Costumes - Chapter 9: Breakfast
The Priest prepared breakfast in the kitchen while Fleabag finished towelling off her hair in the bathroom. He wore nothing but his boxers, his hair a tousled mess from the shower. T-Rex's 'Dandy in the Underworld' played from his phone, and he danced enthusiastically in her direction as she entered the kitchen. She grinned at him, sauntering toward him and swaying her hips dramatically to the music. They danced seductively at each other and dissolved into fits of giggles.
When the song ended, he turned to the counter and motioned to the spread. "Here's what I can do with what I found: Bacon and pancakes."
"That sounds divine. What can I help with?"
"I'm just going to start the bacon. Do you mind watching it while I get the pancakes in order?"
"Sure." She watched as he lay the thick slabs of bacon down in the pan.
Moving away busily, he asked, "Do you prefer a blueberry compote, or would you rather have the blueberries in your pancakes?"
A laugh bubbled in her throat. "Where did you find blueberries?"
"In the back of your freezer." He shrugged.
She beamed at him. "Either."
While eyeing the bacon, she sidled over to her tea cabinet, turning on her electric kettle. "Tea?"
His eyes rolled in anticipatory ecstasy. "Please."
A comfortable silence stretched between them as they attended to their tasks about the kitchen.
"Pancakes are done," The Priest announced, removing the compote from the burner and flipping the last pancake onto the serving plate to join the others.
Fleabag plated the remaining pieces of bacon, turning off the flame. "Bacon's done." She rummaged for napkins and silverware.
"What would you like to drink?" He reached for the cupboard where she kept her glasses, then paused at her quizzical brow. "I may have done a thorough search of your kitchen while I was prepping breakfast, so I know where your glasses are already. Am I a creep?"
She smirked. "A bit of one, yeah. Water is fine."
The Priest smiled sheepishly and filled two glasses with water, carrying them to the table along with the silverware and napkins. He returned to the kitchen to find her plating their breakfast. Slipping his arms around her waist, he planted a tender kiss on her temple. "I could get used to this."
Fleabag's eyes were unexpectedly stormy when she turned around to examine him. He looked at her, bewildered, but she handed him his plate and bustled by, heading to the table. The moment to ask about her expression had passed.
"I'm starving," she crowed, a little too enthusiastically for someone who had just looked so serious.
The Priest followed her to the table and sat down, folding his napkin in his lap and eyeing her cautiously. "Did I say something wrong?"
She looked up at him, a forkful of pancake halfway to her mouth. "What?"
"When I said that I could get used to this."
"Oh. That." Fleabag put her fork down.
The Priest gestured at her food. "No, please. Eat. I didn't mean—"
"It's okay." She cleared her throat. "I guess I just… I just don't know what that means. Not really. And I don't think you do, either."
He suddenly became aware that he was folding and unfolding his napkin nervously in his lap. He let out a breath and met her eyes. "You're right. I don't."
She dropped her gaze and picked up her fork, looking very focused on pushing her bacon around her plate.
When she said nothing, The Priest continued, "But I do know that to have known you, and then to have lost you—it left a hollowness in me." He splayed a hand across his sternum. "I ached to be with you, to do the simple things with you, like wake up and have breakfast together. Now that that is happening, I can't help but hope for more. Is that selfish of me?"
Fleabag was looking up at him then, weighing his words thoughtfully. "It isn't selfish of you to want this." She paused. "It would be selfish of you to promise that you can make it real when you can't."
He nodded solemnly. "I know."
She gave him a wobbly smile. "Anyway, let's eat."
The rest of the meal consisted of comfortable chatter and fox stories.
"And I swear," The Priest insisted as he scraped off his plate into the bin when they were finished, "a fox followed me home from the fucking bus stop that night."
A knowing smile played on Fleabag's lips. "Oh, really?" Her smile faded as she reached for her vibrating phone. "Shit. Claire's been calling."
He looked up, concerned. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah," she confirmed, flicking open her text message screen. "She texted, too. Thorough, that one. She wants to know if I can come round to help with cleaning. Her house is a disaster after last night. I'll just give her a ring—"
The doorbell buzzed.
