flora
Flora gasps, sharp and breathy, as Danta’s tongue parts her and the world narrows into heat and sensation. It’s been too long—too many nights curled alone in the sheets, Jack's absence a ghost at her back—and gods, this is nothing like that. With Jack, there had never been need for guesswork. He’d had the luxury of her thoughts as well as the rhythm of her breath, the arch of her spine, the exact angle of pressure that would unravel her. Danta of course doesn't have that edge, but somehow in the moment, that makes it more intoxicating. There’s a wildness to it, a hunger that doesn’t predict but explores, and as her hips roll reflexively into his mouth, Flora finds herself moaning helplessly, breath stolen.
She shifts, writhes against Asta’s chest, trying to grant Danta better access and melt into the butcher’s hands all at once. "Fuck—" the word escapes her in a fractured exhale as the Maverick finds her clit, lips and tongue drawing stars behind her eyelids. Her nails rake across Asta’s neck in a shiver of need, the edge of her teeth catching against his jaw as her lips part against his skin. "I know you don’t," she whispers, voice ragged with pleasure, her words trembling with every stroke of Danta’s tongue. "But… I could ask Frey. Make it so I can’t feel the pain."
She moans again, low and wanton, her body tipping slightly forward only to be caught and held steady by Asta’s arms. "And I’ve got fountain water," she adds, nearly gasping the words now, her thighs trembling against Danta’s shoulders. "It’d be fast. Easy. If it would help—if it would...do anything for you..." The words are nearly a plea. Not for herself—though Danta’s mouth is drawing her closer to release with every passing moment—but for the butcher whose touch never bruises unless he means it, who she knows fights every instinct not to bite. If there’s any gift she can give him—any indulgence, any surrender—she’d offer it gladly. Just to be wanted again. Fully. Completely. Unflinchingly. To overwrite their time in Frey's Breath, as he'd said.
One hand tangles deeper in Asta’s hair, the other reaching blindly to grasp one of his hands over her breast and beg his fingers to squeeze. "Don’t stop," she breathes, helpless now against the tide that’s pulling her under.
She shifts, writhes against Asta’s chest, trying to grant Danta better access and melt into the butcher’s hands all at once. "Fuck—" the word escapes her in a fractured exhale as the Maverick finds her clit, lips and tongue drawing stars behind her eyelids. Her nails rake across Asta’s neck in a shiver of need, the edge of her teeth catching against his jaw as her lips part against his skin. "I know you don’t," she whispers, voice ragged with pleasure, her words trembling with every stroke of Danta’s tongue. "But… I could ask Frey. Make it so I can’t feel the pain."
She moans again, low and wanton, her body tipping slightly forward only to be caught and held steady by Asta’s arms. "And I’ve got fountain water," she adds, nearly gasping the words now, her thighs trembling against Danta’s shoulders. "It’d be fast. Easy. If it would help—if it would...do anything for you..." The words are nearly a plea. Not for herself—though Danta’s mouth is drawing her closer to release with every passing moment—but for the butcher whose touch never bruises unless he means it, who she knows fights every instinct not to bite. If there’s any gift she can give him—any indulgence, any surrender—she’d offer it gladly. Just to be wanted again. Fully. Completely. Unflinchingly. To overwrite their time in Frey's Breath, as he'd said.
One hand tangles deeper in Asta’s hair, the other reaching blindly to grasp one of his hands over her breast and beg his fingers to squeeze. "Don’t stop," she breathes, helpless now against the tide that’s pulling her under.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
