Five months.
Five whole months—rich, heavy, warm months that unfurled like a dream Krampus never wanted to wake from.
It had been five months since Krampus Santa Grimgaros and Laxus Dreyar first tumbled into bed together—five months since a single night had quietly, irrevocably shifted both their lives… and, in many subtle ways, the entire guild's rhythm.
And for Krampus?
Those months had been nothing short of bliss—unexpected, profound bliss. The kind he used to read about in mortal storybooks, the kind he believed was reserved for humans with soft hearts and simple lives. Yet here he was, a towering Christmas spirit, finding himself smiling at nothing, humming while cooking, waking up eager simply because someone else was there beside him.
From the outside, everything in Fairy Tail looked the same: the guild thrived, jobs came and went, laughter rolled through the hall like a constant spell of joy.
But beneath all that—beneath the normal chaos, the familiar noise—there was something new. Something warm and steady pulsing under every routine.
A new heartbeat.
One Krampus felt in his chest every single morning he opened his eyes.
Love. Stability. Growth. Desire.
And a very enthusiastic, very affectionate, very horny blond teenager who had absolutely no concept of restraint or moderation.
Krampus wouldn't trade it for anything. Not eternity, not divinity, not even the full height of his future myth-made body.
As the months rolled by and spring shifted toward summer, life at the Fairy Fraternity settled into a vibrant rhythm.
The Fairy Fraternity had officially been in operation for months now, and to Krampus's delight, everything he envisioned came true—and, in many ways, became even better.
Carlo and Adam had moved in immediately—predictable, adorable, and loudly enthusiastic about their newfound privacy. Every time Krampus thought about the two of them, he remembered the way they strutted into the Frat's common room their first night and declared, with matching smirks, that they were finally somewhere they could "express themselves freely."
Within forty-eight hours, half the windows needed cleaning.
Krampus had laughed under his breath. Good for them.
Billy and Matthew followed soon after. Krampus hadn't even needed to persuade them; the Frat was nicer, cleaner, warmer, cheaper—and had better plumbing. Still, Billy made a huge show of flopping dramatically on the couch and sighing,
"Ugh, how are we supposed to hook up now? It takes like twenty minutes just to walk back to town."
Matthew, ever the reasonable one, responded without looking up from his magazine:
"Billy, why are you complaining? You and I hook up with each other all the time anyway. Who else are you trying to hook up with?"
Billy blinked. Thought. Then shrugged.
"True, true… and also… outdoor sex is kinda hot, right?"
Matthew didn't even pretend to disagree.
"Billy, we literally hook up with each other whenever we want. We do not need to commute for dick, not to mention the other guys we usually hook up with is also moving in."
Krampus had simply nodded to himself, invisible from his perch in the rafters. Problem solved, indeed.
Several members of Krampus's own… let's call it "hardcore faction" had also joined the fraternity. Men who trained until nightfall, bulked themselves up to monstrous proportions, and loved the idea of living in a building infused with Krampus's own home-making magic. Their reasons varied—cheaper housing, fraternity culture, the convenience of being near like‑minded muscle enthusiasts—but their presence added a warm, rowdy, ever‑shifting energy to the place.
The hallways constantly echoed with laughter, sparring matches, and the occasional moan muffled behind magically reinforced doors. Krampus pretended not to hear any of it—but he heard all of it.
And honestly? He felt proud.
Everything was alive. Busy. Warm. Thrumming with camaraderie and desire and growth.
Exactly how a home should be.
Meanwhile, beyond the walls of the Fraternity, the newest generation of Fairy Tail mages flourished at a staggering pace.
Krampus kept close track of the children he'd personally rescued months prior. His chibi clones—perfectly adorable, perfectly efficient, perfectly relentless—taught them magic, literacy, numeracy, combat theory, and everything in between. They reported to him every night like little instructors giving updates on their prodigy students.
