“Please, ah, let me concentrate, Herr Shadowhand.”
And—oh, Essek feels a spell settle on him. He tests its bounds and finds himself held, unable to move. He’s not the only one being cheeky.
He could counter the spell, throw off this binding. He should, perhaps. There are few things less wise than letting a foreign mage with unknown alliances trap him so.
He—doesn't care to, at the moment. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.
There is a little bit of smugness to Caleb's expression. Then again, it is a little deserved: three spells at once, in different systems, including one that is reasonably complex to maintain. It’s no small feat.
He clears his throat. Apparently Caleb found it appropriate to still allow him control of his voice.
“Well, you’re going to have to serve me wine yourself, now.”
Caleb shrugs. “Okay, ja. I can do that.”
Only the spell keeps Essek from jerking in surprise when the shimmering, electric touch of the mage hand comes to rest on Essek’s jaw, lightly holding. One of its fingers brushes against his throat.
Essek’s belly swoops.
Caleb brings the goblet over to him and gently tips it to his mouth, allowing him a comfortable sip of wine, all fine, precise control. Essek feels heat rise in his ears.
“How is it?”
Caleb is leaning forward on his knees, his hands clasped. His gaze is steady on him, for a moment, before he looks aside, then glances back at him. A hint of hesitation, as though looking for a cue.
Essek almost laughs.
The man is a study in contradictions, one moment boldly pushing at the boundaries of what he is allowed, the other shrinking back, as if wanting direction. It’s, well, almost as if neither of them know exactly what they are doing, both of them too curious to back down, even when it might be wisest to.
“It’s very good.” Essek’s mouth goes a little dry. “Well, how about you also save me the work of distracting you?”
“How might I do that?”
Essek thinks of the shadow of Caleb’s eyelashes, of the banked heat of his considering glance. He knows exactly what he wants to answer, if he is bold enough.
“Hm. I would ask you for another spell, but it seems altogether too easy for you." He pauses, as if for thought. And a little dramatic effect.
Caleb waits, patient, his hands hanging loose between his knees.
"Well. Can you maintain the other spells while you are using the hand to touch yourself?” Essek does his best to say it with a studied nonchalance, even as his stomach swoops again at his own daring. And yet, he cannot bring himself to regret it, too curious to know if Caleb will take up the gauntlet.
There is a long, long moment, and Essek wonders if he might have misstepped.
Then, Caleb takes a shuddering breath, leaning back in his seat. His thighs fall open minutely.
“May I use my, ah, non-spectral hands for other purposes?”
Caleb asking for his permission does—things to his stomach, a low heat blooming.
“You may,” Essek says. He wants to gesture magnanimously, but Caleb’s spell is still firm on him.
Caleb nods. He settles back against the couch, his posture going loose.
He hesitates for a moment, but then pushes his hand up his chest, rubbing at it through the fabric of his shirt. His fingers pause, fumbling at the buttons of his clothing, and frowns, looking down at himself.
“Your clothing is very fine, but there are entirely too many buttons.”
Essek laughs. “You should see the formal fancy wear. You pretty much need someone else to fasten you into it.”
“Is that so?” Caleb frowns at the buttons of his shirt, then manages to free them. There are glimpses of skin through the gaps in his clothing, pink and flushed. It should look strange, sickly, and yet Essek cannot seem to keep his eyes from it.
“Mm, yes. Tiny buttons all up the back. People who aren’t lucky enough to have the use of another magic hand usually need help with the gloves, too.”
And that’s a compelling thought, isn’t it, Caleb’s clever hands helping him with the intricacies of formal wear. Caleb flicks a glance at Essek, lingering at the nacre closures of his high collar. Essek wishes he had enough movement to turn his throat to the low light, so as to set their iridescence off more fetchingly.
It seems sufficient, judging by Caleb's expression.
Caleb turns his gaze away, a hectic flush in his cheeks. The spectral hand trails along the seam of Caleb’s breeches before flattening against him, the surface of his clothes distorted through the transparent hand. Caleb releases a slow, shuddering sigh, his hips hitching into the pressure.
One of his hands pushes up his shirt, not bothering with the rest of the closures, fingers smoothing over his chest and closing around a nipple to pull at it.