They looked at each other with wide eyes.
"Can you tell her to come back later?" The Priest asked hopefully.
"Have you met my sister?"
Fleabag and The Priest exchanged panicked expressions as they stood frozen in momentary silence.
"Shit!" they both exclaimed, as Fleabag made shoo-ing motions with her hands toward the bedroom. Following him, she grabbed her purple terry cloth robe from the hook on the back of the bedroom door and shoved it into his fumbling hands. "Here!"
The Priest gaped at her. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with—"
Shutting the door, Fleabag darted to the front door, reaching it just after the second, slightly more urgent, buzz.
"Hi!" she said, a little too brightly, flinging the door open.
Claire blinked at her sceptically, taking in her frazzled appearance and over-eager smile. "Hi," she said briskly. Immediately on to something, she peered around her sister into the flat. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing," Fleabag said, a bit too quickly. "Just ate breakfast."
"Lovely," Claire sighed in relief, pushing past Fleabag and making her way into the kitchen. "I'm starving. My hangover is positively raging. Is that bacon?"
Fleabag hurried to keep up with Claire. "Yes, look—"
Claire puttered around the kitchen, prodding at the leftovers. "What had you in a cooking mood, anyway? Did you"—she spun around to face her sister—"oh, Flea. Did you and your Priest…?"
Fleabag cringed and nodded.
Claire's eyes glittered with brief amusement before her expression grew concerned. "And you're alright?"
"I'm fine. It was lovely. He's lovely." Fleabag's eyes darted to the closed bedroom door and then back to Claire.
Claire's eyes narrowed and then widened in realisation. "Oh, God."
Fleabag paled. "Oh, God, what?"
"He's here, isn't he?" Claire's voice lowered to a stage whisper. "You've got your Priest in your room, haven't you?"
Fleabag nodded again, grimacing.
"Jesus," Claire blustered. "You could have just texted me back—"
The Priest emerged from Fleabag's bedroom, Fleabag's fluffy, too-small, purple robe wrapped tightly around him. "Hi, Claire. Sorry about this."
"Father!" Claire feined shocked surprise. She looked secretly pleased more than scandalised.
"I couldn't find my clothes," The Priest admitted. "It was either this or the Piglet costume." He tried an easy laugh, but it faded at the expression on Claire's face. He sobered. "It sounded like you knew I was here, and it felt disingenuous to keep hiding."
"Mmm," Claire replied through thinned lips. "Well, I'm sorry for intruding." She turned to Fleabag. "But my sister wasn't picking up my calls or texts this morning, and now I see why."
Fleabag gave Claire an impish grin. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I didn't see your texts till just before you showed up."
Claire fidgeted anxiously, glancing from Fleabag to The Priest, then back to Fleabag. "It's fine, really. I'll let you two…" She trailed off and gestured vaguely with her hand, blushing deeply.
As Claire moved stiffly toward the door, Fleabag called, "I can come round later to help tidy up."
"Oh," Claire said, sounding surprised. "That's okay; I've got it sorted."
"I can help," The Priest offered, still hovering in the bedroom doorway.
Both sisters turned to look at him.
He looked suddenly more awkward than he had before. "I mean, if you would like the extra set of hands."
Fleabag smiled at Claire, who gazed back at her frostily before her face broke into her own relenting half-smile.
Claire let out a sharp breath. "Fine. Thanks." She paused as if deeply considering something. "We could have dinner at mine after. I'll be too tired to shop and cook, but we could order take-out."
Fleabag glanced at The Priest, who winked at her in approval. "Lovely."
"Great, well." Claire pulled the front door open and stepped through it. "I'll see you around three, then."
"See you," The Priest and Fleabag confirmed in unison.
Claire scowled and closed the door.
Fleabag and The Priest let out a collective sigh, looking anywhere but at each other. When they did lock eyes, he saw the way hers glittered with restraint.
"Don't laugh."
