if i die because you made me melt, oh well

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"Why, you hungry?" Danta asks, as if Asta has asked for the soap to gnaw on as a snack. Having just scrubbed his face clean and splashed it with cool water, he straightens up and leans back into the cradle of the other man's arms, perhaps more drunk than he'd ancipated and more in need of the contact than he'd dare admit. "Here," he murmurs, turning in Asta's arms to grab a washcloth, soaking it with soap and water so he can start to wipe away the mask from his face (and ears, and neck, and chest, what the fuck).

By the time he thinks he's discovered the butcher under all the layers of green, Flora's voice is echoing down to them and Danta offers Asta smile that's tired but nevertheless content. "You check my work - I'll meet you upstairs," he suggests, leaning in to steal a brief but necessary kiss from his lips, before ducking out of his arms and padding upstairs.

"I was banned from your bedroom this entire time," he announces to Flora, "so I am not wasting the opportunity to fall into your bed now."

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

// day breaks sorrow //

“For soap?” The butcher asks with a huff of a laugh as Danta begins to shift in his touch, twisting to face him as he slouches, his usually perfect posture nowhere to be found as his eyes close under the careful touch of Danta’s soapy washcloth. It takes some time to unearth his skin from under it, but eventually he’s there — clean and perfectly normal, all things considered.

A low hum is pressed into the chaste but necessary kiss, withdrawing with a soft brush of his nose against his lovers and a “thank you, darling” that leaves his lips softly, breaking the little cage he’s made around Danta so that he can follow Flora’s call.

He’s only a few minutes after Danta enters Flora’s bedroom, face soft and smelling of citrus from whatever moisturizer he’d found downstairs, and he pads into the room to figure out just which portion of her bed is the one he’ll be occupying for the night. “We had a lesson about boundaries.” He says as he steps in, presuming that Danta had informed her that he was banned from the room until Flora could give her permission.

“Mmm, well, where would you like us?” He asks, hovering at the foot of her bed to allow her to direct him however she wanted him for the night.

Astaroth

// and i still feel the edge of this cold knife //

this is why we can't have nice things, honey

Flora’s bedroom is a decadent little sanctuary—her crown jewel of comfort and excess. Her massive bed dominates the room, piled with pillows in various shades of coral, teal, and shimmering gold. The bedding itself is a sea of cool silk sheets and plush, sand-soft throws, the whole ensemble scented faintly of citrus, salt, and the lingering trace of expensive perfume. The walls are a soft, sun-drenched ivory, accented with woven tapestries and framed sketches of seashells, stars, and old skyships. A wide arched window lets in the moonlight, casting long silver stripes across the polished wood floor.

As Danta saunters in, Flora lifts her hands and waggles her fingers like a misbehaving siren luring sailors to their doom. "Get in here, rule-breaker,," she grins, flopping backward onto the centre of the bed with a dramatic sigh.

When Asta enters next—smelling faintly like citrus and cleanliness—she sits up just enough to shoot him a sly smile. "Before we get too cozy, any nighttime habits I should know about?" she asks, lifting her brows. "I was tempted to put Asta in the middle to keep him from getting tooooo jealous," she drawls, glancing up at him and wrinkling her nose affectionately, "butttttt is that..." Pausing, the queen tilts her head to the side, letting her gaze sweep back and forth between the duo. "..smart?"

Danta could always go in the middle so long as the butcher was all right with his lover being forced to spoon her.

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"With pleasure," Danta purrs, sauntering into the room - and shedding Flora's lovely silk robe as he goes, because who the fuck wouldn't want to feel those luxuriously soft, cool sheets all over their body, especially after a shower and some necessary pampering. "Gods, you've outdone yourself with this place," he says, the compliment flowing easy from liquor-loose lips, and he collapses onto the bed beside Flora with a fwump.

"Not any more. Asta's nights have been sweet and calm since his latest visit to Dygra," he says of any nighttime habits, propping himself up on an elbow to grin at the butcher as he appears in the doorway. "The only habit you need to worry about is being able to escape if you get too hot. We're big cuddlers, Flora. And since this is your last night here, you get to be the filling in this sandwich I think."

