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You uncover it today as you always do. Not expecting anything, intrigued nonetheless, a tiny secret hope buried beneath a week and a half of nothing but frustration.
When you pull down the cloth, the surface of the mirror glints faintly in the dark room. You do not see your face.
He's there, he always is. You wait for the routine to begin–the doors open, he enters, studies the fireplace quietly–but as the events occur in their predicted order you realize that something is different this time. In the foreground of this ritualistic scene: a chair. Close to and nearly facing the mirror, slightly off center. Ornate and finely crafted, much like everything else in this strange room.
You do not take your eyes off of his form as he removes his hood. Long, pale hair spills soft where the cloak gives way, like moonlit water, down past the glittering rise of his cheek. He turns from the fire and toward you ( no, Viren, toward the mirror , he cannot see you) and you feel the nape of your neck tingle.
He's beautiful. That isn't important.
Striding slowly and leisurely toward you, one foot in front of the other as if walking on a beam, the elf rounds the chair and strokes its polished silver frame with a delicate hand. He’s close enough now that only his body from the shoulders down is visible. You watch with rapt attention as he deftly unpins the clasp from his cloak and it drifts soft as rain down the slope of his shoulders. He drapes it over the back of the chair and for some reason you feel like you’re observing something you shouldn’t be.
Only when he rounds the side of the chair and sits, reclining like a cat, do you see his visage come into view once again. He stares, eyes lidded, not meeting your gaze, because why would he? It’s just a mirror, albeit a magic one. Most of his chest is bared and you realize with a strange sort of curiosity that without the cloak to cover it, he is very finely built. Lithe and not overly muscular, the planes of his chest peeking curiously from the edges of his vest, cascading down into taut abdominals. A glowing silver marking nestled in the center of his breast is a reminder of just how inhuman this creature really is.
And then, settling into the seat with his knees parted, the star-touch elf moves his tabard to the side.
You freeze. Disbelieving, beholding his every ethereal movement and feeling your breathing shallow when his chin tips back and his eyes close. He cannot see you. He can’t.
You almost make a move for the cover again, reaching, but your eyes are locked on his hand between his legs and you cannot for the life of you, not for the promise of every throne in the kingdoms, bring yourself to move further.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths and he strokes slowly, seeming to savor it, and by the look on his face you know he's imagining something or perhaps someone. You shouldn't be watching. It's wrong, immoral to intrude on such an intimate and private act, and his fist glides up and down the steadily thickening, sky-dark length and your tongue sits heavy with arousal in your mouth and you watch, you watch. You watch and you can’t look away.
In the glass of the mirror, the body before you moves dreamlike and unhurried. A milky-blue vignette of jaw and shoulder. A thin wrist flexes, flawless thighs drift akimbo. Lips part in soundless delight. Gods, what his voice must be like. As deep and alluring as the cosmic shimmer of his skin, to be sure. Or perhaps soft and breathy, a whisper of sound perfect enough to be bottled and kept on a shelf.
You can't look away.
Slowly, you sit back down, the hand that had been reaching for the black cloth cover retreating to your side. It wanders of its own accord, fingers pulling the satin edge of your tunic and then twitching at the upholstery of the chair, picking loose threads like that will somehow tell you what to do.
The straining against the front of your trousers is now impossible to ignore.
You can't. Well, you could. Not a soul knows of this room. The chances of someone stumbling upon you are almost nonexistent. Logically, nothing is stopping you but your own (perhaps unfounded) apprehension. Then, in the midst of this internal struggle of heart and mind, the man in the glass before you opens his eyes, and he is looking directly at you. Black and gold like a firework. His lower lip between his teeth, still somehow smirking around the gesture. And he is looking directly at you and your heart has stuttered to a full stop in your chest.
His stare journeys, milky-way bright and yet dark as the moment before death, down your rigid body to a place where your arousal cannot hide. Up again to your face. Down. Up. Suggesting.
And what a suggestion it is. Powerful enough to enchant your hand to move before your mind commands– cautious, creeping.
He smiles, lifting his chin with passive intrigue, and your neck burns hot.
When your fingers finally find their purchase, a groan of relief flurries in your chest. He hasn't stopped between this new development but his movements have thus far been slow and sure; now he rallies, settling further to watch with his knees spread and hips very minutely rocking into his own touch, and somehow he makes it look so much more passionate than you could have ever imagined. A simple action, bewitching. His eyelids flicker and lips part and if his hand was yours and yours his, at the present moment you wouldn't have been able to discern the difference.
