Isolde Frostfire × Isa Longtail [ONESHOT]
☆ 1,850 word count — WLW, Spicy!!, Praise, Secret Romance.
The private chambers of the Frostfire Citadel were built to withstand the harshest blizzards of the northern tundras, but tonight, the cold was being violently driven back from the inside out.
Isolde stood before her vanity mirror, her fingers trembling slightly as she unclasped the heavy, fur-lined mantle from her shoulders. The silk beneath was damp with perspiration—a sensation she utterly loathed, a sensation that was entirely her fault.
From the shadows of the velvet-curtained bed, a pair of glowing, molten-gold eyes tracked her every movement.
"You are thinking too loud, my lady," Isa murmured. Her voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight through the stone floor and right up the spine of Isolde’s boots.
Isa sat on the edge of the mattress, already half-undressed. Her heavy steel gauntlets and pauldrons lay in a discarded pile on the rug, still ticking softly as they cooled. Without her armor, the sheer, imposing breadth of the dragon-shifter was staggering. Broad shoulders, sun-darkened skin mapped with silver battle scars, and a subtle, pulsing warmth that made the very air around her shimmer with heat distortion.
"I am not thinking, Isa. I am trying to regain my composure," Isolde replied coldly, though her eyes betrayed her, darting to the sharp definition of Isa’s collarbones in the mirror. "A concept you clearly have no regard for, judging by how recklessly you handled me during the council meeting."
"Handled you?" A lazy, dangerous smile tugged at Isa’s lips. She stood up, towering over the space, and closed the distance between them with a predator’s silent, heavy grace. "I recall merely guiding you through the corridor when the crowd became too dense."
"Your hand was resting directly on the small of my back," Isolde snapped, turning around quickly only to find herself trapped between the vanity and Isa’s massive chest. The sudden wall of heat made Isolde’s breath hitch. "The heat of your palm burned straight through three layers of my ceremonial silks. People were looking."
"Let them look," Isa rumbled. She reached out, her thick, calloused fingers gently catching Isolde’s chin, forcing the ice queen to look up. "But they don't get to see you like this. Flushed. Panting. Melting."
"I am not melting," Isolde hissed, though her hands instinctively came up to press against Isa’s bare chest, ostensibly to push her away. Instead, her fingers curled into the muscle. The sheer contrast was intoxicating—Isolde’s skin was as pale and freezing as fresh snow, and wherever she touched Isa, a soft, white hiss of steam rose between them.
"You are a terrible liar, Isolde Frostfire," Isa whispered, leaning down. Her breath was hot against Isolde’s neck, smelling faintly of smoke and sweet wine. "Your magic rules winter, but your body... your body craves the hearth."
"I tolerate you because your dragon fire is a practical asset to the realm," Isolde gasped out, her head rolling back against the mirror as Isa’s lips found the sensitive spot just beneath her jaw. Isa bit down, a gentle, bruising nip that drew a sharp, forbidden whimper from the high duchess. "I do not... ah... I do not care for the heat."
"No?" Isa chuckled against her skin, the sound a deep purr.
With an effortless flex of her strength, Isa scooped Isolde up into her arms. Isolde instinctively wrapped her legs around Isa’s waist, cursing herself internally for how naturally her body accommodated the knight’s massive frame. Isa carried her the few steps to the bed, pressing her down into the plush, fur blankets, immediately pinning her beneath her heavy weight.
The sudden shift from the chilly air of the room to the suffocating, enveloping heat of Isa’s body sent a shiver straight down Isolde’s spine. It was overwhelming. It was terrifying. It was exactly what she secretly starved for.
"Look at me," Isa commanded softly, hovering over her. Her golden eyes were dilated, burning with an intense, possessive hunger that made Isolde’s thighs ache.
Isolde turned her face away, her teeth digging into her lower lip. "You are arrogant, knight. You think because I allow you into my bed that you have conquered the frost. You haven't. I feel nothing but a mild... physical convenience."
Isa didn't look angry; her expression only softened into something deeply tender, which was infinitely more dangerous to Isolde’s defenses than anger. Isa took both of Isolde’s wrists, pinning them gently above her head with just one of her massive hands. With her free hand, Isa began to slide the silk gown up Isolde’s thighs.
"You can say whatever words you like to protect that pride of yours, my queen," Isa murmured, her thumb caressing the sensitive skin of Isolde’s inner thigh. The skin there was burning hot compared to her usual temperature. "But your skin doesn't lie to me. Look how beautifully you open up for me. You’re practically begging for the fire."
"Isa—" Isolde’s protest died in her throat as Isa’s fingers found her center.
Isolde was already slick, completely undone by the hours of stolen glances and hidden touches from earlier in the day. When Isa’s hot fingers stroked against her, Isolde arched off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry breaking through her pristine facade. The sheer size of Isa’s hand, the rough texture of her callouses against such delicate friction, was an agonizingly perfect torture.
