CR Campaign Two: Mighty Nein era (characters)

[criticalkink]

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Comments

Shadowgast - Ritual Spellcasting Omorashi

[(Anonymous)]

Most wizards know to take care of their physical needs before starting a lengthy spellcasting ritual…but everyone has those times when they really wish they had taken a bathroom break before they were half way into a spell that takes hours to cast.

Caleb and Essek find themselves in just such a situation while working on an experimental spell, but stepping away long enough for a pee break could cause the whole spell to fail. And it took some really rare components! They can wait until the spell is cast…right?

Fill: hydrodynamics (Caleb/Essek Ritual Spellcasting Omorashi)

[(Anonymous)]

Also posted on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39887952

Almost all of it had been planned out perfectly.

It had to be. Caleb and Essek have been working over theories for not only re-creating but improving the spell for months. It’s an old, dense ward of protection that they found by bits and pieces throughout the city of Aeor, and if it works as it should it will require much less maintenance than the versions currently in wide use. The initial casting requires a significant investment in gem dust and an uninterrupted concentration of several hours to set it in place, but by this point they’re certain it’s all in order.

They begin by scattering the components in all the tight wooden corners of Caleb’s house in Rexxentrum, before settling in the living room, in a circle a few feet wide that they had measured to be the dead center of the first floor. They sit opposite each other, each cross-legged on a cushion. Caleb is glad Essek had insisted on comfortable seating arrangements; he would probably have suffered hours of muscle cramps in silence without Essek’s guidance on the matter. Ritual casting is still not quite Caleb’s forte, he’s spent much more time developing his skills in rapid-fire battle magic. Concentrating on a single spell for hours on end feels like an entirely different skill set than concentrating on one for a minute, and it is an area where Caleb keenly feels the near-century of difference between his and Essek’s ages and experience with magic.

Essek seems relaxed even as his posture remains graceful and his back straight. Caleb does his best to imitate him, trying to pull his shoulders back from their slouching habits. He silently counts them down to three on his fingers and the main part of the ritual begins.

It is as though Caleb is balancing two stacks of books, one on each hand. One stack is his concentration on the spell, and one is everything else his mind would normally be occupied with. Two burdens to balance as he concentrates on the slow, careful braiding of the spell around his house.

At an hour and ten minutes in, Caleb recalls the one thing he had not planned: a washroom break before starting. He doesn’t quite feel like he has to go just yet, but he had had water and a cup of coffee to drink in the hour before they started, and mentally curses himself for not thinking of it sooner. He glances at Essek, who generally concentrates with his eyes serenely closed, his demeanor very similar to when he trances. Caleb squints his eyes shut and reminds himself that this should be momentous and exciting, and that a wizard worth his salt would not be distracted by the petty concerns of his body.

At two hours even, halfway through, Caleb is beginning to doubt that he is a wizard worth his salt. He’s nowhere near losing his focus on the spell, but he can’t deny that his body is taking up more than half his attention right now. He would ordinarily be thinking about finding a washroom with this kind of pressure in his bladder, just full enough to make itself a constant in his mind. Essek seems to be beginning to feel the discomfort of sitting in one position for hours, every so often shifting his hips on the pillow. The focus set in his brow is undeniable, and once again Caleb cannot bear to disappoint him.

He tries to re-center his attention on the spell again, visualizing it as a braid of colored light that he is working, as close as he can come to working this spell with his hands. He pictures Essek, too, standing beside him in this imaginary space, and close enough for their hands to work the spell together. They move together fluidly, looping over and around.

There is a twinge of pain from his very real bladder, and the daydream gets away from him. His hands are still working the braid, but the imaginary Essek purposefully undoes the front of Caleb’s trousers and pulls out his cock, holding it gently in his soft, manicured hand to aim at the floor as Caleb lets loose —

Caleb wrenches his focus back before anything else can slip from his grasp. The fantasy of Essek’s hand on his cock is not a new one, but he’s never thought of Essek helping him to pee. He shoves the thought down. He still has work to do.

At two hours and fifty-three minutes into the ritual, Caleb is quite certain that he will be made to choose between his dignity and the spell before the remaining hour and seven minutes are up. His attention bounces rapidly between the concentration required for the wards and the concentration on keeping everything in his very full bladder from spilling out of him. It's painful and tight, and his original fantasies of “finishing the spell, getting up, and finding a respectable place to piss," are looking foolishly rosy and optimistic.

He knows if he has to lose his grip on one, it should be his control of his body. They've spent too much time and money obtaining all their components and tools for one of them to lose focus with only just over an hour to go. But he looks at Essek across from him — neat and clean, skin smooth and clothes well-pressed, even these days in his exile. He cannot bear the thought of humiliating himself in front of Essek like that, wetting himself like an absent-minded child.

Essek’s eyes are still closed in concentration, face twisting into a small frown. He makes another little noise, and shifts again in his seat, as he’s been doing more frequently as the afternoon has worn on. Caleb does not like keeping his eyes closed for such long stretches, but he finds the sight of Essek soothing, easing his resistance to his body’s demands.

Suddenly, Essek gives a sharp intake of breath, before letting it out very slowly. He follows it with an even deeper sigh, and then Caleb has to scramble to not lose either of his concentrations when he realizes what he is seeing.

