Krampus POV
Krampus had already lost the battle before it even began.
The notice sat there on the board, cheerful and merciless all at once, written in Makarov's unmistakable scrawl. The monthly Guild Master meeting. Representatives. Obligations. Smiling handshakes that were really negotiations in disguise. Small talk layered over politics, politics layered over grudges, and grudges layered over decades of history Krampus had no interest in untangling.
Everything he despised, bundled neatly into one unavoidable social ritual.
There was no loophole.
He scanned the wording again, just in case something had magically changed while he blinked. No emergency he could conveniently invent. No magical calamity he could exaggerate into an excuse dramatic enough to justify absence. No divine obligation he could invoke without lying through his teeth.
He had already tried. Repeatedly. Entirely in his head.
I cannot believe this is happening again.
Krampus leaned back, arms folded tight across his chest, chair creaking faintly under the shift of his weight. He stared at the paper as though sheer irritation might burn it away, or at least compel it to feel shame.
The irony was not lost on him.
He could negotiate with kingdoms without raising his voice. He could outwit dark guilds that thrived on paranoia and bloodshed. He could take magic—raw, ancient, chaotic magic—and restructure it into clean, elegant systems that even idiots could understand.
And yet.
A room full of guild masters chatting over drinks, trading stories and sideways glances, was enough to make his soul itch.
Crowds of strangers.
Curious looks that lingered a second too long.
Questions he did not feel like answering, not because he could not, but because answering them meant explaining himself.
Assumptions. Expectations. Labels formed before he even opened his mouth.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the breath out like he was venting pressure from a boiler.
I cannot get out of it. That is the worst part.
The inevitability gnawed at him far more than the meeting itself. If there had been even a sliver of escape, he could have relaxed. Planned. Rationalized.
But there was none.
If I flee now, Makarov will absolutely drag me there by the scruff of my neck.
The mental image was vivid enough to make him grimace.
His gaze drifted sideways, almost instinctively, seeking something familiar to anchor himself.
It found Laxus.
Across the hall, amid the noise and movement, Laxus stood relaxed and utterly unbothered, arms loose at his sides, posture open in that way that suggested nothing in this room posed even a theoretical threat. He felt Krampus looking before he consciously turned, eyes snapping up with practiced awareness.
Their eyes met.
For a brief moment, the rest of the guild faded into background noise.
It was subtle, but unmistakable. The slight tilt of Laxus's head. The confident curl at the corner of his mouth. No dramatic gesture, no exaggerated reassurance—just the quiet certainty in his gaze.
The look that said, without words: I got you, babe.
Something in Krampus's chest loosened.
The tension he had been carrying like a coiled spring eased, just enough for him to breathe properly again. He did not need speeches. He did not need promises. Laxus's presence alone was enough.
Krampus did not even hesitate.
"I want Laxus to come with me," he said immediately, voice firm and decisive, as though daring the universe itself to argue.
There was no embarrassment in it. No attempt to dress it up as practicality or strategy. He wanted Laxus there. That was reason enough.
Makarov blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then broke into a wide, knowing grin.
"Eh? That's fine by me," the old man said cheerfully. "I was planning on showing off my grandson to a few old buddies anyway."
Laxus snorted softly, rolling his shoulders, but there was a hint of pride in the way he straightened.
Krampus felt the tension drain from his shoulders in one long, unguarded sigh of relief.
As long as Laxus is there with me, I can handle it.
The thought settled deep, solid and unshakable.
With Laxus at his side, the stares would matter less. The curious whispers would lose their edge. The questions—inevitable, invasive, and exhausting—would sting less, if they stung at all.
Even a hall full of unfamiliar guild masters peering at him like a strange, festive anomaly felt… survivable.
That realization alone was enough to straighten his spine.
With that settled, Krampus squared his shoulders, composed himself, and turned back toward the welcoming chaos unfolding nearby, Laxus naturally falling into step beside him.
