Costumes - Chapter 7: Later
The Priest woke up to the sensation of gentle fingers tracing patterns between his shoulder blades. "Mmm," he mumbled into the pillow. "Good morning."
Fleabag was quiet for a moment, then said in a small voice, "Morning, Father."
Something in her tone made him turn around to face her. Blinking the sleep out of his big brown eyes, he took in the worry that painted her expression. "Flea, what is it?"
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed for a moment. Getting right to the point, as was her way, she asked, "Do you regret last night?"
"No," he said firmly. "I don't."
She released a breath she hadn't known she was holding before asking her next question. "Do you feel guilty?"
He stopped to give this question the consideration it deserved. "Yes," he answered honestly. "A bit."
She nodded slowly. Her eyes lowered and focused on the comforter clutched in her hands. "So, what does that mean?"
"I'm not quite sure." He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Can you be patient with me while I work it out?" He paused, then added, "It's a lot to ask for, I know."
She met his gaze. "I don't know, honestly."
The Priest frowned. "Flea, I said I don't regret it."
"I heard you," Fleabag started, "I just don't know how much of your Catholic guilt I will be able to handle before it starts to affect me."
He didn't know what to say. His guilt was two-fold. He felt guilty for abandoning his vows, and he felt guilty for once again dragging Fleabag into this mess.
When he didn't say anything, she continued. "Were you serious when you said you were thinking of leaving the priesthood?"
"I was," he confirmed.
She took a deep breath. "Can you tell me more about that?"
He sighed and rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. "Flea," he began. "I have had my doubts since the moment I met you. I became a priest to find purpose. As I fell in love with you, my purpose shifted. I don't think God would want me to be unhappy just because I found a new purpose in love."
"And are you?"
"Am I, what?" he asked, looking over at her.
"Unhappy."
He paused to consider her question before answering. "I have done my absolute best to be alright. I've kept busy, visiting parishioners, volunteering, that kind of thing. But at the end of every day, I have to go home alone to my tiny bed, in my tiny room, without you. Yes, Flea, I have been unhappy. I've missed you. I've been drinking too much to fill the void. I've cried a few times during peoples' confessions, taking things personally that I really shouldn't. I've been a bit of a mess if I'm honest." He pinned her with a severe look. "Love hurts, Flea. Whether it's love you can touch or not."
Fleabag's eyes grew large, and her breath caught in her chest. "Do you still love me?"
The Priest was on top of her suddenly, her face cupped in his palm. He looked deeply into her eyes. "Of course I fucking love you, you absolute lunatic. Why do you think I am here?"
She laughed. "I just thought you wanted to go home with the Goblin King."
"Oh," he said. "Well, that was certainly part of it."
"I did look pretty good in those pants." She grinned at him.
"Understatement." He grinned back. "No. Hear me out. I have mixed feelings about my role as a priest, but my feelings for you are clear to me. I know how I feel about you."
She waited a long moment before asking, "So, it didn't pass?"
He scoffed as if genuinely disgusted. "No, and fuck me for even suggesting that it would. I was such an arse for saying that to you. It was condescending, presumptuous, insensitive, and just misguided. I'm sorry, Flea. I had no right to tell you about your own feelings."
Something in her released then, and tears slipped down her cheeks. "Thanks for saying that. I guess I didn't realise how much I needed to hear those words from you."
The Priest stroked her face, brushing away her tears with his thumb.
Fleabag leaned into his touch and closed her eyes briefly before continuing. "I thought something was wrong with me for still feeling so much love for you. It felt shameful, loving someone who couldn't love me back."
His eyes lit up. "Do you… do you still love me?"
She gave him a sad smile through her tears. "Of fucking course, I still love you."
His lips captured hers, and they shared a passionate kiss. As the kiss grew hungry, he pulled away slightly and studied her face. "We'll need to talk more," he said resolutely.
"Yes," she breathed. "Later."
"Later," he agreed, his mouth finding hers again. The kiss was tender, lips moving together, tongues exploring. The Priest moved his mouth to trail hot kisses along her slender neck, paying close attention to her thrumming pulse. She moaned as he nipped her throat.
Moving lower, he covered her bare breasts with warm, open-mouthed kisses. His hands caressed her sides and belly as she squirmed beneath him with need. His mouth followed the path his hands had blazed, kissing down her stomach. He rested his cheek on the inside of her thigh, looking up to lock eyes with her.
"Please," Fleabag whispered.
The Priest smiled wickedly at her as he stroked and teased her thighs. He could smell her arousal, thick in the air. He studied her sex, hot and dripping in anticipation. It turned him on beyond measure to know he was affecting her so much. His own arousal ground almost painfully into the mattress.
He leaned down and ran his tongue along her slit, teasing her folds apart tenderly. She cried out, tipping her head back in pleasure. His lips pouted over her clit as he pulled the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly. He glanced up at her to find her staring down at him intently. His eyes glittered at her as he ran his tongue around her clit. She moaned but did not look away.
Fleabag reached for one of his hands and pulled it up to her lips. She sucked two fingers into her mouth, eyeing him meaningfully. She let them slip from her lips with a lewd pop.
He grinned against her hot flesh and slipped a wet finger inside her. He found her sensitive cluster of nerves and massaged her, matching the rhythm of his lips and tongue on her clit.
"Oh, fuck," she panted. She arched into him, her hands tangling into his already wild hair, needing him closer.
The Priest pushed in another finger, curling them to create friction against her front wall. Once he was sure he found the right spot, he began pumping his fingers steadily inside her.
"Yes, right there, fuck. Harder. Faster," Fleabag coaxed.
He obeyed, increasing both the pace of his tongue and his fingers. When she came, she came hard, pulsing around his fingers, soaking his hand and face.
He grinned up at her lasciviously, her juices dripping down his chin.
She grinned back down at him, breathless. "You seem quite pleased with yourself, Father."
"Oh, I am. I enjoyed that thoroughly." He licked his lips and added, "You taste just as good as I imagined, Flea."
It was her turn to look pleased with herself. "Your turn."
"No," he said, shifting up her body and pulling her into his arms. "Let's get up. I'm hungry."
"Still?" She smiled against his heaving chest.
"Very clever," he allowed. "Let me make you breakfast."