Author's Note:
This was originally posted, by me, here:
The title is a bullshit placeholder because I am uncreative. Also all 'editing' has been done by me. I'm sorry.
Content warning: Contains descriptions of sexual acts between two personalities, one person. I'll let you puzzle out how that works (the answer is smut). You have been warned.
Just A Touch
Another late night?
Elsa dropped her pen, the ink splattering against the pages in front of her. She exhaled slowly through her nose. Well. It had been awhile, since…
Oh, did you miss me?
Would she miss her hands, if she lost them?
Rubbing hers together, she glanced down at her paperwork, now horribly stained. Flecks of ink dotted her fingertips, little points of darkness against creamy skin. It would not be the first time.
Indeed.
The chair caught briefly on the rug before she stumbled out of it and away from the desk, towards the large mirror she knew so well. It beckoned to her and she obeyed its call, hands wringing the front of her dress as she came to a halt just in front of the polished surface. Sapphire eyes looked back at hers, her reflection as innocent as the day she was born. But she knew better.
For a long moment, she simply stood there, eyes roaming over her twin. Her hair had long since escaped the messy braid she'd hastily put it in, too stressed over managing the upcoming ball to do anything more than restrain it quickly, and a few locks here and there curled gently against her face and neck. Her snowflake earrings, a gift from an overeager but sometimes adorably cliché sister, glinted in the faint candlelight, sunset already a distant memory, with sunrise edging closer and closer. Her signature ice dress with its glittering mosaic of differing ice crystals had been the subject of modification recently; apparently she was inspiring a new style of high-necked gowns. She would've laughed at the thought if she wasn't already trembling.
Her reflection winked.
She jerked her head back with a start and saw the motion copied instantly. Oh. So they were playing this game tonight.
You like it.
The problem with trying to conceal secrets from yourself was that it never worked. Some people beat themselves up about that, while others beat themselves, well…
A delicate hand with long fingers stroked her cheek, and her eyes fluttered closed. It was easier to imagine it detached from her when she did, which always served to both arouse and depress her, and she could never be sure of why.
This is hardly the right location, don't you think?
No. Though the first, wild, confusing, incredible time they'd (she'd?) touched, it had been in front of the mirror, Elsa found that her ability to maintain a standing position when she was…personally occupied was poor, at best.
That, and apparently she enjoyed the sight of the queen on her knees.
She became painfully aware of how long and shapely the legs were that drew her towards the bed, their languid strides filled with purpose and tension and skittering excitement. She stopped at the edge and gently removed her earrings. She set them on the bedside table even as she stepped out of her heels, flexing her toes briefly. Sometimes she kept them on, but not tonight.
Did you have something in mind?
Did she?
Elsa gave a soft sigh as she sank into the plush sheets, one of the few articles of luxury she allowed herself to fully enjoy, too concerned with maintaining her responsibilities as queen to indulge in the lifestyle of royalty. She ran her fingers through her hair, teasing out the single ribbon that had struggled and failed to keep her contained, and let it flutter over the side of the bed. She smoothed her hands over her thighs, staring up at the canopy, and dropped her arms to her sides.
And then she waited.
It was such a strange situation. Anna would be right to think that Elsa had grown to hate her room, hate the sight of all the objects, the things, within it, but she would never have guessed how much Elsa had hated its occupant the most. How she'd spent the years praying, begging, sobbing for some change that would steal over her in the night, and transform her into someone else. Someone stronger, smarter, hardier, someone who could weather her storms, enjoy her calms, and navigate amongst the wreckage of her former, happy life. A beautiful stranger who stepped out from the shadows, bearing love in one hand and contentment in the other.
Someone who could replace her.
She got her wish – not quite all of it, of course – even if she could never quite pin down just when. Maybe she'd first heard the whisper when she'd run, exultant, up the glistening ice ladder that had leapt into existence, sprung from the vaults of her own mind. Perhaps she had seen the flicker of another when she paced in her frozen prison, trying to calm herself, to slow the shaking. Or maybe when she'd raised her hands to the skies and brought snow raining down upon the excited people, her own being had burst apart, just like the snow.
A soft touch against her side.
She inhaled shakily and glanced down.
Her arm lay there, halted in its position, fingertip still pressed lightly against her hip. She blinked and returned her eyes to the ceiling. Sometimes it was fun to watch, but other times she craved that loss of control; some of the best nights were the ones where she truly felt powerless to stop, for it meant she was allowed to cling that much more tightly to that bastion of safety and affection and love afterward.
The caress began again, and she closed her eyes, her breath whistling past her parted lips. Her ice dress, usually impervious to the effects of both heat and cold, disappeared beneath those wonderful fingers. The hands that had once sent frost spirals blooming in their wake instead dragged the ice off of her, pinking the skin in its place. She imagined the sight: deliciously long fingers with long trains of red against white against pale blue. An odd sight to an outsider, but hardly the worst position to be caught in.