Bernard and Logan were still being bombarded with enthusiasm, claps on the back, overlapping introductions, and entirely too many people trying to feed them at once. Someone had already tried to shove a plate into Bernard's hands while another argued, loudly, about the superiority of guild-made stew. Logan looked like he was half a second away from either laughing or bolting.
Krampus rejoined the group alongside Laxus, the faint shimmer of Christmas spirit trailing after him like a familiar companion, calming the air almost by instinct. His presence alone seemed to create a little pocket of order amid the chaos.
"Alright," Krampus said, clapping his hands once, the sharp sound cutting cleanly through the noise. "Let us get the formalities out of the way before someone explodes from overstimulation."
There were a few sheepish chuckles, and more than one person reluctantly stepped back.
The newcomer procedures followed in orderly fashion.
Guild marks were stamped first, the Fairy Tail emblem pressed onto skin with pride and ceremony. The moment the magic settled, cheers broke out again, but this time they were focused, purposeful. Fairy Phones were issued next—sleek devices passed into unfamiliar hands, explained carefully, demonstrated step by step, tested on the spot, and immediately marveled at with wide eyes.
Arrangements followed just as smoothly. Rooms were assigned within the Fairy Fraternity, keys handed over, responsibilities outlined. Logistics that might have taken weeks elsewhere were handled in minutes, the guild moving like a well-oiled machine when it mattered.
Then came the mandatory magics.
Krampus shifted seamlessly into instructor mode, voice steady, explanations precise. Bodybuilding Magic came first, introduced not as vanity, but as survival—a foundational enhancement that strengthened the body against strain, injury, and long-term damage.
Next was Shit Begone Magic, presented with a perfectly straight face that made it exponentially funnier than if he had joked about it. The laughter that followed did nothing to diminish the spell's importance.
Finally came Requip Magic. Krampus emphasized its versatility, its adaptability, and the discipline required to master it. He drilled its importance in without compromise, making it clear that this was not optional knowledge, but a pillar upon which far greater things could be built.
And finally, the personal touch.
This was the part Krampus enjoyed the most.
He had fallen into a rhythm lately. A habit, almost, born from equal parts curiosity and irritation with the limitations of conventional spellcraft. Instead of handing out isolated spells—disconnected techniques that relied entirely on the user's creativity to bridge the gaps—he had begun constructing entire magic systems.
Frameworks.
Interlocking structures that blended multiple disciplines together to fit a role, a job, a word.
Like an RPG class, refined through real magical theory, practical combat data, and an understanding of how people actually fought, lived, and survived. Each system had internal logic, growth paths, and room to evolve alongside its user.
It was not just magic.
It was identity, given form.
And it had worked.
Carlo's The Gardener had already proven itself beyond expectations, turning cultivation, protection, and territorial control into something terrifyingly efficient. Erza's The Treasury was actively rewriting the limits of what Requip could mean, bending storage, access, and authority into a seamless extension of her will.
Those successes had cemented Krampus's confidence.
So when he turned to Bernard, there was no hesitation in him—only certainty.
"For you," he said, voice calm and deliberate, "Class Magic: The Hunter."
The words carried weight.
He did not elaborate.
Not out of secrecy, but intention. Some magics were meant to be discovered through use, not explained away in advance. Bernard did not need a lecture; he needed space to grow into it.
The magic would allow Bernard to do what hunters did—track prey across impossible distances, read terrain like a living map, aim with supernatural precision, and strike at exactly the right moment.
But it would not stop there.
Through magical reinforcement and layered perception, those fundamentals would be elevated to a near-mythical extreme. Senses sharpened beyond mortal limits. Instincts refined into certainty. Every arrow loosed with purpose.
The finer details could wait.
Growth, after all, was part of the experience.
Then Krampus faced Logan.
There was a subtle shift in his expression—not softer, but heavier. More grounded. Logan was different from Bernard. Where Bernard's strength lay in precision and patience, Logan's burned hot and immediate, forged in motion and impact.