Already shimmying up the bed to collapse into the plush pillows, he turns to throw an arm across the Doubletake, tail sweeping across the sheets to brush across her calf.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

// day breaks sorrow //

“It is lovely.” Asta agrees. The room is beautifully done, notes as he takes it in, waiting to hear what Flora’s decision is. Of course, he wouldn’t expect anything less from the queen of Torchline, admiring the woven tapestries that dot the wall alongside the framed sketches. Moonlight filters in, and when Flora finishes speaking the butcher’s attention returns to her and Danta as they start making themselves comfortable. “There could be a crow in this room right now and I would be perfectly fine, darling.” He assures her with a wink, refraining from the playful tidbit that there was a crow there currently, even if he wasn’t in the shape of one.

With Danta out of the silk robe, the butcher sheds the rest of his and folds them neatly before he steps over to Flora’s other side, slipping into the bed and delicately beneath the covers to wrap around Flora’s other half. In contrast, the butcher throws up his glamour, his horns and tail melting away so that he doesn’t accidentally ruin her pillows — but also allocates for prime real estate for nuzzling in. “If you get too warm, simply push one of us out of the bed.” He teases her softly, tangling a leg with hers as his arm drapes over her in turn and tucks in neatly against Danta’s own.

Astaroth

// and i still feel the edge of this cold knife //

this is why we can't have nice things, honey

Flora shifts easily with them, her curls tumbling over the pillows as she scoots higher up the bed, her shoulder brushing Danta’s as she goes. "Good," she says, a little smug, a little grateful, letting her head rest against the pile of cushions like she was born to sprawl between two beautifully dangerous men. "I’m taking you both at your word then. If I wake up impaled on a horn, I’m haunting you both."

She pats the other side of the bed with a flourish, eyes twinkling as she turns her face toward Asta. “"Come on, I bet if you spoon me, your reach might even be long enough to grab Danta too," she teases, flicking a glance at the Maverick with an exaggerated lash flutter.

But the moment they both slip out of their respective outfits and settle into the silken sheets beside her, Flora’s breath catches—not loudly, not in any way that would break the mood, but just enough to make her pause. Because gods, she knows tonight is just comfort and closure, it’s hard not to be just a little undone when faced with this kind of warmth and affection wrapped in bodies like theirs.

And they do it so effortlessly, too.

Danta’s arm drapes over her, Asta’s leg tangles with hers, and for a moment she goes utterly still between them, soaking it in. Then comes the ache.

It swells sharp and sudden in her chest as her voice dips to a whisper. "Jack hated cuddling," she murmurs, eyes tracing the moonlight on the ceiling. "We’d do it, sometimes, but...it was always kind of an accident. Like he forgot to pull away."

She presses herself back into Asta’s chest, arching her spine to fit into the space he’s left for her, a soft sound catching in her throat as her hand stretches across Danta’s chest. Her fingertips splay out over his skin, gently scratching in a slow, absent rhythm.

And then, even quieter: "Is this okay?" she asks, the question weightless and heavy all at once, directed to both of them.

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"There can be if you like," Danta quips to Asta with a grin. "Though as a crow I'm much less capable of cuddling, so probably a good idea that I stay like this." He does raise his eyebrows at the idea of Flora being impaled by one or both of them, and as the butcher draws up his glamour, it's with a melodramatic sigh that the Maverick follows suit. Shaking out his fair hair and nestling in closer, it takes all of a few seconds before Danta is bonelessly relaxing into the bed and against Flora, more than close enough to feel Asta's fingers brush against him.

"By pushing one of us out of bed, he means him," he quickly clarifies, his wicked smile half hidden in the pillows as the cool darkness already threatens to drag him under. Only the Doubletake's strange, still silence keeps him awake, and when she speaks, it's almost as if he's been waiting for it. "Well, Jack didn't know what the fuck he was missing, did he? More fool him," he informs her, sassy as you like, and as her fingers come skating across his skin, Danta only melts further into the touch.

