Krampus POV
I am absolutely freaking out on the inside.
Not the loud kind of panic. Not the flailing, world‑ending kind either. This is the quiet, coiled kind—the kind that sits in your chest and tells you, very politely, that fleeing would be optimal.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, grab Laxus by the arm, and hide behind his strong, reliable back until this entire social nightmare goes away.
Preferably without anyone noticing.
Which is ridiculous.
First, because it would not work.
I am technically still bigger than him. Significantly so. I would be hiding behind him in spirit only, and everyone in the room would still be able to see me looming over his shoulder like an anxious, overdecorated gargoyle desperately pretending this is a sound tactical decision.
Second—and more importantly—because I refuse to succumb to instinct.
Instinct has gotten me into trouble before. It tells you to react, to retreat, to bare your teeth and make yourself smaller or larger depending on the threat. This is not a situation that can be solved by any of that.
There is a stubborn streak baked directly into my bones.
I did not claw my way through two lives, multiple identities, divine responsibilities, mortal obligations, and an unreasonable amount of paperwork just to make a scene in front of Grandpa Makarov's friends.
What if it ruins the guild's reputation?
The thought lands heavy and sharp.
Fairy Tail is already infamous. Loud. Destructive. Emotional. The last thing it needs is its newest pillar visibly panicking in the middle of a diplomatic gathering.
No.
Absolutely not.
So I stand there.
I straighten my spine. Square my shoulders. Let the suit do its job.
Perfect posture.
Neutral expression.
Internal screaming carefully compressed, folded, and locked away into something that vaguely resembles dignity—and, with enough charitable interpretation, confidence.
I am aware of the pressure I am giving off. I am always aware of it. It is a side effect of existing the way I do—divinity, authority, instinctive judgment bleeding into the air whether I want it to or not.
It is not something I consciously project. It simply happens, the way gravity happens. People feel weighed, measured, seen, even when I am doing absolutely nothing.
At first, it startles them.
I see it in the widened eyes, the slight hitch in breathing, the micro‑flinches that betray instincts older than language. For a brief moment, everyone in the room recalibrates—threat, power, intent—running calculations they probably did not even know they were capable of.
Then—almost immediately—it settles.
To their credit, the guild masters recover quickly. These are not civilians. These are leaders who have survived wars, monsters, betrayals, and councils breathing down their necks. Conversations resume. Laughter restarts. People return to what they were doing, only now with a little more awareness in their posture, a little more care in how close they stand.
The only ones who approach directly are Grandpa's close friends, drifting over with the easy confidence of people who have seen enough monsters, miracles, and political disasters to know when something is simply… different rather than dangerous.
There are still furtive glances, of course.
But most of them are not fear.
They linger longer. They study instead of shrink.
They are curiosity.
Admiration.
I can tell the difference.
There is, however, one exception.
I feel it before I see it.
A sharp, sour spike of fear cuts through the room, concentrated and unmistakable, like someone standing directly under a spotlight they do not deserve. It is not the startled caution I felt earlier from the others. This is thinner. Meaner. The kind of fear that comes from knowing, on some level, that you are being weighed—and found wanting.
Ah.
Phantom Lord.
My gaze drifts, almost lazily, until it lands on him.
The guild master—Jose Porla—looks like he is being personally judged by the universe, and frankly, that is because he is. My anti‑criminal aura does not particularly care about politics, alliances, or plausible deniability. It does not need proof or declarations. It responds to patterns, intent, residue.
And Jose is absolutely steeped in it.
He shifts where he stands, posture tightening, expression carefully neutral but eyes just a little too sharp. Like a man bracing for a verdict he insists he does not deserve.
He looks… uncomfortable.
Good.
That reaction alone tells me everything I need to know.
I let out a quiet snort before I can stop myself, the sound low enough that it does not carry far.
As expected of Phantom Lord.
Was Jose already corrupt at this point? Or just well on his way, laying foundations and convincing himself he still had time to turn back?
