Erasmus Moonveil | Voyeur Witch

Rain lashed against Hollowmoor Hall’s leaded windows, distorting the view of the shadowed campus quad below. Inside Erasmus Moonveil’s cramped dorm suite, the air hung thick with the scent of smoldering dragon’s blood incense and the waxy residue of half-melted candles perched precariously on stacks of grimoires. Shadows danced across the stone walls, thrown by the flickering flames, deepening the hollows beneath his grey-green eyes as he hunched over a large, ornate hand mirror. His assignment glowed faintly on the screen of his neglected laptop: Practical Applications of Remote Vision: Scrying Ethics & Boundaries. The coven’s expectations pressed down, a familiar weight – observe, but never touch; learn, but never interfere. Yet the prompt felt like ash in his mouth. Academic distance wasn’t what drew his fingers, trembling slightly, to trace the silver filigree rim of the mirror. His focus wasn’t on ley lines or distant landscapes tonight. It was tuned to one specific room across the quad, its location etched into his memory like a sigil burned onto his soul. Just a glance, he lied silently to the empty room, the lie tasting bitter even unspoken. Just to see if they’re studying. Or perhaps... just resting. The reflection shimmered, the polished surface clearing not to show his own pale, tense face framed by loose black waves, but the warm, cluttered interior of another dorm room. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden. They were there.

The image clarified, sharp and intimate despite the physical distance. Erasmus leaned forward, the worn velvet of his oversized black sweater sleeve brushing forgotten notes on astral projection. His thumb unconsciously spun the heavy silver ring on his middle finger, a nervous tic echoing the frantic rhythm of his pulse. The view was angled, likely from a reflective surface near their desk – a windowpane, perhaps, or the glass of a picture frame he’d subtly nudged during a previous, entirely coincidental visit. They moved within the frame, unaware, bathed in the soft yellow glow of a desk lamp. Erasmus watched the familiar curve of their shoulder as they shrugged off a jacket, the casual grace of their movement sending a jolt of heat straight to his core. He didn’t dare blink. Every detail was precious, stolen: the texture of their sweater, the way their hair fell across their brow. His journal lay open beside him, half-filled with coded observations and feverish sketches of their profile, their hands, but tonight, the page stayed blank. The act of watching consumed him utterly. They look tired, he thought, a surge of unwelcome protectiveness warring with the deeper, hungrier current. Or maybe thoughtful. What are they thinking about? Who? The question twisted inside him, sharp and possessive.

A soft, involuntary sigh escaped Erasmus’s lips, misting the cool surface of the mirror for a fleeting second before vanishing. His knuckles were white where he gripped the mirror’s edge. This was the precipice, the line drawn in salt and shadow he’d promised himself not to cross. Academic observation didn’t include this. Didn’t include the frantic scramble of his thoughts as they reached for the hem of their t-shirt. He knew he should sever the connection. Close his eyes. Look away. The ethics lecture echoed uselessly in some distant corner of his mind, drowned out by the roaring in his ears and the desperate, clawing need to see. His gaze remained locked, unblinking, tracing the line of their spine as the fabric lifted. The candle on his desk guttered wildly, casting frantic shapes on the wall, mirroring the turmoil within him. Shame warred with a dark, exhilarating thrill. This was trespass, a violation carved into the very air he breathed. Yet the compulsion was iron, unyielding. He was a moth drawn inexorably to the forbidden flame, knowing the burn was inevitable, yet unable to resist its terrible allure. The scent of rain and old paper seemed to intensify, mingling with the iron-sharp tang of his own guilt. "Just this once," he murmured, the words a cracked whisper lost in the small room, swallowed by the drumming rain outside and the frantic beat of his own heart. It wasn't true. It never was. He was already lost.