“Faster, if you please,” Essek says, attempting to keep his voice steady. “Or do you require me to help?”
“I, ah, I believe I know how to do this, Shadowhand,” Caleb says, his voice low and breathy.
His head tips back against the back of the couch, showing the line of his throat, a shadow of beard along his jaw, another reminder of how very human and foreign he is. Essek wants to run a hand along his jaw, to satisfy his curiosity and feel its texture for himself, rough against his palm.
The hand deftly unfastens the closures of Caleb's breeches, then pushes inside, and Caleb releases another slow, shaky breath, his eyes closing.
His hips hitch up, finding a steady, familiar rhythm after a few moments. His mouth is pressed shut, but the room is quiet and close enough to hear his soft, wanting sounds.
Essek is so, so hard, and he can't move a muscle, unable even to shift against his own garments.
Caleb slits his eyes open, a sliver of fey-blue from beneath his eyelids.
"Are you—ah, are you satisfied?" he says, the edges of his accent thick and soft.
Essek swallows, delighted by the cheek of it.
"I think you know the answer to that," he says, keeping his voice remarkably steady.
Caleb dips his head in acknowledgement, the disheveled fall of his hair half-hiding a smile.
His mouth falls open, wet and pretty, as his hips grind up into the touch beneath his clothes, his brow gathering as he reaches for release.
Even with the limited movements accorded to Essek, it's simple enough to reach for a dispelling spell.
And just when Caleb seems as though he is peaking, his breathing heavy and his hips rolling urgently into the grip of his own magic, Essek pulls at the thread of the hand’s spell, feeling it fall unravelled with a hot thrill of satisfaction.
The hand disappears, and Caleb cries out at losing its touch, his hips bucking against air, his thighs spreading wider in a desperate attempt to get the touch back. His hands clench on the cushions of the fine couch, but he does not touch himself.
He still holds the goblet steady.
Essek licks his lips, his throat dry. “Go on, Mr. Widogast.”
Caleb looks at him, blinking. He swallows, and casts again.
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timeasmymeasure
components: v, s, m, Caleb/Essek, E (1/2)
Date: 2019-07-23 04:39 am (UTC)--
It is interesting, the way that Caleb Widogast takes to dunamacy so well.
Granted, Essek gave him a relatively simple task: to use his understanding of the gravity spell Essek had given him to keep a wine goblet aloft. A matter that could easily be handled by a simpler spell, but tested an understanding of this particular magic.
His first attempt fails, spilling red wine across Essek’s study floor that Essek banishes with a wave.
But the second keeps the goblet aloft. The wine slowly forms into a ball, floating from the cup.
“Oh, oh, I see,” Caleb says, his eyes keen and focused. “A moment. I will adjust it.”
A breath, two, and the wine settles back gently into the goblet, its surface flattening out. Essek raises his eyebrows. It’s precise, clever work, to focus the area of the spell enough to affect the goblet, but not the wine inside.
Essek plucks the wine goblet from the air, seeing Caleb’s brow furrow as he lets the spell ease enough to allow Essek to hold the goblet. He takes a sip, meeting Caleb’s eyes, then holds the goblet out again and lets his fingers loosen, and—the goblet doesn’t drop, taken up again by the spell.
Even Essek took weeks to perfect a fine control with it. But he was the one to formulate the spell in the first place, after all.
“Can you continue to hold it with another spell going?” Essek says.
Caleb considers this, and nods. “Hm. I think so.”
He sees Caleb close his eyes, his brow furrowing. Then, a spectral hand appears at his side. The goblet does not shudder. Essek raises his eyebrows.
It is impressive enough to juggle spells, let alone spells in two different systems, one of which is entirely new. Though the spectral hand is a simple spell, to continually re-cast the spell and maintain its position to compensate for its limited duration—well, it is impressive enough.
The hand gives a little wave, and Essek thinks of the cat's paw, quirky and deceivingly powerful, delicately opening a door.
The man is a challenge, a puzzle, strangely akin to the courting gifts Essek receives on occasion, delicate puzzle-boxes inlaid with turtleshell to be unraveled with deft fingers.
Well. Except the puzzle box was a foreign turncoat mage with fire at his heels and an equally volatile set of companions. A diplomatic incident waiting to happen, clad in a dynasty-purple coat covered in a fine coat of fey cat hair and shifting awkwardly in his chair.
