I dedicate this fic to the lovely Zuvios Gemini, who I promised to write Priest! Voyeurism smut for months ago. Yes, it is based at some point in her story; but it's taken me so long to write it, that I've forgotten which point. I'm not sorry that it's late, though, because it was the hardest damn thing I've ever written. If any of you reading this haven't yet read her fiction Golden Eyed Personal Jesus then you should. Seriously; just do it. You'll never regret it. I'm sorry there isn't more detail—my mind kept getting derailed by hairy butt crack jokes each time I tried. Enjoy!
Ragged breaths ripped through the still air, shattering the silence that had blanketed the room since he'd been left alone. Hunger boiled his blood, pain nipping at his belly. And yet, that wasn't what he felt now. Pain was sharp, a sting that left an echo in the flesh well after its origins had passed; Hunger gnawed at every thought and action, rumbling in every bit of your being until you couldn't think. This, this was different. This was heat, pure and simple. It burned his insides, racing along his nerves like some sort of speed demon, determined to drown out everything else.
And it was working.
His hands glided along over heated, sweaty flesh, tracing idle patterns as his foggy mind tried to comprehend just what was making him react in such a fashion. Was it him? Was that damned man to blame for this heat, for this longing? Five long years he'd waited to kill him, to make him suffer for the simple act of letting him go.
Had his goal changed, during those dragged out years? Or over the last few days of imprisonment?
Rolling his head to the side, he felt a moan drip from his lips. The sound fell, breaking on the floor at his feet. Echoes of other nights, so much like this one—and yet so different— surfaced in his mind. Groaning quietly, he slipped his hand past the boundary of the hem of his pants, desperate for some form of release. If he was to be expected to remain caged for the rest of his unending existence, than he would take what freedom he could.
Closing his eyes, Ezekiel growled low in his throat as he pictured that man, the one responsible for it all. With his fangs drawing blood from his own lips, he suckled the wound—picturing it coming from that damned Priest's neck. Keeping his pace slow, his ears easily picking up the sound of flesh sliding along flesh, he focused on all of the things he would do to him, once he was free. A dangerous smile surfaced as he picked up the pace, grunting.
Soon. He'd pay for everything soon.
Priest watched, stricken dumb, as the figure on the other side of the door blatantly pleasured himself. And yet, despite it all, he dared not move to stop him. Instead he remained where he was, breath uneven, pulse racing, and his eyes wide: taking in every bit of the blasphemous sight before him. Sweating palms slide along the metal door as he moved to clutch at it clumsily, his face burning with embarrassment, with confused horror, at the other man's motions.
Yet still something stirred in him, responding to the primal freedom his damned Brother was embracing. Muscles tightened, bunching beneath cloth with an excitement he refused to acknowledge as his own. He hadn't felt this way in over eighteen years; since before the birth of his daughter. But that had been different. He'd loved his Wife. The human monstrosity on the other side of the door should have only drawn regretful grief and godly anger from him. Ducking his head sharply as the vampire within the room moaned again, his ears burned with the sound. The emotions crashing through him were anything but those of a more cleansing nature.
The sound didn't leave him alone, even after it's Master's mouth had closed, his sharp fangs gritted together in a fierce grin. It flittered around, stuck between his ears. Teasing him, tempting him with the guttural, sexual noise it was made of. Closing his eyes, he could almost see it; sitting there, dripping like blood from the naked beast's fangs. Knowing he'd lost the fight, it gave one last echo before it dove sharply, blazing a path straight to his groin. Lust, restrained for so long, washed over him ruthlessly. The staggering strength, the need, behind the feeling nearly drove him to his knees.
Bright blue eyes darted around, making certain there would be no witnesses to his shame. Only once he was certain he truly was alone with his new personal demon did he reach to undo his robes. His hands shook with the effort. It took two tried to undo the knot in his belt—but he managed it. Returning his attention to the Vampire within the room, he shoved his hand down and worked himself roughly, half punishing himself for even feeling the need, let alone giving into it.
Gas flame eyes, fogged over with long forgotten desire, flutter as he unconsciously matches his Brother's pace; his gaze darts over the other man, his hunger only growing at the site of him milking his own lip, chin already red with blood.
Within the large room, Black Hat had lost his footing—falling heavily onto the cot. Seemingly unaffected by the drastic change of position, he continued to rut madly into his own hand. His pace had spiralled quickly out of control, as Priest had watched; no longer calculated and smooth, his lean hips jerked sharply, the sound of breathless, low moans filling the big empty space.
Priest nearly bit clean through his own lip as Ezekiel drove his own fangs deep into his form arm to silence the scream of satisfaction he couldn't prevent himself from making as he bucked once, twice, three times more, back and legs locked in muscle spasms.
Using his free hand to clamp his mouth and nose closed, Priest held his breath to keep from making any noise of his own as he threw himself at his own climax. Feet braced widely apart, his shoulders resting against the now warm metal of the door; he allowed his head to lull to the side as his eyes closed. Beneath his lids, the image of his broken foe was preserved in perfect detail. Snapping his hips more savagely—mind focused on the delightful sprawl of Black Hat— he found his release quickly.
A full minute of silence passed before Priest opened his eyes and removed his hand from his face. Drawing in a deep, quiet breath, he stared down at his hand; painted white by his own fluids, it seemed to stare accusingly back. Swallowing thickly, a muscle in his jaw jumped as he turned his face away, hurriedly cleaning it with a corner of his robes. The only sound to be heard from the other side of the door was the harsh heavy panting of a man still deliriously clinging to the last drags of pleasure.
Priest refused to allow himself to glance through the door again. The sight would drive his already fractured self control to shatter entirely. Instead, he forced himself to quickly straighten his clothes, and once more check to make certain that he hadn't been observed. Satisfied that he wouldn't be found out for his small private fall from God, he stole down the hallway and out of the building to the empty street beyond—intent on locking himself in his small apartment for the remainder of the night, and much of the next day.
He had a sinking feeling that not even that feverous, dedicated amount of prayer could turn him from the path his body demanded he follow, now.
Anyone else have a Black-Hat-moans-like-a-bitch kink? Because I think I need to write an apology to Karl Urban for ruining the masculinity of his character...again.
Review, for the love of male nipples and chocolate sauce!