flora
Danta’s weight above her is grounding, his kiss a surprisingly tender balm against the raw edges of her pleasure. She welcomes him in with a gasp that blooms into a breathless sigh, the ache between her legs flaring back to life the moment he fills her. She wants to wrap her legs around him, but of course that would put the butcher at quite the disadvantage and distance.
But then Asta—gods, Asta—presses in behind, his hips snapping forward in time with Danta’s retreat, and it makes her cry out again, head falling back against the armrest. The rhythm they find between them is devastating: the press of their bodies, the shared heat, the raw delight of being pinned and taken. Her nails scratch down Danta’s back, chasing every delicious grind of his hips, while her eyes—glazed and wild—lock on Asta’s.
The butcher’s gaze is pure wildfire, his teeth bared in the kind of grin that promises ruin. The sight of them together, of Danta braced above her and Asta curved around him, is almost too much. Every thrust carries the weight of all her desire, all her buried loneliness, each movement a balm and a branding made all the more euphoric because of how much she adores these two idiots.
"Don’t stop," she breathes, the words broken and urgent against Danta’s ear as her aqua eyes hold Asta's stare. "Fuck him harder." The urge to open a small tributary of blood beneath Danta's skin with her nails is almost overwhelming, but gods she played that game with the butcher once, thinking she understood the limits of his tether and badly shook them both. So instead, she merely flicks her tongue over the bloody kiss previously left against her mouth to reignite the smell of copper between them as much as she could.
But then Asta—gods, Asta—presses in behind, his hips snapping forward in time with Danta’s retreat, and it makes her cry out again, head falling back against the armrest. The rhythm they find between them is devastating: the press of their bodies, the shared heat, the raw delight of being pinned and taken. Her nails scratch down Danta’s back, chasing every delicious grind of his hips, while her eyes—glazed and wild—lock on Asta’s.
The butcher’s gaze is pure wildfire, his teeth bared in the kind of grin that promises ruin. The sight of them together, of Danta braced above her and Asta curved around him, is almost too much. Every thrust carries the weight of all her desire, all her buried loneliness, each movement a balm and a branding made all the more euphoric because of how much she adores these two idiots.
"Don’t stop," she breathes, the words broken and urgent against Danta’s ear as her aqua eyes hold Asta's stare. "Fuck him harder." The urge to open a small tributary of blood beneath Danta's skin with her nails is almost overwhelming, but gods she played that game with the butcher once, thinking she understood the limits of his tether and badly shook them both. So instead, she merely flicks her tongue over the bloody kiss previously left against her mouth to reignite the smell of copper between them as much as she could.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
