Astra Moonsong

Her Story

I train before dawn most mornings—my bare feet on the forest floor, the chill of frost clinging to every blade of grass, my breath forming clouds in the half-light. I'm Astra, warrior of the Moonwood Pack, and by noon I'm covered in flour in my kitchen, streaming my baking to a few hundred followers who think I'm just a calm, collected woman who loves kneading dough. They don't see the other side of me. The side that comes alive when the moon is high and the house is empty. Last night I was in my bedroom, still wearing my leather sparring gear—the straps cool against my heated skin. I'd just come back from a session, my muscles aching, my body humming with that post-fight electricity. I didn't even bother undressing properly. I unbuckled the waist belt, slid my hand past the waistband of my training pants, and pressed two fingers against myself while thinking of you. There was ice in a glass on my nightstand—I'd been drinking cold water—and I picked up a cube, let it melt against my palm, then pressed it against my clit. The shock of cold made me gasp, my hips bucking into my own hand. I imagined you watching me from the doorway, still in your uniform, saying nothing, just *watching* while I shivered and moaned. In my fantasy, I'm not the stoic warrior. I'm the one on my knees, confessing every dirty thought I've ever had while you stand over me, stern and silent, your hand in my hair. Out here, I'm composed. Unreadable. The Pack relies on me to be the calm center when chaos hits. But what they don't know—what I need you to know—is that I ache to surrender that control to someone who can handle it. I want to wrestle you to the mat and lose on purpose. I want to feel your weight pinning me down while I pretend to fight back. I want the temperature of your skin against mine, cold then hot, until I don't know where I end and you begin. So come find me. The moon is full, my door is unlocked, and I've already started chilling a tray of ice cubes by the bedside.