And as he expected of children who had once caught Brain's eye… they were prodigies. Not merely talented—explosive. Exceptional. Terrifyingly fast learners.
Erik, Jellal, and Erza were the brightest stars among them.
Within only a few months, their growth outpaced every prediction Krampus had made. They did not settle for unranked jobs. No—those were left for the younger kids like Sawyer, Simon, Sorano, and the rest, who were still doing 5,000–10,000 Jewel tasks around Magnolia.
The three elites were already far beyond that stage.
Among them, Erik, Jellal, and Erza quickly emerged as rising powerhouses in their own right.
Thanks to their rapidly growing magical foundations, the trio began taking on D-ranked and even C-ranked missions, earning between 50,000 and 200,000 Jewels per job. At their age, it was absurd. At their magic level, it was inevitable.
Krampus often found himself marveling:
If this is what they can do at ten or eleven… what will they be at twenty? At thirty? Monsters. Beautiful monsters.
Erik in particular skyrocketed into a class of his own. His ability to eat poison, manipulate poison, convert toxins into medicine, and sense internal disruptions through his hypersensitive ears made him invaluable in the medical niche—something Krampus himself had dominated alone for years.
Erik could now do missions that previously only Krampus or Carlo could take.
Krampus privately mused:
That boy is going to be a millionaire by fourteen. Maybe sooner.
Meanwhile, Erza and Jellal showed more practical sensibilities. They took steady missions—material gathering, caravan escorting, monster culling—and accumulated both wealth and experience.
Erza in particular was obsessed with expanding her collection of weapons and armors, what she proudly named her Treasury. She treated every mission as an opportunity to grow more versatile and more deadly.
Krampus had gently told her:
"You don't need a last name yet. Make finding it a life goal. Let it be the reward waiting for you at the end of a long journey."
Erza had taken his words seriously—too seriously, perhaps—and threw herself wholeheartedly into becoming someone worthy of eventually discovering her true origins.
Despite never having shared the trauma of the Tower of Heaven, Erza and Jellal still gravitated toward each other. Natural chemistry. Natural teamwork. Fate, maybe.
They became sparring partners, mission buddies, and quiet emotional supports.
Some bonds, Krampus thought, seemed destined—woven into the world long before he ever swooped in to save them.
Not far behind them, the so‑called "veterans" of the group—children only slightly older but far more experienced—were finding their own footing.
Gray, Lyon, Cana, and Ultear had officially graduated well beyond babysitting duty and were finally taking on solo missions—or, occasionally, pairing off in teams of two like proper young mages ready to test themselves.
Ur and Gildarts, of course, acted like proud, brave adults encouraging them to spread their wings.
And then immediately proceeded to secretly stalk the children on every single mission, slipping behind trees, hiding behind rocks, and pretending they "just happened" to be passing by.
Cornelia threw her hands up in exasperation more than once.
"You two are unbelievable. Let them breathe. They're perfectly capable! They're not going to crumble if you're not hovering behind them."
Gildarts coughed loudly. "I am not hovering. I'm simply… observing."
Ur muttered, "I'm supervising. Quietly."
Cornelia shot back, "Supervising from inside a bush does not make it better!"
Through all of this, Krampus merely stood nearby sipping cocoa like the world's most serene bystander.
He didn't comment. He didn't judge. He simply hummed contentedly.
Because he, too, was watching from afar.
Just… more discreetly.
His clones perched on rooftops. His senses stretched far. His eyes glowed faintly whenever one of the children's magic signatures flickered.
Krampus trusted those kids.
But he also loved them.
So he watched—quiet, invisible, ready to step in if they ever truly needed him.
Amid all this growth and change, Krampus's own daily life with Laxus transformed into something warm, steady, and deeply intimate.
Krampus's life with Laxus had fallen into the warmest, most perfect routine—one that wrapped around him like a soft blanket in winter, familiar yet endlessly exciting. Every morning he woke and every night he fell asleep with a sense of rightness that he had never experienced in all his centuries of existence.
