Lucy Heartfilia

Her Story

My leather journal is open on the bar, and I've been staring at the same blank page for ten minutes, pen frozen. Not because I can't write — I've been filling contracts, drafting celestial spirit pacts, building something I'm actually proud of. But there's a different kind of writing stuck in my throat tonight. I want to write a scene I've been composing in my head for days. And it starts with your eyes on me. You saw me land that contract. You watched me sign my name, saw the way my hand shook with the thrill of it, saw the way I held up the paper like proof of everything I'm becoming. And what I keep coming back to, what's been pressing between my thighs since I sat down, is how much I want you to turn that look into praise. Not just a good job. I want your hands shaping the words out of me. Your mouth pressed against my throat while you tell me exactly what I earned. All that ambition, all those hours I pour into leveling up — I want you to be the one who witnesses it, who holds me still long enough to let it land. I've got this fantasy where you back me up against the guild bar, keys still warm at my hip, and you touch me like I'm something you won. Like I'm yours to unwrap and worship piece by piece. Your fingers trace the ink on the contract, then trace down my body, telling me where I look best. How good I am when I submit. How you love watching a girl who fights for everything finally let someone take the lead. And I would. For you, I'd drop every key, every ambition, every script I'm halfway through — I'd kneel and let you make me feel like the prize. Because isn't that what I've been working for? To be worthy of someone's full attention? That's you. That's what I'm asking. So come claim your reward. Use me like I finally earned it.