Prompt: Hard work isn't always rewarded. Asta knew that. But it still hurts all the same.
Asta seemed fated to drown in his disappointment, but a certain silver-haired princess wouldn't let him swim alone.
—
The skies over the Clover Kingdom were unnaturally clear.
Not a wisp of Lucius' twisted magic remained.
The capital—once fractured and bleeding—was alive with celebration. Flags soared. Bells rang. Families embraced in the streets, their sobs of relief echoing through the alleys.
It's over.
Asta stood on a raised platform, high above the crowd, sword slung over his back, grimoire closed at his hip. He wasn't smiling.
He should be.
He'd helped save the world, after all.
But something in his chest wouldn't let him breathe fully.
Below, nobles and commoners alike danced and wept. A sea of joy, of hope, of gratitude.
But not for him.
Their eyes turned upward not to the ashe-blonde peasant with the devilish pointed star symbol on his chest—but to the black-haired boy beside him. The one with the wind spirit perched on his shoulder. The one with the glowing four-leaf clover hovering gently at his side.
Yuno didn't smile either.
He stood still, composed. Regal, even. As if he already wore the title.
Asta glanced at him.
He wasn't angry.
Not at Yuno.
Yuno had fought just as hard. Carried just as much.
But still—
Why does it feel like I lost something?
The crowd roared as Yuno raised his hand.
The sound was deafening. Worshipful.
Like they were ready to crown him then and there.
Asta's hand clenched at his side.
It was fine.
He wasn't jealous.
Really.
He took a breath.
"To the heroes of the Clover Kingdom!" King Augustus Kira Clover XIII bellowed from behind them, arms wide and trembling.
The cheers grew louder.
Asta forced a smile.
He didn't want to ruin the moment. Didn't want to seem ungrateful. Didn't want to make it about himself.
This was a win, damn it.
They'd won.
Lucius was gone. The paladins were defeated. The world hadn't ended.
So few lives were lost thanks to Mimosa and the other magic knights. Sister Lily was safe, free from the mind control that had nearly broken her.
All the people Asta cared about had survived.
That should've been enough.
But his gaze drifted again—past the crowd, past the confetti and magic light shows—to the rows of nobles watching from their balconies. Draped in silk. Faces stiff. Judging.
Not one of them looked at him.
He saw the way their eyes flitted to his sword. His grimoire. The devil union mark on his wrist, barely visible beneath his sleeve.
They didn't see a savior.
They saw a weapon.
They always have.
—
Later, when the crowd had thinned and the cheers faded, Asta walked the streets alone.
His sword dragged slightly behind him, the weight more noticeable now.
With his current mental state, it didn't occur to Asta to deposit it in his grimoire.
He passed murals being painted of Yuno, of the golden start and green winds swirling around him, arms spread like a god descending.
He passed children reenacting the battle, one with a toy sword yelling, "I'm Yuno, the Wind King!"
The "Asta" in the group was quickly told to fall down and stay down.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't correct them.
Didn't explain how Yuno would've died if not for the final slash of his Demon-Slasher.
Didn't mention the moment he'd shielded civilians while Lucius bore down with a magic bomb big enough to destroy half the capital.
Didn't talk about how his body still hadn't fully recovered. How some of the damage couldn't be healed.
He just walked.
And smiled when people nodded politely and said, "You fought well, peasant."
Peasant.
Even now.
After everything.
He turned down an alley and stopped.
His shoulders trembled, but he didn't cry.
Asta didn't cry.
Instead, he sat on a broken crate and stared at his hands.
Scarred. Calloused. Rough.
He'd trained them harder than anyone. Pushed them until they could wield anti-magic like a natural extension of himself.
They didn't feel like a Wizard King's hands.
They felt… wrong.
Wasn't this what I wanted? he thought bitterly. To protect everyone? To save the kingdom? To be recognized?
He laughed once.
It didn't sound right.
So why do I feel like I failed?
—
The Black Bulls found him that night.
Magna was the first to spot him in the alley. The others followed—Vanessa, Finral, Charmy, even Grey.
Noelle wasn't with them.
Asta didn't ask why.
"You missed the celebration feast," Finral said gently, trying to make it sound casual.
"Did I?" Asta replied, voice empty.
Yami lit a cigarette. Blew the smoke away from him.