"Suits me just fine," he purrs, worming one of his arms under the pillows and huffing out a long, content sigh.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

// day breaks sorrow //

“Already ahead of you, darling.” Asta comments briefly in regards to his horns, having already tucked them away as he curls into the bed alongside Flora and Danta, curving into the Doubletake to spoon her just as she’d wished for – her back pressing against his chest. His arms slip around her as he nestles into her golden curls, his fingertips stretching out to brush against his lover.

At Danta’s clarification, the soft warm huff of amusement leaves the butcher, nuzzling his head in a touch further. “Whomever is easier to grab.” He murmurs playfully, flashing a smile that doesn’t last when Flora’s voice whispers out and his arm wraps around her a touch tighter, his voice soft on the heels of Danta’s own answer. “I hate to be blunt, darling, but it seems that Jack did not particularly care about what you wanted.” In most instances that the butcher can see, at least. Or perhaps that’s simply based completely off of what Flora’s upsets had been.

His arm winds back around Danta in turn, tucking them all in together, his forehead pressed against the back of Flora’s golden curls and against the soft pillow. “Yes.” It’s a soft agreement as sleep tugs at him, already radiating heat and warmth beneath the covers between him and Danta, soaking all the comfort he can into Flora’s body sandwiched in between.

Astaroth

// and i still feel the edge of this cold knife //

this is why we can't have nice things, honey

Flora laughs softly at their jabs about Jack, a warm and genuine sound even if it’s threaded with the faintest ache of longing she can’t quite smother. Because, gods help her, they’re right—Jack was never a man who’d easily give her what she needed, but knowing it didn’t stop her from wishing it was him behind her right now, his heartbeat steady against her back instead of Asta’s.

She doesn’t say it out loud, though. Instead, she presses herself deeper into the cocoon of warmth, soaking in the comforting heat that radiates effortlessly from both men. Flora shimmies until there’s scarcely any space between them at all, her arm draped lazily over Danta’s chest, her cheek nestled into the pillows, golden curls spilling across the silk.

It’s good, it’s lovely—but gods, if she doesn’t wish...

"Did you know," she murmurs, voice already slipping toward sleep, words soft and half-muffled, "at the last party I threw at the Hanged Man, my other set of parents finally reunited and the got engaged?" A little sigh of contentment and gentle melancholy escapes, and she yawns quietly against Danta’s shoulder.

"I wonder who’ll end up married because of this one." Her fingertips skate idly across Danta’s skin, fingernails scratching lightly across a sliver of scar tissue.

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"Oh?" Also very much submitting to the pull of sleep, Danta's response to Flora's question is mumbled and somewhat delayed, but he does manage to put a few names in the ring when it comes to marriage prospects. "Maea and Hadama," he suggests, his fingers stroking idle patterns across Asta's forearm where it's curled around him. "Oh, or maybe your other parents will get married a third time." He doesn't know much about the Taliesin legacy, but rumours abound about the twice-married demigods.

Knowing better, somehow, than to suggest any of the (mostly unknown) crowd of people who had been dancing and making out with one another, the fact that he and Asta might also be a consideration is evidently lost on the Maverick. With a yawn that he stifles into the pillow - and thoughts of brawls breaking out at weddings, he slips into the deep, dreamless sleep of the very well-liquored.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

// day breaks sorrow //

He wouldn’t blame her if she did utter those thoughts racing through her head. But for now, as it stands, the butcher relaxes into the bed, radiating heat and warmth like it’s second nature, fingertips dragging gently along both Flora and Danta as he uses it in a subconscious way to relax him into sleep. When Flora does speak, it’s along the same thought pattern of Danta that the butcher thinks – snorting to hear the idea of Maea and Hadama.

He doesn’t think of themselves – especially not with Danta’s absolute back and forth after witnessing Kiada’s beautiful wedding. But also because the butcher has never once thought about marriage at all. It wasn’t a thing cannibals did, after all. At least, not when he was around. “Mm, seconded.” He murmurs before he nuzzles in a little more into Flora’s blonde curls, the butcher’s breathing starts to regulate. “Sleep well, darlings.” A soft little hum to both Danta and Flora, before the butcher’s passing out.

- FIN

Astaroth

// and i still feel the edge of this cold knife //