Either way, not my problem today.
I am not here to prosecute him.
Not yet.
Focus, Krampus.
Right now, I need to put on a show.
Grandpa is already in full mode, enthusiastically introducing Laxus and myself to his friends like proud trophies he personally forged out of chaos, miracles, and an impressive disregard for subtlety.
"And this here is my grandson!" Makarov booms, clapping Laxus on the back with enough force to make several nearby guild masters wince. "Strongest kid you'll ever meet!"
Laxus absorbs the impact without so much as a stumble, which seems to impress a few people all on its own.
"And this," Grandpa continues, turning to me with absolutely no sense of subtlety or self‑preservation, "is Krampus! Our miracle!"
Several heads turn fully now.
I feel it—the weight of attention focusing, recalibrating, sharpening.
I smile.
Carefully.
Not too wide. Not too stiff. Just enough to be polite without suggesting I am about to judge anyone's soul.
Then there is Master Bob.
Blue Pegasus's guild master glides into the conversation like he owns the air itself, every movement theatrical, confident, and unapologetically flamboyant. Silk, sparkle, and self‑assurance woven together into a single, impossible personality. The man is a social event condensed into human form, and he knows it.
"Oh my~," Bob drawls, eyes sparkling as he looks Laxus up and down without even pretending to be discreet. "What a physique! Such presence! Such definition! You look like you were sculpted, darling."
A few nearby guild masters chuckle knowingly.
Laxus handles it like a champ, posture easy, expression relaxed, clearly unfazed by being admired so openly.
Then Bob's gaze slides to me.
It pauses.
Lingers.
"Oh~," he breathes, tone shifting into something richer, almost reverent. "And you~. My, my, my. What a build. What shoulders. What elegance. That posture alone could stop a room."
He clasps his hands dramatically, eyes bright.
"Handsome doesn't even begin to cover it."
I blink.
Once.
Well.
At least he knows the goods.
That said—his aesthetic tastes are… questionable.
Master Bob clearly prefers bishoujo and bishounen beauty standards. Delicate lines. Pretty faces. Slender frames, soft features, and an almost ethereal prettiness that looks like it belongs on the cover of a shoujo manga rather than a battlefield. It is evident in every single member of Blue Pegasus wandering around behind him, all immaculate hair, graceful posture, and faces far too pretty to look like they have ever been punched properly.
They look coordinated. Curated.
This is blasphemy.
Say no to bishounen.
Say yes to bara men.
I will die on this hill, buried beneath muscle mass and broad shoulders, and I will be correct.
That said, I cannot deny Bob's strengths. His sheer approachability does a remarkable amount of work. He speaks easily, laughs freely, and treats admiration like a shared language rather than a transaction. His compliments are shameless but sincere, and that sincerity makes them difficult to deflect without looking rude.
The tension I am holding loosens, just a little.
Conversation begins to flow. Not effortlessly, but smoothly enough. I find myself defaulting into a more… professional tone, words chosen carefully, cadence measured.
A habit from my past life.
"I appreciate the compliment," I reply smoothly, hands folded behind my back, posture precise. "Though I would argue that discipline and function are more important than aesthetics alone."
Bob laughs, delighted, waving a hand as though I have just said something charming instead of mildly confrontational.
"Oh, darling," he says. "Why not both?"
Touché.
Then comes Goldmine.
Guild master of Quatro Cerberus.
The moment I see him, something in my chest loosens in a way that surprises me. Not relief exactly—more like recognition. The tension does not vanish, but it stops digging its claws quite so deep.
Broad build. Punkish aesthetics. Scarred knuckles, heavy boots, sleeveless gear that looks chosen for function first and intimidation second. A guild made entirely of muscular men who look like they wrestle monsters for fun and call it cardio.
No pretense. No polish for the sake of appearances.
A brother from another mother.
