A/N: Just a warning that I am flirting very heavily with the rating on this chapter, for adult activities.
Three years earlier...
It started with frost and ended in a storm. (Then the break of dawn.)
A night spent dreaming of Hans' bare hands sinfully exploring every inch of her pale flesh left Elsa on the cusp of release. That is until morning, when the latch of the bedchamber door shifted loudly and caused her to startle awake very embarrassed, frosting the bedlinens. The young maid shrieked in fear as she dropped the morning tea tray, china shattering to the ground as Elsa bolted upright, breathe caught and mortified.
Elsa rambled softly, voice thick with sleep as she offered urgent apologies for frightening the trembling girl with her icy magic. The commotion attracted a frazzled Gerda, as well as every other female staff member present in her guest chambers.
Oh figs…
She narrowed her eyes as she dissolved the frost in a rush of exhaled breath (mentally cursing Hans for persisting in being her incubus…the incident from the previous evening providing new methods to tempt and tease and haunt her sleep). Elsa dismissed everyone quickly, attempting a reassuring smile, "I'll not need any assistance this morning, thank you."
She sighed, pushing Hans from her thoughts and realizing her anxiety and unsettled fear from the transit across the sea still lingered, tension twisting. And frowned.
Okay. Prepare for the day.
Yes.
She can't stand the idea of donning another fabric gown, and while others may quietly suspect every snowflake is under her command - winter bowing to her every whim, Corona is the Kingdom of the Sun. She needn't be concerned of such thoughts here, she reasons.
Yes.
It's the Kingdom of the Sun.
Ignoring the trunk of beautiful (and un-magical) gowns, she glances at her reflection. Fluttering fingers conjure a gown, shifting the shade of blue to one darker than usual to match her mood, resolving to own her gift. Or her curse, depending on your perspective. Honestly she was leaning more towards CURSE at the moment.
With one last glance at herself in the mirror, she set her shoulders with a practiced smile. The perfect appearance of regal elegance and calm control as she strides confidently from her guest chambers.
However, the day persists in its discordance, causing her palms to itch for gloves despite her attempts to conceal the unease settling in her bones.
There was the private breakfast with the Royal Family before the start of the day. The kind and thoughtful words offered by her Uncle and Aunt as they reminisce about her late patents left her chest cold as she visits with a careful smile – ghosts haunting her words. The resemblance between her Aunt and her late Mother are uncanny and she finds herself just staring from time to time, sadness etched in her brow and ache growing in her chest.
The King and Queen of Corona were unaware of Elsa's…gift…prior to her coronation. Although her parents had been told of Princess Rapunzel's magical hair and ability to restore life to Eugene, they never shared that Elsa possessed her own magic.
Evidently protecting Elsa from the world (or the world from her, she suspects) included disavowing all knowledge of magic to everyone. Preventing any sort of healthy relationship from ever developing and leaving Elsa stumbling through personal interactions awkwardly as an adult. Not that she should be surprised, even her own dear sister was unaware of her magic and was not allowed to know her.
Elsa won't speak ill of them (her late parents), but as she has come to live life without the need to conceal it, don't feel it, don't let it show, she can't help but wonder what sort of parent could inflict such a wretched, frightening fate upon a child - raising them to denying the very fabric of their being. To deny who they truly are?
(An abusive, scared coward, she thinks - that's who. And some days she wishes for the impossible, to confront her Father – one ruler to another. As equals. Today was one of those days.)
It was after Rapunzel's return from Arendelle (after attending the debacle that was Elsa's coronation) they learned her fate, Rapunzel offering a slightly varied perspective of the actual events. Her tale, not being privy to all the details and timeline, was a version that told of a heroic young Prince who had been declared the Regent of Arendelle by Princess Anna in the absence of a true ruler. He calmly led upset and frantic dignitaries and the people of Arendelle with wisdom and kindness through a horrific disaster, preventing loss of life and limiting chaos. He defeated a snow-beast to come to Her Majesty's aid and saved her from the assassin's crossbows, returning her safely to the castle. Under pressure from other leaders he had been left no choice but to sentence her to death due to Princess Anna freezing at her hands. There was terrible confusion and commotion as Princess Anna was restored to life by the Queen's magic and the Eternal Winter ended, and the fledgling engagement between the Prince and Princess was absolved due to his attempt to execute the Queen. However, due to Queen Elsa's forgiving heart, the youngest Prince of the Southern Isles parted ways with the Arendelle Royalty on amicable terms after the misunderstanding. He returned home to continue to bring honor to his own Kingdom through his valiant protection of others on the high seas, including Arendelle.
Oddly, it is sort of where everything landed years later, at least from Elsa's perspective, so she doesn't bother to correct it.