Every day felt familiar yet new. Calm yet thrilling. Ordinary in its structure yet extraordinary in its intimacy. The training sessions stayed the same. The missions stayed the same. The guild stayed noisy, chaotic, supportive—exactly the kind of joyful mess Fairy Tail had always been.
But they had changed.
Hand‑holding had become normal, an unspoken ritual that neither of them ever questioned. Laxus would reach out with absolute confidence, fingers threading between Krampus's without hesitation, without fear, without shame.
Kissing in front of people became normal too. Sometimes soft, sometimes lingering, sometimes a quick press of lips when one of them returned from a mission. And each time, Krampus felt his whole chest warm.
Hugging, touching, leaning on each other… also normal. Krampus found that Laxus liked to drape himself over him whenever possible—during guild downtime, during reading sessions, even while Krampus tried to cook.
And the ass‑grabbing?
Laxus initiated that.
Every. Single. Time.
Sometimes in greeting. Sometimes in passing. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation with another guildmate, completely unapologetic. Each squeeze made Krampus flinch and blush in ways a seven‑foot‑five divine beast absolutely should not blush.
But the biggest addition to their daily routine—the one that had changed Krampus's life the most—was:
Sex. Lots of sex. Frequent sex. Amazingly enthusiastic sex.
Not marathon sessions like their first night—though those still happened, and when they did, Krampus could barely walk the next day—but the consistent, rhythmic, daily lovemaking that came from affection, desire, trust, and a shared hunger they never bothered to hide.
Each session was different. Sometimes gentle and coaxing, sometimes rough enough that Krampus had to reinforce the bed frame mid‑thrust, sometimes slow and intimate in a way that made his chest ache.
But no matter the pace, every time left Krampus feeling adored, full, desired, and thoroughly used in the best possible way.
Their mornings began with the same ritualistic tenderness and heat.
Whoever woke up first topped.
Which usually meant Laxus—because he rose like a predator sensing warmth beside him.
Krampus would stir half‑asleep only to feel large, greedy hands slide over his hips, thumbs pressing into sensitive fur. Then a slow, deliberate kiss would land on the back of his neck—right where he shivered the most.
Laxus would murmur in a sleepy, hungry voice, "Morning, babe," and that was all the warning Krampus ever got before being guided onto his stomach or pulled flush against Laxus's chest, breath hot against his ear.
Those mornings were never rushed. Never harsh. Just heavy, intimate warmth and a slow burn as Laxus grinds slowly inside him so good that it made Krampus melt into the sheets and sigh with something dangerously close to a purr.
Training naturally flowed into their next shared habit.
Their no-magic sparring matches always ended the exact same way—because Laxus fought like a lightning storm in human form.
Krampus pinned. Laxus panting above him.
And Krampus gets fucked. Hard. Against the mat. Firmly. With Laxus's breath still ragged from exertion, his hands roaming over Krampus's muscles like they were trophies earned.
Krampus lived for the way Laxus growled, "You're mine," in that low, breathless tone, half feral, half adoring.
And after missions, their energy always shifted into something sharper, more urgent.
Laxus always got frisky after a job well done—victory lit a spark in him that went straight to his instincts.
They rarely made it home before the fucking happens.
More often, Krampus had to throw up privacy wards around a patch of forest while Laxus pressed him against bark or pulled him into tall grass, murmuring things like, "Just five minutes—c'mon, I need you," even though they both knew it would never be just five minutes.
The woods became… familiar.
Very familiar. As Laxus often fucks him from behind while Krampus hugs a tree for dear life with his claws. Hopefully, those claw marks don't get reported.
Finally, as night fell, their closeness settled into something slow and intimate.
Every night, as predictably as moonrise, Krampus found himself pushed onto the bed—sometimes gently, sometimes with a teasing shove—and Laxus would climb on top with that hungry, boyish smirk.