He brings one finger up, drags the tip slow across his tongue and you– you shiver like a livewire– how is he doing this to you? A gush comes forth, clear and slick and you jolt. That tongue– if it was wrapped around you– if you could fuck his beautiful face, his mouth, push down into his sweet throat and wrap his hair around your fist--
Or would he have me first?
His finger, glistening wet, draws a path downward. Tugs at his lower lip on the way. Transfixed on its path, you follow it with your eyes, down his chin and into the dip of his throat, between his collarbones, over his sternum, lower still–
Would he push me down and use me without restraint? Make me beg?
–brushes over the star-burned sigil in his chest, disappearing into its radiant white light, teasing. Something cinches right beneath the skin of your belly when you realize you can see him moan, can see the working of his throat like watching a frozen lake churn beneath a sheet of ice. You try to hear. Strain your ears for it, close your eyes, grip tight and feel a throb, two in rapid succession, beneath your callused palm. You swear you hear his shuddering breath and you're sure his hand would be soft.
"Look–" dry, your throat is so– "Look at me. Fuck. Please." His head lolls back on his shoulders and you know it, you know you can't unless he– unless he looks , gods dammit–
He can't do it if he can't hear. Patience. Patience.
You've never wanted so badly, not even in the throes of anger, to shatter glass.
He has to be doing it on purpose. No other explanation. He's toying with you. Your heart pounds in your ears with every second your hand continues to move, sharp-dull-sharp, demanding pleasure in waves but not yet.
" Fuck!"
Every muscle and nerve set like a trap, waiting to burst, to unravel quick as cannonfire. Trembling with want.
" Look at me!"
As if in slow motion, his fist drags down, the full length of his magnificent cock sliding home (inside you, inside –) and his eyes flutter open, glittering black and platinum and clear as day, like the glass between you is nothing but air.
It only takes a millisecond to come undone. Shameless. You want to hear him telling you how shameless you are for coming so fast, how filthy, how needy, but his eyes– they say it all. Somehow, without laying a finger on you, he's managed to crumble you like charred wood, make you melt into nothing. Your eyes roll up blank for a single breathless moment– and with a ragged, broken sound you're there, nails digging harsh into something solid and teeth bared and gritting…
…When the haze of your release clears, your hand is. A mess. You're close enough that some of it actually got on the mirror. The man has turned his head away again, nodding against the back of the seat in little jerking motions like jolts of electricity are moving up through his body. His release does not appear to be as intense as yours had been but he is so beautiful, minutely twisting and rocking into his hand with a clandestine kind of grace that any lover would be blessed to lay eyes upon. Even one who can only watch.
"What…" you start, throat hoarse. He can see your lips moving, surely. "Who are you?"
Still visibly panting, the star-touch elf stares at you and says nothing.
With the hand that has remained unsoiled by your…endeavor, you reach up to the glass. Contact. He must understand such a simple gesture.
He stares past you, frowning.
Wh….
Wiping his hand on something out of your view, the man stands up. He fixes the glass, tilting it slightly to one side to settle an imbalance you hadn't picked up on.
Not at you. Past.
Can he not…
No, certainly he can. Why else? Why else would his eyes lock on yours so intensely, why else would he perform such an act if not for–
Star-touch elves have always been rumored to be quite fond of themselves.
You sit, gawking. And then you laugh. You swipe your hand over your face, feeling all the burning sensual energy drain out with your palm as it drags downward. Everything's gone cold, like a meal left out too long. You were foolish just to think, even for a second , that this depraved fantasy could be anything more than just that.
You don't bother with the cover, instead scrubbing your hand with it and tossing it to the floor with a disgusted huff. You fix your trousers and smooth the hem of your tunic, aiming at least for presentability, even with your neck still hot and a light layer of sweat cooling tacky on your skin. You look back at the elf one last time. He is facing away from you now, seemingly readjusting his own clothing, and something quiet and nagging in the back of your mind encourages you to watch for just a moment longer. Nothing changes. You click your tongue in annoyance and turn on your heel, and the mirror and the small hidden room disappear behind you with the click of a lock.
–
You look over your shoulder. He's gone, having left quite a mess with the chair askew and a stained drape crumpled up on the floor.
A curious thing, this human. And quite demanding. You wonder how often he gets his way.
You'll be sure to teach him proper manners when the moment is right.