flora
Asta’s grip tightens at her hips, and the way he shifts—grinding deeper, harder, more intentional—has Flora gasping around Danta, breath snagging too sharply to continue. She has to pause, her jaw slackening as her forehead presses against the inside of Danta’s thigh. Her whole body trembles with the rhythm Asta sets, his hands branding her skin like heat rising from sun-warmed stone. It's too much, too good, too focused—all that hunger and intent zeroed in on her with the precision of a weapon.
"Asta—" she breathes, broken and pleading, her voice cracked open by want. She shifts one hand from where it's tangled around Danta to slide it down her own stomach, the tips of her fingers finding the slick heat between her thighs. The added sensation is dizzying, electric; a current that lights up her spine and coils under her skin. Her legs twitch, thighs flexing around Asta as the tension builds like a wave threatening to crest.
She wants to cry out, to sob his name into the velvet dusk of the back room, but instead she tilts her head, lips parting for Danta once more. There's apology in the reverence of it—an offering, a plea, a thank-you—and a challenge too. See how good I can be? See how much more I can give? And she would, as if lavishing him with attention might make Asta continue to do the same to her.
Her mouth stretches around the Maverick again, lips red and plush, eyes fluttering closed as she rocks between them. Every inch of her is caught in the middle—taut, trembling, worshipped and wanting. Her moans are garbled now, wet and messy around Danta, but genuine too. Raw. The sound of someone on the edge, unravelling not with shame but with something close to euphoria.
She’s close. Gods, she’s so close. And it’s not just the pressure between her thighs—it’s the sound of Danta's voice, the way Asta’s hands bruise and cradle, the way she is the centre of it all.
"Asta—" she breathes, broken and pleading, her voice cracked open by want. She shifts one hand from where it's tangled around Danta to slide it down her own stomach, the tips of her fingers finding the slick heat between her thighs. The added sensation is dizzying, electric; a current that lights up her spine and coils under her skin. Her legs twitch, thighs flexing around Asta as the tension builds like a wave threatening to crest.
She wants to cry out, to sob his name into the velvet dusk of the back room, but instead she tilts her head, lips parting for Danta once more. There's apology in the reverence of it—an offering, a plea, a thank-you—and a challenge too. See how good I can be? See how much more I can give? And she would, as if lavishing him with attention might make Asta continue to do the same to her.
Her mouth stretches around the Maverick again, lips red and plush, eyes fluttering closed as she rocks between them. Every inch of her is caught in the middle—taut, trembling, worshipped and wanting. Her moans are garbled now, wet and messy around Danta, but genuine too. Raw. The sound of someone on the edge, unravelling not with shame but with something close to euphoria.
She’s close. Gods, she’s so close. And it’s not just the pressure between her thighs—it’s the sound of Danta's voice, the way Asta’s hands bruise and cradle, the way she is the centre of it all.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