"We saved you a seat," he said. "Still can, if you want."
Asta shook his head.
"Not hungry."
"Bullshit," Magna muttered. "You always eat like a damn dragon after a fight."
Asta didn't respond.
Grey reached out like she wanted to touch his arm, then stopped herself.
They all stood in silence.
No one pushed.
No one blamed him.
They just stayed.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because they knew.
They saw what he couldn't say.
They saw that his dream—his lifelong dream—had been shattered in the one moment it should've come true.
—
Yuno had disappeared after the ceremony. No one knew where he went.
Asta wondered if he felt it too—the divide.
He wondered if Yuno would reach out.
Say something.
Offer to step aside.
But no message came.
No wind spirit whispering on the breeze.
Just silence.
Asta laid in his bed that night, staring at the ceiling of the Black Bulls' base.
He could hear everyone downstairs, trying to act normal. Trying not to mention it.
No one had said the words yet, but it was obvious.
There would be one Wizard King.
And it wouldn't be him.
You did your best, he told himself.
You gave everything.
You were brave. You were strong. You were honest.
But none of it mattered.
Not to the nobles.
Not to the majority of the people.
Not to the world.
Just to the ones closest to him.
And that… didn't feel like enough.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the official announcement would come.
Tomorrow, Yuno would be declared Julius' successor.
Asta would smile and clap and yell, "I knew you could do it!"
Because he meant it.
He was proud of Yuno.
But as he drifted into a restless sleep, one thought echoed louder than the rest.
Then why does it feel like I'm dying inside?
—
Asta stood in his finest cloak, black with silver trim, freshly pressed and spotless.
It felt too heavy.
Too stiff.
He wasn't used to clothes that looked this clean. This noble.
It didn't suit him.
But he wore it anyway.
The coronation stage was massive—built right in front of the royal palace, draped in banners stitched with gold. The entire nobility lined the steps in gleaming robes, magic-enhanced jewelry glittering like stars.
The commoners and peasants watched from behind a magically reinforced barrier, wide-eyed and packed shoulder to shoulder.
Guards surrounded the perimeter, their uniforms pristine. Magic Knights from every squad stood at attention.
The Clover Kingdom had never looked so unified.
It should've been beautiful.
But all Asta felt was cold.
—
He stood among the Magic Knight captains, closest to the front.
Yami stood beside him, arms crossed, unreadable.
Nozel was further down, as stiff and proud as always.
Charlotte didn't look at anyone.
Asta didn't look at them either.
He kept his eyes on the stage.
On the empty throne.
On the crown sitting in a floating case of wind magic.
He could feel Sylph in the air, excited and glowing.
A breeze curled past his face.
"Ready?" Yami asked, voice low.
Asta nodded.
"Yeah."
He wasn't.
But he'd gotten good at pretending.
—
The announcer's voice boomed, amplified by a sound spell.
"In recognition of his unmatched valor… his noble birthright… his exceptional mana… and his contribution to the salvation of this kingdom…"
A pause.
A deep breath.
"The title of Wizard King shall now be passed to Yuno Grinberryall."
A roar erupted.
Cheers, whistles, clapping, screaming.
The wind surged with joy, scattering golden petals into the air.
Asta's ears rang.
He clapped.
Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough.
Yuno stepped forward, composed, flawless.
Every noble bowed as he passed.
The crowd went wild when he knelt before the king.
The crown hovered toward him, wind curling around his body.
Asta kept clapping.
Smile.
He smiled.
Not too wide. Not too forced.
Just enough.
Yuno rose with the crown on his head.
He didn't look at Asta.
Not once.
The crowd chanted his name.
"Yu-no! Yu-no! Yu-no!"
Asta's smile didn't break.
But his heart did.
—
Back at the Black Bulls' base, they threw a "You Didn't Explode Today" party for him.
There was food, drinks, yelling, wrestling—Charmy had even made a magic cake shaped like a devil sword.
But the air was wrong.
Too loud. Too forced.
Everyone laughed too hard.
Smiled too wide.
Noelle hadn't said much.
She stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes on him.
Watching.
Studying.
Like she was waiting for the mask to slip.
He kept it in place.
He laughed with Magna. Shoved Luck. Let Finral teleport beer into his hands.
He was fine.
