#mimista

“Are you sure we should be doing this?”

You’re asking, but your breath already comes out in soft pants as you ease yourself down on Asta’s lap. Hidden under the pleated fabric of your bunched up dress is his perfectly erect cock, freed from the cage of the crotch of his fitted pants, your thinly covered and wet pussy pressed flush against it. The heat as your bodies touch warms you immensely, and you find yourself holding a breath in a little too long, while he watches you, mouth slightly ajar and a blush on his cheeks.

“Asta?” you say breathily, your hips rocking back and forth slowly against him. He’s slumped just so in the chair, the door to his office closed (hopefully completely), and he looks at you practically in a trance. His green eyes are heavily lidded as he stares into yours, and for a moment you wonder if he’s exhausted - after all, today has been more than a busy day, between being awarded Grand Magic Knight status and obtaining this new office - and now that it’s just the two of you, you’re inaugurating the new space in the way just you two can. In your opinion it’s a couple years too late for how much he’s achieved but things have remained stagnant overall in the setting of peace, and you’re glad he’s at least finally getting the recognition he deserves.

Instead of responding immediately, Asta shifts forward, burying his head in your chest. The low cut of your neckline has you skin to skin and nudging fabric out of the way, he kisses your bosom, tightening his careful but firm hold around your waist.

“You must really be my good luck charm, aren’t you?” he mumbles and you find yourself mewling softly as he bites gently at the top of your breast before letting his tongue find its way to your nipple, lapping at the tip. It doesn’t take long for him to suckle at you, before raising all the excess fabric of your overdone outfit up your waist as he rubs down the length of your hips, squeezing your ass at the end.

“There’s no luck involved, Asta, just hard work…” you say but you trail off as his mouth lets go of your breast and murmurs for you to raise yourself up for a moment; you do, and he pulls the crotch of your lace side, positioning himself at your entrance. You settle again, the push of your hips aiding against your descent onto his thick cock, sighing in pleasure as he parts past the ridges of your pussy. As his base seats itself against yours, he buries his face into your chest yet again, and you can hear the smallest of whimpers as he remains still, letting you adjust to his size. Your hand runs through his hair gently as you settle into comfort together, unmoving but feeling your pulses connect as one. Suddenly there’s a subtle sensation of wetness that pools against your skin, and you realize he’s crying.

“Asta,” you whisper, your voice as gentle as he handles you, always. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just…” he pauses and takes a deep breath into his lungs, his chest expanding against yours. “I’m doing it… I’m yet another step closer,” you feel him whisper into your skin, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are watery but he’s smiling widely, practically shining before you; it makes love swell in your chest.

“You sound surprised, love,” you laugh, and peck him on the forehead, and he grips your hips firmly then hides his face in the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses and bites as he loves you through his embarrassment.

“Not surprised, just feeling a little grateful,” he insists.

“Fair,” you say, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, throwing your head back when he sucks particularly long at your collarbone. You sigh out,

“Just know that I’ve never doubted you.”

“I know,” he murmurs. Your lips join and you kiss as he rocks back and forth inside you, then break apart briefly as you remind him that no matter what, you’re proud of him, and he should be proud of himself.

And he knows, he can feel it in the way you hold him in high regard and the way your body fits perfectly with his in this embrace.

You continue to love each other - languid but sensual rhythm building until your desire for each other outgrows your pace, and you’re both clamoring for air and more of one another, indulging in your good fortune and the cultivation of all of your efforts -

For your relationship and the good of the kingdom.

For a man who once swore as a child to marry a nun, Asta isn’t particularly chaste when he handles you, not usually, and definitely not now, as he makes sure to dominate every part of your body physically in your increasingly more frequent trysts while taking the time to move slowly and worship it too, in perfect duality. 

And once you’re done, he’s gentle and he is warm - terribly warm, warm where your body clings to his for comfort, warm where he kisses and holds you, warm where he slowly seeps out of your body, warm… you sigh and pull even closer to him, and he presses a kiss to your flushed cheek, before asking, “Are you okay?”

You nod, but Asta reads you easily not just physically but emotionally, turning to press his forehead against yours.

“___,“ he starts, calling your name in the tone that warns you that he’s not unwilling to press until you open your heart, and you swallow hard, your heart pounding again in your chest, no longer from the excitement from lovemaking but from nervousness.

He probably won’t like what you have to tell him, and you blurt it out.

“I haven’t told him yet.”

There’s a short pause, loud in its silence. Asta’s green eyes widen for a moment, and then he inhales deeply through his nose, and you wince, wondering if he’ll finally decide to just let you go, to leave you in your cowardice.

But instead he remains close, letting his arm continue to rest protectively, possessively, about your waist.

“And why not?” He breathes out. His voice is soft, practically a whisper, to put you at ease, even if it’s not an easy question to answer, just as it is not quite that easy for him to ask.