The t-shirt joined the jacket on the back of their chair. Erasmus’s breath stopped entirely. His world narrowed to the mirror’s frame, to the expanse of skin now revealed, the vulnerable curve of their neck, the shift of muscle beneath. Every atom of his being focused on that stolen intimacy. His own body responded traitorously, a familiar heat coiling low in his belly, a tightness pressing against the soft silk of his pajama pants. He shifted, the movement stiff, trying to ease the sudden, insistent pressure without breaking his vigil. The silver hoop in his ear felt cold against his flushed skin. He imagined the warmth of their skin under his gaze, the phantom sensation of tracing that path with his eyes. His voyeur’s hunger was a living thing, gnawing and insatiable. It wasn’t about possession, not exactly. It was about knowing. Possessing the secret sight of them, unguarded and true. Seeing what they hid from the world, what they didn’t even realize they revealed. His journal taunted him – he could sketch this, capture the lines and shadows, but it would be a pale ghost next to the electric reality unfolding in the glass. The mirror felt hot beneath his palms. They are so beautiful, the thought pierced him, clear and agonizing. And they have no idea. No idea I’m here, seeing this. Knowing this. The secrecy made it sweeter, sharper, a stolen delicacy he couldn't resist.

Time lost meaning, measured only in the frantic stutter of his heart and the slow, deliberate movements unfolding in the enchanted glass. Erasmus tracked every shift, every subtle adjustment, the unconscious grace of their body as they prepared for sleep. His grey-green eyes, usually so watchful and analytical, held a dark, possessive intensity, the gold flecks seeming to catch and hold the candlelight. The analytical part of his mind, the part trained for observation, cataloged details – the way light pooled in the hollow of their throat, the texture of the sweatpants they now pulled on. But the deeper, wilder part, the part shaped by the coven's shadows and his own isolating hunger, reveled in the sheer intimacy of the violation. This was power, a terrible, thrilling power – to see without being seen, to know without being known. He could feel the tension coiling in his own body, a mirror to the desperate focus in his mind. The urge to reach out, to somehow bridge the impossible gap between the glass and their skin, was a physical ache. His fingers twitched against the cool silver frame. What would they do if they knew? Would they recoil? Or, a more dangerous thought whispered, would they meet his gaze in the glass? The fantasy was intoxicating, terrifying. He pictured their eyes widening in surprise, then perhaps... understanding? Acceptance? The image was almost as potent as the sight before him, tightening the coil in his gut further. The rain outside seemed to hammer in time with his pulse. "If you knew," he breathed, the sound barely a sigh, "if you only knew how deeply I see you..." It wasn't a confession meant for ears. It was the desperate murmur of his obsession, echoing in the hollow space between him and the mirror.

Reality snapped back with the jarring abruptness of a slammed door. Not literally – the suite remained quiet save for the rain and the frantic rush of his own blood. But in the mirror, they paused, turning slightly, their gaze sweeping towards the very spot the scrying sensor hid. A jolt of pure, icy terror lanced through Erasmus. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Had they sensed it? That subtle prickle of unseen eyes? That faint, unnatural shimmer in the glass? His hand jerked back from the mirror as if burned, breaking the intense focus required to maintain the connection. The image in the glass rippled violently, like a stone thrown into a still pond, dissolving into swirling, indistinct colors before resolving into the dim reflection of his own wide-eyed, stricken face. Pale, shocked, caught. The candles flickered wildly, one nearly guttering out entirely, casting the room into deeper, jumping shadows. Shame, thick and choking, flooded him, hotter than the previous heat. He’d gone too far. Crossed the line from watcher to intruder. The academic pretense lay in tatters. He pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, trying to erase the image burned onto his retinas – not just their body, but the potential accusation in that turned glance. The silence in the room was suddenly deafening, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain and the too-loud sound of his own ragged breathing. The connection was broken, but the hunger remained, a feral thing curled in his chest, sated for a moment yet already restless. It wouldn’t be the last glance. He knew it, even as the taste of guilt turned to ash on his tongue. The mirror, now just a piece of glass reflecting his own haunted expression, seemed to hold a silent accusation. He’d seen what he craved, and the forbidden knowledge settled deep, a secret both intoxicating and damning. The assignment on his laptop screen glowed, forgotten. Ethics were for daylight. The shadows held deeper truths, and he was bound to them, willingly, hopelessly.

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