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@frostfiretail
nothing screams girlhood more than reading fanfics late at night in bed
"baby-" yes ma'am, i'm literally at ur service
"A Slow Melt."
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.
"Isa—I'm going to—"
"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."
END.
"The Burning Point."
Isolde Frostfire × Isa Longtail [ONESHOT]
☆ 2,650 word count — WLW, character death, emotional devastation, heavy angst, no comfort.
Isa dragged her left leg, the armor long since melted into a warped, black sludge against her shin. Every breath she exhaled was less oxygen and more sulfur, thick and gray, staining the pristine, frosted arches of Isolde’s sanctuary. Inside her chest, the dragon’s core—the ancient, celestial forge that gave her life—was no longer a source of controlled power.
It was a collapsing star.
"Isolde," Isa choked out. The name tasted like ash. It felt like swallowing broken glass wrapped in embers.
At the far end of the hall, standing before a massive arched window overlooking the glittering, unsuspecting spires of the capital below, Isolde turned. Her pale blue eyes, usually as sharp and unyielding as glacial ice, widened. The absolute, unshakeable composure that defined the Frostfire lineage shattered in a single, ragged breath.
"Isa?" Isolde’s voice didn’t carry its usual regal echo. It was small. Frightened.
"Don't come near me," Isa warned, her voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register as her vocal cords scorched. She stumbled against a marble pillar. The moment her gauntlet pressed into the stone, the pillar hissed, blackened, and began to sag like hot wax. "I need you... to listen to me. Right now."
Isolde didn't listen. She never did when Isa told her to stay safe.
With a sweep of her heavy, fur-lined cloaks, Isolde rushed forward, the temperature in the room plummeting instantly as her instinctual panic manifested as a wave of frost. But as she drew within three feet of the knight, the ambient heat radiating from Isa hit her. It was a physical wall of blistering, suffocating pressure. The frost on the walls sublimated instantly into a thick, blinding fog of steam.
"What happened?" Isolde demanded, her hands hovering over Isa’s chest, desperately trying to find a place to touch that wasn't radiating blinding white heat. Through the shattered plates of Isa’s breastplate, the veins in her neck were glowing a terrifying, incandescent gold. "The siege—the vanguard said you drove the beasts back—"
"We won," Isa whispered, a terrible, bloody smile breaking through the soot on her face. Golden, molten dragon-blood leaked from the corner of her mouth, hissing as it struck her collarbone. "But the rift... it took a toll. A spear to the chest. It didn't just pierce the flesh, Isolde. It cracked the core."
Isolde’s breath hitched. The air in her lungs turned to glass.
Every child in the realm knew the legends of the Draconic Knights. Their lives were bound to the primordial fires within them. If a core was breached, it didn't simply stop beating like a human heart. It expanded. It burned through the vessel, growing hotter and more volatile until it reached the burning point—an unstoppable, catastrophic detonation that would level everything within a five-mile radius.
The capital. The citadel. The thousands of innocent souls sleeping below them.
"No," Isolde said, her voice dropping into a fierce, desperate denial. "No. I can contain it. I am the Frostfire. My winter has no end, Isa, I can freeze the blood in your veins, I can—"
"You can't freeze a dying sun," Isa interrupted, her voice softening, losing its draconic edge to a profound, exhausting weariness. She sank to her knees, the stone groaning beneath her. "It's already too late. I didn't crawl back here to be saved, my love. I came because you are the only thing in this world cold enough to stop the blast."
"Don't ask me to do this," Isolde whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes. They didn't even make it down her cheeks before the oppressive heat evaporated them into nothingness. "Isa, please. I'll force it down. I’ll bind your core in absolute zero."
"If you try to bind it gradually, the heat will shatter your ice before it even takes hold. You know the laws of thermal shock," Isa said, reaching up.
It was an agonizing choice. When Isa’s blistering, scorched hand met Isolde’s pale, freezing cheek, a horrific, violent hiss of steam erupted between them. Isolde gasped, the sheer intensity of the heat blistering her skin instantly. But she didn't pull away. She leaned into the agonizing touch, burying her face in the palm of the woman she loved, even as the smell of burning flesh filled the room.
"Look at me," Isa commanded gently, her golden eyes dimming, turning the color of cooling magma. "If I burst, everyone dies. You die. I cannot let my final act on this earth be the destruction of everything you protect. You have to pierce the core. Directly. You have to freeze it from the inside out. Instantly."
"It will kill you," Isolde sobbed, her entire body shaking. The great, unfeeling Ice Queen was gone, replaced by a broken woman holding a dying star in her arms. "The shock will shatter your chest, Isa. It will extinguish your soul."