If you tell him, you’re afraid, he’ll immediately storm the estate where you grew up. If you tell him you’re simply hesitant, you’ll break his heart instead, and with these two futures, you remain tongue-tied by your own misgivings. 

What really guides you these days? Love does not drive you to Nozel, only to Asta whose arms you lay in comfortably even in this very moment. Loyalty is not it either… fear, you wonder? Admitting you are afraid to Asta will be heard as a plea to defend you, and while you are thankful for his relentless heart, you do not need to complicate things further.

“I need time,” you murmur softly.

Asta stiffens for another moment and your heart feels as though it will slow to a stop, excuses bubbling in your throat and then choking you dry. But he says nothing more than “Okay.”

And he follows it up, just as quickly with the words “I love you.”

You could cry right now but instead, he kisses you then pulls quickly back, looking at you carefully, fire in his eyes.

“If you need me to, I’ll fight anyone, anywhere. Just tell me where to go.”

You are now the one to be caught stiff, but your lips break into a smile, then slowly, surely into a laugh, which catches him by surprise.

“And just why are you laughing? Do you think I’ll lose?” He’s upright like a board now, a scowl on his face, and he repeats himself. 

“Do you think I’d lose to that pretty boy!?”

Asta’s so fired up, you can only help but laugh even more heartily which only seems to distress him further.

“___!”

You bring yourself up from a sitting position too, blankets low on your lap, to lean forward and kiss his tummy, still warm, soft even with the hard ridges. He’s cute always, terribly so, you think, despite his immense power, despite his unending responsibilities, despite his lofty dreams. Cute enough to think the answer to your dilemma of a distasteful marriage to your royal “relative” is just to punch him really hard in the face until he understands that your love can’t be bought with power or money.

“You’d win and be my hero, and you’d whisk me away on a white horse,” you tease. Asta eyes you carefully, as though deciding whether or not to be annoyed but must eventually decide against it, as he takes your face in his hands and furrows his eyebrows as he gazes deeply in your eyes for a moment, with soft curiosity as he observes your countenance.

“I would.” he reminds you, then presses his lips to yours again. The kiss deepens, until your arms are wrapped around his neck and shoulders, and you’re backed onto the well-slept bed again, pushed into the plushness of down feathers and soft blankets fit for the unwilling, unworthy royal you are. His kisses, his touch, negate all of that - a commoner who renders class and power distinctions moot and meaningless - and you revel in your desire for him.

When you finally come to, Asta’s cradling you practically like a child. Opening your eyes and looking directly into his concerned ones, irises crimson as he’s still in his demon form, nefarious aura swirling around him, and hanging in the atmosphere between you two, but no longer burning you as it seeps into your skin. Not like before you passed out, where a single touch had you in excruciating pain, the type that knocks air out of your lungs and doubles you over, contorting and stretching every muscle in your body like you were in hell incarnate. 

Somehow that feels like forever ago, but from the still wet, angry tears in Asta’s eyes you can tell you were only out for a short while, and he’s still breathing in, heavily and slowly, as he holds you close.

“Asta…” you whisper. Your voice comes out clear and gentle somehow, and you can remember the strain on your vocal cords as you screamed earlier, now gone. Similarly, your body is light as a feather, and the skin of your face feels cool to the touch as though it were just washed. Rejuvenated. Purified.

“I’m here,” he replies and he’s smiling at you but quickly buries his face in your neck, letting out a sigh of relief that runs through his body, enough that he practically shakes with it. His arms pull you closer still, somehow and he kisses your forehead.

“Fuck, ___. You fucking scared me.”

The way he says your name feels as though he’s worried it would be the last time it would cross his lips. Your arms find their way around his body, but as you do so, you feel a new weight in your upper back, on both sides.

“I’m sorry, Asta. I didn’t mean to.”

In your peripheral vision, you can see bright brilliant feathers, gold and white and shimmering in the evening sun, spread wide and engulf you both; you feel them as they unfold and stretch and cocoon you.

Something miraculous has happened,  you immediately know, triggered by the pain set off from his body making contact with yours. Something about his demonic aura awakening something deep and repressed inside the deepest depths of your soul, something at odds with the rest of your body.

You were prayed on for weeks to months as a newborn to keep evil from taking root inside your soul and perhaps the purification had been incomplete then.

Until now. 

You breathe out and you can feel droplets in the small circumference around you, interspersing with Asta’s dark flames of energy. The air condenses, and as it falls onto him, you can see the slashes on his face and shoulders close up and heal. 

Your hand moves to his cheek, and perhaps now is not the time, not in the middle of a battle, not with everyone watching and waiting, and enemies that remain to be defeated. The reason why he’s in demon form anyway, the reason why you were attacked and needed to be saved, and the reason why your bodies linked, and half your body appeared to be engulfed in the flames of Hell.

If only for a couple of minutes.

Asta looks like that short time aged him years, but as he looks up at you again, and you finally offer him a smile, and caress his cheek. The black marks of his demon form seem to fade gently where you touch him, if only for a moment.