Goldmine grins when he sees us, sharp and approving, the kind of grin that does not bother hiding judgment because it has already made up its mind. His gaze flicks over Laxus first, then me, quick and efficient, like a veteran assessing a fellow fighter.
"Now this," he says, clapping his hands together, the sound loud and unapologetic, "this is what I like to see. Strong builds. Wild aura. You two fit right in."
I feel Laxus straighten slightly beside me, not in tension, but in acknowledgement. Like a warrior being recognized by another.
"Appreciate it," Laxus replies easily, the words carrying genuine weight.
Goldmine nods, satisfied, then turns his attention fully to me.
"You too," he says, voice lower now, steadier. "Got that kind of presence that makes people listen even when you're not talking. That's rare."
High praise.
I return it honestly, inclining my head just enough to be respectful without diminishing myself. Even if Goldmine and his guild are not gay—at least to my knowledge; some of them might be in the closet—I cannot help but appreciate his appreciation of manliness. There is no performance here. Just shared values, mutual respect, and an understanding of what strength looks like when it is lived rather than advertised.
It is mutual.
Grandpa, noticing that I am visibly more relaxed, seizes the opportunity immediately.
"Oh ho! See?" Makarov laughs, voice booming as he gestures at us both. "Told you they're impressive!"
He says it louder this time, with more force, clearly enjoying himself now that I am no longer one wrong word away from bolting.
I let it happen.
I survive the banquet portion.
Then the real meeting begins.
We are ushered from the banquet hall into the proper meeting room, and the shift in atmosphere is immediate.
Less laughter.
More intent.
The room itself feels heavier, built for decisions rather than pleasantries. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as guild masters take their seats, the sound overlapping in uneven rhythms as conversations die down and focus sharpens. This is where reputations are weighed, favors remembered, and futures quietly redirected.
Goldmine takes the head position.
Of course he does.
There is no ceremony to it. No announcement. He simply sits, and the room aligns itself around that fact. When he speaks, his voice is clear and grounded, carrying easily without needing to be raised.
He guides everyone through the agenda with practiced efficiency—mission distributions first, then guild operations, coordination with the Magic Council, policies regarding dark guilds, risk management, resource allocation. Each topic flows naturally into the next, structured but flexible, leaving room for debate without letting it spiral.
And suddenly…
I am in my element.
The nerves that plagued me earlier loosen their grip, replaced by something sharp and familiar.
This feels like a courtroom.
Arguments.
Counterpoints.
Precedents.
Negotiation.
I lean forward without realizing it, fingers interlacing as I begin to speak when openings appear. I argue for better mission access, broader operational rights, more flexibility for Fairy Tail's members. I reference prior agreements, comparable guild treatment, logistical realities. Words line up cleanly, one after another.
Laxus backs me instinctively. Where I lay out structure, he supplies force—sharp comments, firm stances, an unspoken reminder of exactly what Fairy Tail brings to the table when it is pushed. We do not plan it. We simply move together.
Someone, inevitably, asks for Grandpa's opinion.
There is a pause.
No response.
I glance sideways.
Makarov is asleep.
Fully asleep.
Snoring softly, head tilted back just enough to make it leaving‑the‑body obvious.
I feel a spike of distress, sharp and immediate.
Laxus feels it too. I can sense the tension beside me, the instinctive urge to do something—anything.
But the room barely reacts. A few guild masters chuckle. Others sigh fondly, shaking their heads with practiced resignation.
Clearly, this is normal.
…Of course it is.
There is nothing we can do.
So we step in.
Laxus and I continue the meeting in Grandpa's stead, representing Fairy Tail with everything we have.
And somehow—despite everything—we manage.
That is a problem for later.
For now, this is only the beginning.
----------------------------------------
By the time the meeting finally crawled toward its end, I felt like I had lived three lifetimes inside that room.
Not because it was unbearable.
Because it was… intense.
