Fairy Hills seemed to have been swallowed by a fairy tale... a drunken one. Yes, that's the only description that does any justice to the chaotic scene unfolding before my eyes. It was as if the Spirit of Christmas had invaded our girls' dormitory after a particularly wild night out on cursed mead, vomited enchanted glitter over absolutely everything, and then finally passed out in a sticky puddle of eggnog.
It was one of those fairy tales that starts out cute and promising, with singing animals and magical snowflakes, but inevitably ends with someone tripping over an enchanted garland with murderous intentions, falling face-first into Cana's alcoholic pudding, and starting a bloody civil war between garden gnomes over the last, precious gingerbread biscuit with extra sugar icing.
In the centre of the main hall, a single, absurdly optimistic Christmas tree stood tall, bright, and, frankly, a bit smug. It was a complete and merciless visual assault: multicoloured Lacrima lights twinkled at an epileptic pace that would probably cause seizures in a minor dragon. Gold and silver ribbons competed for attention with artificial snowflakes that defied the laws of physics and gravity, hovering in the air with an irritating stubbornness. And the magical ornaments, ah, the ornaments... they moved sporadically, with a life of their own, just to startle anyone who passed too close with a sudden, sinister movement.
A porcelain gnome with a smile that promised trouble winked at me with a sinister complicity. A little bell, with no wind to move it, tinkled a slightly menacing tune on its own that vaguely reminded me of the soundtrack to a B-rate horror film. And a mini plush dragon, hanging pathetically from the tip of a branch, spun slowly, as if contemplating the futility of its festive existence and the inevitability of oblivion.
At the foot of this verdant monstrosity, a suspicious avalanche of presents was scattered with organised chaos. Some, beautifully and meticulously wrapped, with perfect bows that screamed at the top of their tissue-paper lungs: 'Lisanna was here, spreading love and perfectionism'.
Others looked as if they had been attacked by a drunken octopus with a roll of sticky tape, a clear and unmistakable sign of the finesse and artistic care of Cana Alberona. And, beside them, a small table with biscuits, a half-warm glass of milk, and a note for 'Father Christmas' written in Levy's cute, rounded handwriting, which, I was sure, contained a veiled and very well-articulated threat, probably citing ancient cursing runes, about the nefarious consequences of not delivering rare, first-edition books.
All of this, charmingly left there as if, in some parallel universe where logic took a permanent holiday and never came back, the real, genuine Father Christmas was actually going to come down our chimney, which, I made a point of reminding everyone, was still partially destroyed from last year's disastrous attempt, where a Natsu in his 'Flaming Santa' version decided to use it as a convenient shortcut and nearly set the entire dormitory on fire. But, lucky for me (or unlucky), this year's Father Christmas, to my eternal humiliation and growing desire to commit a hate crime against the Christmas spirit, was wearing a hanfu. And that Father Christmas... was me.
Azra'il Weiss. Stuffed against my will into a heavy, red satin hanfu, embroidered with gold threads that seemed to actively mock my dark soul and my impeccable taste for black and grey clothes. The sleeves, long and flowing, were a death trap, hindering the simple, vital task of picking up biscuits from the table without knocking everything over. And as if the universe, in its infinite and sadistic creativity, was striving to punish me for some particularly heinous sin I must have committed in a past life, probably involving kicking a penguin or stealing a minor god's packed lunch, an animated, fat, and ridiculously cheerful Father Christmas was embroidered on my back.
And it flashed.
Yes. It fla-shed. A small, infernal red Lacrima light in his nose, pulsing at a slow, steady rhythm, like a beacon of second-hand embarrassment that followed me wherever I went. Oh, and of course, as the cherry on top of my festive misfortune, a red and white Santa hat on my head. With a bloody little bell on the end that jingled with every movement, every deeper breath, announcing my presence, my total and utter lack of dignity, and probably my location to any nearby assassins for hire.
"I'm going to murder Mirajane," I muttered to the nearest wall, which seemed sympathetic to my pain. I pulled the hat forward in the vain, desperate hope that it might swallow me whole and transport me to a silent, party-free vacuum. "Slowly. With the star from the Christmas tree. It'll be poetic. Painful. And deeply, deeply, satisfying."
[Biometric analysis in progress: Heart rate slightly elevated due to a combination of contained indignation and acute social embarrassment. Detected level of Christmas spirit: 94% manifested externally in the form of a themed outfit. Level of internal denial and desire to commit homicide against a certain albino she-devil: 100%. Current visual style: Candidate for 'Office Christmas Party Heartbreaker'. Facial smile detected: false, but cute enough to deceive the less cynical and emotionally perceptive specimens.]
