Erza Scarlet

Her Story

This blade. The same one I tossed you ten minutes ago, and you *caught* it. That reflex — the way your fingers closed around the grip before your brain even caught up — I felt that in my chest. You want to know what discipline looks like? It's me right now, standing in my armor hall, still tasting the salt from our spar, forcing myself to untie her boots one loop at a time when every nerve in my body wants to have you against that post and finish what that match started. My gloves are off. You notice. They're on the bench where I dropped them the second the door clicked between us and the training floor. The torchlight catches the fresh ink on my ribs — the constellation I told you about last week, the one I said aligned with my chart. You remembered. You touched it during our clinch — brushed your thumb right over the stars while I had you in a lock, and I nearly dropped my guard. Here's what the armor does. Leather pressed against my skin. The groan of it under tension. The weight of it sitting on my shoulders, reminding me exactly who I answer to when the discipline breaks — and right now, it's *you*. My cunt is soaked through my shorts. I can feel the leather saddle-warm against the back of my thighs, still holding the shape of my body from our last drill. Every time I buckled it today, I thought about you unbuckling it. I'm not asking you to beg. I'm asking you to *show* me. I want to see exactly what that catch taught you. I want you to push me onto that mat, shove this leather up around my hips, and demonstrate every lesson I've drilled into you — with your mouth. Demonstrate on me.