"And for you," Krampus continued, voice steady, carrying a weight that made the surrounding chatter quiet almost instinctively, "Class Magic: The Barbarian."
The words hit like a dropped hammer.
This was a system built around raw force, resilience, and the deliberate art of raging against one's enemies without losing oneself to it. Not mindless fury, but weaponized wrath—pain converted into momentum, damage turned into defiance.
Strength that did not diminish when wounded.
Endurance that escalated the longer the fight dragged on.
A body that answered violence with greater violence, magically reinforced to withstand the toll that such a path demanded.
Logan would be able to do what barbarians did—charge, cleave, endure—but pushed to an extreme that bordered on myth. Each blow taken would become fuel. Each roar would sharpen intent rather than cloud it.
Krampus did not spell any of this out loud.
Again, not out of secrecy, but respect. Logan did not need to be told what rage felt like. He needed a system that would keep him standing when it mattered most.
The finer points would reveal themselves in time, through blood, sweat, and battles survived.
With that complete, Krampus allowed the moment to settle, then moved on to the next phase.
Origin Seeds.
He distributed them to everyone eligible, one by one, the air buzzing with anticipation as the seeds passed from his hands into theirs. Bernard and Logan received theirs without hesitation. They had earned it. Slaying an alpha werewolf together was no small feat, and the magic recognized that.
The results were immediate—and chaotic.
One by one, spiritual equipment materialized, magic flaring, fabric and armor assembling themselves out of light and intent.
And very quickly, a pattern became impossible to ignore.
It was overwhelmingly the male members whose spiritual equipment manifested in unapologetically provocative forms. High-ranking men found themselves clad in outfits and armors that seemed purpose-built to show off everything they had worked for. Arms left bare and sculpted, chests proudly exposed, abs outlined without subtlety, thighs on full display, and crotches conspicuously framed by visible briefs—private parts covered, but only just enough to remain technically decent.
The designs were bold, confident, and utterly shameless.
Krampus noticed.
And he was clearly loving it.
He kept his expression neutral through sheer force of habit, but internally, there was a deep, satisfied appreciation. These were bodies honed through discipline, combat, and survival, now reflected honestly through spiritual equipment that refused to pretend otherwise.
At the same time, the girls' spiritual equipment manifested in an entirely different artistic direction. Magical girl aesthetics bloomed across the hall—puffy skirts, over-the-knee princess dresses, shimmering fabrics, elegant silhouettes that looked like they belonged in a dream rather than a battlefield.
The contrast was striking, almost comical.
The guild erupted.
People began comparing outfits, spinning in place, flexing shamelessly, laughing, arguing over whose looked better. The men, in particular, leaned fully into the spectacle, striking poses they absolutely did not need to strike.
Krampus pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a brief, long-suffering moment as though physically bracing himself.
"I swear," he said flatly, voice carrying just enough authority to cut through the laughter, "most of you are fine. Bold, yes. Revealing, sure. Still within the realm of something I can plausibly defend as combat-oriented spiritual equipment."
His eyes opened and shifted—slow, pointed, and unmistakably directed at a very specific subset of the room.
"But," he continued, tone sharpening, "those of you whose outfits look like they belong in a sex dungeon rather than a battlefield—where you are literally one small strip of fabric away from being naked—do not, under any circumstances, use those as everyday wear."
Several of the most provocatively equipped men froze mid-pose, flexes aborted, confidence draining in real time.
"I am not banning them," Krampus added, almost begrudgingly. "They are effective. They are valid. And in combat, I do not care how much skin you show."
He exhaled sharply.
"But a public indecency charge is not something I have the mental bandwidth to deal with right now," he continued.
Especially with a guild master meeting coming up. If that gets brought up during negotiations, I will simply lie down and perish.
The thought alone made his stomach twist.
How the hell am I supposed to respond if that comes up?
As the chaos settled into something resembling order, another realization crept in.