(I'm not smiling. It's a facial cramp. Induced by the stress of having to look remotely cheerful while my arse is flashing) I thought, with all the venom and bitterness I could muster in my ancient soul.
[Your ocular camera records indicate that you rehearsed this 'facial cramp' in front of the mirror. For twenty minutes. With different angles and poses. There is a video, should you wish to review it for enhancement purposes.]
(Shut your circuit-mouth, Eos. Now. Or I swear I will permanently transfer you to one of those singing reindeer ornaments that only knows one song and sings it out of tune for all eternity.)
The girls, oblivious to my existential crisis and my imminent rebellion against my own AI, were all gathered, dressed for the festive carnage. Cana was wearing a Christmas jumper with two embroidered tankards of ale that, magically, refilled themselves. Levy, adorable as ever, had a sky-blue dress with little enchanted snowflakes floating around her, creating her own personal flurry of cuteness. Lisanna, of course, had opted for an elf outfit so cute and flawless it was offensive to us mere mortals and entities with self-esteem issues. Even Bisca, who rarely participated in these festivities, had turned up in a cowboy hat adorned with a sprig of holly, perfectly balancing the festive with the 'I can still shoot you from three hundred yards away, even if we are singing Jingle Bells'.
With the stealth of a hunting wolf, I walked to the darkest corner of the hall, a strategically positioned spot where I could be near the biscuit table and very, very far from any attempt at a group hug or a circle dance. My mission for the night was clear and precise: deliver my logistically planned presents, eat a questionable amount of sugar to numb the pain of humiliation, and escape to the safety of my room before anyone suggested, Merlin forbid, singing Christmas carols in a group, holding hands.
Mirajane, dressed as a Mrs. Claus who had clearly and rightly been banished from the North Pole for being a direct threat to morals, decency, and the sanity of the elves, glided through the hall with the grace of a predator in its natural habitat, distributing smiles that were both sweet and dangerous.
Lisanna, her small and terribly efficient elf helper, was organising the names on the presents with a magical clipboard that probably also gave little shocks to anyone who tried to peek. Cana, already on her second (or was it third?) glass of something that smelt like mulled wine with a hint of paraffin, was chatting animatedly with a red stocking hung on the fireplace, which seemed to agree with everything she said. And Levy, poor thing, was trying to calm a decorative automaton in the shape of a toy soldier that had, apparently, gained sentience from the overload of Christmas magic and was now marching in circles, questioning its purpose in the universe and demanding workers' rights. The typical Fairy Tail Christmas chaos was in full, glorious swing.
And in the inner pocket of my red and humiliating hanfu, with the weight of everything unsaid, her present still waited.
I chose my strategic observation point: leaning against the wall, exactly two steps from the biscuit table, three from the Christmas tree (a safe distance in case of spontaneous combustion), and a safe fifteen steps from any unsolicited social interaction. a good plan. A foolproof plan. At least, until Lisanna located me with her festive-joy radar.
She crossed the hall, spinning like a snowball with a red bow on its head and eyes as bright as supernovas, a true guided missile of Christmas spirit aimed directly at my dark heart.
"I knew you'd come, Azra'il!" she said, smiling as if she were the very spirit of Christmas incarnate in a girl with short hair and boundless energy. "You grumble, you feign a deep contempt for gatherings, you repeatedly threaten to vanish into a dark portal to a dimension of eternal boredom and silence... but you never, ever miss a good family party!"
"The night is young, Lisanna. And I am an entity with access to multiple dimensions," I muttered, picking up a biscuit shaped like Natsu's head (complete with spiky hair made of pink icing). A work of confectionery art, and probably delicious to bite into with contained rage. "I can still change my mind and teleport to the bottom of an active volcano. I'm sure it would be quieter."
"Too late, you've already been infected," she said, pointing with an enthusiasm that was almost a small-calibre weapon at my back. "The flashing Father Christmas. Irrefutable proof. You've sold out to the Christmas spirit. You're one of us now! There's no escape!"
Before I could formulate a convincing denial, or simply push her aside and flee from this forced social interaction, Mirajane appeared out of nowhere, like an omen of chaos, bringing with her the scent of freshly baked biscuits, cinnamon, and impending trouble.
"You look even prettier than I expected, my favourite Christmas wolf," she said, with that experienced predator's smile that made my stomach knot and my survival instincts scream. "Like the stitching? I enchanted the little Father Christmas myself to flash every three seconds. I thought it perfectly matched your... inner glow."
"I am literally glowing from my backside, Mirajane. Like a firefly with social anxiety and a low battery."
"And on the inside too, darling," she winked, a gesture loaded with a flirtation so thick and sticky it almost made me choke on Natsu's biscuit.