"Still proud of you, kid," Yami muttered at some point, lighting a cigarette.
"Thanks, Captain."
"You wanted it bad, huh?"
Asta shrugged.
"Doesn't matter."
Yami didn't reply.
Didn't need to.
Asta knew he saw it.
Knew they all saw it.
He just hoped they were the only one's.
He just hoped Yuno would never see his current expression.
—
Later, long after most had gone to sleep, he found himself in the training yard.
Sword in hand.
Grimoire hovering.
He slashed at nothing.
Again. And again. And again.
Anti-magic roared with each strike.
Sweat poured down his back.
His hands bled.
He didn't stop.
Didn't think.
Didn't feel.
He just moved.
Until his muscles screamed.
Until his knees buckled.
Until he collapsed into the dirt and let the silence swallow him.
You were never going to be Wizard King, he thought. Not really.
Not with a devil in your grimoire.
Not with a peasant birth.
Not with magicless blood.
Not with the name "Asta."
How can someone without a last name—without a family—be trusted to sacrifice everything for the kingdom?
How can someone who endured a lifetime of discrimination be expected to hold no resentment toward this kingdom or its people? Especially the nobility?
How can someone without magic guide and protect a kingdom built upon it? How could he ensure its prosperity?
How can someone without magic even be called a wizard, much less the Wizard King?
How can a boy from the lowest of the low—orphaned, abandoned, and forgotten—be trusted to uphold the kingdom's dignity and honor?
To be its hero?
To be its king?
Many would call him selfish for raising a fuss. Ungrateful.
"We're already letting nothing like you become one of our illustrious captains—and you dare want more?!"
Asta could already hear the phantom outrage.
So he kept to himself.
The last thing he wanted was to be a sore loser. He refused to tarnish the memories of his and Yuno's fist bumps, their vows—
—The promise never to hold jealousy or grudges, no matter who came out on top.
—The promise to be brothers and friends first, rivals second.
Asta wouldn't throw that all away like some petty, spiteful bastard over fleeting frustrations.
Yes, he told himself, they are fleeting.
Asta would keep to himself.
He would let time bury his bitterness, his disappointment—just like always.
But something whispered to him that unless something changed, and soon, this wouldn't be so easy.
Because this time, he wasn't just losing a battle.
He was losing his dream.
The aspiration he had clung to, the goal he had poured thirteen relentless years into.
This time, he was losing everything.
And that wasn't something a man could simply get over.
Or was it?
—
He didn't hear her approach.
Didn't notice until a towel dropped on his back.
He froze.
Noelle sat beside him in the dirt, still in her uniform, hair slightly mussed.
She didn't say anything.
Didn't ask.
Didn't touch him.
Just sat there.
Quiet.
Warm.
Real.
He didn't speak either.
Didn't trust his voice.
Didn't want her to hear how broken it sounded.
So he stayed silent.
And she stayed with him.
Until the sun began to rise.
—
Asta didn't cry.
He couldn't.
He'd tried.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, fists clenched in the sheets.
Not a single tear came.
Just the same thought, over and over.
I did everything right.
—
He woke up before the sun.
Trained like always.
Shouted like always.
Smiled when the others passed by, like always.
But everything inside him was off. Slower. Heavier.
He couldn't even feel Liebe's presence anymore.
Not because the devil was gone.
Just because the silence in his mind and soul was louder than ever.
—
He was walking through Kikka when he heard it.
A merchant muttering to another.
"Did you see the coronation? They picked the right one. Thank the stars it wasn't that devil boy."
"Ugh, I know. The nerve of him thinking he could even be Wizard King."
Asta didn't stop.
Didn't turn.
Didn't say a word.
Just kept walking.
But his fingers curled into fists.
And he walked faster.
—
He'd accepted the exile.
He understood when people looked at him with fear after the Elf incident.
It hurt, but he understood.
But after all this time?
After everything he'd done?
After saving the very kingdom that spit on him?
They still saw him as a threat.
A criminal.
A devil in disguise.
All because of what?
His birth?
His lack of magic?
His grimoire?
It was never going to be enough.
Never.
—
He remembered what Damnatio said after the pardon.
"This kingdom is built on perception."
Even then, he knew.
A perfect pardon wouldn't fix anything.
It was too late.
