burned me up and down

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.

We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// you knew who I was //

Flora isn't the only one who's close, Danta's jaw feathering with the effort it takes not to buck into her waiting mouth or to simply take over with his own hand, to enjoy the show that the butcher and the Doubletake are putting on for him. The sound of Asta's name from Flora's lips is like blood-soaked silk, like fire poured down his throat from the hands of their goddess herself, and his fingers tangle loosely in her hair as if to cradle her head as she's taken by the two of them.

"Gods, Flora--" Her name spills as a plea from his lips, and he drinks in the sight of her as if already knowing it's going to paint the backs of his eyelids for weeks to come after this. He's close - and he knows what she said, but fuck if it's not impossible to keep his composure with her arched against the chaise and so perfectly fucked by the man he loves.

Speaking of which, it's only that fleeting thought that has his eyes lifting to Asta, something dark and knowing in his eyes that suggests sharp teeth and blood in his very near future.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //

Asta—, the sound cuts through and rakes down his spine with fire and claws made of bone. The shiver is reflected in his movements, in the way she tightens around him and centers him. The butcher’s keen to give in, surprisingly able to hold out because the urge to devour and sate blooms so heavily in the forefront of his mind, growing redder and darker with each passing second.

Her moans are raw and his lover’s pleading tone snatch his gaze up, focusing on the Maverick with the intent they both know is coming. But he stays his hand, the husky rumbles of his breath accompanying the way one hand abandons the curve of her hip to slip up her golden, sweat slick body to the swell of her breast. “You are so good—” he purrs the breathy, focused sound, his accent thicker and wilder as he continues. “So good for us, darling.” The purr is aimed at Flora as his fingers curve up the swell of her breast, squeezing at a nipple, but his eyes remain focused on Danta with all the devouring heat glittering in the black of his eyes.

He’ll hold out until the rest of them fall apart, if only to ensure the utmost opportunity to not delve fully into his instincts.

Astaroth

// and i'll paint it red //

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.

We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// you knew who I was //

As Flora releases him to chase her own high, it at least gives Danta a second to try to piece his shredded nerves back together, his cock twitching hard as it's abandoned by the wicked heat of her mouth. Huffing a curse and letting his fingers work gently through her hair as she serenades Asta loudly enough that he's sure someone out at the party might have heard, he's too busy watching the butcher for any signs of immediate fucking cannibalism to hear, at first, what the fuck Flora has just said.

"Mm?" Blinking as if he's a video caught buffering, his glance between Flora and Asta is puzzled only for a split second, before heat flushes his cheeks pink and he runs his tongue across his teeth in a wolfish grin. "Gods, I thought you'd never ask," he purrs, his voice rough even as he sidles gracefully between them, pressed back against Asta's chest as he's done dozens of times before, and between Flora's thighs as he's always wanted to.

"You make sure you look at her while you fuck me," he whispers, sneaking a quick kiss to the corner of the butcher's mouth before he turns his attention to the gorgeous woman beneath them. Leaning in for a kiss that's remarkably gentle given their inherent nature, he hitches Flora's legs up against his hips, letting him spread his knees enough to accommodate the man behind him before entering her in one slow, hard thrust. Pinning her beneath his weight and glancing expectantly over his shoulder, it's only the expectation of further pleasure that keeps him from fucking them both to oblivion.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //

It’s angelic, a beautiful serenade of the choir that makes his name. And his appreciation is given in each thrust of his hips, helping her ride out the orgasm that tears through her, that he can feel the tremble and twitch of her as it pounds through her in waves. It’s only when she softens and her greed paints the air in a hoarse whisper does the butcher finally regain some focus, stepping back a fraction to catch his breath, to make enough room for his lover to slip between them to indulge just as he had.

It’s in this time his hand lifts to carve through his dark hair, pushing it back and out of his face from where it had begun to come loose from their endeavors tonight. He tries to ground himself and the burning lightning in his stomach and chest as Danta slips between them, the familiar press of his back against his chest. He wants to be snarky and stubborn, a brat as per usual, but he’s so fucking focused on not sinking his teeth into Danta or Flora at present that the low hum that leaves him more akin to a growl is the confirmation he receives.

It’s a smooth, quick movement, as Danta curves over Flora and sinks into her heat, the butcher’s hands find Danta’s hip and wind around his shoulder. He sinks into the Maverick with just as much attention, curving over him enough to press a kiss and suck a mark into Danta’s shoulder, dark eyes burning over the pale scar flecked skin to let the rawness of his dark gaze focus on Flora. Its carnal and feral, the twitch of his hips once they’ve settled, withdrawing enough to give Danta the space to make his own thrust before he’s following suit, a hard snap of his hips.