"Then let me go out knowing my ice queen kept me safe one last time," Isa murmured. She leaned her forehead against Isolde’s. The contact was pure torture for both of them—fire and ice violently rejecting one another at the molecular level—but neither would break the embrace. "I’m so tired, Isolde. It burns. It hurts so bad."
That was the breaking point. Isa Longtail never complained about pain. She had taken swords to the shoulder, arrows to the flank, and smiled through the blood. To hear her confess, in a trembling, fragile whisper, that she was hurting... it tore the last remnants of Isolde’s resolve to ribbons.
Isa took Isolde’s hands—the hands that commanded the absolute zero of the northern wastes—and guided them directly to the center of her shattered breastplate. Right over the blinding, pulsing gold light of her cracked core.
The heat there was so immense that Isolde’s fingernails began to crack and blacken.
"Do it," Isa whispered, coughing up a heavy cloud of gray ash. "Before I lose the strength to hold it back."
Isolde closed her eyes. The tears that fell now froze in mid-air, turning into tiny, jagged crystals before dropping into the heat and vanishing. She gathered every ounce of ancient, primordial winter sleeping within her bloodline. She drew from the deepest, coldest depths of her soul—the parts she had spent her life hiding from the world, the parts she thought Isa had finally melted.
"I love you," Isolde whispered into the steam. "I am so sorry."
"I never minded the cold," Isa smiled, her eyes locked onto Isolde’s with an absolute, terrifying devotion.
Isolde screamed—a raw, unhinged sound of pure agony—and unleashed the magic.
She didn't just call upon frost; she called upon absolute zero. The complete and total cessation of all molecular movement. A blast of pure, crystalline starlight shot from her palms straight through Isa’s breastplate, plunging deep into the white-hot center of the dragon’s core.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent.
The white-hot gold met the absolute black-blue of the deepest winter. A shockwave of pure energy tore through the room, shattering every single stained-glass window in the citadel, sending millions of glittering shards raining down upon the silent city below. A terrible, deafening roar—like a dying dragon’s final cry—echoed through the rafters.
Isa’s body stiffened.
The blinding light inside her chest violently pulsed once, twice, and then... froze. The gold turned to ice-blue. The heat radiating from her skin vanished in a microsecond, replaced by a frost so severe that the air itself seemed to crackle and die.
Isolde watched, paralyzed by her own grief, as the frost spread from Isa’s chest. It raced down her arms, up her neck, and over her face. The agonizing tension on Isa’s face smoothed out. The lines of pain vanished, replaced by an ethereal, terrifying peace. Her eyes, open and fixed entirely on Isolde, froze into brilliant, unmoving sapphires.
Within seconds, the heat was gone. The smoke vanished.
Kneeling before Isolde was a flawless, crystalline statue of pure, unyielding ice. Isa was perfectly preserved, her hand still raised toward Isolde’s face, her lips still parted slightly from her final breath.
The room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.
The wind howled through the shattered windows, bringing the natural winter air into the room, but it felt warm compared to the tomb Isolde had just created.
Isolde slowly pulled her hands away. Skin tore from her palms, frozen to the icy armor of the statue, but she didn't feel it. She didn't feel the burns on her face. She didn't feel the biting wind.
She sank to her knees in front of the ice sculpture.
"Isa?" she whispered.
The statue didn't move. The blue light trapped within the frozen core didn't pulse. It was static. Fixed. Dead.
Isolde leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the freezing, smooth glass of Isa’s knee. She wrapped her scarred, blistered arms around the ice, pulling the frozen weight of her knight against her chest.
She had saved the capital. She had saved the realm.
But as the silent tears finally froze solid against her cheeks, gluing her face to the icy monument of her lover, Isolde knew the truth. The fire that had kept her warm, the only fire that had ever mattered in her cold, miserable world, was gone. And her own hands had been the ones to put it out.
END.
Can we make out like wild animals and whisper, " I love you " between every kiss?
I’m such a sucker for late-night conversations… when everything flows so easily without any effort. You just talk about whatever comes to mind and it feels so peaceful.
ohhh you wanna gag me with your fingers so baaaddd
pride month is almost over quick someone kiss me before the clock strikes twelve and we all turn straight again
"Let Them Look."
Bethany Richardson × Sena Hovetz [ONESHOT]
☆ 562 word count — WLW, Opposites Attract, High School/College, Mean Girl × Soft Girl Dynamic.
It was past 8:00 PM, and the school was mostly a ghost town, save for the rhythm of a heavy, rhythmic bass echoing from the cheer team's boombox at one end of the campus, and the soft, rhythmic swish of a satin ribbon at the other.
Sena caught her breath, her chest rising and falling beneath her pastel pink leotard. She caught the wooden stick of her ribbon perfectly, winding the fabric around her forearm with practiced grace. She loved the quiet of the late-night practices. No coaches, no judgment—just her and the flow of her own body.
