Pilgrimage
By Fewthistle
Author's Note: Elsa/Anna Modern AU. Non-Incest. Elsa and Anna as attorneys in Manhattan. I thought I might try something a little different. This is a modern Elsa/Anna AU with nine vignettes of varying lengths, each focused on a different part of the body. The perspectives change from Elsa to Anna, but the purpose is the same: the worship of what they love. Each other. I hope you enjoy.
Few
I.
She traced her profile behind closed lids. Fingers swept gently, just grazing along the high forehead, the sensation of the silken hair at her temples almost too soft for Elsa to register. She let her hands slide slowly down, her fingers forcing Anna's eyes to flutter shut as she caressed gently across the closed lids. Her fingers just skimmed the bristly line of lashes, the thin definition of eyebrows, before returning to the softness of her lids.
Sometimes, when Anna looked at her, Elsa could swear that she could see all the way down to the soles of her feet. See all the mess, all the turmoil, all the uncertainty that swirled around inside her, clouding, distorting what she did, who she was.
In the half-light of Anna's bedroom, those green eyes were always shadowed, and yet Elsa knew that she was seeing her, truly seeing her. Those eyes took in all the flaws: the worry lines that had appeared between her brows, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, the sadness lingering in her eyes, a faint discoloration that seemed to have gotten darker, more pronounced.
They missed nothing. They saw her fears, her doubts, her insecurities, and yet when the clear green of them met her own, there was only love.
II.
"Good morning, Sunshine." The too, too cheerful voice cut through Elsa's consciousness like a straight razor through butter, pulling her from a delicious dream of a beach, and Anna's naked ass as a pillow, and mojitos in fishbowl glasses served by scantily clad women.
"What?" Elsa growled back, refusing to open her eyes, burrowing her face into the plush softness of the pillow.
"I made you breakfast. Bagels, cream cheese, lox, fresh melon and blueberries, and coffee. Of course, if you're not interested, I'm sure that the woman in 12-B would be more than happy to join me," Anna replied, plopping down unceremoniously on the edge of the bed.
"Tell her to put my damn coffee mug back in the right place and your undies back on right-side out," Elsa muttered into the pillow, turning her head a bit and cracking open one eye to glance sideways along the edge of the bed.
All she could see from that angle was Anna's right hand. Her skin was tan against the pale mint of the sheets. Elsa loved Anna's hands, loved the slender length of her fingers, the nails slightly rounded, with just a thin edge of white at the tip. Those hands had the ability to slip along her skin and arouse in her a trembling heat like nothing Elsa had ever known. They could also soothe and calm another heat, smoothing back the hair from Elsa's forehead when she had the flu a couple of months ago; a cool, gentle touch against her feverish skin.
Now one of them reached out and rubbed tenderly along the length of her back, a welcome, wondrous weight against her spine. Rolling over suddenly, ice blue eyes open and flashing, Elsa sat up.
"On second thought, the price of good lox is way too high to waste on that philistine in 12-B," Elsa laughed, picking up Anna's hand and bringing it almost reverently to her lips.
III.
"Do you think that my ass is getting bigger?" Anna asked from a half-turned contortionist position in front of the full-length mirror in the changing room, surveying said behind with an expression of displeasure.
Elsa didn't reply for a moment, until her silence caused Anna to peer at her suspiciously. The fact that an amused smile graced Elsa's lips added nothing to Anna's state of mind.
"Elsa?" Anna asked, a little peevishly.
"Oh, sorry," Elsa replied, her gaze returning to her girlfriend's less than happy face.
"Sorry that my ass looks bigger, sorry that you didn't lie to me fast enough, sorry that you and the couch will be forming a closer relationship? What exactly are you sorry about, Elsa?" Anna inquired, hands now firmly planted on her hips.
"None of those. I was just thinking that I owed my ex-girlfriend and several other people an apology. Until you asked that, I never quite understood the look of abject terror and the stammering that used to appear whenever I asked that same question. Now I know," Elsa chuckled, rising from the bench in the changing room to cross to Anna's side.
"For the record, your ass is perfect. See, it fits into my hands as if it were made for that purpose alone. In all the world, there is no other ass as sublime nor that I love as much as yours," Elsa answered firmly, reaching around Anna to grasp the item in question, pulling Anna against her, backing them both into the stall, and closing the door with her foot. "If you will allow me to demonstrate, I will prove my complete and utter adoration of your ass."