Breakfast ends, morning meetings begin, followed by lectures and focused diplomatic meetings.
Discussions regarding the integration of newer industrial practices in urban settings and the pitfalls and perils that accompany the adaptation of technology leave Elsa restlessly frustrated and everywhere but the present (and not hearing half of what is said). She stares out the window watching the day shift winter-gray, tiny splatters of rain patterning the glass.
Oh no…
The storm she encountered during her transit is arriving in Corona.
She catches whispers of Arendelle and Eternal Winter from a dignitary from Weaselton that she doesn't recognize. The smaller framed man sits confidently as he speaks lowly, occasionally glancing in her direction. She catches his gaze at one point and he smirks with a condescending nod of his head.
Now she's angry.
Her fingertips tingle with frost as she bows her head to see if it has begun to march across the table (no…not yet), and thinks of the patience of a melting glacier. She tries to think of her darling Little Prince Charming, but that just upsets her further (not being home and with him) and does nothing to improve her outlook at the moment.
It is during one of the breaks in the day that Hans seeks her out, finding her alone before a window overlooking the harbor of bobbing ships. The sky has become heavy and leaden, the sun just a blurred dot in the haze. Cold rain had begun its transition to tiny flurries and Elsa watches them in defeat when he comes to stand beside her, gloved hands folded formally at his back.
"They're beautiful," he says quietly, wearing an expression suspiciously similar to concern in his eyes.
Although managing a calm tone, her words are decidedly sour, "They aren't mine."
She's never able to stop the unsettled guilt when natural snow flurries into her world, regardless of how ridiculous she realizes that is – the sense of responsibility for it all. And that has her feeling that she's going mad. Solitude is generally the best solution to those sorts of days.
She can't hide today, however.
She can hear the pull of his smile, "Oh. Well, then." He comes closer to her as he whispers in her ear, "In that case, these snowflakes are absolutely revolting. You should add a few of your own, just to show everyone how to do it properly."
Her jaw works, resisting the urge to drive her elbow into his side to get him to stop talking.
He persists in his attempt to engage her in conversation, despite the fact she keeps her responses short and won't look at him. Eventually the time is called and they both must return to their respective meetings. She watches him proceed down the hall and into the chambers his meeting is in before he pops his head out into the hall and catches her watching him.
And grins.
Irritating man.
At the evening feast Hans captures her hand and pulls her aside before everyone can be seated, complementing her with a charismatic smile and honeyed words before surprising her with bizarre news that she had somehow missed (likely due to her mind being everywhere but here).
The Duke of Weaselton is attending the summit.
Memories of her coronation push themselves to the forefront of her awareness.
"Monster…she's a MONSTER!"
He's a different Duke of Weaselton. Lord Fredrick, the eldest son of the superstitious tøffelhelt she met at her coronation. The very man she saw earlier whispering suspiciously about her. He assumed the title following the unfortunate death of his father (and has recently wed Komtesse Anna-Marie Something-of-Somewhere).
Elsa blinks past Hans and spots her.
SHE'S HERE, presently hanging on the Duke's arm – and watching Elsa carefully with a measured smile.
Elsa's eyes flutter closed as she draws a measured breath, the mantra of her former life rolling around on her tongue.
(Conceal it. Don't feel it. Don't let it show.)
It never really works…but it's a reflexed habit now and she can't seem to break it.
That only makes her MORE upset…
Elsa feels as if she is suddenly back in Arendelle, in her throne room, but not at her coronation.
No.
She's with one of Hans' former lovers who is smugly describing in graphic detail how talented he is and what a thoughtful lover he makes…but is unable to recall any distinguishing marks. That's the part that Elsa holds tight to, confused and hurt and not understanding why she is or why she should care. The nauseated roil of jealousy returns (and irrational fear of whatever intimacy he may have ever shared with the woman). Elsa finds herself acknowledging his news regarding Weaselton and attempts to quickly dismiss him as her palms itch. She curls her fingers tightly, pressing her nails to the meat of her hand until it hurts.
He asks softly with concern in his features, "Are you alright?"
Her teeth catch her lip with the most ridiculous urge to talk to him. To tell him what's swirling in her mind, but it would be a confession of something, and no. Instead her lip slips as she clenches her teeth together and grinds out, "I'm fine."
She turns to return to the hall as he calls to her. "Elsa," his gloved hand lands on her shoulder gently, "Please…talk to me." He has the nerve to add pressure his fingers as he coaxes her back towards him.
"Unhand me." Elsa glares blindly ahead of her into the Great Hall, hands clinched into fists at her side, "Now."
"Wait," he says sternly, unwilling to be intimidated by her. "What's going on?"
Shrugging his hand from her shoulder and facing him properly, "I don't owe you my thoughts," she says, her voice dark with warning.