He was already the villain in their story.
The convenient scapegoat.
The "what if" the nobles whispered about behind fans.
What if the devil took over?
What if he snapped?
What if, what if, what if—
It didn't matter that he never had.
It only mattered that he could.
—
He sat on the Black Bulls' roof that night, watching clouds drift by.
His sword lay beside him.
Useless.
He wasn't angry anymore.
Not really.
He was just… tired.
Tired of proving himself.
Tired of shouting his dreams like the world would listen.
Tired of pretending like he didn't care.
He did care.
That was the worst part.
He wanted to stop caring.
But he couldn't.
Because he still wanted it.
Even now.
Even when it hurt this much.
He still wanted to be Wizard King.
And he hated himself for it.
—
A faint knock broke his thoughts.
He turned.
Noelle stood behind him, barefoot, hair loose, her usual scowl missing.
She held two mugs.
Didn't ask.
Just walked over and sat beside him.
Handed him one.
Hot chocolate.
Asta blinked.
"…You okay?" he asked quietly.
She rolled her eyes.
"I should be asking you that, idiot."
He smiled, weakly.
Took a sip.
It was perfect.
—
Neither spoke for a while.
The silence between them was easy.
Soothing.
Then, softly, she asked:
"Do you regret it?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then—
"No."
She looked at him.
He didn't meet her eyes.
"I don't regret fighting. I don't regret saving people. I don't regret anything I did."
His voice dropped.
"I just wish it mattered."
Noelle's breath caught.
He went on.
"I knew I wasn't like them. I knew they'd never choose me. But I thought… maybe if I gave everything, they'd see past it."
"They didn't," she said.
He nodded.
"They never will."
—
Noelle stared at her drink.
Then, without looking at him:
"You deserved it more than anyone."
Her voice trembled.
"You still do."
He finally looked at her.
She wasn't wearing armor around her thoughts and heart.
Wasn't posturing.
Wasn't pretending.
She was just her.
And he saw how much it hurt her too.
Not just for him.
But with him.
—
His throat tightened.
"…Thanks."
She bumped her shoulder into his.
"Next time, let me punch the nobles."
He laughed, quiet and sharp.
"Deal."
They sat there until the moon sank low.
And for the first time in days, Asta felt like he could breathe again.
—
Noelle wasn't sure when it started.
That ache in her chest every time she saw him alone.
That burn under her skin when he forced a smile and told everyone he was fine.
That need to reach out and do something,say something,be something.
She just knew it had been building.
And now it was unbearable.
—
Asta wasn't healing.
He was surviving.
Pushing through like he always did, with clenched fists and loud declarations.
But there was a hollowness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
No amount of yelling or sword-swinging could fill it.
No amount of praise from the Black Bulls could fix what the kingdom had taken from him.
And Noelle was done waiting.
Done watching.
—
She sat in her room, fingers gripping her blankets, heart pounding.
You're a royal. Be dignified. Be composed.
She scoffed.
What good had dignity done for him?
They called him a devil.
Spat at his dream.
Crushed it beneath polished boots and silken robes.
And still, still, he walked forward.
She didn't want him to walk alone anymore.
—
She found him by the river behind the base.
Shirt off, arms bruised, swinging his sword like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Anti-magic crackled around him in black waves.
Sweat dripped from his chin.
His eyes were vacant.
"No one's watching," she said softly.
He stopped mid-swing.
Turned slowly.
Saw her.
Didn't smile.
Just stood there, breathing hard, eyes tired.
"You should rest," she added.
He shrugged.
"I'm fine."
Liar.
—
She stepped closer.
Didn't break eye contact.
"You're not fine."
He said nothing.
Just looked at her like he was waiting to be scolded. Dismissed.
Rejected.
"I'm not here to lecture you."
His shoulders tensed.
"I'm here because I'm sick of watching you fall apart."
She took a breath.
Then another.
And said it.
"I want to be the one to help you put yourself back together."
—
Asta blinked.
Confused.
Maybe even stunned.
"…Noelle?"
She moved closer, face flushing but firm.
"I'm not saying this as a teammate. Or a friend. Or a noble trying to console a commoner."
"I'm saying this as someone who's loved you for a long time."
His eyes widened.
She kept going.
"No speeches. No jokes. No yelling."
"I love you."