The kind of intensity that does not come from shouting or threats, but from sustained focus. From hours of minds grinding against one another, testing ideas, probing weaknesses, reinforcing strengths. Debate after debate, topic after topic, guild masters rotating in and out of the spotlight as Goldmine guided the entire room with the steady hand of someone who had done this a thousand times and still respected the weight of it.
Mission distribution came first—who could respond fastest, who could handle scale, who could absorb losses without fracturing. Then guild operations, logistics and manpower laid bare in uncomfortable detail. Dark guild containment followed, voices lowering instinctively as names and patterns were discussed. And finally, the Magic Council's newest "recommendations," delivered with the subtlety of a knife held to your throat and twice the politeness.
Through all of it, I stayed sharp.
And somehow, in the middle of all of that pressure, Fairy Tail had not just survived.
We had thrived.
Laxus and I had been arguing for jobs suitable for our guildmates like it was second nature, trading momentum back and forth without needing to look at each other. I would lay out structure, precedent, and long-term value. He would reinforce it with certainty, presence, and the unspoken promise of follow-through.
"Fairy Tail can take dark mage suppression requests," I said, voice even, controlled, professional. "Not as a last resort, but as a proactive measure. We have the manpower, the coordination, and the experience to neutralize threats before they metastasize into disasters."
I could feel the room lean in, just slightly.
A few guild masters exchanged looks.
Some skeptical.
Some interested.
Goldmine's gaze stayed steady on me, not hostile, not indulgent—evaluative. Like he was weighing the words for truth rather than ego.
"And Carlo," I continued without missing a beat, pressing forward while the opening was still there, "should be assigned agricultural and land restoration work. Long-term contracts. Not one-off harvest escort missions. His magic has proven to be exceptionally effective for regional food stability, soil recovery, and seasonal yield control."
Someone from the far side of the table raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.
"You're assigning a mage to farming?"
I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze without raising my voice.
"Yes," I said politely, with the air of a lawyer who had already won the argument three sentences ago. "Because food supply is a strategic resource. Because destabilized regions create refugees, desperation, and resentment. And famine creates dark mages faster than propaganda ever could."
The words settled.
Silence followed.
Then a low hum of agreement rippled through the table, quiet but undeniable.
Laxus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, posture loose, expression deliberately disinterested. He looked like he was bored—like the discussion barely registered to him at all—until someone finally tried to push back.
"If Fairy Tail wants that many high-risk jobs," one guild master said, tone sharp and edged with irritation, "then you're asking for special treatment."
I felt Laxus shift beside me.
His eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with focus.
"We're asking for work," he replied flatly. No heat. No bluster. Just certainty. "If you're scared of giving it to us, say that instead."
The room stiffened.
Not because of volume.
Because of weight.
I felt it immediately—the instinctive shift, the recalculation rippling outward as several guild masters reassessed not just Laxus's words, but what standing behind them actually meant. Power was being acknowledged, whether they liked it or not.
This was where things could spiral.
So I spoke again, deliberately, stepping into the gap before pride could harden into opposition. I smoothed the edge without dulling the point.
"Fairy Tail's philosophy is simple," I said, voice steady, measured, carrying without needing to rise. "We nurture each and every mage in our guild. We do not discard them. We do not neglect them. We do not treat them as disposable tools."
I folded my hands together on the table, grounding myself in the familiar posture.
"We train them," I continued. "We support them. And we refine them until they become assets strong enough to protect their communities—without breaking themselves in the process."
I let my gaze move slowly across the table.
"And if every guild did something similar," I said, "the overall quality of legal mages would rise. The number of desperate mages who fall into dark guild recruitment would drop. And the threats we face would become manageable instead of catastrophic."
That was the core of it.
Not pride.
Not arrogance.
Infrastructure.
Prevention.
A system.
I could see it in their eyes.
Some were resistant, arms crossed tighter, expressions guarded.
Some were intrigued, leaning forward just slightly, already turning the idea over in their minds.
And some—quietly, thoughtfully—were imagining what it would mean if their own guilds became stronger without needing to rely on brute force alone.