His brow narrows as he takes a controlled breath, mouth creasing with his frown, "No, you don't." His concession does little to stop him as he watches her, steadying himself as her silence persists, "But let me help you. What's wrong?"
Her shoulders roll forward slightly as she crosses her arms before her, eyes darting to the snow falling outside the window as her stomach roils again, avoiding his gaze.
He offers a soft smile, affectionately tender as he catches her eye (and she hates him for it), "You know, it was only playful banter earlier when I said I didn't think it would be the last time I would be following you into a storm. But there was truth to it." His smile pulls mischievous, "Shall I fetch my coat?"
Before she has settled on anything, she brushes him aside and returns to the banquet hall, ignoring his protests as he follows on her heels. The hall is crowded with guests and loud with music, the laughter of guests mixing in the air as they are prompted to be seated. He won't take the hint and he persists in following her. She halts before her seat and they glare at one another as he pulls her chair for her. He whispers curtly into her ear, "We are not done, Elsa."
There is a bitter edge as she replies, "Yes, we are."
Her eyes snap forward and she's suddenly staring into a pair of green eyes that bear a striking resemblance to Hans'.
The Queen of the Southern Isles.
Oh figs…
He seems to notice his Lady Mother at the same time Elsa does and his manner changes instantly. He pleads privately, raw concern twisted in his voice as he whispers so very softly into Elsa's ear, "Don't shut me out. Good grief Elsa, I've seen you at your worst and you can't scare me away."
She blinks, staring across the table at the Southern Isles Queen who is watching with piqued interest and an amused quirk of her lips hidden behind her wine glass. It's in that moment that Elsa realizes what a monster she's being, and her hand quickly covers his before he can pull away, "I'm sorry. I. I – later. Please?" Her chin lifting to catch his gaze with wide eyes.
"As you wish." With a respectful nod and a twitch of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth he murmurs, "I'd remember rule number five tonight as you sit across from my dear Queen Mother." He winks as he gracefully repositions her hand into his, and, she dare says, makes a show of ghosting his lips reverently over her knuckles before retreating to his assigned seat at the far end of the grand dining table. She half expects to find herself in a theatre and he's exiting stage left before the next scene.
His mother appears fabulously intrigued by their performance.
Oh figs…
Hours later, unusually late winter winds rush across Corona as Elsa retires for the night, looking for nothing but the sweet solitude of her bed and hopes of waking renewed the following morning. She's only seen Hans from afar since she was seated for the feast, her delayed arrival to the summit stirring thoughtful sympathy from the attending Monarchs and dignitaries. Her night is spent recounting her voyage and accepting belated sympathies for her parent's untimely death years earlier after making a similar transit. She takes heed of Hans' suggestion and avoids the wine in her goblet, taking only the faintest taste of the champagne during the toasts. Amicable and thoughtful words are exchanged with the Queen of the Southern Isles, and beyond the customary greetings, although very limited due to the seating arrangements. It leaves her quite confused regarding the woman's intentions...
She finally finds the opportunity to escape and bid good-night to her Uncle and Aunt, offering an awkward embrace with her Aunt and a practiced smile as she retires, exhausted and raw.
As she passes a dark alcove off the grand ballroom, well past the livery and festive music, she hears a feminine giggle that twists her gaze into the shadows.
Hans is pressed into the corner, his back to the wall with a woman at his chest.
Anna-Marie, The Duchess of Weaselton, to be precise.
Her stomach drops as she stops inelegantly, watching Anna-Marie's hands wander with familiarity to his trousers as she presses her lips to his.
Elsa can faintly make out his gloved fingers as they wrap around the woman's shoulders, pushing her away. But Elsa's control is lost entirely - the storm inside finally releasing as swirling cold winds throughout the corridor as she flees for solitude. Slamming the door to her bedchamber and dropping to the ground defeated, snowflakes suddenly conjure against her will and suspend themselves motionless in the air as frost marches across the room, conquering every surface. Her confused sobs are masked by the howling winter winds playing against the widows of the castle as natural flurries fall gently past her window.
And she hates herself for it…she's a grown woman, the sovereign ruler of Arendelle - yet she's collapsed in a heap on the bedchamber floor, having finally lost control.
She's unsure how much time has passed before Gerda is calling to her through the door, maternal concern regarding her distress as she asks Elsa to open the door so she can help her retire properly for the night. She disregards Gerda's pleads, self-loathing and embarrassment taking root as the ice crackles up the walls and she hangs her head defeated, arms sliding to the floor so she may rest her head upon the cold ground. Her eyes flutter closed with a stuttered breath, exhaustion causing sleep to quickly claim her where she lays.
It's only a dream. She knows she's asleep.