“Very good. And what if I attempt to break your focus?”
“I—ah, my focus?”
There's a tension in his shoulders, suddenly. Strange.
"Distract you, I mean," Essek says.
"Distract me. Yes. I see. I can handle that.” Caelb pauses. “I, ah, have had practice. To keep multiple spells going under challenging circumstances."
His face goes a little distant. Essek waits. Perhaps he'll elaborate.
Caleb only looks at him, his face perfectly neutral.
But when he approaches Caleb, Caleb flattens his back against the couch, tension threaded through his body.
Essek frowns. He draws back.
Caleb’s face quirks in a grimace, frustrated at himself, before he straightens his shoulders, squaring himself once more.
That won't do. After all, he wants to find Caleb's full capabilities, to know what the dynasty could stand to gain from his abilities and what to be wary of, should he choose to defect. And to have him on edge will not help.
To ask Caleb to trust him would be too much to ask for. After all, Essek doesn’t trust him, either. But. But he wants to make a space where they can pretend to, perhaps.
He turns and sits back down on the armchair by the sofa, letting his robes swirl and settle around him pleasantly. Close enough to maintain a connection, but far enough to create a comfortable distance.
Caleb’s shoulders relax minutely. Good.
“Well then, please cast something else, as well. Let’s see how many of these you can hold at once, yes?” Essek says, crossing his legs and leaning back, propping an elbow on the arm of the couch. “And then I can set about distracting you.”
Caleb’s eyelashes dip, veiling his eyes, before he meets Essek's gaze. His mouth slants into a wry smile, suddenly bold again.
“You can certainly try.”
Oh. Oh, well. Essek grins.
Caleb nods, his fingers moving in the motion for another spell.
It’s a little cheeky to reach out for the wine goblet once more and force Caleb to manipulate that spell while casting another. He deliberately meets Caleb’s gaze, raising his eyebrows in an innocent expression.
Caleb huffs, blowing loose hair out of his face, but catches the goblet back up in the spell’s grasp when Essek holds it out. The wine is sweet on his tongue.
Caleb seems to change his mind, his gesture for one spell lingering half-finished as his fingers find a component in his coat and flow into another gesture.
“Please, ah, let me concentrate, Herr Shadowhand.”
And—oh, Essek feels a spell settle on him. He tests its bounds and finds himself held, unable to move. He’s not the only one being cheeky.
He could counter the spell, throw off this binding. He should, perhaps. There are few things less wise than letting a foreign mage with unknown alliances trap him so.
He—doesn't care to, at the moment. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.
There is a little bit of smugness to Caleb's expression. Then again, it is a little deserved: three spells at once, in different systems, including one that is reasonably complex to maintain. It’s no small feat.
He clears his throat. Apparently Caleb found it appropriate to still allow him control of his voice.
“Well, you’re going to have to serve me wine yourself, now.”
Caleb shrugs. “Okay, ja. I can do that.”
Only the spell keeps Essek from jerking in surprise when the shimmering, electric touch of the mage hand comes to rest on Essek’s jaw, lightly holding. One of its fingers brushes against his throat.
Essek’s belly swoops.
Caleb brings the goblet over to him and gently tips it to his mouth, allowing him a comfortable sip of wine, all fine, precise control. Essek feels heat rise in his ears.
“How is it?”
Caleb is leaning forward on his knees, his hands clasped. His gaze is steady on him, for a moment, before he looks aside, then glances back at him. A hint of hesitation, as though looking for a cue.
Essek almost laughs.
The man is a study in contradictions, one moment boldly pushing at the boundaries of what he is allowed, the other shrinking back, as if wanting direction. It’s, well, almost as if neither of them know exactly what they are doing, both of them too curious to back down, even when it might be wisest to.
“It’s very good.” Essek’s mouth goes a little dry. “Well, how about you also save me the work of distracting you?”
“How might I do that?”
Essek thinks of the shadow of Caleb’s eyelashes, of the banked heat of his considering glance. He knows exactly what he wants to answer, if he is bold enough.
“Hm. I would ask you for another spell, but it seems altogether too easy for you." He pauses, as if for thought. And a little dramatic effect.
