flora
Flora is unravelling. Not delicately, not sweetly, but with the messy, glorious intensity of someone who’s been holding herself together for far too long. Danta’s tongue works her with a precision that’s criminal, pulling moan after moan from her throat, and when Asta’s voice rumbles that low command in her ear, her knees nearly buckle beneath her.
Her fingers tighten in Asta’s hair like she could somehow pull the pleasure closer as the other claws against his neck for purchase. Her head falls back against the butcher’s shoulder, lips parted against his jaw as she moans—loud and utterly unbothered by how shameless it sounds.
The ache, the loneliness, the hunger she’s swallowed for weeks all condense into a single, burning point of release that she focuses on like her life depends on it. With no telepath to curtail her reactions, Flora allows herself the theatrics that she's so missed: her breath catches, her back arches, and when she breaks, she grinds her heel against Danta's lower back as if meaning to smother him against her.
Flora's balance wavers, her body trembling in Asta's arms as her orgasm surges up from static in her toes before reaching a boiling point between her thighs. For a shining moment, there is nothing. No Torchline. No exes. No aching absence of Jack in the corner of her mind. Just the rush of blood in her ears and the shimmer of sweat on her skin, her heartbeat echoing like the tide inside a conch shell. She floats in it—weightless, boneless, free—caught somewhere between starlight and shipwreck, her body humming like a struck string still reverberating.
It’s only the slow drag of breath against her neck that reminds her Asta is still holding her, arms firm and steady around her trembling frame. Only the gentle shift of Danta’s hands and the brush of his mouth against her thigh that grounds her again. She’s draped between them like something sacred and spent, barely tethered to her own skin.
Already her body is shifting again, hips pressing back against Asta with unconscious need, leg twitching against Danta’s shoulders. Her desire doesn’t wane; it deepens, expands, turns greedy in the wake of satisfaction. One hand reaches up blindly to cup the side of Asta’s face, the other dropping low to thread into Danta’s hair, fingers curling possessively. She doesn’t say a word, but the message is there, sharp and silken in her touch.
More.
Her fingers tighten in Asta’s hair like she could somehow pull the pleasure closer as the other claws against his neck for purchase. Her head falls back against the butcher’s shoulder, lips parted against his jaw as she moans—loud and utterly unbothered by how shameless it sounds.
The ache, the loneliness, the hunger she’s swallowed for weeks all condense into a single, burning point of release that she focuses on like her life depends on it. With no telepath to curtail her reactions, Flora allows herself the theatrics that she's so missed: her breath catches, her back arches, and when she breaks, she grinds her heel against Danta's lower back as if meaning to smother him against her.
Flora's balance wavers, her body trembling in Asta's arms as her orgasm surges up from static in her toes before reaching a boiling point between her thighs. For a shining moment, there is nothing. No Torchline. No exes. No aching absence of Jack in the corner of her mind. Just the rush of blood in her ears and the shimmer of sweat on her skin, her heartbeat echoing like the tide inside a conch shell. She floats in it—weightless, boneless, free—caught somewhere between starlight and shipwreck, her body humming like a struck string still reverberating.
It’s only the slow drag of breath against her neck that reminds her Asta is still holding her, arms firm and steady around her trembling frame. Only the gentle shift of Danta’s hands and the brush of his mouth against her thigh that grounds her again. She’s draped between them like something sacred and spent, barely tethered to her own skin.
Already her body is shifting again, hips pressing back against Asta with unconscious need, leg twitching against Danta’s shoulders. Her desire doesn’t wane; it deepens, expands, turns greedy in the wake of satisfaction. One hand reaches up blindly to cup the side of Asta’s face, the other dropping low to thread into Danta’s hair, fingers curling possessively. She doesn’t say a word, but the message is there, sharp and silken in her touch.
More.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