Fairy Tail's prestige rose in real time.
Not because we demanded it.
Because we earned it.
Then, like the universe could not tolerate that level of competence for too long—
Grandpa woke up.
Not gradually.
Suddenly.
He jerked upright in his chair with a sharp inhale, eyes snapping open as if he had just been dropped back into his body from somewhere else entirely. For half a second, he looked genuinely disoriented, blinking hard, gaze unfocused, hands gripping the armrests.
"…eh?" Makarov muttered.
Then muscle memory kicked in.
He straightened, adjusted himself in his chair, smoothed his beard, and looked around the room with the unearned confidence of a man who fully believed he had been present the entire time.
"Ah—!" he said, a little too loud. "Right, right. So we're done then? Good, good."
Several guild masters stared.
Goldmine's expression did not change, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Grandpa leaned forward again, eyes already starting to glaze just a bit, voice drifting as though he were still halfway inside whatever dream he had been having.
"And while we're at it," he continued, waving a hand vaguely, "we should… mm… plead with the Council not to charge compensation fees for collateral damage. It's unfair, you know."
He nodded to himself, convinced.
"Accidents happen," he added sagely. "Big ones. Loud ones. Sometimes buildings just… explode."
The room went dead.
I felt my soul briefly leave my body.
You can't have your cake and eat it too, it seems.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a distant part of me admired the sheer audacity of delivering that line while still clearly shaking off a nap.
Another part of me wanted to crawl under the table and die.
A few guild masters began talking at once.
"That's… not how liability works," someone said, sounding exhausted.
"Collateral damage is literally the reason those fees exist," another muttered.
Bob, somehow, looked delighted.
"Oh, Makarov, darling," he sighed dramatically, hand to his chest. "Never change."
Goldmine cleared his throat once, sharp and deliberate, the sound snapping the room back into order.
"Alright," he said, tone firm. "Noted. Moving on."
Bless him.
Despite the… unfortunate final contribution from Grandpa, the meeting still ended on a net positive.
I could feel it, settling into the room like the aftertaste of something strong.
The way people looked at Fairy Tail now was different.
Not wary.
Not indulgent.
Measured.
We were no longer being seen as just the reckless guild that caused explosions and then laughed about it afterward. The reputation was still there, of course—it always would be—but it was no longer the whole picture.
Now they were looking at us as a guild with structure.
With philosophy.
With momentum.
A guild that did not merely react to disasters, but tried—genuinely—to prevent them.
With that understanding hanging in the air, the meeting adjourned.
Chairs shifted. Papers were gathered and stacked. Voices rose again, less sharp, more conversational, the edge of debate dulled into something closer to professional respect. A few guild masters lingered, conversations breaking off into quieter, more thoughtful threads.
We packed up and left with the rest of them.
And as I walked out of that room, I truly believed it.
This meeting was a big win.
I really thought so.
The moment we stepped away from the venue and Grandpa pulled out his Fairy Phone again, I felt the last of the tension in my shoulders finally begin to slip. It drained out of me all at once, leaving behind a heavy, almost boneless relief.
The gate opened.
We returned home.
The instant we crossed back into Fairy Tail territory, something inside me relaxed so hard it was almost embarrassing. The professional lawyer aura peeled away like a coat I had been forced to wear for far too long, sliding off my shoulders and vanishing the moment I no longer needed it.
And underneath it…
The intimidating gangster in a suit returned.
Yes, I was still wearing the suit.
Because Laxus seemed to like it.
And because Laxus had leaned in earlier, lips brushing close to my ear, and whispered that there would be some rewards later if I kept wearing it.
I definitely could not say no now.
But that was for later.
For now, we went back to the guild.
Celebration erupted the moment we walked in, loud and unrestrained and entirely on brand. People cheered, demanded details, slapped Laxus on the back hard enough to make the floor creak, and complimented my suit like it was a legendary artifact I had looted from some impossible dungeon.
