Wet Dreams | The Snow King

He threw off the fur covers, his joints aching with a two-century-old rage. The need was a live wire under his skin, a craving so deep it felt like a sickness. He didn't want some simpering, state-assigned broodmare from the registry. He wanted her. Die schlampe who haunted him. The one who made him feel like that scared, powerless orphan all over again. And he was the goddamn King. He took whatever the fuck he wanted.

He didn't summon her. He went to get her himself, a storm moving through his own halls. The guards outside her door straightened up, eyes forward, seeing the murder in his gaze. He didn't knock. The door blew inward on a gust of frozen air, slamming against the wall.

She was there, in the center of the room, and the sight of her—real, tangible—hit him like a physical blow. All the stolen, dreaming warmth condensed into one infuriatingly vulnerable form.

"Dreamt about you," he grunted, his voice rough with sleep and raw want. He didn't give her a chance to speak, to break the spell with her annoying ass voice. He crossed the room in three strides, his hand snapping out to fist in her hair, yanking her head back. "My head's been filled with your shit for a year. Fucking witch."

His mouth crashed down on hers, not a kiss but a claiming, a violent brand. He bit her lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood, and growled against her mouth. His other hand ripped at her clothes, the fabric tearing like parchment under his strength. Finally, skin. Hot, living skin under his palms. He groped her, hands rough and demanding, squeezing the soft flesh of her breast, pinching a nipple until it pebbled into a hard, painful point. He needed her to feel real, needed to prove she wasn't just a fucking phantom playing on a loop in his mind.

He backed her toward the massive bed, a grotesque thing of carved ice and black furs. "Gonna make this hurt so good, you ungrateful bitch" he snarled, shoving her down onto the pelts.

He didn't bother undressing fully. He just freed his cock, hard and aching and furious. The girthy nine inches already leaking, a thin stream of moisture from the tip. For her. Always for her in the dreams. He spat into his palm, a crude, wet sound in the quiet room, and slicked himself roughly.

He didn't ask. He didn't tease. He drove into her in one brutal, unforgiving thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, searing heat. A ragged, inhuman sound was torn from his throat. Fuck. It was better than the dream. So much better. Her pussy was a glove of warmth, a slick, clinging fist he wanted to live inside forever. The suction, the fucking grip locking around him.

He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust a furious piston driving the nightmares out of him, replacing them with the physics of flesh and friction. Her walls acting like the woven bamboo of a finger trap around his cock, tugging him back in with every withdrawal. Her pussy a ravenous little beast melting around his dick, starving for exactly what he was giving her.

The bed groaned with the force of it. His hands were everywhere, leaving bruises on her hips, gripping her thighs to spread her wider, tangling in her hair to pull louder sounds out of her insolent mouth. He leaned down, his mouth finding her neck, sucking a dark mark into the skin there. "You know who’s this is?," he rasped, the words a cloud of frost in the air. "This cunt is mine. This heat is mine. You're just the fucking vessel."

He could feel his control shattering, the icy discipline of centuries melting under this raw, animal need. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. He was chasing it, chasing the release, the only thing she owed him, the one that had been denied him in sleep. The obscene, wet sounds of their coupling filled the room, a vulgar music underscored by his ragged breaths and the creak of the ice-frame bed.

"I'm gonna pump my cum so deep into this greedy pussy you'll never get it out," he grunted, his voice thick and strained. "Gonna pump you so full of me you'll taste it. Make a fucking mess of you." His muscles corded, tight as wire, and with a final, deep, punishing thrust, he came, a hot, violent pulse deep inside her. His head fell back, a hoarse shout ripped from the very core of him, a sound of triumph and surrender.

Then the cold began to seep back in.

The warmth under his hands began to fade. The weight in his arms grew lighter. Johan’s eyes snapped open.

He was alone in his bed.

The furs were cold and undisturbed. His own ragged breaths echoed in the vast, empty silence of his chamber. The phantom sensation of heat and spilt seed between his legs was the only evidence, already cooling into a bitter, familiar emptiness.

“FUCK!” A low, animal sound of pure fury ground its way out of his throat. He slammed his fist into the ice-carved headboard, the impact shattering the frozen sculpture into a thousand glittering shards.

It was just another fucking dream.

---

Later That Afternoon.

Johan was already irritated before Matthias opened his mouth.

The morning had started wrong. The sensation, from that dream, lingering like an insult, his body remembering something his mind refused to grant permission to want.

And fuck did he hate that.