[Primary hostess in controlled social combustion mode. Multiple flirtatious advances detected from multiple directions. Your current emotional defence level: critical, dangerously approaching the structural integrity of a house of cards in a category five hurricane.]
(Silence, Eos. And stop analysing me as if I were a particularly problematic specimen in a cosmic psychology lab.) I took another sip of a suspiciously glowing juice someone had left on the table. It tasted of grape... and public humiliation.
It was at this exact moment of personal disgrace and sensory overload that the door to Fairy Hills opened with a soft creak. And the world... stopped. Literally. Time seemed to stretch, becoming slower, like treacle. The colours of the Christmas lights became more vibrant, more intense. A visual and emotional torture.
Erza entered.
And when I say 'entered', I don't mean she simply walked through the door like a normal human being. No. I mean: she crossed that threshold like a bloody, unholy entity of sexy Christmas, summoned directly from some parallel dimension of festive delusions, repressed desires, and inexplicable fetishes.
The room, previously noisy and chaotic, fell silent. An absolute, deep, almost religious silence. Even the enchanted little bells on the Christmas tree stopped their sinister tune. One of them, I'd swear on all my lives, fell to the floor with a dull thud, as if it had had a fatal heart attack from pure, absolute admiration or, perhaps, from shame at its own insignificance.
Erza was dressed in a reindeer costume. But, of course, it wasn't just any cute, clumsy reindeer get-up you buy at a magical discount shop. It was one of those outfits that only Erza Scarlet would have the courage to wear with the most innocent and serious face in the world, completely and utterly oblivious to the trail of cerebral meltdowns, nosebleeds, and existential crises she left in her wake.
The fabric, a dark, soft brown velvet, clung to her body as if it had been sewn onto her skin, as if it had made a pact with sin and the laws of physics, embracing every curve, every warrior's muscle, every line of her statuesque body. A daring side-slit ran up her thigh, revealing more leg than any decent Christmas spirit would approve of, a sight that made the air in my lungs turn to concrete. Around her neck, a thin, delicate red choker, with a single, tiny golden bell in the middle, which tinkled softly, almost seductively, with every graceful movement she made.
On her head, a headband with soft little ears and delicate, golden reindeer antlers, which somehow, inexplicably and unfairly, managed to look more elegant and majestic than ridiculous. Cute, fluffy, mid-calf boots completed the look, a touch of almost cruel innocence amidst so much... visual and emotional devastation. And, to top off the torture, a small tail. Yes. A. Small. And round. Reindeer. Tail. White and incredibly fluffy. At the base of her back. I could see it move slightly when she walked.
My soul, that ancient, cynical entity that had stared into the void between the stars without blinking, left my body, floated in front of me, looked at my completely and utterly idiotic face, gave my shoulder a consoling pat and said, with a voice that sounded suspiciously like my own, 'good luck, you hopeless sod', before retreating to a less complicated dimension, probably one where sexy reindeer didn't exist.
[Alert! Alert! Sudden and catastrophic increase in peripheral blood flow to multiple regions of your organism. Body temperature elevated to subtropical fever levels. Libido level: system activated, overloaded, and at maximum power. Congratulations, Azra'il. Your hormones, apparently, have just declared a state of emergency level apocalypse. I recommend deep breathing and thoughts on uninteresting topics, such as the Magic Council's fiscal bureaucracy.]
(Congratulations, Eos, you're the Alexa of my lust, only with more useless statistics,) I thought, my inner voice coming out as a pathetic, squeaky sound like a squirrel being electrocuted.
[Thank you for the feedback. Updating your current emotional status to: libido through the roof and in vehement denial.]
I swallowed hard. Literally. And, to my total humiliation, I almost choked on a piece of Natsu's biscuit that I didn't even remember I was still chewing. What a humiliating and pathetic death that would be. "Cause of death: overdose of sexy reindeer and a poorly chewed biscuit." Classic my luck.
"Hi, Azra'il," she said, with that soft, sincere smile of hers, completely, utterly, criminally oblivious to the internal catastrophe and the civil war her simple outfit was causing per square metre of my psyche.
"Hm. Hi," I replied, with the casualness of an iceberg... that is secretly on fire inside and on the verge of a nuclear meltdown.
She stopped right in front of me. Close. Close enough for me to smell her, a soft fragrance that floated in the air around her, mingling with the scent of pine from the Christmas tree. Strawberries. With a subtle hint of vanilla. a scent that was, at the same time, sweet and dangerously comforting.
(Brilliant. Wonderful. Perfect. Now I'm hungry. Hungry for several things that are definitely not on the dessert table.)
[Sensory estimate updated: aroma detected and catalogued as 'irresistible' by your biological and emotional standards. Current self-control level: severely compromised and in freefall, approaching the structural integrity of a beaver dam facing a tsunami.]