Laughing, Anna responded, "All I wanted was a 'no, it doesn't look huge in those pants', but I never turn down free demonstrations."
IV.
The living room was dark except for the flickering, incandescent light of the television. They were watching Casablanca; outside a late Spring storm dropped snow on an unsuspecting city. Elsa reclined on one end of the sofa, propped up on several throw pillows, as Anna lounged back against her, Elsa's legs wrapped around her as she leaned back between them. Elsa felt, rather than heard, the nearly inaudible sob from the slender body between her legs.
Leaning forward a little, she could see the steady stream of tears that made their singular journey over the smooth, rounded curves of Anna's cheekbones. Each drop hung suspended for an instant, reluctant to leave the warmth of smooth skin, before plummeting to the edge of the thick cotton blanket that covered them both, catching the light from the screen as it fell.
Michelangelo, in his dearest fantasies, no doubt dreamt of carving from marble something akin to the perfection of Anna's cheekbones, Elsa decided. Her eyes were drawn back over and over from the beautiful film on screen to the sculpture of bone and pale honey skin, now wet with tears.
Anna must have felt her stare; suddenly, she turned her head, watery eyes darkened to deep emerald in the faint light.
"What?" She asked softly, followed by a slight sniffle.
"Nothing," Elsa chuckled gently, reaching up to brush away a lingering teardrop with the pad of her thumb. "You're just adorable."
"Why?" Anna asked, her tone that of a small child, confused and just a trifle petulant.
"You just are," Elsa replied, pulling Anna's head back to rest against her shoulder.
"Because I still cry at sad movies?" Anna asked, turning her face to bury it in the hollow of Elsa's throat.
"Because you can still cry at all," Elsa whispered, tenderly cupping Anna's cheek, not sure if Anna heard her, and not even sure if she wanted her to.
V.
A stream of gold silk trailed down over Anna's face, carrying with it the clean scent of lemon and chamomile, blurring her vision, until she was all but blind, the world awash in a golden light. It kept traveling, slipping down her chest, whispering over exposed flesh, tickling as it flowed down over already hardened nipples, over the taut muscles of her abdomen.
It reached her thighs, tumbled over them like a sunlit river overflowing its banks to lie against the pale green of the sheets. Anna slipped her hands down, her fingers tangling in the length of it, at once cool and warm under her fingers, the ice of platinum and the heat of the sun.
Rich girls' hair, someone had joked once, when they thought that she wasn't listening. Straight and blonde, a crown of gold for the daughter of the king. Lying there, leaning back against the headboard, Elsa's wealth of hair clasped in her hands, as her lover worked magic with her lips and tongue, Anna couldn't help but wonder what that made her, the lover of the king's daughter.
Lucky, she decided, as all other thought was washed away.
VI.
Spring weather finally came rushing into New York City on the wings of robins and the caressing breezes of May. The sky was as blue and clear as Elsa's eyes, Anna thought idly, leaning back against the hard wood of a park bench and tilting her head back toward the flooding warmth of the sun. Beside her, on the ground, a small flock of pigeons caroused, jerkily strutting in circles, the iridescent glow of their feathers pearl blue and white and pink against the gray of the sidewalk.
The air inside her office had been stifling, the heaters still belching out puffs of fetid hot air. After a morning spent pouring over depositions and motions by the defense, Anna had to get out. She had stopped at her favorite pretzel vendor and picked up a fat curlicue of dough and salt, and a Snapple Raspberry Iced Tea, and made a beeline for the small park near Hogan Place.
Now she and her pigeon friends were slowly savoring the wonder of a New York City pretzel and discussing the weather and the remarkable similarity between the May sky above and the eyes of a certain attorney she knew rather intimately. Anna took on faith that the cheerful cooing of the birds was an affirmative response to her musings and not merely the satisfaction of a free meal.
Glancing down the sidewalk, Anna watched as the figure of a woman approached, blonde hair blowing slightly in the breeze, hips swaying with each step. The legs that were responsible for those steps were discreetly revealed by the skirt that didn't quite reach her knees. And nice legs they were.
Exceptionally nice legs, Anna thought, as the woman approached and dropped gracefully onto the bench beside her and crossed the shapely limbs. Reaching out, Anna ran a hand up the length of one leg, from the slender ankle to where the thigh disappeared under the crisp fabric of her skirt.
"I could have you arrested for that, you know," the woman stated matter-of-factly.
"But you won't," Anna replied, her fingers skimming along the firm skin just under the edge of fabric, completely unconcerned if anyone were watching.