“I’m okay, Asta. I promise.”

His face practically melts into softness, wet tears again resting at his lash line. You gently push him away from you, signaling that things are not yet finished. The small intimate world shared between you two is now filled in with background noise, and you can hear the shouts of your teammates holding off the demons. Crashes, clashes, magic.

“Let’s end this,” you offer him. You’ll have so much more to say to him later, but for now, there are many sick to heal and you don’t know what your new wings mean, or the surge of magic power you feel flowing through you relentlessly like a waterfall that never abates. Your grimoire glows and you can tell a new spell has been added. 

Whatever this is.

He looks at you for a moment, really appraising whether or not you’re okay and won’t die on him any moment, then smiles, taking your hand to get you to your feet.

“I’ll be right back, angel.”

Your cheeks warm as you watch his concern and affection turn into an ever determined look,  and the hanging dew drops fall all at once in a light rain.

the sweetest commission ever (!!!!) realized masterfully by @/thornart and gifted to me ever so kindly by @strawberrystepmom 💕

“What do you think?!” His whole hand is holding yours now, rather than just the fingertips and overall you try to remain objective, keeping the fact that you love your soon to be husband dearly but also would rather die than let him embarrass himself professionally as your guiding directive.

It’s his first written proposal to the current highest governing body of magic, and while it is well-thought out and the goals and aims are just as noble as he is, there is one glaring issue. You sigh, then smile, pecking him on the lips before you make your comments.

“Asta, I love you dearly, but we need to work on your penmanship.”

Asta’s eyebrows scrunch for a moment as if stunned, then he shakes his head.

“What’s that got to do with anything!?” he complains. 

You pull your hand away gently from his, tapping the bunched papers against your knee to sort them. “Baby, it took me twice as long to read this than literally anything else I've read in the past week. All of your ideas are so good, but if anyone other than me has to strain their eyes to read them, it’ll exhaust them until they get to the good part.”

Asta harrumphs, rolling up the stack in his hand as you hand it to him. You raise an eyebrow and he unrolls it, placing the loose sheets back on the table, before sitting back down on the couch with you, pulling you into his side. His head tilts backwards as he stares at the ceiling then groans.

“The content is there! Just work on the penmanship or get someone else to write it for you!” you add sympathetically.

His eyes snap towards you.

“Didn’t you always say you loved my letters?” He pouts. “Lied to me. I bet you thought they were all hideous and hard to read.”

You nestle into his side more, then let one of your legs swing over his knee.

“Hideous? Absolutely not. Hard to read-” you pause for dramatic effect, then giggle. “Let’s just say I dedicated a little bit more time and effort than I would expect.” 

He scowls at you, but he’s still playful, his hand securing your leg gently in place. 

“You know, Sister Lily taught me how to write, so if anything it’s her fault not mine!”

You pause, your lips pressed into a thin line, and Asta looks back at you just in time to watch you bristle before realizing he’s possibly made a mistake.

“Unsurprising. What hasn’t Sister Lily taught you, Asta?” you reply flatly. Just the slightest bit annoyed, you look away from him but thinking ever so quickly, his hand works its way around your chin.

“Hey, look at me.”

Reluctant, but aware Asta is nothing if not persistent, you look into his eyes quickly, and just as quickly you can’t look away. There’s a magnetic hold he has on you when he wants to, and you’re not exactly sure when it began, and if he's even aware that he does it, but it's a certain gaze that’s not easily broken, and with it, a promise of sincerity as strong as every vow he’s ever made.

“I was not trying to upset you, and there’s nothing for you to be upset by,” he says, reading your thoughts as though they were far more legible than anything both of you could pen. 

“I wasn’t upset,” you reply in a small voice.

Asta lets his concerned looks melt into a smile. 

“Okay then. Well, are you going to help me with my shit handwriting?” he asks, deciding to let your ghost of jealousy fade into the air. “I should probably figure out how to look more serious before I’m Wizard King! Then trust me, I’ll just declare everything OUT LOUD!”

With this, he raises his voice after leaning in just so that he’s right outside of your ear, and you recoil a bit, but laugh.

“Asta!”

“Who needs good handwriting anyway when you call all the shots?!” he declares boldly. You cup his cheek and playfully pat it. 

“I don’t need you to do calligraphy, just enough that professionals aren’t brought in, and-” you add, pinching his cheek, “- maybe I just want your chicken scratch for myself,” you add.

To this, you can see his cheeks visibly warm, then he shifts, moving you quickly so that you’ve moved, and he’s now hovering above you. 

“That’s not very benevolent Wizard Queen of you, is it?”

You shrug, letting your arms hang around his neck. “You act as though I’ve ever been good at sharing, Asta.”

He laughs, then dips to kiss your forehead.

“Not at all.” Letting his body lower so that he’s supported by the weight of his forearms, chin dipping into your bosom, he continues to watch you, grinning.