Her heartbeat stuttered and increased rapidly as those hands – those hands! – suddenly cupped her breasts, thumbs smearing the fabric of the dress into nothing more than pleasant dampness. She shuddered and bit her lip when they found her already peaked nipples, giving them the lightest of flicks before smoothing over the rest of her chest. Oh God.
A step up from 'Your Majesty', but it'll do.
Hands ran down her ribcage, the ice sliding off of it in slushy waves and dripping down her increasingly bare torso, pooling in the small space between her lower back and the sheets. She pointed her toes at the foot of the bed, enjoying the stretch, even as her upper body was more sensually engaged. Now this might be more difficult to explain.
Does a queen explain herself to the common rabble?
She grit her teeth and pressed a cheek into the softness beneath her, nuzzling into it, as if she could find another there. No. A monarch stood alone, above all else, a paragon of light and virtue and chastit-AH!
There was a soft chuckle. Her hips shifted eagerly when her sex was cupped again, more harshly this time, half punishment and half reward. She felt the aroused jerking turn into a sultry rolling and stifled a whine. Oh that was hardly fair.
I don't like playing fair. But I do like to play.
Elsa grunted as she felt an intrusion, feather-light at first, then insistent, her lips so warm and inviting. She flung her head back against the pillows, squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to look even as she was patiently explored, those probing fingers slow, as if cautious. She snorted to herself. Coy would be a far better descriptor.
"O-oh-AH!" She bit her tongue hard to keep any further encouragement to herself, but the damage was done: the strokes became harder, the touch more commanding, and the Ice Queen began to shiver. Not from the cold; oh no. She was going to be plenty warm tonight.
Why is that?
She shook her head, still keeping her tongue at bay, muffling the little whimpers she made every time her sensitive bud was stroked just so.
Do you really mean to hide from me?
She gasped as her head was pulled back hard, the fingers knotting in her hair tilting her chin towards the ceiling, her eyes flying open in shock, her open-mouthed panting harsh against the evening quiet.
You are bare to me.
She squirmed at the truth, whispered like an endearment by a lover, but not like anyone she knew. Or anyone, for that matter; how many peers had she, people who could put their own hands upon their own bodies and yet feel a stranger's breath tickling their ear? Her naked skin glistened with a mix of meltwater and sweat, the watery beads her only adornment, her only covering against the presence in her mind and upon her body.
Do you long for someone else?
No. How could she, when practiced hands could inspire such intense responses with barely a brush? How could she want anyone else when she alone knew herself?
She had barely enough time to groan with disappointment before the hand that had been enjoying itself inside of her pulled away and pushed hard, flipping her, her breasts crushed against the mattress. She gave a lingering whine when the hand at her nape yanked again, and her entire back bowed in submission, in enjoyment. Her core was filled again, and her hips sank down in shuddering pleasure, shifting as far forward as she was allowed.
You want no one else.
"N-no one," she gasped, the fingers thrusting into her once more.
There is no one who can touch you like I can.
"O-o…oonly you." She choked as her thumb stopped circling her bud and pressed down hard.
Only I can truly see you.
She could not, on account of the hand gripping her hair possessively, bury her face to hide herself, so she could only shut her eyes. The hand between her legs sped up and she wailed, her thighs quivering as the need grew and grew and grew.
Oh but what if they could? Can you imagine it?
She could, oh God. She could see them in her mind's eye; an innocent maid, perhaps, or a new steward who stumbled into the wrong room. What would they see first? The delicate ice figurines she had taken to crafting, when her creativity overcame her and swept her duties aside? The wall filled with childlike drawings, compliments of a magical snowman who liked to paint flowers, oftentimes using his nose for a brush? The boxes and boxes of chocolates she hoarded like a collector, because each came from her sister and she couldn't bear to part with even one?
Or would they see her, panting, trembling, as bare as a snowswept plain, with her hips matching the tempo of her fingers, stuttering with each lazy touch of her clitoris, sobbing for someone even as her flushed body was the only one present?
If they got close enough, could they see the need leaking out of her?
No.
"Oh God!" Her hand was reaching a fever pitch, it-
They will never see you. You are mine alone.
"Y-yours!" Her knees are burning from rubbing against the sheets, her legs straining, needing to-
You call for me, you beg for me, and now…
"Ah-ah-ah!" So close, but she couldn't, not before-
…you will come for me.
Elsa spasmed, spiraling into a dizzying climax that shook her to her bones, wailing out a name that she couldn't hear but knew in her heart. The pleasure seemed to go on and on, pulling her out of and then slamming her back into her body, a wonderful ride of confused ecstasy and delirious madness. It was long, aching moments before she came back to herself.
Still shivering, she rolled over with a low exhale, dragging her exhausted arms together, fingers interlacing over her navel. She smiled lazily at the canopy, her eyelids sinking down as the rest of her body relaxed. She felt quite pleased with herself, and giggled at the thought.
She sighed at the tender touch of fingers against her cheek, the lightest of kisses against the pale skin. For a long moment she felt totally at peace.
Elsa's eyes shot open, and her eyes darted down to see her still clasped hands. Her mouth dropped open in shock.
A lingering laugh was the only response.