flora
Asta’s accented praise coupled with the way Danta sings her name like a broken prayer, has Flora’s climax crashing toward her like a rogue wave. Her fingers work in a blur between her thighs, slippery and desperate, and her toes curl hard in her heels as her whole body tightens in preparation. She’s forced to release Danta’s cock for the second time, her moan breaking around Asta's name as she feels the twitch of Danta's fingers still tangled in her hair. He’s close—she can feel it—and she presses herself harder into Asta’s hand as it squeezes over her breast. Her back arches, her breast pressing into his palm as her nipple catches under his thumb.
She cums with a sharp cry, singing the butcher’s name like a benediction as her body locks, then shudders with release. Her back bows, her hips jerk—every muscle taut and trembling as the pleasure claws through her. The air catches in her lungs, and for a moment she feels completely undone, before she keens Asta's name again like it's the only one she knows.
As much as she might like to, Flora doesn't collapse beneath the weight of her second orgasm of the evening. She doesn't let herself go boneless and satisfied, because gods, this isn't finished. There’s still fire under her skin and heat in her blood, and she’s not the only one who’s earned release. Still flushed and radiant, sweat slick and glistening, she blinks her eyes open and drags in a shivering breath. Then, she looks at Danta—not to return to her mouth, but to take her, by taking his lover's place between her thighs.
"Your turn," she whispers golden and greedy. Wants Danta to take her, to pin her with his weight, while Asta fucks him deep enough that she can feel it too—every thrust, every ripple of pleasure that rocks through them both. She wants the weight of them tangled with hers, the sounds of their moans shared into the open air, so that hers isn't unaccompanied anymore.
She cums with a sharp cry, singing the butcher’s name like a benediction as her body locks, then shudders with release. Her back bows, her hips jerk—every muscle taut and trembling as the pleasure claws through her. The air catches in her lungs, and for a moment she feels completely undone, before she keens Asta's name again like it's the only one she knows.
As much as she might like to, Flora doesn't collapse beneath the weight of her second orgasm of the evening. She doesn't let herself go boneless and satisfied, because gods, this isn't finished. There’s still fire under her skin and heat in her blood, and she’s not the only one who’s earned release. Still flushed and radiant, sweat slick and glistening, she blinks her eyes open and drags in a shivering breath. Then, she looks at Danta—not to return to her mouth, but to take her, by taking his lover's place between her thighs.
"Your turn," she whispers golden and greedy. Wants Danta to take her, to pin her with his weight, while Asta fucks him deep enough that she can feel it too—every thrust, every ripple of pleasure that rocks through them both. She wants the weight of them tangled with hers, the sounds of their moans shared into the open air, so that hers isn't unaccompanied anymore.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