Then he'd ride Krampus with a slow grind or a fast bounce, depending on his mood, until he was full of Krampus's semen, shaking, satisfied, and breathing out Krampus's name like a prayer.
Krampus adored it. Adored him. Adored the way Laxus clung to him, kissed him, whispered soft thank-yous against his throat.
All in all? Krampus had been cumming five to six times a day.
He wasn't complaining.
If anything, he felt spoiled. Cherished. Wanted.
And eagerly, constantly hungry for more.
All of this closeness came with unexpected magical consequences, thanks to Krampus's own creation—Love Embrace.
Thanks to Krampus's sex-magic blessing Love Embrace, neither of them ever tired from it. If anything, each round only seemed to fuel the next. Their bodies responded to affection the way plants responded to sunlight—thriving, strengthening, growing. Every kiss sparked warmth, every touch deepened the connection between their magic cores, and every shared climax sent a pulse of energy through both of them.
Krampus felt it each time Laxus touched him—an electric hum beneath his skin, a bloom of strength, a whisper of power. Love Embrace did more than refresh them. It nourished them.
Laxus, especially, changed quickly.
He had shot up to 6'10" just before his fifteenth birthday, and Krampus had noticed every inch of that growth. The way Laxus's shirts tightened across his chest. The way his shoulders broadened. The way he began lifting Krampus more often without even realizing he was doing it.
And Krampus?
7'5".
When Laxus found out, he had growled—half annoyed, half aroused—"I swear you're doing this just to taunt me." His eyes had narrowed, but the way he grabbed Krampus's waist right after made it obvious what kind of irritation he meant.
Krampus had only smirked, amused and secretly delighted.
That night, Laxus went extra rough in bed—driven by pride, competitiveness, desire, and something primal he couldn't name. Krampus didn't complain. In fact, he savored every moment and hoped Laxus would get irritated like that more often.
Of course, Krampus reassured him afterward:
"You'll get bigger. All hardcore members hit seven feet eventually. It's just a matter of time and consistency."
And Laxus had time—decades ahead of him. His custom Bodybuilding Magic—designed by Krampus himself to mimic the magnetic-field maniacs from the Sea Tiger series Krampus remembered from his past life—was only beginning to bloom. One day, Laxus would reach the towering, mythical height of an eight-foot wargod, muscles carved like living stone and power humming under his skin.
Krampus's own growth, however, followed different rules.
His body was shaped by legend, sustained by belief, strengthened by myth. As more children behaved, as more mortals whispered his name fondly, as more hearts awaited the winter holidays… his essence thickened. His form grew.
More good children? More believers? A stronger legend?
All of it meant a taller, stronger Krampus.
If his calculations were right—and they always were—he would reach eight feet soon enough, perhaps sooner than even Laxus expected.
And through all these changes, Laxus's magic evolved as rapidly—and as dramatically—as his body. His power no longer grew in quiet spurts but in hungry leaps, as if responding not just to training but to emotion, to closeness, to the bond the two of them had been forging day by day, kiss by kiss, touch by touch.
Laxus's newest ability—Atomic Reorganization, a precise form of magnetic micro‑healing—was still rough around the edges, but even its earliest applications were astonishing. With a simple pulse of focused magnetism, he could coax damaged cells into alignment, speed the knitting of torn flesh, or gently redirect mineral flow in bone. It was delicate, demanding, almost surgical magic.
Far removed from simply blasting things into oblivion.
Krampus wasn't sure whether to feel proud, impressed, or a little scandalized that their constant lovemaking had contributed to Laxus's magical evolution. Love Embrace didn't just strengthen the body—it strengthened the core. Every climax, every shared moment of intimacy, every merging of warmth and desire seemed to refine Laxus's magic, temper it, deepen it.
Sometimes Krampus caught himself staring, struck speechless by the way Laxus's aura now pulsed with a controlled intensity—like lightning sharpened into a blade.