She clapped a hand over her mouth, and her body began visibly shaking.
"I can't believe you're laughing! She's so upset, Flea."
Fleabag was openly laughing now. "Upset? She's thrilled!"
"At least someone is," he muttered.
"Oh, come on. Don't fancy a romantic breakfast interrupted by my nosey sister?"
"I'd at least liked to have been better dressed."
"In what, a collar? Priestly robes?"
He shot her a wounded look. "Fair. Harsh, but fair."
She smirked but seemed to be satisfied that her point was made. Her smirk changed to something hungrier as she eyed him in the tiny robe.
The Priest shifted under her stare and leaned as casually as possible against the bedroom doorframe. "What should we do now?"
Fleabag stepped toward him, closing the distance between them. She slowly untied the sash of the robe, smiling as it fell open.
He was reminded of the night they had had sex—when he had removed her jacket only to find her in her panties and bra. His cock hardened at the memory.
Sliding her hands along his stomach, she leaned in and whispered, "Wasn't it you who suggested we have breakfast and then go back to bed?"
The warmth of her breath near his ear made his cock twitch. "It was." He dipped his head forward and kissed her jaw. "If we make it there."
Her hands shoved him back against the doorframe as their mouths collided. His fingers tugged at the hem of her shirt as she pushed the robe from his shoulders in hurried efforts. They broke the kiss long enough for him to shimmy out of the robe and for her to help him pull her t-shirt over her head. When they returned to the kiss, it was slower, more sensual.
The Priest took control of the kiss, holding her jaw possessively while massaging her tongue with his. He nipped her bottom lip, drawing a soft whimper from her throat.
Fleabag's hands were in his hair as he kissed her, pulling him closer.
In a quick movement, he picked her up and pushed her against the doorframe, his hands gripping her arse firmly over her shorts. He found her pulse and sucked briefly before giving it a sensual bite. He noted how she moaned at the feeling of his teeth on her flesh. He moved lower, kissing her throat and chest.
"We should—" Her words were cut off by a moan as he lapped the flat of his tongue lightly across her nipple.
"Mmm," he murmured in agreement, angling them through the bedroom door and walking purposefully toward the bed. He lay her down and stepped out of his underwear. She looked up at him admiringly and he smiled warmly down at her. She slipped out of her shorts and beckoned for him to lay down.
The Priest sprawled out beside her, a quizzical brow raised as she looked as though she had something in mind.
Fleabag winked at him and shifted so she was lying in the opposite direction as him. He watched as she looked down at him before wrapping her lips around his cock and taking him into her mouth. A hand stroked silkily over his shaft while the other massaged his balls.
"Oh, Flea. Fuck," he managed between groans. Forcing himself to focus, he reached out and pulled her torso closer to his face. Lifting a leg to spread her, he dipped his head forward and licked slowly around her clit.
She bucked her hips lightly in response, running her tongue along the head of his cock to match his movements. When he sucked her clit, she pouted her lips at the tip of his cock and sucked in rhythm with him, swirling her tongue when he swirled his.
The Priest rested her thigh on his neck and lapped his tongue down her wet folds, spreading her wider. He dipped his tongue in to taste her, loving how ready she was for him. He felt as though he could never get used to her taste in his mouth. He rubbed his thumb against her clit and thrust his tongue inside her, moaning against her flesh as his cock hit the back of her throat.
He felt her walls flutter around his tongue as she came. Her moans vibrated along his cock, and his hips stuttered involuntarily as he struggled to control himself. When she stopped shaking, he kissed the inside of her thigh and laid it back on the bed. Reaching down, he cupped her cheek and guided her eyes to his. "Condom? I mean, if you want—I don't want to come if you want to have sex."
She nodded, giving his cock one final lick before motioning to her bedside table.
The Priest crawled to the side table and rummaged around until he retrieved a condom. She stroked herself as she watched him put it on. His eyes were hungry as he observed her touching herself. "How do you want me?" he growled.
"On top of me." Fleabag spread her legs for him as he fell forward. "Making love to me." She pulled him flush against her skin, his cock pressing against her belly. "Filling me."