"No? And why not? All I have to do is yell for that nice policeman on the horse down there," the woman answered, her breath catching just a bit as Anna's fingers moved slightly higher.
"I'd offer you the rest of my pretzel as a bribe, but unfortunately, I already shared with my other friends here," Anna told her, indicating her small winged harem with her head.
"Did they let you feel them up on the bench?" There was a definite hitch in the woman's breathing now, as Anna slid her hand up underneath the skirt to tease along the crease between the crossed legs.
"No, but then, I didn't ask. I prefer leggy blondes," Anna murmured, leaning forward to whisper against the length of a slender throat.
"Well, since I don't get any of your pretzel, I'll take dinner at Pigalle. Eight sharp. Don't be late, or I might have to find some other woman who likes my legs," the woman answered, standing suddenly, to stare down at Anna, blue eyes sparkling in the Spring sun.
"Trust me, baby, that wouldn't be hard to find," Anna laughed, shaking her head in amusement as Elsa turned and walked back up the path toward the courthouse, hips swaying in time to the breeze.
VII.
"Hi there," Elsa's voice was low and warm even over the phone line.
"Hi there, yourself," Anna chuckled, "No one's civil rights being violated today?"
"It'd be easier to count the people whose rights weren't trampled on today," Elsa replied, and Anna could almost see the quirked eyebrows and the smile bringing out the dimples at the corners of Elsa's mouth. "But I had a few minutes and I wanted to call you. I miss you."
Anna took a moment to savor the sound of Elsa's voice. There was something she adored about it, about the inflection, the slightly clipped cadences, the subtle hint that Elsa chose her words carefully, each syllable enunciated clearly, as if the words held a value to her too precious to rush or slur.
"You miss me? You just saw me four hours ago," Anna teased.
"I did indeed see you. All of you. Every glorious inch. And I touched every glorious inch. Repeatedly. With my fingers. With my lips. With my-," Elsa voice had lowered, taken on the husky tones that Anna normally only heard in bed.
"Hey, is this an obscene phone call?" Anna interrupted, feeling a flush of heat along the back of her neck.
"Uh-huh. In a minute I'm going to tell you what I plan on doing to you when I get you home tonight," Elsa inveigled, amusement in her tone at the audible hitch in Anna's breathing.
"Elsa," Anna breathed unsteadily, warningly.
"I know: behave, right? Alright; I will, for now. But later? Later I will just have to demonstrate all those things you won't let me say. Have a good day, Counselor," Elsa laughed.
As Anna hung up the phone, she glanced at the clock. Eleven a.m. As images of what Elsa planned on showing her flashed across her mind, Anna wondered how the hell she was going to make it till five.
VIII.
It had taken a while for Elsa to figure it out. It was one of those vague, sensory memories, like smelling bread baking and thinking of her grandmother. She remembered the first time she had visited the country with her parents, driving upstate in late September, the flash of orange and red and gold past the windows of her father's ancient station wagon, a moving kaleidoscope river, undulating in waves of color.
They had stopped at a roadside stand that sold pumpkins and apples and touristy knick-knacks. It had rained a little on the way up, and the air still held a hint of moisture, a freshness that she had never experienced in the city. Arrayed along the stand were basket upon basket of apples. Macs, Granny Smiths, Empires, and Romes, all round and plump and red and green and glistening with a layer of moisture.
Picking one up, Elsa remembered licking the rain drops off the crisp skin of the apple, tasting the sweetness of the fruit in each tiny droplet, the scent of the apple and the rain and the grass behind the stand and the sheer wonder of being twelve and alive rushing into her nose and mouth.
That was what Anna's lips tasted of, and every time Elsa kissed her, the wonder of that moment came rushing back to her.
IX.
Hands moved with slow precision, fingers mapping every curve, every turn in the road, memorizing, claiming. They smoothed over the gold and bronze of silken hair, traced the gentle sculpted curve of eyes and cheeks and lips. They felt the vibrations of words against skin, words murmured in tones meant only for them.
They trailed over the soft mounds of breasts, the hard muscles of arms, the tendons of legs, the slender grasp of hands. They listened to the unspoken voices of bone and skin, learning the cadences of language in their touch.
Hair. Skin. Bone. Lips. Arms. Hands. Breasts. Stomach. Thighs. Hands moved slowly, reverently, to each, every touch a pilgrimage; hands and mouth searching, tender, offering sacrifice, offering passion, offering love.
Those were the stations of joy.