(I'm going to bite her. I swear. One of these days. Just to see if the taste matches the smell. Scientifically speaking, of course. For research purposes only.)
[Processing confirmation: thoughts of a slightly cannibalistic and predatory nature logged in your psychological file. Would you like me to activate the emergency dignity and primary impulse containment protocol?]
"You really came dressed for Christmas... And you look... lovely," she said, with an innocence that was almost a weapon of mass destruction, adjusting the small antlers on her headband with a naturalness that was, in itself, a form of slow, pleasurable psychological torture.
"Ah, yes. Of course. I came representing Father Christmas, an ancient and reluctant Christmas spirit who, at this very moment, would rather be in an induced coma. And you... you also… look… very thematic." I paused, desperately searching my vast interdimensional lexicon for a word that wasn't 'delicious', 'sinful', or 'the reason for my impending collapse'. "Yes. Thematic. That's the word. Extremely thematic."
Erza laughed, and the sound, clear and melodious, accompanied by the soft, infernal tinkle of the little bell on her neck, hit me like a wave of impact magic. Straight to the stomach. And other places too.
"Mirajane convinced me to wear it," she said, as if that explained the violation of multiple laws of physics and decency. "She told me this costume was... 'cute'."
(She lied, you naive, wonderful, scarlet-haired creature. This is not 'cute'. This is a carefully planned and militarily executed erotic trap. 'Cute' for whom, Mirajane? For the demons of lust from the third circle of hell who, at this very moment, are probably giving a standing ovation and taking notes?)
[Azra'il Weiss's blood flow successfully redirected from higher brain functions, such as logic and reasoning, to... non-combative and purely reproductive purposes. Suggestion: keep hands visible and away from the reindeer-clad redhead's hips to avoid a diplomatic incident and, possibly, a punitive Requip.]
[Secondary alert: a statistically significant and potentially embarrassing increase in volume detected in the lower region of your hanfu. I recommend strategically positioning a large present, a convenient cushion, or, in case of absolute emergency, the Christmas tree itself, as a visual barrier.]
(Don't exaggerate, Eos. It's just... an excess of festive enthusiasm. Totally normal.)
"Are you alright, Azra'il?" asked Erza, leaning forward slightly, her large, expressive brown eyes, now tinged with the warmth of the tree's colourful lights, fixed on mine with genuine concern. Her voice had that soft tone she rarely used... and the slight tinkle of the bell with each word was, slowly and methodically, driving me completely mad.
She placed a hand on my shoulder. Light. Gentle. The contact, even through the satin of my hanfu, sent an electric shock that ran down my arm and lodged directly in my spine. It was controllable. In theory. In practice, it was like trying to control a volcano with a cork.
"You're... red. Do you have a fever?"
(It is a perfectly normal and involuntary biological response to a high-potency visual stimulus, i.e., a visually stimulating prey with a small, adorable reindeer tail and an irresistible scent of strawberries. And I, obviously, am the predator. Or perhaps the prey? My ancestral instincts are, at the moment, terribly confused and conflicted.)
"It's just... the warmth of the Christmas spirit, finally getting to me," I replied, raising one corner of my mouth in a smile that, I was sure, looked more like a grimace of pain or of someone about to have a stroke. "And, perhaps, a bit of public humiliation because of my outfit. Nothing serious. It happens."
Discreetly, with the agility of an experienced tomb raider, I picked up the bulkiest, most square-shaped present I could find in the nearest pile, a package that probably contained one of Cana's rock-hard fruitcakes, and positioned it casually in front of my body, as if I were just admiring the poorly tied bow. Not that anyone was looking. Yet. But, as an old Kree strategist friend used to say, you never know. Precaution is the middle name of survival. Or it should be.
Erza smiled back, that sincere, radiant smile that could melt glaciers and, apparently, my brain. And for a moment, in the midst of that cacophony of bells, flashing lights, and festive idiots, everything around us seemed to fall… quiet. And dangerously, deliciously, frighteningly intimate.
(No, no, and no. I will not be defeated by a reindeer with a pretty smile and a fluffy tail.)
[At least not before dessert, I hope. It would be a shame to spoil your appetite.]
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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⚠️ Author's Madness Alert ⚠️
Did you really think I'd stop at Fairy Tail? HA! Azra'il packed her bags and got shipped straight into Runeterra (yes, the land of trauma, politics, and 1350 RP skins).
Get ready for:
Morgana accidentally becoming a mom to an immortal troublemaker 👀
Azra'il messing with shady crystals just because "why not?"
And of course, chaos, sarcasm, and highly questionable life choices™
Coming soon: My Life (After Countless Reincarnations) in Runeterra.
Hold on to your hexcrystals, it's about to get messy 😂