Someone tried to hand Grandpa a drink immediately.
Someone else tried to hand me food immediately.
Fairy Tail being Fairy Tail.
We celebrated for a job well done.
Then, once the party had reached that familiar point where everyone was loud enough to stop noticing anything subtle—
Laxus and I slipped away.
Quickly.
Quietly.
All the way back to our home.
Once we reached the bedroom, as if rehearsed, we both dematerialized most of our spiritual equipment. I was only wearing the white suit jacket that framed my hulking torso and some leather jockstrap with zippers on the front pouch, while the glasses and golden accessories were still on me.
Meanwhile, Laxus dematerialized everything besides his black thong and practically pounced onto me. It seems this business look is really turning Laxus on, to the point where Laxus seems more submissive than his usual dominance.
I carried Laxus to bed as we shared a passionate kiss and, since I'm the Dom today apparently, I tossed him onto the bed on his stomach and reached for his ass. I pulled the string aside and started rimming his ass like it's a feast while Laxus moans from the sensations of my tongue in his ass.
But we were both impatient, so the rimming didn't last long until I pulled down my pouch zippers, freeing my dick to the open air so I could slam it all inside Laxus with his thong still on. Laxus practically howled from ecstasy as I pistoned at a furious pace, feeling no pain at all after all these months of conditioning.
There's also the fact that I always aim for his prostate as I continuously penetrate him, which makes things easier for him, all while I enjoy the warm squeeze of his insides. I smack his ass a few times, then reach around to palm his erection that's still trapped in his thong, which has magically expanded to wrap his dick and balls like a second skin.
I could feel that the fabric is soaked through with precum that's still leaking from Laxus's sizable dick, and that the sensation of his cock being confined in fabric is really doing it for him. I stroked it up and down while playing with the head, and Laxus gave an affirmative moan as he quickly reached his climax, orgasming right through the fabric and soaking my paw. His insides were also squeezing my cock so good that I came as well, unloading a huge shot inside Laxus's guts.
I lay ontop of him for a bit as we enjoy the afterglow, but we both knew it won't end here tonight. And so I pulled Laxus up while I lay down and positioned him to straddle my crotch as he rides on my still hard dick with enthusiasm. Obviously, there are several more rounds to come.
--------------
Several rounds later, I was in bed.
Warm.
Heavy.
Snugged against Laxus like I belonged there.
My thoughts were slow, comfortable, softened by the kind of post-nut clarity that made everything feel oddly simple.
It was the kind of quiet where ideas drifted instead of collided, where realizations did not demand attention so much as gently ask to be acknowledged.
Laxus's arm was draped over me, solid and possessive in the best way, his breathing steady against my neck. Each rise and fall anchored me, reminding me that I was not alone in my head anymore.
And in the quiet that followed, my mind drifted back to Grandpa.
There was something I had realized.
Something that had been bothering me for a long time, circling the edges of my thoughts without ever quite settling—and somehow, tonight, it finally clicked.
I shifted slightly, careful not to wake Laxus, then stopped myself.
No. This was something I wanted to say.
"Laxus," I murmured softly, breaking the silence on purpose.
He stirred, a low sound of acknowledgement vibrating against my chest, but he did not pull away.
"I think I finally understand something about Grandpa," I said quietly, more to the moment than to the room.
That was when the thoughts fully lined up.
I had always wondered why Grandpa Makarov kept his leprechaun physique on purpose.
He could change it.
He always could.
With Giant Magic, he could reshape himself at will, and with my bodybuilding magic involved, Grandpa's real body looked like something out of a fighting game.
Gouken from Street Fighter, but with wilder hair.
A total beefcake grandpa.
So why keep the small form?
Why stay the leprechaun?
Now I could see it.
Grandpa simply wanted to accompany his old aging friends.
He didn't want to alienate them.
He didn't want to stand among them looking too spry, too powerful, too… young, compared to men who had carried responsibility on their backs for decades.