Caleb waits, patient, his hands hanging loose between his knees.
"Well. Can you maintain the other spells while you are using the hand to touch yourself?” Essek does his best to say it with a studied nonchalance, even as his stomach swoops again at his own daring. And yet, he cannot bring himself to regret it, too curious to know if Caleb will take up the gauntlet.
There is a long, long moment, and Essek wonders if he might have misstepped.
Then, Caleb takes a shuddering breath, leaning back in his seat. His thighs fall open minutely.
“May I use my, ah, non-spectral hands for other purposes?”
Caleb asking for his permission does—things to his stomach, a low heat blooming.
“You may,” Essek says. He wants to gesture magnanimously, but Caleb’s spell is still firm on him.
Caleb nods. He settles back against the couch, his posture going loose.
He hesitates for a moment, but then pushes his hand up his chest, rubbing at it through the fabric of his shirt. His fingers pause, fumbling at the buttons of his clothing, and frowns, looking down at himself.
“Your clothing is very fine, but there are entirely too many buttons.”
Essek laughs. “You should see the formal fancy wear. You pretty much need someone else to fasten you into it.”
“Is that so?” Caleb frowns at the buttons of his shirt, then manages to free them. There are glimpses of skin through the gaps in his clothing, pink and flushed. It should look strange, sickly, and yet Essek cannot seem to keep his eyes from it.
“Mm, yes. Tiny buttons all up the back. People who aren’t lucky enough to have the use of another magic hand usually need help with the gloves, too.”
And that’s a compelling thought, isn’t it, Caleb’s clever hands helping him with the intricacies of formal wear. Caleb flicks a glance at Essek, lingering at the nacre closures of his high collar. Essek wishes he had enough movement to turn his throat to the low light, so as to set their iridescence off more fetchingly.
It seems sufficient, judging by Caleb's expression.
Caleb turns his gaze away, a hectic flush in his cheeks. The spectral hand trails along the seam of Caleb’s breeches before flattening against him, the surface of his clothes distorted through the transparent hand. Caleb releases a slow, shuddering sigh, his hips hitching into the pressure.
One of his hands pushes up his shirt, not bothering with the rest of the closures, fingers smoothing over his chest and closing around a nipple to pull at it.
“Faster, if you please,” Essek says, attempting to keep his voice steady. “Or do you require me to help?”
“I, ah, I believe I know how to do this, Shadowhand,” Caleb says, his voice low and breathy.
His head tips back against the back of the couch, showing the line of his throat, a shadow of beard along his jaw, another reminder of how very human and foreign he is. Essek wants to run a hand along his jaw, to satisfy his curiosity and feel its texture for himself, rough against his palm.
The hand deftly unfastens the closures of Caleb's breeches, then pushes inside, and Caleb releases another slow, shaky breath, his eyes closing.
His hips hitch up, finding a steady, familiar rhythm after a few moments. His mouth is pressed shut, but the room is quiet and close enough to hear his soft, wanting sounds.
Essek is so, so hard, and he can't move a muscle, unable even to shift against his own garments.
Caleb slits his eyes open, a sliver of fey-blue from beneath his eyelids.
"Are you—ah, are you satisfied?" he says, the edges of his accent thick and soft.
Essek swallows, delighted by the cheek of it.
"I think you know the answer to that," he says, keeping his voice remarkably steady.
Caleb dips his head in acknowledgement, the disheveled fall of his hair half-hiding a smile.
His mouth falls open, wet and pretty, as his hips grind up into the touch beneath his clothes, his brow gathering as he reaches for release.
Even with the limited movements accorded to Essek, it's simple enough to reach for a dispelling spell.
And just when Caleb seems as though he is peaking, his breathing heavy and his hips rolling urgently into the grip of his own magic, Essek pulls at the thread of the hand’s spell, feeling it fall unravelled with a hot thrill of satisfaction.
The hand disappears, and Caleb cries out at losing its touch, his hips bucking against air, his thighs spreading wider in a desperate attempt to get the touch back. His hands clench on the cushions of the fine couch, but he does not touch himself.
He still holds the goblet steady.
Essek licks his lips, his throat dry. “Go on, Mr. Widogast.”
Caleb looks at him, blinking. He swallows, and casts again.