A dark, wet spot is quickly spreading across Essek’s groin, and the sharp odor of piss rises up from his lap. Caleb glances, nervously, to Essek's face, still sitting almost motionless with his eyes serenely closed. Is he aware of what he's doing? Will he be terribly embarrassed when he finds out Caleb watched? In a matter of seconds it reaches his thighs, and soon it begins to leak out of Essek’s fine trousers, and onto the cushion he's sitting on. He must feel it now, there's no way he could be ignorant of how soaked he’s becoming.

With his attention caught on Essek and the spell, Caleb's concentration on his body is momentarily interrupted. His heart clenches in horror, a split-second before a spurt leaks into his trousers so hard he can hear it. Though he manages to stop himself, he can't do anything for the wetness now covering the center of his lap, not if he needs his hands free. He holds fast to the spell, tightens his muscles, and tries to undermine the pain just a little bit by watching Essek, watching with more than a touch of envy as his expression goes from one of mild annoyance to unabashed relief as he continues to piss himself. Then, Essek opens his eyes. He fixes on Caleb's gaze, and gives him a small but firm nod.

A nod can certainly carry a lot of meanings, but in this context, sat as mirrors of each other and Essek’s lap still getting wetter and wetter, the one Caleb takes from it is, you need to go too, don't you? Why not let go? And with his bladder stretched and sore and his eyes and ears full of the sight and sound of Essek’s example in front of him, Caleb can no longer say no. He imagines himself taking his concentration on the spell in both hands, letting all other concerns, his body included, slip from his grasp.

The sense of relief is immediate. With nothing holding it back, piss spurts and then begins to flow freely from his cock, flooding his trousers with wet warmth. He groans as he feels his bladder begin to deflate and relax, not at all concerned with the consequences as he relishes in the release. He is now doubly grateful for Essek’s suggestion of the cushions; without it to absorb the excess from his trousers he would be sitting in quite the puddle.

Essek does not close his eyes again, violet gaze remaining on Caleb as he continues to piss and piss. A smug, amused smile rests on his lips. For the moment, Caleb is capable of no shame on the matter, in fact reflecting that he shouldn't have held it in for so long. As it all comes out he can appreciate how close he must have been to really hurting himself, and there will still probably be a slight ache in his belly when he’s done. He should have let himself do this an hour ago, he should have had more faith in Essek’s understanding.

He takes almost twice as long as Essek does to completely void his bladder, and his lap is in a considerably more disheveled state when he is done. He can feel how wet the pillow is, and imagines what a complete mess his legs would look like if he were stood up, the inside of his thighs soaked with urine all the way past his knees. The front tails of his shirt were not spared either, and cling to his lower belly. Across from him, Essek maintains a surprising amount of dignity for someone who has just openly wet himself. Normally he prestidigitates anything so much as a drop of food or drink that spills on his clothes, but of course he cannot interrupt the ritual with any other magic.

Neither of them can. Not for another hour and four minutes. Freed from the painful urges formerly taking up his attention, Caleb can focus on the spell and appreciate the sight of Essek across from him: handsome, brilliant, composed, and sitting in his own piss. He can process the fact that the fourth seems to be aiding and not countering the appeal of the first three when he does not need part of his brain for the wards. The squirmy, exciting feeling that he is getting from sitting in front of Essek with his own trousers quite wet can also wait.

At four hours exactly, the spell clicks into place, reverberating with a gentle, firm bounce through the air like a newly-tightened string of an instrument. Both of them relax with a heavy exhale at feeling it take effect, not looking at each other for the moment. Caleb perceives an awkwardness that had not been present when they couldn’t speak suddenly settling over them, an obligation to explain himself. Essek’s hands move through the gestures that Caleb recognizes as prestidigitation, casting twice in quick succession on his own lap, leaving his trousers and the cushions as pristine as when they had begun the casting. Caleb shifts in his seat, increasingly aware of his own mess. He doesn't know prestidigitation; when he'd begun rebuilding his spellbook, it was the last thing he needed or wanted. Did Essek forget? Had Caleb never told him? Perhaps not in explicit terms...

Essek smiles a little guiltily. “If I’d known you were waiting for my signal, I would have gone a lot sooner,” he says, with no small amount of humor in his voice. His eyes flicker to Caleb's lap and up again, a pass like a brush of fingers.


Caleb leans his head back to look at the ceiling in embarrassment. “Meine Götter, Essek —” He anticipates the buzz of prestidigitation on his skin any moment, but Essek only continues.

“Would you have waited a full four hours? These things can happen to anyone, it’s a long time for even an experienced ritual caster.”

“Evidently,” Caleb says, smiling in spite of himself.

Essek takes the joke at his expense, chuckling as he stretches out his stiff limbs. “I suppose I’ve made my share of messes, but I must admit this was the first time I’ve ever had an audience.” His eyes are warm, playful. With a slow, pointed sweep, his gaze falls to Caleb's soiled trousers once more, lingering.

Caleb is certain that his face is as red as a beet. “Ah, if you wouldn’t mind…?” He nods down at his lap.

“Of course,” Essek says, the soul of graciousness. Three castings of prestidigitation, and Caleb and the cushion are dry. There is something smug in Essek’s expression that he can’t quite parse. “I just thought I’d wait for you to ask.”