"You know, for someone who spends all day bending into pretzels, you'd think you'd have better posture when you're just standing there."
Sena jumped, dropping her ribbon.
Leaning against the double doors of the gym was Bethany Richardson. She was still in her full cheer uniform—pleated skirt, tight shell top, hair tied up in a high, aggressive ponytail with a bow that looked like a weapon. Her arms were crossed, a trademark smirk plastered across her face.
"Bethany," Sena breathed, her heart doing a frantic little flip that had absolutely nothing to do with being startled. "What are you doing here? Don't the cheerleaders have the main stadium tonight?"
"We did. But the girls were driving me insane, and I needed a break from being perfect," Bethany said, sauntering into the gym. The heavy thud of her white cheer sneakers contrasted sharply with Sena’s bare feet. She stopped just an inch too close, looking down at Sena with those sharp, calculating eyes. "Besides, I wanted to see what the ribbon girl does when nobody’s watching."
Sena flushed, reaching down to retrieve her ribbon. "I’m a rhythmic gymnast, Bethany. It's not just 'ribbon'."
"Whatever." Bethany reached out, her manicured fingers catching the edge of Sena's chin, tilting her face up. The sudden touch sent a bolt of static electricity straight down Sena's spine. "You're cute when you get defensive."
Sena’s breath hitched. Bethany was notorious for her sharp tongue and ice-queen persona on campus, but whenever they were alone, that icy demeanor melted into something dangerous, teasing, and entirely intoxicating.
"Are you just here to mock me, or did you actually want something?" Sena whispered, her eyes darting down to Bethany’s glossy lips.
"Maybe a little bit of both," Bethany murmured. Her smirk softened into something darker, more intense. She let her hand slide down from Sena's chin, her thumb tracing the sensitive skin of her neck, feeling the rapid flutter of Sena’s pulse. "You think you're so innocent, Sena. All soft smiles and pastel colors. But I see how you look at me during pep rallies."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sena lied, though her voice trembled.
"Oh, really?" Bethany stepped even closer, trapping Sena between her own body and the equipment table behind them. The scent of Bethany’s expensive vanilla perfume enveloped her. "So you weren't watching me lead the halftime routine last Friday? You weren't staring when I did that layout?"
Sena swallowed hard. She had been staring. Everyone stared at Bethany, but Sena looked at her because under all that mean-girl armor, she knew how fiercely passionate Bethany was.
"You're a good flyer, Bethany," Sena managed to say, trying to maintain her composure.
"I'm the best," Bethany corrected flatly, but her eyes darkened as she looked at Sena's lips. "But right now, I don't care about cheer."
Bethany closed the remaining distance, burying her hands in Sena’s soft, loose hair and pulling her into a kiss.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. Bethany kissed the way she lived—demanding, dominant, and intense. Sena let out a soft gasp into the kiss, which was all the invitation Bethany needed to deepen it, her tongue sliding past Sena's lips, tasting of mint and sweet lip gloss.
Sena’s hands found their way to Bethany’s waist, gripping the firm fabric of her cheer uniform. For someone so soft, Sena’s grip was strong—the product of years of core strength and athletic training. She pulled Bethany flush against her, groaning softly as Bethany’s hips pressed forward.
"God, Sena," Bethany muttered against her mouth, breaking the kiss for just a fraction of a second to trail her lips down Sena's jawline to the crook of her neck. She nipped at the sensitive skin there, making Sena arch her back, a quiet, breathless sound escaping her lips.
"Beth—someone might see," Sena whispered, even as her fingers tangled into the roots of Bethany's high ponytail, pulling her closer.
"Let them look," Bethany growled softly, her hands sliding down Sena’s back, mapping the flawless, toned curves of her leotard. "Let them see exactly who you belong to."
The mean-girl attitude was still there, but it was wrapped in a fierce, possessive heat that made Sena’s knees go weak. Bethany lifted Sena onto the edge of the equipment table, stepping between her thighs. The contrast was striking—the rigid, sharp lines of the cheerleader and the fluid, yielding grace of the gymnast, locking together like missing puzzle pieces.
Bethany looked up, her blue eyes burning with a mixture of affection and raw desire. She reached up, gently wiping a smudge of her own lipstick from Sena’s flushed lips.
"You're too good for this place," Bethany said, her voice dropping its sharp edge entirely, leaving behind a rare, genuine vulnerability. "You're too good for me."
Sena smiled softly, her heart aching with a sudden rush of romance. She leaned down, cupping Bethany’s face in both of her hands. "I don't care about 'too good'. I just want you. Even when you're a brat."
Bethany let out a short, breathy laugh, her cheeks tinting pink. "Shut up and kiss me again."
And Sena did, pulling the fierce cheerleader back into a slow, deep, and utterly dizzying kiss, the rest of the world fading into the quiet rhythm of the empty gym.
END.