Krampus glanced down at himself, eyes tracing the familiar lines of his own silhouette.
His default attire—practical, symbolic, and unapologetically him—left his front torso and arms completely bare. It was a look that had never once failed him in battle, negotiations, or divine duties.
…That is not appropriate.
Not for a room full of guild masters who measured credibility in appearances as much as accomplishments. Not for first impressions where every detail would be dissected, compared, and quietly judged. Not for people Makarov actually cared about impressing.
I need to wear something proper for a good first impression.
The thought sat uncomfortably in his chest.
The feeling itself was strange. Familiar, yet distant, like an echo carried across time. It reminded him of when he was first born into this world—small, newly aware, and acutely conscious of how Fairy Tail saw him. Back then, power had been irrelevant. What mattered was whether he seemed safe. Approachable. Amiable.
He had assumed his youth form then for that exact reason.
And now, against all expectations, that same instinct was clawing its way back to the surface.
He had never cared about this with clients. Never once. Kings, merchants, mercenaries—none of them had ever warranted this level of concern. They were transactions. Clear, contained, impersonal.
So why now?
The answer came unbidden.
Because this was personal.
These guild masters were not clients. They were peers. Veterans. People whose opinions would ripple outward, touching Fairy Tail itself. People Makarov trusted. People Krampus, against his better judgment, actually cared about.
Perhaps later, once familiarity settled in, he could dress normally in front of them. Be himself without armor layered over intention.
But for this… he needed something else.
A persona.
Not a lie, but a deliberate presentation. Something that could take the weight of unfamiliar eyes without flinching. Something structured enough to hold his nerves steady.
As something born with him, Krampus's spiritual equipment had always been different. It was not fixed, not rigid. Beyond the default skins of Militant Santa for daily wear and Holy Santa for when he was on Christmas duty, it was—by its very nature—customizable.
It responded to intent.
He exhaled slowly, fingers curling at his side as a plan began to take shape.
Maybe… a suit.
Something dignified. Something controlled. Something unmistakably powerful without being overwhelming.
Something that would let him walk into that meeting without flinching.
The idea lingered, half-formed but heavy with possibility, as the moment drew to a close—unresolved, but no longer directionless.
Laxus POV
A few days passed faster than I expected, and suddenly it was time.
The monthly guild meeting.
Clover Town.
Just thinking about it made something warm and electric coil in my chest.
I stood in the guild hall with Grandpa and Krampus, the space cleared just enough for magic to breathe. The familiar stones beneath my boots hummed faintly as Grandpa began his preparations, Fairy Phone glowing softly in his palm as layers of spatial magic aligned themselves. The air felt thick with anticipation, like the moment before lightning struck.
I straightened instinctively.
This was my first time attending something like this. Not a fight. Not a crisis. Not something that could be solved by punching it hard enough.
A meeting.
Even with everything that had happened lately—battles blurring together, responsibilities stacking higher than I liked to admit, expectations pressing down from every direction—this still felt different. Official. Serious. The kind of thing people talked about in hushed tones, where words mattered as much as power.
And yeah.
I was excited.
Probably more than I should be.
I was wearing my spiritual equipment, Lightning Dragoon.
There was no way I was showing up without it.
The armor was minimal where it needed to be and dominant where it mattered, designed less like traditional plate and more like a Dragoon's declaration of presence. Reinforced vambraces wrapped my arms, crackling faintly with contained lightning, while fitted armor hugged my waist and hips, leaving my chest, shoulders, and thighs unapologetically exposed. A codpiece anchored the whole ensemble, functional and solid, framing rather than hiding what it protected.
Lightning motifs ran through every piece, etched and alive, arcs of electricity crawling lazily across my skin and armor alike as if the magic itself recognized me. Nothing restricted my movement. Every plate, strap, and reinforced edge was placed to enhance momentum, not stop it.
When I moved, the armor moved with me.
Every step felt grounded.
Every shift of my weight felt powerful.