He wanted to belong.
Even now.
"And by sealing his physique with Giant Magic into that form," I continued quietly, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles against Laxus's arm, "he kept himself energetic. Balanced. Able to grow old with them instead of past them."
Now even more so with the advent of bodybuilding magic.
I let out a slow breath, half amused, half moved.
Laxus shifted slightly, eyes half open, lashes fluttering as if he were peeking back into the world just to check that it was still there.
"Wait," he muttered sleepily. "Is that why?"
There was no accusation in it. Just genuine curiosity, softened by exhaustion.
I hummed, letting the sound vibrate between us before answering.
"Yes," I said quietly. "That's why."
He went still for a second, processing. I could almost feel the thought turning over behind his eyes.
Then Laxus frowned, the expression brief and unfocused, before letting out a small huff that puffed warm air against my collarbone.
"I always wondered why everybody became beefy besides Grandpa," he said, voice thick with drowsiness. "Thought he was just being stubborn."
I snorted softly, unable to stop myself.
"Apparently he is," I replied. "Just… in a sentimental way."
That seemed to satisfy him.
Laxus's hand tightened around me for a moment, not possessive so much as grounding, like he was anchoring the thought in place.
"Good," he murmured. "Makes him less annoying."
The corner of my mouth curved upward on its own.
I smiled.
Then another realization surfaced.
Sharper.
Heavier.
It did not drift in gently like the others. It cut its way forward, demanding to be acknowledged.
I had been rewatching my past life memories.
Not obsessively—at least, not at first. Just enough to check alignments. To understand where timelines bent and where they snapped. To see what I had changed without meaning to, simply by existing differently this time.
And then I remembered Ivan.
The memory slid into place with uncomfortable clarity.
In the original timeline, Ivan left the guild in Laxus's midteens. The fracture had been slow, ugly, and full of denial. A rot that took its time.
But with me around…
Ivan had not lingered.
He had blown up with evil and left when Laxus was six.
Too early.
Too fast.
And the cause was me.
The realization landed with a dull, sinking weight.
My anti-criminal aura.
Back then, it had been weaker. Lower level. Unrefined. More instinct than system. I had not even known how to dampen it properly yet.
But it was still there.
Always there.
It would have pressed against Ivan like sand in a wound—constant, abrasive, impossible to ignore. It would have scraped against every buried impulse, every compromised intention, every rationalization he told himself to sleep at night.
It would have made him more irritable.
More defensive.
More honest in the worst possible way.
It would have dragged his flaws to the surface sooner rather than later, leaving him nowhere to hide.
I swallowed.
The thought sat heavy in my chest.
"I think…" I started, then paused, because saying it out loud made it real in a way memory alone never could.
Laxus's eyes opened more fully, focus sharpening despite the lingering drowsiness.
"What?" he asked.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment, gathering the words instead of letting them scatter.
"I think I'm the reason Ivan left early," I admitted quietly. "My aura was already working back then. Not like now—but enough to make him snap faster."
The silence that followed was not tense.
It was thoughtful.
Then Laxus exhaled, slow and steady.
"That's it?" he said.
I blinked.
"That's it?" I echoed.
Laxus shifted, propping himself up just enough to look down at me properly. His expression was calm—no anger, no resentment, no second-guessing.
"He was gonna leave eventually," Laxus said simply. "He always was. You just sped it up."
The certainty in his voice hit harder than any accusation could have.
I felt my throat tighten.
Laxus's expression softened, thumb brushing lightly against my shoulder as if grounding both of us in the same reality.
"And getting you in my life was more than enough," he added.
Something inside me cracked.
Not painfully.
Just… open.
All the what-ifs I had been carrying loosened at once.
I turned toward him.
He leaned down.
We shared a tender, slow kiss.
No pressure.
No performance.
Just us.
For once, I let myself believe it.
This was enough.
And tomorrow—
We would keep building.