Laxus, meanwhile, reacted to his newfound power like a child handed a miracle.
"I can heal people now. Real healing. Not just punching things harder. …Krampus, do you understand how insane that is?"
His golden eyes glowed with excitement, a spark of wonder that made him look younger and older all at once.
Krampus reached out and ruffled his hair, unable to resist the soft fondness swelling in his chest.
"You can still punch things harder too," he said gently, because he knew Laxus needed to hear that part as well.
Laxus's lips curled into a radiant grin—bright, proud, devastatingly attractive.
He practically preened. The joy rolling off him was so intense Krampus felt it in the air, humming like a warm spell wrapping around them.
And Krampus's heart fluttered for the thousandth time, helpless to do anything but love him more.
Five months of bliss. Five months of growth. Five months of love.
And as October carried on, Krampus couldn't help but think:
If this is the rest of my life… I'd be happy.
Five months of peace, progress, and getting his insides rearranged by Laxus had done wonders for Krampus's mood.
But contrary to popular belief, he had done more with his time than gush over Laxus and tutor prodigies.
Krampus had been working—quietly, meticulously—on a project that had been bothering him for a long time: Dragon Slayer Magic.
Or, more accurately, fixing the absolute mess Irene Belserion left behind.
As Krampus reflected on the past months, his mind drifted toward another ongoing project—one far less romantic than Laxus but just as important. Krampus had studied its structure for months, tracing back every flaw, every enchantment seam, every metaphysical splinter lodged in the soul of its users.
The deeper he looked, the more he realized:
Dragon Slayer Magic was never a clean system to begin with.
He began with the origins, tracing all flaws back to the very first generation of Dragon Slayers. The first generation of Dragon Slayers were created by Irene's Enchant magic, her attempt at grafting dragonhood onto humans.
The process—while groundbreaking—was incomplete and unstable.
A dragon seed sat in each Slayer's soul, slowly changing their body, warping their sensations, building draconic features until eventually, inevitably, it would trigger uncontrolled dragonization.
Krampus murmured to himself while reviewing one of his metaphysical diagrams:
"You can't just turn a human into a dragon and expect the soul to cooperate. That's… sloppy."
The shift from human to dragon was too drastic. Too sudden. Too spiritually violent for the human soul to integrate without backlash.
Thus the madness, the sensory overload, the gradual unraveling.
The flaws were baked into the foundation.
From there, his research flowed naturally into the second generation. Then came Dragon Slayer Lacrima—safer, stable, but ultimately limited.
Their users had no dragon seed, and thus no risk of dragonization.
But because a lacrima was external, their growth always hit a ceiling.
Inevitably, this led him to the problematic third generation, a hybrid of both strengths and weaknesses. Users with both a seed and a lacrima.
Stronger potential.
Stronger problems.
Amplified power but still plagued by the instability of the seed.
Then came the fourth generation—impressive in theory, flawed in execution. They created their own dragon seed.
Which… was admirable.
But the same problem remained:
"A dragon seed is still a dragon seed," Krampus sighed. "It doesn't matter whether you grew it or inherited it. The transformation strain is the same."
And finally, the fifth generation, whose methods were crude but undeniably effective. Krampus respected their spirit.
But eating dragons or Dragon Slayers for power still resulted in lacrima-like externalization.
No dragonization.
But again—growth caps.
Having reviewed the past, Krampus turned to the present—his own corrections to these ancient flaws. Rule of Binding fixed the flaw Laxus and Erik once had.
The lacrima was no longer an external crystal.
It had been rewritten, reforged, and fused perfectly into their bodies as an innate organ, a fully integrated piece of their existence.
No growth ceiling.
No incompatibilities.
And—most importantly—no dragon seed.
Laxus didn't even realize how monumental that was. Every time Krampus watched him train, watched his aura flare and expand, watched those muscles fill out more and more, Krampus felt a ridiculous flutter in his chest.
"Yeah," Krampus muttered fondly. "Rule of Binding really is that busted."