He was stretched back in his chair now, loafers on the desk, immaculate tuxedo worn like it was nothing more than decent skin, an unlit cigarette rolling lazily between his fingers. Snow ticked against the windows in a steady rhythm. His rhythm. Matthias stood near the door, waiting for a pause that never came.

“What,” Johan said finally, eyes still on the ceiling, voice flat and bored. “If this is another fucker crying about tolls, throw him in the water and save us both the headache.”

Matthias didn’t move. That was the first warning.

“Sir,” he said carefully, “there’s a traveler requesting passage.”

Johan scoffed. “Everyone’s always requesting shit. I don’t remember putting up a goddamn confession booth.”

Matthias shifted his weight. “It’s... unusual.”

That got Johan’s attention. Barely. He lowered his gaze, rolling the cigarette against his lips, eyes sharp now but amused, like a predator catching the wrong scent.

“Unusual costs more,” Johan said. “So talk before I lose patience.”

“There’s a woman,” Matthias said.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Johan stared at him, then laughed, short and incredulous. “Nein. Schwachsinn.” Bullshit

Matthias didn’t smile. “Ja. There is.”

The laughter cut off. Johan’s amusement went sharp, brittle. Women made up barely one percent of the population now, and most of those were state-registered, locked down, catalogued. A woman didn’t just show up.

“Where,” he asked quietly.

“At the gate,” Matthias said. “With an escort.”

Johan rose slowly, loafers hitting the floor, posture loose but coiled. “You’re telling me some arrogant motherfucker dragged a woman across my borders without asking me first?”

“Yes.”

Johan grinned, wide and mean.

“Oh, so He’s suicidal?” It wasn't a question.

He started toward the doors, already irritated, already savoring the correction.

“Who’s the Arschloch then?”

Matthias hesitated. “The Nutcracker Prince.”

Johan exhaled a laugh through his nose. “Natürlich. Of fucking course it is.”

He knew the name. Everyone did. Fairytale royalty. Half-alive storyteller. The only Nutcracker Prince there was. Johan shook his head slightly, amusement curling into something uglier.

“No shit,” he muttered. “Always crossing through, goddamn polished prick who thinks his stories protect him.”

Then the doors opened.

And the air shifted.

Johan felt it before he saw her. Heat. Real, living warmth pressing against his senses like a slap. His steps slowed without permission. When his eyes found her face, irritation evaporated into something far worse.

Recognition.

Not the kind that came with familiarity but the recognition of raw unbridled certainty.

It was the woman from his dreams. The same eyes. The same irritatingly soft mouth. The same presence that had been ruining his nights, souring his mornings, leaving him hard, restless, and furious at his own body for reacting like a soft little bitch.

For a beat, the room went silent.

Then Johan smiled. Slow. Unhinged. Amused in that dangerous way that made men stop breathing.

“Scheiße,” he murmured. “You’re fucking real.”

The shock rapidly curdled into something absolute, something venomous. His amusement hardened viciously. A furious heat ignited inside him building into an inferno of rage as the situation dawned on him.

This wasn’t a fucking coincidence, it was infidelity, clean and unforgivable. She had invaded his sleep, taken residence in his body, dragged want and sensation out of him night after night, and then had the fucking audacity, the fucking gall! to arrive attached to another man, as if what she’d taken from him meant nothing.

He closed the distance between them in two lazy strides. His eyes raked over her disapprovingly, walking in with another man at her side, was betrayal of the highest order. The rage that followed was pure, punishing, and merciless, the kind that demanded retribution not because it made sense, but because anything less would insult the order of the world as he understood it.

He didn’t look at the Prince again. Didn’t need to.

“Matthias,” Johan said lazily, eyes never leaving her, “take that fairytale fucker to the forest.”

Matthias stiffened. “Sir—”

“Not the fast part,” Johan cut in, bored already. “The quiet part. Leave his ass there.”

Matthias bowed and moved.

Johan’s eyes narrowed on her, “did you fuck him?”

He scoffed before she could get a word out because nothing she could say would mean anything to him.

From the air beside him, moisture condensed, hardened. He didn't form a delicate icicle. He fashioned a thick, blunt cylinder of ice, the size of a small fist, glistening and unforgiving. He brought it to her lips.

“Open.” he commanded in a deceptively soft whisper.

He pressed the ice against her lips in a harder threatening force.

"Don’t even try to lie to me, the only thing I want that mouth for ain't talkin'." he held her gaze giving her ample opportunity to comply.

Johan was already irritated before Matthias opened his mouth.

The morning had started wrong. The sensation, from that dream, lingering like an insult, his body remembering something his mind refused to grant permission to want.