It made me feel tall.
Confident.
Like I belonged at the table—even if half the people sitting there had been guild masters longer than I'd been alive.
Yeah, I knew how old I technically was. Fourteen, going on fifteen.
Didn't really matter.
Anyone with eyes could tell my body didn't look it, and more importantly, my strength didn't either.
Krampus had tried to convince me to wear something else not so revealing for the event, of course.
"You know," he'd said earlier, arms crossed, very obviously pretending not to stare while still absolutely staring, "you could wear something… simpler. More conventional. This is a formal meeting."
I remembered grinning at him, slow and deliberate, turning just enough to give him a proper look.
"Do I look handsome or not?" I'd asked, striking an exaggerated pose just to see his reaction.
He hadn't even hesitated.
"Yes!" he'd said, loud and immediate, like a braindead fan caught completely off guard by his own enthusiasm.
I almost laughed.
I then reward him by pinning him to the wall, still wearing Lightning Dragoon, as I have my way with him, to which he cooperates enthusiastically by dematerialising his clothes.
That had been the end of that discussion. And I start wearing Lightning Dragoon more often, seeing how turned on Krampus was being these days.
And honestly, I knew what he was really worried about. Not the outfit. Not the formality.
He was worried I'd draw attention.
That someone else might look at me and I'd… what, suddenly forget him? Like I'd look away for one second and decide everything we'd built didn't matter anymore.
Ridiculous.
The idea didn't even survive a full second in my head before it collapsed under its own stupidity. Attention had never meant anything to me. I'd had eyes on me my whole life—fearful, admiring, hostile, covetous—and none of it had ever changed what I wanted.
And what I wanted was standing right there.
In my eyes, Krampus was irreplaceable. Not just because of his power, or his presence, or the way he could make an entire room feel smaller just by existing. Those things were impressive, sure—but they weren't why he mattered.
He mattered because he was himself. Because he chose me just as deliberately as I chose him. Because no amount of reputation, admiration, or opportunity could compete with that.
There wasn't a meeting, a crowd, or a room full of admirers in all of Ishgar that could change that.
If anything, his worrying just meant he was being silly again—letting his nerves talk louder than his sense.
And honestly, that was fine.
It just meant he needed reminding.
And I'd remind him.
Repeatedly, with my body.
As many times as it took. I don't believe that repeatedly pounding into Krampus as hard as possible to give him a couple dozens mind-blowing orgasms won't set him straight again! (pun fully intended).
My thoughts drifted back to the present as I looked at him now.
Krampus stood a short distance away, and for a second, my brain just… stalled.
He had done it.
The suit.
It wasn't just clothing—it was intent, tailored into fabric and structure. A white suit jacket hung open and unbuttoned, sharp‑cut and immaculate, worn deliberately loose rather than sloppy. Beneath it, a black dress shirt threaded with subtle vertical stripes lay equally unbuttoned at the top, no tie in sight, the fabric framing his chest without bothering to hide it. White trousers completed the ensemble, crisp and perfectly fitted, clean lines flowing downward without a single unnecessary crease.
On his towering lion‑beastman frame, the contrast was striking. The white suit caught the light of his halo and reflected it back, while the darker shirt beneath made his build feel even heavier, more grounded. Broad shoulders were squared and emphasized by the jacket's cut, the open front drawing the eye naturally to his chest instead of concealing it. Nothing about it tried to soften him or make him approachable.
It made him look undeniable.
Golden chains still adorned him, not as excess but as authority, their weight balanced perfectly against the suit's refinement. The bell—my first Christmas gift to him—hung among them, subtle but unmistakable, chiming softly whenever he shifted. A golden ring circled his lion tail, catching the light with every slow, controlled flick, while another secured his mane into a neat wolftail that kept the mass of it disciplined without diminishing its volume.
Golden‑rimmed glasses rested on his snout, lending him an air of calculated calm, the kind that suggested every word spoken through them would be measured and final.