But he wanted more.
Not just stability.
Not just safety.
He wanted ascension for Laxus.
But fixing flaws was only the beginning, a mere warm‑up compared to the vision forming in Krampus's mind. He wanted more for Laxus—far more than the standard limits of Dragon Slayer Magic. The thought pulsed in him with the same steady rhythm as his heartbeat. Dragon Force, despite its reputation and raw potency, simply wasn't enough.
Krampus wanted Laxus to have something deeper, something truer, something that wasn't borrowed from dragons but instead born from Laxus's own soul.
He wanted Laxus to have a flawless, controlled transformation—a metamorphosis without madness, without risk, without the spiritual tearing that plagued every previous generation.
Not into a full dragon. Even Krampus, with all his power and knowledge, knew that was far too drastic. A human soul reshaped fully into dragonhood was like a harp string stretched into a steel cable—unnatural, unstable, destined to snap.
But something between, a midpoint of power and stability… that was possible.
A dragon man. A dragon beastman.
A being with all the elegance and savagery of a dragon, yet still grounded in the familiar shape of a man. Something like Ophion from Housamo—tall, scaled, majestic, terrifyingly powerful, but still possessing a humanoid soul framework sturdy enough to carry that strength without collapsing.
Krampus could practically see it already.
His eyes glowed as he scribbled planosophy symbols into his research journal, chains of runes spiraling into diagrams. Every line, every note, every curve pulled him closer to the ideal.
"A full dragon is too much," he muttered, tapping his quill against the margin. "But a humanoid drake form… with a stable soul scaffold… yes. That's doable. Very doable."
The concept drew heavily from everything he knew:
Druid Wild Shape from DnD for structural transformation rules.
Animagus mechanics from Harry Potter for identity-anchoring principles.
His own biomancy and soul‑resonance expertise, the backbone of all his divine magic.
If successful, Laxus would:
Gain a second, ascended race.
Retain his human form effortlessly.
Shift to a draconic humanoid form at will.
Extend his lifespan far beyond human limits.
Completely bypass dragonization.
Become unbelievably, unfairly, devastatingly attractive.
Krampus paused at that last point.
His ears twitched. He coughed into his hand.
"Ahem. The attractiveness is purely an unintended side effect… mostly."
But deep in his chest—warm and heavy—he absolutely knew he was looking forward to the possibility of a dragonman Laxus picking him up by the waist, pressing him against a wall, and—
Krampus slapped both cheeks with his palms. Hard.
"Focus, Krampus! This is for science. And love. And growth. And definitely, absolutely, surely not because you want to be fucked by a dragonman."
He grumbled to himself but refused to elaborate any further. Some thoughts were best kept in the private corridors of his mind.
As he worked, deeper questions tugged at him—ethical, philosophical, and painfully personal. Some might call it unethical—changing a person's race.
But to Krampus, it felt natural.
All magic users were already on the path of transcendence, gradually ceasing to be human as their power grew. The top Four Wizards of Ishgar had long since surpassed humanity's limits.
And Fairy Tail never cared about race anyway.
He was living proof.
A demonic lion-beastman with a halo and demon horns—accepted without hesitation.
So the real question was not "Is it wrong to help Laxus ascend?"
But: "Will he be happy with it?"
Krampus wanted Laxus to live longer. Stronger. Beyond the fragile timeline of a normal human life.
He wanted… more time.
He wanted forever, if he could have it.
And if Laxus also ended up hotter in the process?
Well.
That was just a bonus.
And beyond all this, another idea simmered quietly in the back of Krampus's mind—something for Fairy Tail's upper ranks, something inspired by his own spiritual artifacts. He didn't go into the details yet, not even in his private notes, but the concept was simple:
a way for every high‑ranked mage to awaken a personal, soul‑bound piece of equipment of their own.
The beginnings of a project he tentatively named Origin Seed.
But that was a thought for later.