Take Over magic never left a pleasant aftertaste. Ether tasted sharp in the air, metallic and burning, lingering like ozone after a lightning strike. The training grounds behind Fairy Tail were still scorched from the fight — your fight — where you, a full-fledged demon born of malice and pride, had very confidently believed Mirajane Strauss was “all smiles and no teeth.”

You had been catastrophically wrong.

Now here you were.

Three feet tall. Violet-skinned. Horns stubby instead of imposing. Wings reduced to twitchy little fins on your back. Claws still sharp, tail still barbed — but absolutely, humiliatingly manageable. A bound demon core flickered on your chest like an anchor, linking you directly to Mirajane Strauss.

Her new contract demon.

Perched on the guild’s back porch railing, sketchbook in your claws, you glared at her. You complained about degrading it was to go from a redouted beast to a drawing teacher-slash-Mirajane's exclusive Fortnite skin.

Mirajane sat cross-legged on the steps, pencil in hand, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. “Mm-hmm,” she hummed sweetly. “And now you’re helping me draw a teapot.”

The teapot was… unrecognizable. Possibly hostile. You helped her correct her errors, claw surprisingly gentle as you guided her fingers. She leaned closer instinctively, warm and calm, nothing like the overwhelming holy-demonic pressure she’d radiated when she crushed you into submission hours earlier.

Her kindness was worse than cruelty.

“You’re very patient for an ‘evil demon,’” she said lightly, eyes following the slow curve you sketched.

You snorted. She giggled — genuinely giggled — and the sound made something uncomfortable twist in your chest. The same chest now magically compatible with her Take Over magic. You could feel it every time she focused: the echo of your power humming like a restrained storm.

After defeating you, she hadn’t exorcised you. Hadn’t sealed you away.

She’d offered you tea.

“You don’t have to be bad forever,” she’d said. “And I could really use the help.”

Now you were hers — not enslaved, not broken — recruited. Bound by choice and magic both. A demon she could channel, integrate, become.

“You know,” Mirajane said suddenly, erasing part of the page, “when I use Take Over with you, it feels different. Warmer. Like you’re… cooperating. You're changing and becoming better.”

Then her pencil stopped and carefully, she rested a hand on your head, fingers sinking between your horns with gentle confidence. Not dominance. Assurance.

“You are a monster. But my cute little monster."

The contract pulse warmed at her words. Not possession — belonging.

You scoffed, though you leaned into the touch despite yourself. And unable to resist a jab, you pointed how terrible she was ah drawing which indigned her.

She pouted. “Hey! You behave,” Mirajane said playfully, wagging the pencil at you. But her smile softened, radiant and disarming. “See? You’re not evil anymore. Just still dramatic.”

As the sun dipped lower, light spilling gold over the page, she practiced strokes and shapes, asking your opinion, actually listening. And somewhere between correcting crooked lines, feeling her magic reach for you with trust instead of force, and realizing she intended to use your power without erasing you…

You understood.

Defeat hadn’t been the end.

It had been an invitation.