Several golden rings gleamed on his paws.
Bling everywhere.
Normally, that much gold would have been excessive.
On him, it looked earned.
Under the steady glow of his halo, everything came together into something unmistakable. Not festive. Not theatrical.
Professional.
Opulent.
Intimidating.
The kind of presence that didn't need to threaten anyone to be taken seriously.
My mind supplied the thought unbidden.
Is that a gangster boss I'm looking at?
And then, immediately after, louder and far less dignified:
Goddamn, he's so handsome.
Whatever skin this was—Mafia Santa, or whatever he wanted to call it—it pushed every button I had. The contrast between his natural, barely restrained pressure and the controlled refinement of the suit made him feel even more dangerous somehow, like a predator that had learned exactly when not to bare its fangs. So much that I was completely hard in my thong, but thankfully Krampus had set all spiritual equipment to hide erections in an extra-dimensional space while the bulge stayed the same, otherwise my own erection would have tented right through my codpiece. Damn, I am so riding that dick of his tonight.
Grandpa cleared his throat nearby, a quiet but pointed sound that cut through my thoughts and dragged my attention back where it belonged.
He, at least, looked properly professional. The Wizard Saint cloak sat neatly on his shoulders, the fabric falling just right, posture straight and composed, expression set into something stern enough to pass for dignity.
I gave it maybe ten minutes before that fell apart.
I'd seen him try to keep up appearances before. It never lasted.
Still, both of us could feel it.
The pressure rolling off Krampus was heavier than usual. Dense. Focused. Not wild or flaring, but compressed, like he'd taken everything he was and forced it inward. It sat in the air like a weight, subtle enough not to be hostile, but unmistakable once you noticed it.
Like a storm held just barely in check.
Grandpa noticed it too. I caught the sideways glance, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers paused for just a fraction of a second against the Fairy Phone. Concern, not fear.
I knew better.
This wasn't aggression. This wasn't Krampus posturing or flexing without meaning to.
This was nerves.
He was anxious. Trying too hard to be proper. To be acceptable. To be the version of himself he thought this room needed instead of the one he actually was.
And that, more than anything, told me how much he cared.
We didn't have the luxury of waiting, though.
"Alright," Grandpa said, tapping his Fairy Phone. "Let's go."
The teleportation gate bloomed open, light folding space inward as Clover Town answered the call. The sensation was familiar—weightless for a heartbeat, then solid ground rushing up to meet us again.
We stepped through.
The venue was already alive when we arrived. A wide, well‑lit hall opened before us, polished stone and reinforced beams carrying the quiet prestige of a place meant for people with authority. Guild masters from all over Ishgar mingled in small clusters, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter, and the careful, measured politeness that came from decades of rivalries politely ignored.
Different styles. Different colors. Different pressures brushing against one another like cautious probes.
We opened the door fully and stepped inside.
A few of them noticed immediately. Heads turned. Familiar faces lit up, recognition sparking as those who clearly knew Grandpa raised hands or beckoned us in with easy smiles, already calling his name.
We took a few steps forward.
Then the room went quiet.
Not all at once—first a conversation faltered, then another. Laughter died mid‑breath. Words trailed off unfinished.
So quiet I was pretty sure you could hear a pin drop.
Every eye locked onto Krampus.
His towering figure stood at the center of it all, white suit immaculate against the darker tones of the hall, halo casting a steady glow above him. The pressure rolling off him felt ancient and primordial, like standing too close to something that had existed long before anyone in this room had claimed the title of guild master.
It wasn't hostile.
It wasn't aggressive.
It was simply there—restrained only by sheer will.
Just presence.
I resisted the urge to sigh as I felt the tension spike.
Well, at least no one is screaming and running away. That's a good start.
I shifted closer to him, subtle but deliberate, close enough that anyone watching would know where I stood. Not guarding him. Not shielding him.
Supporting him.
Now all I had to do was get him through this hurdle.
And I would.