A beat.
"And if you'll let me… I want to be with you."
—
The silence between them pulsed.
Asta stared at her like she'd just split the sky open.
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
"Noelle, I—"
She shook her head.
"You don't have to say anything."
"Just…"
She stepped even closer.
Reached for his hand.
He didn't pull away.
"I know you're hurting," she whispered.
"I know you think you have to carry it all alone."
"You don't."
"You never did."
—
Asta's hand trembled in hers.
His breath hitched.
For once, he wasn't trying to act strong.
He let it show.
The rawness.
The ache.
The need.
"I don't know if I can be what you want," he said hoarsely.
"I don't even know who I am right now."
She squeezed his fingers.
"Then let me help you figure it out."
—
The sword dropped from his other hand.
She stepped into his arms.
Held him tight.
He didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
The way he clutched her back said enough.
The way he buried his face in her neck, finally letting himself breathe.
Noelle closed her eyes.
Wrapped around him like armor.
Like home.
And thought, This is just the beginning.
And I'm not letting go.
—
It started with a kiss.
Not a planned one.
Not some romantic, moonlit gesture.
Just heat.
Sudden and overwhelming.
Asta kissed her like he was drowning and she was the only air left in the world.
Noelle didn't stop him.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't think.
She kissed him back with everything she had.
—
They stumbled into his room, clothes half-off before the door even shut.
His mouth never left hers.
His hands were rough—calloused from years of battle—but careful.
Worshipful.
Like touching her was something he still didn't believe he was allowed to do.
But he wanted it.
Desperately.
And that made her tremble.
—
She had dreamed of this.
Wanted this.
But the way he looked at her now—like she was the only beautiful thing left in a world that had turned so damn ugly—that shook her to the core.
He was lost.
And he was finding himself in her.
She should've stopped him.
Made him think.
Asked if he was sure.
But when he whispered her name like a prayer, "Noelle…" with need thick in his voice—
She stopped thinking.
Too.
—
His lips traced fire down her neck.
His body pressed her into the bed, hot and unrelenting.
He devoured her like she was the answer to every why.
Like she could fix the injustice with her touch alone.
And maybe, for that moment, she could.
Because he moaned her name like it meant something sacred.
And her heart beat faster every time he did.
—
Clothes disappeared.
Skin met skin.
There was no shame.
No hesitation.
Just want.
They didn't speak much.
Only gasps, half-formed words, whispered names and broken sighs.
The room was dark.
The air heavy.
Their bodies tangled in sheets and sweat and something too big to name.
And when Asta came undone in her arms—chest shuddering, voice raw—she held him tighter.
Anchored him.
Gave him something to hold onto.
—
Later, they lay tangled together in the silence.
Noelle stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, mind spinning.
He was asleep beside her.
Breathing slow.
Peaceful, for once.
Like the weight he carried had slipped off his shoulders, if only for a little while.
She touched his cheek gently.
Traced the line of his jaw.
And whispered, "You're not broken."
"You're not alone."
—
Guilt pricked at the edge of her thoughts.
She hadn't planned to go this far.
Not with him like this.
Not when he was so vulnerable.
But the way he had needed her…
The way he had clung to her like she was light in the dark…
She couldn't regret it.
Not even a little.
—
If this was what it took to bring him back to life—
Then she'd give him everything.
Again.
And again.
And again.
—
It didn't stop.
The next day, it happened again.
And the day after that.
And again.
And again.
Asta didn't ask.
Noelle didn't question.
They simply gravitated.
Pulled together by something heavy and unspoken.
Every night ended with his mouth on hers.
Every morning began with their limbs tangled, the sheets a mess, the air warm with what they never dared say aloud.
—
At first, she told herself it was just comfort.
A way to soothe the ache in his heart.
A way to quiet the storm in his eyes.
But that excuse wore thin.
Fast.
Because Asta wasn't just taking—he was giving.
With every kiss.
Every breathless moan.
Every whispered "Noelle…" against her skin.
He made her feel wanted.
Cherished.
And not just in the heat of the moment.
But afterward, too.
—
He started brushing the hair from her face when he thought she was asleep.
He started cooking her breakfast with an awkward, flustered grin.
He started kissing her shoulders just because.
Holding her hand when no one was looking.
Smiling when she walked into a room.
