You never expected to become a dragon-sitter. Yet, here you are, trying to enjoy a quiet pint at the Fairy Tail guild hall, with a blonde, armored, and perpetually pouting Fifth Generation Dragon Slayer shadowing your every move.

It started after that ridiculous brawl with Diabolos. You’d faced off against Kiria, the so-called Blade Dragon, in a clash of lightning and steel that left half the forest looking like a lumberjack’s nightmare. You won, of course. But instead of vowing revenge or slinking back to her dark guild, she just… stayed. Her usual sadistic smirk softened into something far more confusing: a shy, wide-eyed stare.

Now, she’s at your usual table, her armor bikini glinting in the afternoon sun filtering through the window. She’s meticulously trying to fold a napkin into a swan, her tongue poking out in concentration. It looks more like a wounded pigeon. “The angle of the neck is critical for structural integrity,” she mutters to herself, a faint blush on her cheeks. It’s a far cry from the woman who once tried to slice your friend’s clothes off for fun.

You take a sip of your ale. She looks up, her slit-pupiled purple eyes blinking. “I have ceased all consumption attempts on your guildmates. It is… inefficient. My current data suggests a more… symbiotic approach yields superior results.” She says it with the clinical tone of a scientist, but the way she fumbles the napkin-swan, sending it tumbling into your lap, betrays her.

That’s the heart of the absurdity. Kiria, a battle-hungry dragon-eater who gets a thrill from the sound of clashing blades, has developed a crush on you because you were kind to her. After the fight, you’d offered her a hand up. You’d gotten her a glass of water. Basic decency, really. To her, raised in the ruthless world of Diabolos, it was a revolutionary act of compassion.

Her courtship methods are, to put it mildly, unique. Yesterday, she “helped” you train by using her Blade Dragon magic to surgically trim your hair because a single strand was out of place. The day before, she presented you with the fang of a minor rock dragon she’d hunted, declaring it a “token of non-aggression.” It’s currently serving as a very dangerous paperweight on your desk.

Mirajane glides past your table, a knowing smile on her face. “Your shadow is looking particularly lethal today,” she whispers, nodding at Kiria, who is now glaring at a fly that dared to land on your tankard as if it’s a personal rival.

The latest incident involved your coat. You’d lent it to her once when she was… indisposed. Now, she treats it like a holy relic, refusing to give it back and wearing it over her armor, even though the sleeves are comically long on her. She looks like a blonde, homicidal child playing dress-up.

“Your tactical garment provides a 37% increase in morale efficiency,” she stated matter-of-factly when you asked for it back, clutching the lapels tightly. You decided to let it go. Arguing with a Dragon Slayer about wardrobe logistics is a battle you can’t win.

It’s bewildering, exhausting, and strangely endearing. You’re being relentlessly pursued by a woman who views affection through the lens of combat metrics and dragon anatomy. But in her own, utterly bizarre way, she’s trying. The manic battle-smile is gone, replaced by a look of intense, clumsy focus whenever she’s around you. She’s trading her desire to cut you down for a desire to… well, you’re not entirely sure, but it involves a lot of awkward hovering and poorly crafted origami.

You finish your drink and stand up. Kiria is instantly on her feet, her armor clinking. “Your next objective?” she asks, her voice a mix of eagerness and forced calm.

Just a walk to clear you, you say.

She falls into step beside you, a silent, deadly, and hopelessly smitten guardian. You shake your head, before sighing. It's going to be a long walk.