Astaroth

// and i'll paint it red //

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.

We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// you knew who I was //

Already close before this point, as he's sandwiched deliciously between Flora and Asta, it's safe to say that Danta has absolutely no fucking chance. Pinning the Doubletake into the chaise and hissing out curses and praise as each hard snap of his hips is echoed by the butcher's, his head tilts automatically to welcome Asta against the crook of his neck, the flesh there nicked and marked by prior evidence of the other man's bloody and possessive nature.

"Gods, you feel--" Cut off by his own gasp of pleasure, it's unclear who Danta is referring to (good guess, it's both of them) but there's something wild in the way he fucks Flora and arches back against Asta, his breath hitching and his hand slipping beneath the Doubletake's lower back to tilt her hips up and against him. There's no prior warning this time - there's no self-control left in Danta to give it - and he cums with a sudden and broken moan that could be either one of their names.

Thrusting hard into Flora one last time as he rides the whipcrack of his orgasm as if he's been snatched beneath a riptide, it's only the intimate familiarity with the man behind him that has him suddenly reaching back. His fingers plunge into Asta's dark hair, tightening there and clutching hard, as if to hold him at least partially at bay.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //

Its a line, taught and heavy, one that will snap with a fury of a whip crack to match the whip version of his cane — sharp and biting. It’s one the butcher tries desperately to balance on between the feel of Danta beneath him, the feel of him press and thrust into Flora, the wild challenge in Flora’s eyes that urge him to show her.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

But gods if it wouldn’t be so perfect.

It’s when Danta’s orgasm racks through him and the incessant rock of his hips that the sensation within the butcher charges tenfold. But Danta is smart, and as he runs his hand back into his hair, staying him forcefully, the butcher’s hiss is more animal than it is human. “Dantalion—” And Flora will see the sharp snap of his teeth in the air above his lover’s shoulder, the tension wrought through scarred skin and tense shoulders.

His hips twitch and lose their rhythm, at least for long enough that he shakes his head, knocking the flat space of his horns against the Maverick that he takes the moment to slice the inside of his cheek with numerous fangs, flooding his mouth with iron to grant him his own release, spilling hot and warm from his lips with the choked and loud moan that passes from his lips, unable to make out any kind of name.

Astaroth

// and i'll paint it red //

flora

It's too quick for Flora to cum again, but gods if it doesn’t feel like she could. The relentless rhythm of Asta behind Danta, the pressure of the Maverick still buried inside her, it all blends into something that satisfies so wholly and deeply that her body feels carved open by it. Not in pain, but in pleasure. In surrender. Their weight pins her in place; she couldn’t move even if she wanted to—her limbs felt molten, spine bowed and boneless, and as Danta’s body arches above her, all taut muscle and ragged breath, and she can feel the exact moment the wave of his own relief crashes through him. The way his body stutters, the heat of him, the shattered sound that punches from his lungs—it presses into her like another heartbeat, and she drinks it in with half-lidded eyes and a soft, broken moan.

Then Asta shifts. Not just physically, but into something more. Something feral. Flora hears it first in the way his breathing changes, then sees it in the corner of her vision—his lips peeling back from his teeth. Her first instinct is to help, to lift a hand to his shoulder, to steady him the way Danta was trying to do, but she knows this edge, if only vaguely. Knows what it costs him to stay on the right side of it. So instead, she stills. Sinks lower into the cushions, offers him no resistance, no temptation.

So when she feels that final shudder rock through Asta—feels the press of his hips falter, the way the last thrust drives Danta even deeper inside her—her breath catches in something like awe and adoration and affection. Tangling her arms back around the Maverick, she doesn’t flinch when she feels the faintest brush of wet against her fingertips as her hands continue to drift. One traces the curve of Danta’s back, slow and soothing, while the other ghosts up his arm—finding not skin but something slicker, copper-tinged.

Her breath catches and as she twists from beneath Danta, she can see the faintest ruby glimmer streaking from the butcher's lips. "Asta," she murmurs, trying to shift slightly from beneath Danta but finding it impossible. "There's fountain water just there behind the bar—" Much as she might have liked to place her palm against his cheek, still fearing the way his mulch-warm eyes had gone quite black, instead Flora lets her fingertips softly press again his arm, the hand of which contained the healing ring she'd been gifted by the fae.

