flora
Flora’s mouth stretches around Danta as he fills her, the weight of him pressing against her tongue as her lips seal around his length, head tipping back to encourage as much of him as he had to give. She moans low and languid, the vibration sent humming up through him and down through her own body, reverberating like the bassline of some decadent, private song. Her fingers splay against his hips, possessive and guiding, digging into the sharp lines of bone as she begins to move—slow at first, a tease of lips and tongue—meant to be more promise than fulfilment at this point.
Then Asta presses into her, and the breath she would’ve taken is stolen in an instant as her back arches as he sinks inside with that first, deliberate thrust. The way they’ve pinned her—Asta’s hand curling over her thigh, Danta’s wrist still gripped in hers—grounds her in something visceral and electric. Each movement from Asta earns a sound from her, muffled and needy, her body tightening around him in a rhythm that quickly betrays how greedy she’s become. And gods she still wants more.
Danta’s cock slides deeper into her throat with each bob of her head, each tilt of her neck guided by his grip in her hair. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, the heat pooling in her belly only grows more insistent, coiled tight between Asta’s relentless thrusts and Danta’s growing tension against her tongue.
For all the (many) benefits of fucking a telepath, Flora was a creature of theatre and excess, of lipstick stains and bitten-back screams. She liked being watched. Liked making those around her lose control just from the sound of her breath hitching.
And now with no one in her thoughts, no one parsing out the performance from the truth, Flora felt free; when she moaned low and wet around Danta, when she arched her hips up to meet the next pounding thrust from Asta, it didn’t matter if it was real or not—because the hunger on their faces, the sharp sounds in their throats, told her they believed it, and gods that's what made it real.
Then Asta presses into her, and the breath she would’ve taken is stolen in an instant as her back arches as he sinks inside with that first, deliberate thrust. The way they’ve pinned her—Asta’s hand curling over her thigh, Danta’s wrist still gripped in hers—grounds her in something visceral and electric. Each movement from Asta earns a sound from her, muffled and needy, her body tightening around him in a rhythm that quickly betrays how greedy she’s become. And gods she still wants more.
Danta’s cock slides deeper into her throat with each bob of her head, each tilt of her neck guided by his grip in her hair. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, the heat pooling in her belly only grows more insistent, coiled tight between Asta’s relentless thrusts and Danta’s growing tension against her tongue.
For all the (many) benefits of fucking a telepath, Flora was a creature of theatre and excess, of lipstick stains and bitten-back screams. She liked being watched. Liked making those around her lose control just from the sound of her breath hitching.
And now with no one in her thoughts, no one parsing out the performance from the truth, Flora felt free; when she moaned low and wet around Danta, when she arched her hips up to meet the next pounding thrust from Asta, it didn’t matter if it was real or not—because the hunger on their faces, the sharp sounds in their throats, told her they believed it, and gods that's what made it real.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