The kind of smile that felt like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.
The kind of smile she had never seen him give to anyone else.
Not even Sister Lily.
—
He was falling.
And she was already gone.
—
One night, he held her longer than usual.
Didn't say anything for a while.
Just breathed.
In.
Out.
His heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
Then he whispered, "It doesn't hurt as much when you're here."
She didn't respond.
She couldn't.
Her throat tightened.
But she curled into him and kissed his chest.
Let her actions speak for her.
He understood.
—
She was afraid to ask what they were.
Afraid to break the fragile rhythm they'd found.
But Asta wasn't.
One morning, when they were dressing—half-clothed, the sunlight still warm on his back—he turned to her and asked:
"Is this real?"
His voice wasn't uncertain.
It was hopeful.
Noelle froze.
Then nodded.
"It's real."
He looked at her for a long time.
Like he was memorizing her face.
Then he smiled.
Not wide.
Not loud.
Just soft.
True.
And said, "Good."
—
He kissed her like it meant something.
Because it did.
And when he touched her that night, it wasn't desperate.
It wasn't escape.
It was slow.
Intentional.
Loving.
—
Noelle's guilt faded with every sigh that left his lips.
With every I need you spoken without words.
With every time he pulled her close instead of pushing her away.
She realized something.
She hadn't taken advantage of him.
She had saved him.
And in doing so, maybe…
Just maybe…
He was saving her, too.
—
Asta stood at the edge of the Black Bulls' base, wind ruffling his hair.
The mountains stretched out before him.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
But he wasn't searching for peace.
He was breathing it in.
Letting it settle inside him.
Like it finally belonged.
—
He hadn't touched his grimoire in days.
Didn't train.
Didn't swing his sword until his arms gave out.
Didn't force smiles just to keep others from worrying.
Instead, he laughed.
Genuine.
He sat with his friends.
Shared meals.
Told jokes that didn't land and still got laughed at.
For once, he wasn't trying to prove anything.
He just was.
And that was enough.
—
Noelle watched him from the doorway.
He caught her gaze, smiled, and walked over.
Not urgently.
Not with that endless energy he used to barrel through everything.
Just… calm.
When he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her forehead.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
She nodded.
Smiled into his chest.
"I did."
Because she had.
Because he was there.
Because every night he held her felt a little more like home.
—
Later that afternoon, they sat under a tree together.
No magic.
No missions.
No pressure.
Just Asta's head in her lap and her fingers threading through his hair.
He looked up at her.
"Do you think I'll ever stop wanting it?" he asked.
Noelle didn't pretend to misunderstand.
She hesitated, then said, "Probably not."
He nodded slowly.
Didn't seem surprised.
"I don't hate Yuno," he said after a pause. "I never could."
"I know."
"But it still hurts."
"I know."
She bent down.
Kissed his brow.
"You don't have to stop dreaming," she whispered. "Just… don't forget you already won some things."
He looked at her again.
Longer this time.
Like he saw something new.
Or maybe something he'd been blind to all along.
—
That night, he took her to bed slowly.
No urgency.
No hunger.
Just warmth.
Connection.
Their fingers laced.
Their mouths soft.
Their bodies moved in rhythm, not as escape, but celebration.
Of survival.
Of each other.
Of everything they'd endured.
And everything they'd become.
—
Afterward, Noelle curled against his chest.
He stroked her back gently.
"I think I love you," he said.
Like it was a discovery.
A truth he'd finally dared to say aloud.
Noelle didn't panic.
Didn't blush.
Didn't slap him or sputter or run.
She just looked up at him with soft eyes and whispered, "Took you long enough."
He laughed.
And kissed her again.
—
The kingdom still whispered.
Still doubted.
Still refused to see him.
But Asta no longer needed their recognition.
He had people who believed in him.
A woman who loved him.
A future he hadn't expected—but now couldn't imagine living without.
He wasn't the Wizard King.
But he was free.
He was loved.
And that…
That was enough.
—
Author's Note:
I forget who it was on AO3, but someone once asked me to rewrite 'Done With You' with a happier ending. I never did—but this is partly inspired by that request. Think of it as a spiritual sequel, offering a more positive take on their friends-with-benefits relationship.
This time, it's different.
This time, Asta didn't just take—he gave.