Costumes - Chapter 6: Hold Me
"What are you wearing under that costume?" she asked pointedly.
"What? Why?" The Priest chuckled, holding his hands up defensively. "We are not going to have sex."
Fleabag just looked at him, waiting for his answer.
"A t-shirt and sweat pants," he admitted with a resigned sigh.
"Where's the zipper? In the back?"
He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing at her suspiciously.
"Sit up and turn around," she ordered, sitting up herself and pulling him upright.
He let her guide him into a sitting position and turned around. "We're not having sex," he repeated.
"Okay," she agreed, unzipping the back of his costume. She gave him a meaningful look.
Sighing again, he stood up and shimmied out of the costume, letting it pool onto the floor next to hers. He turned around to face her and found that she was lying down on her side, propped up on an elbow. She patted the space next to her.
Shit.
The Priest hesitated, then stretched out next to her, facing her.
They stared at each other for a few moments.
"Do you trust me?" she asked bluntly.
"Not particularly, no," he replied, throwing her a wink. "Should I?"
She smirked devilishly. "Probably not." She paused. "Can I hold you?" Her voice was suddenly small, almost shy.
The Priest thought this over. He looked at her bare legs, wondering, not for the first time, what she was wearing underneath her t-shirt.
Fuck it.
He swallowed, then gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head.
Fleabag put a tentative leg over his legs, scooting herself towards him. She hesitated, giving him time to protest. When he didn't, she gently pushed his shoulder until he lay flat on his back. Straddling him, she weaved her arms behind his neck. She then shifted down until she lay flush against him, legs intertwined with his, face in his neck.
"Hold me back, please," she requested quietly.
After a time, he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a reassuring squeeze.
Neither of them said anything. At first, both of their breathing was heavy and panicked as they felt the length of one another's bodies as if for the first time. After a few moments, their breath began to find a rhythm as they soaked up the comfort they both craved. His hands rubbed lazy circles on the skin of her back, beneath her shirt.
Suddenly, The Priest became aware of his growing hardness against her belly. "I'm sorry, I—ehm, can't help that, regardless of my chaste intentions," he mumbled into her hair.
"Shh," Fleabag whispered in a soothing tone. She moved an arm from behind him to touch his jaw affectionately with her fingers. "It's fine." Her voice caught. "Just be here with me."
He looked down at her face and noticed with surprise that tears were tracking lightly down her cheeks. He stroked her face, wiping the tears away with his thumb. "Flea, what is it?" he asked, concerned.
Fleabag shook her head dismissively. "I don't know, Father. I think I am just overwhelmed. Feeling things—" she paused, her fingers continuing their delicate pattern up and down his jawline, "—wanting to feel more things."
"What things?" His voice was low as he leaned into her touch.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth.
He glanced at hers.
This is it. I give up.
The Priest smiled wolfishly at her, sitting them up slightly and leaning forward until his lips hovered just over hers. Warm breath mingled as their gaze locked. "What things?" he repeated huskily.
"I want to feel known. I want you to know me," Fleabag whispered, "I want to feel your lips on mine. I want to feel your tongue sliding gently against my own. I want to take it slow. I want to treat each other like glass—like we might just break like the fragile things we are."
He felt every bit of resolve he had built up shatter completely at those words. It was everything his heart had ached to hear. He brushed his mouth against hers experimentally, pulling back to see her reaction. Her eyes were full of emotions: fear, longing, and lust. He leaned back in and pressed his lips to hers. Taking her bottom lip into his mouth, he sucked gently, running his tongue across it. When she opened her mouth to accept his tongue, he grasped her chin and tilted her face to improve the angle.
The hand that traced his jaw moved to tangle in his hair and tug him closer. Fleabag deepened the kiss, massaging his tongue softly with her own.
The kiss smouldered into something more urgent for both of them. Their bodies found an unconscious rhythm as they writhed against the other. Fleabag sat up, straddling him again. She ground down against him softly and whimpered. His hands reflexively moved to grab her arse as he moaned in response.
He moved his hands away before making contact as if thinking better of it. "Hey," he said, breaking from the kiss and stroking her face. "Let's not rush. You wanted to go slow, remember?"
She looked away, beginning to shift off of his lap. She seemed uncharacteristically embarrassed.
He frowned, pulling her back to him. "Talk to me."
Fleabag looked at him sadly, fresh tears slowly slipping from her eyes. "I'm afraid to slow down now. I'm afraid you'll soon remember that we have no business being close like this."
"Hey," he repeated, taking her hands. "You're safe. I made a mistake walking away from you at the bus stop. I didn't know then that there would be no way to move on as a priest after what we've shared. My heart isn't in it anymore. I tried. All I can think of is you. I've made my peace with God. I'm not going anywhere."
"Did you just decide this?" she asked, eyeing him sceptically.
"Like, literally, just now," he admitted. "But I've been thinking about it constantly. I've even started my letter of resignation from the priesthood."
There was a pause as this news settled between them.
"Why don't you want to have sex, then?" she asked, wiping stubborn tears on her sleeve.
He looked at her long legs wrapped around his waist. He licked his lips at how her t-shirt clung slightly to her braless breasts and bunched around her hips, showing a hint of her knickers. Her arousal was warm against his throbbing cock. "Oh," he started, his voice low again, "I want to have sex. I desperately do." He ran a hand up the small of her back. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She smiled at that, a little bit of tension leaving her body. "Oh? Tell me."
He flexed his erection meaningfully against her, and they both moaned at the sensation. "Well, honestly, I want to flip you over right now and find out what's under that t-shirt. I want to make you scream with pleasure from my mouth and hands, and then I want to fuck your brains out."