---

Flora uses her mastered healing ring on Asta <3

We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// you knew who I was //

There's the expectation of pain that never comes, the way his body wants to fall bonelessly atop Flora mingling with the necessary tension of keeping Asta from either taking a chunk out of him or - worse, arguably - getting close enough to do it to the Doubletake. The moments pass in a wash of hard breath and heavy limbs, and it's only the unmistakeable flood of copper in the air and the way Asta's name falls from Flora's lips that clues Danta in to what's happened.

"It's okay--" he manages, just about, his forehead pressed to Flora's shoulder and his back arching under her soft and affectionate touch, before he's shifting back as if to force himself further into Asta's space and create that necessary distance. The healing water earns a relieved smile and a quick nod, though his hand is as tight in the back of the butcher's hair as it has been for the past few moments.

"Thanks," he whispers, his voice still rough with pleasure. "Let's give it a second for him to come back to us." So I can trust him to sit with you. Then there'll be time for cleaning up.

In the meantime Danta turns his head, nosing into Asta's hair to whisper to him softly - firm but gentle reminders of where they are, of the sweet smell of Flora's perfume, the heat rolling off their bodies, the way her touch feels against his arm. All things to direct them back across the line into people the butcher knows rather than just meat.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //

It floods his mouth in metallic heat, thick and dark and heavy. The inside of his cheek is shredded, sliced through the inside of the soft flesh and aching with sharp stinging pain. He doesn’t seem to care much about the pain, nor the blood, but it’s too much for his mouth to contain, falling from his lips against Danta’s back as he tries to pull himself back in. He’s still wild, an untamed beast who’s eyes are still too dark, too feral.

It feels far away when he hears Flora say his name, the fountain water ignored into the blur of the rushing blood in his ears, in the tightness of Danta’s hand still in his hair keeping him at bay. Flora’s healing works, cleans up the ache and pain in his mouth and staunches the blood, but his mouth is still full of it. Danta’s voice is also far away, despite his face being right there to nose into his hair, whispers that have those dark eyes closing – grounding himself.

Finally, after a few long moments of Danta’s soft reminders, the butcher’s gaze opens warmer and less monstrous, and he finds it in him to pull away – offering a gentle squeeze to Flora’s arm in return before untangling himself from the Maverick’s touch. When he’s finally parted, hands find his hair, smoothing it back before it trails down his neck where the blood has spread, where he sparks fire to burn away the still drying blood into flaking ash that mars his skin as he wipes it away. “Apologies.” He says roughly, hoarsely, once he’s swallowed enough blood to talk again.

Astaroth

// and i'll paint it red //

flora

Whatever foolish, fluttering part of her that had dared to imagine what it might be like with just Asta—without the tether of Danta between them, without the safe triangulation of their dynamic—is immediately, irrevocably buried. Not in fear, not exactly, but in a clarity as sharp as the fangs Asta had bared. She’d felt the edge of that hunger before, had caught a glimpse of it in Frey's breath, but this was something properly clarifying about what she could and couldn't handle when it came to the butcher.

But as he pulls away now—scorched blood flaking off him like ash, his hair mussed and his eyes no longer wholly black—what settles in her chest isn’t dread. It’s warmth. Fondness, even, like watching a storm pass without it hitting your shore. She remains where she is, still tangled beneath various limbs, flushed and loose-limbed but so very aware.

Her head tilts as she watches him—first smoothing back his hair, then dousing blood with fire like it’s a habit—and she lets a breath ease from her lungs before grinning up at him, slow and golden and just a little wicked. "What are you apologizing for?" she hums, eyes still dancing, "Didn’t you enjoy yourself?"

It’s meant to disarm, to distract, to reroute the weight of his apology into something playful. And if the curve of her lip is a little too sweet, if the purr in her voice hides something softer beneath it, well, that’s between them and the hush of the thieves guild.

We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// you knew who I was //

Danta feels it more than he sees it, when Asta comes back to himself a bit, the Maverick relaxing and settling back properly from Flora to give her room to shift and manoeuvre as she pleases. "Mm, don't be so coy," he agrees with her, glancing over his shoulder at the butcher with a smile that's playful on he surface but molten beneath. "You've not cum like that in a while, so I know you enjoyed yourself." Leaning in to kiss away some of the lingering blood from the corner of his mouth before the fire can turn it to ash, Danta carefully disentangles himself so he can rise to his feet from the chaise.

"And I certainly did too," he adds, glancing between them with nothing short of wicked satisfaction. Fire roars up around him as well, burning any crimson from his pale and scar-flecked skin, and he pads across to the bar to collect the healing water Flora has mentioned - unaware, of course, of the gentle magic of one of her rings.

"Can I interest either of you in a drink other than water, while I'm here?" he purrs. "Hydration is important when it comes to these sorts of acrobatics, you know."

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //