Author's Note: Post Let it Go Elsa x Pre Coronation Elsa.
Content Warning: This is not a nice relationship.
Hold Me, Lest I Break
Elsa has never made love.
Her hands flow over her body in what could be mistaken for the gentle touch of a lover, a companion. The blood comes later, mixing with the sweat that she forces out of her. If she is not panting it is because Elsa has chased her breath away as she covers her in unrelenting passion and rage because there is no difference between the two.
The other is nothing like her, her hair escaping the braids to settle into a flaring crown that trickles down her back in patterns that are beautiful, like waves crashing over and over again upon a battered shore. She wraps herself in magic and mystery and serenity, her large eyes filled with cold fire. Her hands are untamed and free. She is everything that Elsa is not.
The other is wild.
But Elsa is the animal.
She is the one whose teeth snap and carve into yielding flesh, she is the one whose nails dig furrows into the open arms of the other woman, she is the one whose silent snarl bears down upon the quiet sadness until it breaks into pieces lined with patience and understanding that stains Elsa's face with droplets that taste salty, like tears or lies. She cannot tell which.
The other says everything by saying nothing.
Elsa says nothing and fears that is too much.
She has her now, pinned, immobile, and she screams within the confines of her own mind at the other to struggle, to rise, so that their fight might begin, so that she may lay the first blow, the one that cuts her open and down, down, down into the ground where Elsa will take her, use her, enter and violate and overcome all at once until she may only beg.
The other smiles at her. Her skin is not yet broken.
Elsa will change that.
Her power flows from her hands and the destruction follows because they cannot be separated, power and ruin that settle upon a body that does not cry out, only watches her with empathy written deep into her bones and compassion soaked into every breath and kiss that she lays upon Elsa, each act enough to send her retreating until she can summon more hatred to wield against the other in retaliation.
The other gives in and is free.
Elsa takes and is left with nothing.
And when she wakes to find that, in her tossing and turning, there are two impressions in the mattress and she is more tired than when she first entered, she closes her eyes and curses the lucidity of her dreamscape, for she knows now that for all that she longs for freedom that she has proven herself undeserving of it. The wounds that heal each night because she commands them to remain etched in her mind long after they fade like the darkness from dawn's swift approach. Her frustration is poured into the other who accepts it gladly, bearing the anger and shame with arms so thin and delicate she could almost forget that they are hers, too. The abuse will continue for as long as Elsa shall not live, only survive in a cage of her own making.
The other loves her. She knows that to be true.
Elsa cannot bear the sight of it.