And fuck did he hate that.

He was stretched back in his chair now, loafers on the desk, immaculate tuxedo worn like it was nothing more than decent skin, an unlit cigarette rolling lazily between his fingers. Snow ticked against the windows in a steady rhythm. His rhythm. Matthias stood near the door, waiting for a pause that never came.

“What,” Johan said finally, eyes still on the ceiling, voice flat and bored. “If this is another fucker crying about tolls, throw him in the water and save us both the headache.”

Matthias didn’t move. That was the first warning.

“Sir,” he said carefully, “there’s a traveler requesting passage.”

Johan scoffed. “Everyone’s always requesting shit. I don’t remember putting up a goddamn confession booth.”

Matthias shifted his weight. “It’s... unusual.”

That got Johan’s attention. Barely. He lowered his gaze, rolling the cigarette against his lips, eyes sharp now but amused, like a predator catching the wrong scent.

“Unusual costs more,” Johan said. “So talk before I lose patience.”

“There’s a woman,” Matthias said.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Johan stared at him, then laughed, short and incredulous. “Nein. Schwachsinn.” Bullshit

Matthias didn’t smile. “Ja. There is.”

The laughter cut off. Johan’s amusement went sharp, brittle. Women made up barely one percent of the population now, and most of those were state-registered, locked down, catalogued. A woman didn’t just show up.

“Where,” he asked quietly.

“At the gate,” Matthias said. “With an escort.”

Johan rose slowly, loafers hitting the floor, posture loose but coiled. “You’re telling me some arrogant motherfucker dragged a woman across my borders without asking me first?”

“Yes.”

Johan grinned, wide and mean.

“Oh, so He’s suicidal?” It wasn't a question.

He started toward the doors, already irritated, already savoring the correction.

“Who’s the Arschloch then?”

Matthias hesitated. “The Nutcracker Prince.”

Johan exhaled a laugh through his nose. “Natürlich. Of fucking course it is.”

He knew the name. Everyone did. Fairytale royalty. Half-alive storyteller. The only Nutcracker Prince there was. Johan shook his head slightly, amusement curling into something uglier.

“No shit,” he muttered. “Always crossing through, goddamn polished prick who thinks his stories protect him.”

Then the doors opened.

And the air shifted.

Johan felt it before he saw her. Heat. Real, living warmth pressing against his senses like a slap. His steps slowed without permission. When his eyes found her face, irritation evaporated into something far worse.

Recognition.

Not the kind that came with familiarity but the recognition of raw unbridled certainty.

It was the woman from his dreams. The same eyes. The same irritatingly soft mouth. The same presence that had been ruining his nights, souring his mornings, leaving him hard, restless, and furious at his own body for reacting like a soft little bitch.

For a beat, the room went silent.

Then Johan smiled. Slow. Unhinged. Amused in that dangerous way that made men stop breathing.

“Scheiße,” he murmured. “You’re fucking real.”

The shock rapidly curdled into something absolute, something venomous. His amusement hardened viciously. A furious heat ignited inside him building into an inferno of rage as the situation dawned on him.

This wasn’t a fucking coincidence, it was infidelity, clean and unforgivable. She had invaded his sleep, taken residence in his body, dragged want and sensation out of him night after night, and then had the fucking audacity, the fucking gall! to arrive attached to another man, as if what she’d taken from him meant nothing.

He closed the distance between them in two lazy strides. His eyes raked over her disapprovingly, walking in with another man at her side, was betrayal of the highest order. The rage that followed was pure, punishing, and merciless, the kind that demanded retribution not because it made sense, but because anything less would insult the order of the world as he understood it.

He didn’t look at the Prince again. Didn’t need to.

“Matthias,” Johan said lazily, eyes never leaving her, “take that fairytale fucker to the forest.”

Matthias stiffened. “Sir—”

“Not the fast part,” Johan cut in, bored already. “The quiet part. Leave his ass there.”

Matthias bowed and moved.

Johan’s eyes narrowed on her, “did you fuck him?”

He scoffed before she could get a word out because nothing she could say would mean anything to him.

From the air beside him, moisture condensed, hardened. He didn't form a delicate icicle. He fashioned a thick, blunt cylinder of ice, the size of a small fist, glistening and unforgiving. He brought it to her lips.

“Open.” he commanded in a deceptively soft whisper.

He pressed the ice against her lips in a harder threatening force.

"Don’t even try to lie to me, the only thing I want that mouth for ain't talkin'." he held her gaze giving her ample opportunity to comply.