He kissed her, savouring the way his own flavour mixed with hers as their tongues caressed. Without breaking the kiss, he eased his body down to position his cock at her entrance. She whimpered around his tongue as he slipped his cock along her seam. Rolling his hips forward, he slowly entered her, angling himself to slide along her sensitive front wall.
They let out a simultaneous moan as he filled her, little by little. When he was inside her, he pulled away from the kiss to look at her face. He could tell she was surprised that his eyes were slightly misted. He smiled at her. "I love you, Flea."
"I love you, too, Father."
He pulled out and rocked into her again, stretching her fully. His hands found her breasts, and he kneaded them, rolling her nipples between his fingers.
Fleabag let out a breathy whine as he took her nipple in his mouth and began a slow pattern of sucking to match the languid pumping of his hips.
The Priest maintained control, stayed present in the moment, and made sure she did too. He moved back up to her face and kissed her, making this moment theirs. He savoured the feeling of her nails running down the skin of his shoulders and back and relished the way she nipped his bottom lip when he buried himself deep within her. Not for the first time that night, he felt as though he were of one body with his love.
He leaned up slightly, reaching a hand down between them. She cried out when he pressed his fingers to her clit and rubbed a circular rhythm that matched the rolling of his hips. "How does this feel?"
" Fuck—so good, Father."
She was really taking liberties with using that name, he thought, not unhappily, before sinking back into her with a groan of pleasure.
His pace was slow but purposeful, and she met each thrust with her hips. Their gaze held as they made love, never breaking.
Her hands tightened on his forearms. "I'm getting close. Slow, just like that." She gasped. "Oh my god, yes."
He pumped into her, tenderly drawing her orgasm from her as her whimper turned into a series of moans.
"Don't stop," she breathed.
He could feel her walls tightening around his cock in another climax, and then another, as he kept his pace.
"Faster," she panted, moving her hands to grasp his hips, pulling him deeper.
The Priest reached for her legs and hooked them over his shoulders, lifting her by her hips. He thrust back into her, quickening his pace. They both moaned at the improved angle.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he huffed, pressing his fingers into her flesh as he held her in place. They stared at each other as he moved powerfully within her.
"Come with me," she commanded, trailing her nails up his belly and across his nipples.
He shivered at the sensation of her nails on his skin. "I'm close, love."
Fleabag writhed against him, building friction as her own climax began to take shape.
He lost control when her mouth dropped open in pleasure, in a way he had come to love. He could feel her gripping his cock tightly as he came.
They cried out for each other as he moved inside her those last few thrusts, names on lips interrupted by a crushing kiss.
Pulling away, he gingerly withdrew from her, removed her shaking legs from his shoulders, and laid them down. "I'll be right back." He gestured to the condom, then to the bathroom.
As The Priest cleaned himself up, he wondered if she would want to cuddle. He hoped she would. He had been vulnerable with her during their lovemaking and felt a bit cut wide open.
He walked back into the bedroom to find Fleabag bustling by him.
"My turn."
He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to finish tidying up. His thoughts drifted to the sounds she made as they came together, the way his name sounded on her lips, how she called him Father when he was deep—
"Father?"
The Priest looked up to see Fleabag walking toward him with a brow raised.
"I asked if you'd fancy a cuddle." She straddled him and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He swallowed, feeling himself growing hard for her again. "I was hoping you would want to."
Fleabag grinned and stepped off of him to lay on the bed. He scooted back to join her, lifting his arm so she could snuggle against his chest. A contented silence fell between them as he coiled her hair around his fingers, and she traced lazy patterns onto the skin of his chest with her nails.
After a while, he asked, "How was that for you?"
Her hand stilled. "Do you really have to ask?"
He chuckled a bit nervously. "I do."
Fleabag looked up at him. "Dreamlike. Surreal." She touched his cheek. "Beautiful."
The Priest considered her. "How does that make you feel?"
"Afraid," she confessed.
He kissed her forehead. "I'm afraid, too, Flea."