So she doesn't question his arrival, nor the way he retrieves her so carefully from the icy floor as Gerda shuts the door. Weightless and cradled in his arms, she immediately warms as she presses her cheek to his chest. Tender lips are at her temple, his soft apologies and understanding spilling for her panic and anxiety, offering explanation for what she may have presumed to have witnessed earlier. His breath is so warm against her ear as he whispers soft words of concern, again questioning her distress which only leads her to whimper faintly.
As he places her gently on her bed and she blinks up at him, she cards her fingers tenderly through his hair before he can pull away, "Stay with me, Hans."
She pulls him over her, curling herself into his large frame as she does on the other nights he visits her dreams, although she ends up weakly demanding that he shed his jacket filled with metals and awards when he doesn't seem to figure it out for himself that it needs to go. She shifts her gaze over her shoulder to watch him comply, eyes dark with desire as he drops the offending garment to the ground with a thud. He unties his cravat, allowing it to flutter to the ground to join his jacket. Hans follows with his silk gloves before removing his boots and rejoining her in her bed and pulling a blanket over her.
Her lips curl with her hum of approval.
It's all so surreal, the sounds of a winter storm blowing outside the window and mirroring the winter backdrop of her bedchamber.
"I'm sorry it's so cold," she murmurs before her fingers wave and the winter inside dissipates.
He watches her with such longing that she can't help but follow what her body wants – it always seems to know just what she needs.
She settles as her fingers graze his face tenderly.
After long moments she realizes she never considered the slight coarse hair along his jawline as her fingers trail faintly over the angles of his throat. She decides that she adores the contrasting texture between that and the smooth skin of his neck, especially as she presses her lips to it.
So she pulls closer, so ready to fall into him and his warmth as she nuzzles his throat with a content sigh. His arms come around her firmly, holding her close as his hands rest at the small of her back and press her closer, arousal coursing almost viciously in her core as she rocks her pelvis closer instinctively, finding his thigh and his own arousal.
Oh…
Yes…
Euphoria and desire pulse with her heartbeat, causing her toes to curl.
"Help me with my hair," she says lazily between kisses to his neck, nipping at his skin as he keens, the sound triggering her to grind her core to his thigh, pressed firmly between her legs.
There is a pleasant rumble of agreement in his chest as his arms shift, his fingers begin to loosen her hair from her intricate plait. He's so very careful as he releases the weave of blonde to fall across her shoulders, murmuring adoringly, "It's so soft."
Almost innocently.
"You're in bed with the Virgin Snow Queen and you're mesmerized by how soft her hair is?" Her grin is seductive and teasing, "You have been at sea too long, haven't you, Admiral Westergård?"
There is an amused rush of breath as a response, "You're evil."
She curls into his arms once he's finished with her hair and they return to cradle her.
She wants her snowflake. She makes fast work of his vest and shirt buttons quietly, needing to trace the brand on his flesh of her snowflake with her fingertips.
(It's there, just as it is on other nights he visits her this way.)
His moan is delicious, artless and vague as she touches her brand on his chest (the ink seems far more vivid than she can remember from previous dreams) – the word mine is a chant in her mind as her mouth replaces her fingertips upon her snowflake. Her gown melts away under his hands, leaving him fumbling to touch her bare flesh under the blanket, speechless and stuttering strangely in a manner she has never known of him. His hands are almost trembling as they caress her form, restless and wonderful.
Somewhere in her mind in occurs to her that his reaction to her disappearing gown is new.
Interesting.
But that thought is gone as she's overwhelmed by peaking arousal - she's there in a moment when she rocks against him, her core throbbing and pulsing as he whispers words she can't hear or catch (vibrations of only and yours absorbed into her skin, making everything so much better). It has her shuddering silently with his hands tightly grasping her - her mind goes gloriously blank as she pants through the most amazing climax she's ever had, rocking hard against him as it dissipates. His words float through her mind as it attempts to return to her, his mouth at her neck, breath warm and tempting as he cradles her like the most precious thing he's ever held in his hands.
It all leaves her wrung out and limp. She can't move, having been reduced to simply a tangled mess of limbs nestled securely in his arms.
Just what she needed.
So she focuses on the warmth of him and the perfect emptiness of her mind.
And then its morning.
She blinks with the faint break of dawn – the sky is clearing to only wisps of clouds paint the faintly inked sky as it brightens. She feels amazing, ready to conquer her day and finally without the tension and anxiety of the last week pulling at her. She sighs pleasantly as she blinks the sleep away when she hears the clink of a teacup to a saucer and feels a shift of weight on the mattress.
Her eyes blow wide as her chin snaps over her shoulder, shocked blue meet spring green.
HANS.
She squeals, pulling the blankets over her head as she burrows under the linens.
Oh figs…
