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The Luxon's undulating gray light dapples the Assembly's research chamber where they now find themselves, alone. Holy light: the light that led Essek's ancestors to the surface once upon a time, the light he was taught to worship as the highest expression of the Dynasty's god. It fills him with dark satisfaction to go to his knees in its presence, but facing away.
Bren sucks in his stomach with a sharp breath as Essek undoes the last button of his fly. Inside his trousers, he is still soft—Essek gave him no warning before pushing him against the wall—but that's alright. He tends to catch on quickly, his Bren.
"Ah, Essek, you—" He cuts himself off, and tries again; not as cavalier as he might have hoped: "Here I thought you only cared about the research."
Out of the corner of his eye, Essek sees his fists uncurl. The crackling magic that had sparked to life throughout his tattoos when Essek wheeled on him dims; not gone, but held in reserve as Bren reassesses the situation.
It is not unreasonable of him to have expected Essek to turn on him now, when Bren's magic is mostly spent after the fight against Ikithon and the Luxon beacon is within reach. Truthfully, Essek did consider the possibility. Maybe after this.
He rests his forehead against Bren's stomach, marveling as always at the unusual anticipation that quickens his blood when it's with Bren. The trail of copper hair leading down tickles his nose.
"What," Bren starts, then swallows audibly, "what do you want now, Shadowhand?"
"You." Essek brushes a kiss against his skin just to feel him shudder. "Are you flattered, Scourger?"
Bren laughs, shakily. A heavy hand, still abuzz with arcana, settles on the back of Essek's head, which he does not generally allow; but it does cup his skull so nicely. He tugs Bren's trousers down.
"Flattered is one word for—ah—"
Whatever quip he was making gets lost in a groan as Essek finally gets his mouth on his cock.
The rush of power he feels doing this is exquisite. Bren is always so delightfully easy for the persuasive arguments of lips and tongue. He is warm already, and warming further as Essek coaxes him to hardness.
Sex has rarely been the most efficient tool Essek has to get what he wants; it's convenient enough in the short term, but its influence never endures long enough to be worthwhile. So decades ago, when he earned his title, he decided that the Shadowhand would not kneel or bend over for anyone ever again.
It's not that Bren is the exception to his rule. Rather, he exists alongside it. There is no hope of manipulating him through sex. Bren's survival instincts are too finely-honed to let a warm and willing mouth persuade him to take unwise risks for the sake of other people's ambitions; no matter how eagerly he gives himself over to pleasure, there is no world in which Essek pulls off his dick to ask would you help me steal this beacon from Da'leth and Bren says yes.
So sex with him has long since become an end unto itself. Not that Essek will ever admit it; he does have a reputation to maintain.
Bren has started to shake with the effort of keeping his hips still. His hand on the back of Essek's head never pushes, but his fingertips knead Essek's scalp as if to discharge the urge. Essek hums around him; it won't be long now before he tips over the edge.
But, instead, unexpectedly, he nudges Essek back and off of him. His cock bobs up, free and likely as unhappy about the interruption as Essek feels.
"You know," Bren says, chest heaving, hotly flushed, "it feels like you don't really appreciate the opportunity I'm giving you by bringing you here."
"You're complaining?"
He laughs brokenly. "Now, let's not jump to conclusions."
Essek scoffs, and at that puff of breath on his exposed dick Bren shivers and bites off a curse. That reaction is somewhat mollifying.
"It's just," Bren continues, after a loud gulp, "I got you in a room with the artifact you've wanted to study since a century before you traded it to us, told you you're free to examine it any way you wish, and instead your first thought is to suck my dick?"
"It wasn't the first," Essek says, testily, and gets a well, duh, figure of speech sort of half-shrug in response.
"Ja, I'm sure you thought about killing me before that, but—you're not even facing toward the beacon, Essek. Look at it."
With a roll of his eyes, he stands up—brushes nonexistent dust off his knees—and turns around. And there the beacon is, the source of the mercury light in this chamber: placed on a pedestal in the center, not unlike the structure that supported its like inside a Dynasty vault, but far more scientifically-minded. There is a podium in front of it for supporting a spellbook or another medium of taking notes.
"Go ahead and look at it," Bren says, and mutters a few Zemnian words that make the air around the pedestal ripple like starlight on water. "You're safe to approach. I've suppressed the wards."
Essek does cast Detect Magic, just to be sure; but it's the truth. He also can't hear the sounds of approaching footsteps outside the barred door that might indicate Assembly reinforcements for an ambush. He leans his hands on the podium and peers at the beacon.
As endless possibilities start to branch off in front of his eyes, he feels Bren's arms wrap around his waist and tenses—but seconds pass in nothing more harmful than an embrace.
"Believe it or not, I have been wanting to bring you here," Bren says, almost musingly, his chin hooked over Essek's shoulder as he too seems to stare into the beacon. His hardness is still noticeable against Essek's back through the many layers he wears. "So much power inside these beacons. I have long wondered what you could do with it."
So has Essek. "Anything," he says. "Given access, and time."
"Time," Bren echoes, absently.
Essek thinks back to the familiarity with which he Teleported the two of them here, how easily he wove in the password to slip past the barrier of Forbiddance protecting this chamber. He wonders how often Bren Aldric Ermendrud has visited this chamber alone or with his two close colleagues, in the dead of night, like now, just to muse over dunamantic potential.
Time, he just said; an interest of his? Come to think of it—the theories Essek has consented to share with him in exchange for favors in the past, those that he inquired about, were all loosely concerned with the intersections of fate and time.
"Time could theoretically be manipulated with this, of course. The flow of time is well within the purview of dunamantic study, and it is these beacons that hold the secrets to it."
"Have I ever told you," Bren murmurs into his neck, and grinds lazily against the vague insinuation of Essek's rear under all the layers, "that you're hot when you're lecturing?"
He is dissembling. Essek has hit on something too close to Bren's truth for comfort. He pushes for it.
"So far, dunamis has only been successfully manipulated to make time stand still for a brief period, and to make it pass faster. Even that required exhaustive study to develop." He feels Bren's arms tense around him, and another slow grind against his back; Bren's trying to distract himself. "I am a prodigy, but I would still require more frequent access than this one visit to explore further research."
"Greedy," Bren observes. "No promises."
Essek braces his weight on the podium in order to push back against Bren's crotch, and hears him groan. The gray light seems to flicker toward the vastness of space as Essek observes it. Could become the first person to get fucked during attunement with a beacon, he thinks, with a surreal sort of amusement.
"Theoretically," he goes on, and pauses to feel how Bren's attention hangs on his words, "with sufficient research, it would be possible to also turn time backwards."
"Time travel?" Bren huffs out a dismissive laugh—but no, Essek thinks, that reaction was too fast to be genuine. "Sounds like the plot of a novel."
Timelines spark to life and die by the thousands in front of Essek's eyes.
Is there a world in which Essek asks Bren to steal this beacon together, and Bren says yes?
"Attempts have already been made in the Dynasty," he goes on, feigning nonchalance but intently listening to and categorizing the hitches in Bren's breath against his ear. "One of the arcanists who tried it disappeared and never returned—which could mean he failed, or it could mean—"
"He succeeded," Bren gasps. "How?"
Essek slips free of his embrace and turns around to face him. Too late, Bren puts on an expression of academic curiosity, but Essek has already glimpsed the hunger in his eyes. Ah, sex is not the way to persuade Bren Aldric Ermendrud to take big unwise risks—but Essek might have just figured out what is.
"We can discuss it," Essek says, smirking, "once I'm done with you." And he goes to his knees.