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"I have a surprise for you," Essek murmurs into Caleb's ear, sounding pleased with himself, and perches on a chair to watch him open the gift. Caleb sifts through layers of packaging until he unearths a carefully-folded bundle of glittering cloth.
He shakes it out. "Surprise" is an adequate word for the outfit that unfurls in his hands. The style is stereotypically Zemnian, despite the excessive number of straps and bangles. What's strange is that fabric seems to be missing in some unusual areas...although if he squints, it almost looks like—
Oh. He'd never thought to combine the words "assless" and "lederhosen," but clearly the creator of this outfit suffered no such lack of creativity.
Seconds stretch by while Caleb carefully does not laugh. Essek's ear twitches mildly at his silence, and his face sets into a pleasant mask. "Are they not... traditional attire? My research may have led me to, ah, incorrect assumptions."
Caleb has never seen anything like this buffoonish ensemble in his life. No possible cultural guide would have recommended an outfit with holes in such impractical places.
"Essek," he says slowly, as the pieces begin to slot into place, "what kind of research was this?"
The wall over Caleb's shoulder must have grown fascinating new dimensions in the past several minutes, for how intently Essek's stare clings to it.
He leans into Essek's eye-line. Essek's eye-line skitters further to the left. The drow sits carefully, damningly silent across from him, and delight bubbles up within Caleb's chest.
"Mein Freund, am I to understand that the Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty, a dignified and powerful mage who bends fate to his whim, has been reading"— he leans into his accent, letting it soften and clip his syllables —"dirty literature?" He can taste the truth of it as the words leave his tongue, and by the way a dull flush creeps up from under Essek's collar.
Another ear twitch. "It was for- I, you do not need to mock me, Caleb. I can have them returned." By the glacial tone of his voice, it's possible that the charming getup in Caleb's hands will be returned to atoms, which would be a pity. There is enough gold embroidery on these to have fed Caleb's family for a year.
A manicured hand reaches toward the garment, but Caleb prances away, clutching the skimpy fabric to his chest. "Oh, no, I did not mean I would not wear them. I think perhaps they will be very flattering, and I can appreciate a good breeze around the bits." He drapes the lederhosen across his front, turning this way and that to admire the view. "Very practical when tromping about the mountainside looking for the, ah, optimal place to yodel."
Blumenthal was nothing but flat, sprawling fields and the closest thing to a yodel had been the marching songs his father had taught him, but he's getting a sense for the kind of source material these lederhosen came from, confirmed by the amount of wounded pride radiating from Essek.
"You will have to forgive me, but my yodeling voice is a little rusty," Caleb says magnanimously. He inclines his head, then glances at Essek from under his lashes.
Essek flashes him a look that wars between embarrassment, humor, and affront. Affront seems to be winning.
Caleb winks, and that apparently resolves the battle because exactly one second later Essek's fingers blur and arcane energy splashes out. Caleb's muscles lock in place.
Adrenaline flares. The binding of the spell is a weak one, Caleb judges in an instant. He could throw it off with a thought.
He won't, though. His stomach flips pleasantly at the idea of being so bound by Essek. Adrenaline transmutes itself into anticipation.
Essek lifts himself from the chair and floats toward him, hand held aloft and glittering with faint purple energy. The long mantle undulates gently around him in the pull of his personal gravitational field. He drifts to a halt a few feet away, then makes a lifting motion with his open hand. Purple energy flickers, and Caleb feels the world around him shift, feels his feet leave the ground. It would make him weak at the knees, if he could move.
An enticing smugness curls onto Essek's face. He twitches his fingers in a small circle, and Caleb begins to rotate slowly, exposing each side of him to Essek's assessing eye.
Once more, Essek has casually warped the world around him for his own convenience, a display of power arrogant in its wastefulness. It is, Caleb thinks with about half a brain, incredibly hot.
"Now that I have your focus, perhaps you can aid my research," Essek murmurs silkily as the room spins slowly in Caleb's view. "I would wish to ensure my understanding of cultural customs is accurate."
Once Caleb's view is on him again, he settles himself lightly back on the chair, prim and still unmoored from gravity. Then he levels an imperious gaze at Caleb. "So I am wrong. Correct me."
He makes a slash at the air, and the binding of the spell dissipates. Caleb's heels thump on the ground. He's a little woozy with desire, but he walks forward.
Essek watches him. Caleb tosses the spangled outfit to the side, then straddles Essek where he sits. With an instinctive motion Essek adjusts his gravitational spell to carry them both, which Caleb's hazy mind files away under both sexy and for future reference.
Fine-boned fingers rest lightly on Caleb's thighs once he's fully seated in Essek's lap. The touch is distracting. It is a struggle to say, "As a fellow scholar, I must take measure of what you have done so far. Ask, ah, questions."
"Ask, then." It's a challenge Caleb is only too happy to take.
"The source texts you referred to. Did they involve strapping farmhands, toiling away in the exotic orchards of the Zemni Fields? Shirtless, of course, to account for the heat of the summer sun?"
There's a wry set to Essek's eyes, like he's amused despite himself and waiting for a trap. "Something of the sort, perhaps."
"A lot of bad metaphors about fruits? Hefting cucumbers, maybe, or something about tender peaches hidden by rustic cloth." Caleb thinks, and takes the opportunity to run his fingers over Essek's ears. They twitch beneath his touch, and Essek's grip on his thighs tightens.
"No," Caleb decides, fingers tracing from tip of the ear to lobe to graceful neck. "Apples are a little more common in my home. It would have been bad metaphors about that." He punctuates the statement with a roll of his hips. And then a second, for good measure.
Essek's response is gratifyingly breathless. "The overall, ah, grasp of figurative language could have been improved, yes."
"Well, I think our first task is to test the accuracy of those metaphors." Caleb cups Essek's pert, refined face between his rough Zemnian hands and presses close, forehead-to-forehead. "Essek. Would you like to get into my apple-bottomed lederhosen?"
Essek rolls his eyes. "Absolutely not," he scoffs, except the words get a little smothered when Caleb chooses that moment to introduce him to the traditional Zemnian art of making out. It's a thorough education. Essek gasps sweetly when Caleb rolls the delicate pinnae of his ears between his fingers; a second later, gravity recalls its hold on them with a thud.
Smugness is a pretty enticing feeling, Caleb finds.
Words would be a distraction, anyway, when the object of Caleb's passionate study shudders in his arms in a way that says everything Caleb wants to know, and more.
There's a pause. Another kiss. Another gasp.
And then: "Alright. You've made your point. Put on the lederhosen."