"But?" Fleabag asked, laughing at his candour and pressing more firmly against him.
The Priest sucked in a breath through his teeth at the pressure, craving friction. "But," he began, considering her, "what I want more is the intimacy we are both so afraid of. I want more slow kissing. I want to spend hours touching you and learning how you work." He reached up and grazed her hard nipples over her shirt with the palms of his hands, watching as her head tipped back in pleasure. "I want to touch you like this, with love and intention."
It was the first time either had spoken of love since their last parting. She looked down at him. A silence stretched between them as he continued to caress her breasts. He kept a slow pace, barely touching them. Holding her gaze, he sat up and took a hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking over the fabric.
Fleabag squirmed in his lap and groaned, looking away from his intense stare.
The Priest gently fisted the hair at the back of her head and guided her eyes back down to his. "Don't do that," he commanded. "Be here with me."
"And what else am I allowed to do for you?" she asked, meeting his eyes again, a brow raised.
He appraised her, a wicked grin taking over his features. He began to lift her t-shirt. She whimpered when his hands skimmed her breasts briefly as he pulled it over her head.
"I want to see you touch yourself," he began, voice heavy. "I want to watch you make yourself come. Can you do that for me?"
Fleabag grinned wildly at that. She put a hand between them, giving him a quick squeeze over his sweat pants before slipping her hand into her knickers.
"Oh, I can certainly do that for you, Father." Still straddling him, she began to rub her clit in slow circles.
While she touched herself, The Priest caressed her sides, hips, and breasts softly. He rubbed his palms along the tops of her thighs. She bit her lip as her pleasure built, enjoying watching him observe her.
After a few minutes, she climbed off him and lay down on her back. She pulled her knickers off and flung them carelessly to the floor. While rubbing her clit with one hand, she snaked her other hand between her legs and slid a finger inside herself. "Oh," she groaned, throwing her head back as she curled her finger, keeping her pace slow. Her hips rocked against her hands.
The Priest watched her closely, recording every breath and buck of her hips. He studied the way she touched herself, committing it to memory so he could be sure to touch her the same way. He lived to make her feel good, to make her happy.
Fleabag stopped her movements and regarded him. "You know what would help me get off?"
"Tell me," he begged, eyes dark with lust and love.
"I want to watch you touch yourself," she replied plainly.
The Priest let out a long, shuddering sigh, then nodded. "It's been a long time," he admitted.
"Even hotter, honestly."
They both laughed and leaned in for a slow kiss.
Fleabag broke the kiss and pulled her hands away from between her legs, helping him lift his shirt over his head. She licked a nipple and smiled as he moaned. He pulled off his pants, kicking them to the floor.
His erect cock tented boldly beneath his boxers. She smiled in approval, looking back up at his face with a predatory expression. She pulled down his boxers and licked beneath the head of his cock.
He moaned and gently pushed her head away. "I'm not ready for that," he confessed through ragged breaths.
They had only had intercourse during their frantic night together. Granted, they had had sex several times that night but had not pleasured each other with their mouths.
"I'm sorry," she said, suddenly serious, pulling away.
"Shh, don't be. There's plenty of time for that." He took her hand and pulled her wet finger into his mouth. "Mmm," he murmured. "You taste so good."
Fleabag watched him with anticipation. "Go on," she encouraged, nodding toward his glistening cock. "Let me watch you."
He smiled nervously. "I haven't touched myself properly in a long time. Maybe ten years."
She stared at him, eyes wide. "Are you okay? Do you want to stop?"
He let out a small laugh. "In no fucking way do I want to stop. I just…I think I just have a little performance anxiety, is all."
She leaned over and kissed him. "You're safe." She repeated his words back to him. "Now, let me see you make yourself come, Father." She slid her hands back between her legs and began to touch herself again.
The Priest admired her for a moment, then moved his hand to his erection. He rubbed a thumb over the tip, dragging a bead of precome around the head. He then grasped his shaft and began to slowly stroke himself.
"That's right, Father," Fleabag coaxed when he gasped, her breathing coming in heavy pants as her hand increased its pace.
He quickened his rhythm to match hers. "Oh, Flea," he moaned. "It feels so good to be this close to you."
"Fuck," she cried, leaning back onto her pillow, clearly struggling to maintain eye contact.
The Priest moved to kneel between her legs, leaving room for both of her hands. Still pumping his hand along his length, he leaned down, covered her mouth with his, and kissed her deeply. He reached for one of her breasts and rolled her nipple between his fingers.
Fleabag let out a throaty whine, her breath ragged beneath his lips.
"I want you to come with me," he ordered, pulling back and looking her in the eyes. "I want to watch you fall apart and fucking shatter with pleasure. Come with me, Flea. Come hard."
"I'm close," she breathed, staring back just as intently.
"Let go. Let go for me," he demanded. "Let me see you come."
Her body shook beneath him, her hips bucking. Her eyes began to roll before meeting his again, determinedly. "Fuck, Father, I—"
At the use of the name 'Father' The Priest let out a moan as his orgasm began to take hold of him, pleasure rippling through his body. "Can I—"
"Yes!" She pulled him down.
He fell forward, his cock pulsing as he spilt his come on her belly and chest. They lay there in their afterglow, staring at each other, bodies shaking.
A slight smirk crept across The Priest's face.
"What?" She raised a hesitant eyebrow.
"I was right."
"About?"
"It does turn you on to call me 'Father.'" His smirk had grown into a wide grin.
Fleabag grinned back at him wickedly. "You like it."
"I do," he admitted with a guilty sigh. "It's sick, but I do."