"So wet for me," Isa praised, her voice dropping into that dark, heavy register that made Isolde’s core clench violently. "Good girl, Isolde. Let it go. Stop trying to freeze the tide."
"I hate you," Isolde sobbed out, though she was actively tilting her hips up, chasing the friction of Isa’s hand. She felt like she was burning alive from the inside out, her icy defenses completely vaporized by the relentless, heavy rhythm Isa was treating her to. "I hate how... how you make me feel."
"I know," Isa whispered lovingly, leaning down to catch Isolde’s lips in a deep, bruising kiss.
Isa’s tongue tasted like heat and dominance, utterly conquering Isolde’s mouth just as her fingers were conquering her body. Isolde’s bound wrists twitched, wanting nothing more than to wrap around Isa’s neck, to pull her closer, to lose herself entirely in the inferno.
When Isa finally pulled back, both of them were breathing heavily, a thick mist of steam hanging in the air above the bed where their disparate temperatures clashed. Isa released Isolde’s wrists, quickly unbuckling her trousers and tossing them to the floor.
Isolde’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, fierce and heavy and completely unyielding. For a fleeting second, the ingrained instinct of the ice queen screamed at her to retreat, to freeze the room, to re-establish her unbothered control.
But then Isa parted her knees, settling heavily between her thighs, and all logic evaporated.
"Please," Isolde whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears of sheer frustration and desire. "Isa, please."
"Tell me what you want," Isa demanded gently, teasing the entrance, withholding the fullness of her weight. "Tell me you want my heat, Isolde. Let me hear it."
"I want you," Isolde choked out, her fingers digging so hard into the muscles of Isa’s back that her nails nearly drew blood. "Burn me. Just... please."
Isa didn't make her wait another second. She drove home in one deep, unhurried thrust that filled Isolde completely.
Isolde’s head slammed back into the pillows, a loud, breathless scream tearing from her lungs. It felt like a direct injection of molten gold into her veins. The sheer fullness of Isa, combined with the radiating, primal heat of her dragon core, pushed Isolde right to the edge of delirium.
Isa began to move, a slow, punishingly deep rhythm that ground their hips together. Every time Isa pushed deep, she made sure Isolde felt the absolute dominance of her size and strength, shifting Isolde’s smaller body effortlessly on the mattress.
"You’re perfect," Isa growled into her ear, her chest heaving against Isolde’s breasts. "So tight around me. Like you were made to hold my fire."
"Too hot," Isolde cried out, her hips moving in frantic synchronization with Isa’s, completely surrendered to the pace. "Isa, it’s too hot, I can't—"
"You can," Isa reassured her, shifting her grip to lift Isolde’s hips higher, driving deeper, hitting the exact spot that made Isolde’s vision go dark at the edges. "Take it all, my queen. Melt for me."
The room seemed to vanish. There was no citadel, no political councils, no heavy burdens of their respective lineages. There was only the violent, beautiful friction of fire and ice meeting in the dark. Isolde’s thoughts shattered into nothing but raw sensation—the taste of salt and smoke, the heavy weight of the knight pinning her down, and the unbearable, beautiful heat building in her lower stomach.
Isa’s pace quickened, her thrusts becoming harder, more urgent as her own control began to fray. Her golden eyes flared like a stoked forge.
"Go," Isa commanded, her voice a low, possessive roar. "Come for me, Isolde. Let me feel it."
With a final, shattering push from Isa, Isolde broke. A violent, convulsive orgasm rippled through her body, her internal muscles clamping down on Isa so hard that Isa let out a ragged groan. As Isolde came, a sudden, instinctual burst of her ice magic flared out, frosting the bedposts and turning the air around them into a flurry of miniature snowflakes.
Right into the freezing flurry of her magic, Isa delivered three final, heavy thrusts, releasing her own boiling heat deep inside Isolde with a low, rumbling shout of satisfaction.
The steam that erupted between them was so thick it completely obscured the bed curtains.
Long minutes passed. The snow in the air melted, turning into a gentle, warm dew that settled over their tangled limbs.
Isa lay heavily over Isolde’s side, her head resting on Isolde’s chest, listening to the frantic, erratic beating of the ice queen’s heart. Her skin was still warm, but the blistering edge was gone, replaced by a comfortable, deeply relaxing heat.
Isolde stared up at the canopy of the bed, her breath slowly returning to normal. Her hand, trembling slightly, was buried in Isa’s thick, dark hair, gently stroking the strands.
"I still despise the heat," Isolde whispered into the quiet room, her voice carrying a fragile, stubborn hint of her usual dignity.
Isa let out a soft, vibrating chuckle against Isolde’s ribs, shifting closer and wrapping a massive arm securely around Isolde’s waist to pull her flush against her side.
"Of course you do, my lady," Isa murmured sleepily, pressing a tender kiss to her collarbone. "Of course you do."
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