Secret number FOURRRRRRRRRRRR: Anna's definitely working with some people that experiment on others, as anyone who read the original chapter ten - which was up for only a day I believe before I got girlish and self conscious and took it the fuck down, and by the way NO there was no second copy and the first is long gone - can attest to, or at least assume from her conversation with Meg in whatever chapter it was.
So every time The Incredibles comes on... all I can think... every single time... is that God damn, the sex Helen and Bob have must be fucking nuts. Like house destroying.
You sit and listen as Elsa tells the tale of the integral parts of her puberty to you. You sit with her wrapped up in your arms and try as hard as you can to not squeeze her until her ribs snap under the pressure. That's possible for you, this body isn't just for show. You sit while she trembles and shakes and starts to get snotty, red-eyed, splotchy cheeked, crying as she barrels forward on and on. You sit, and you wonder how anything or anyone could take a child and. Do that. Do that. To a God damn child.
You sit and when she mentions his name, you commit it to memory. You want him in your mind. You want to find his face and wipe it off the earth. And that's possible for you, oh is that possible for you. You could do terrible things to this man, you can have terrible things done to him and you could, if you so chose, sit right next to him and tell him how well Elsa is. How much better she's gotten since he went and took her and fucking broke her. Again. And again. And again.
But you won't do these things. Least of all would you do the last thing. Because you don't want him to have the pleasure of hearing her name in his ears. Oh, you'd delight in bending him over and breaking him. Oh, oh oh would you delight in bending him over in a barn somewhere and allowing a horse to break him. You seem to recall some big thing in the news with that a handful of years ago. Breaking news for a broken man.
But again, you won't do these things. You'd have to touch him intimately. You'd have to sit in the same room as him and not throttle the life out of him while some stallion fucked him to death and really it wouldn't be as satisfying as if you throttled him yourself. Well. It would probably be satisfying for the horse.
But you sit, you sit and you hold her and rock her in your arms like she's a baby and eventually words fail her and she just shakes. She trembles and shakes and cries and cries and cries until she's hiccuping and sobbing and choking on her sobbing hiccups. You tell her that you think it's time for bed and she, you think, agrees amidst the heavy, body-wracking sobs. So you lift her in your arms and you take her to her bedroom. You undress her and then yourself and when you both are bare you pull the comforter and sheets down on her bed, then you gather her up into your arms once more and settle her into the bed.
You don't crave of her flesh and sweat and cum, this is not why you are both bare. This is because she has spent hours baring herself and her soul and in some way, this is more a comfort to you than her. You pull the bed covers up about the two of you and you pull her to your chest. Her face is wet, sticky with tears and mucus. She's crying and it doesn't seem she'll stop anytime soon. You run your fingers through her hair.
"I think I'm in love with you."
She doesn't stop crying. If anything she cries harder, and you think you can hear a very small, very confused, very frightened, "Why?" bubble up from the depths of her being. You shrug and press a kiss to her forehead.
"I just do. Is that a problem for you?"
And maybe you're crazy. Maybe SHE'S crazy. But you swear she's laughing. Laugh-crying really. One of her arms snakes around your waist and a trembling hand presses against your back, fingers curling slightly, nails digging desperately into your skin. It hurts, but not enough to complain.
"I-I-" she's still hiccuping but with an indescribable show of inner strength, she calms slightly, at least enough to force out, "I s-s'pose tha-at makes yu-you j-just my problem?"
Now you're laughing. You must be crazy. The both of you must be terminally ill.
"Did you just make an Adventure Time reference?"
"H-how did y-you know th-that bu-but not St-St-Steven?"
"Because you have a lame, uneducated swine of a girlfriend." And it is mostly laughter that breaks free from her, falling from her lips like those silent tears that fall from her cheeks and salt the skin of your chest. And eventually she calms, truly calms. Those tears are silent and slowing, her sniffles all that remain from this arduous emotional journey.
"Obviously," she murmurs and you're overjoyed that she sounds so tired. Like she'll drop off at any moment, having exhausted her energy these past hours. Re-living memories for you. You of all people. Like you're something so special. And maybe you are. To her. And... you've never so wanted to be special to someone. Never felt the need. "I think I'm in love with you too."
You wonder if she's even aware of what she's said, so soft and sleepily are those words pressed against your skin. Until she shifts very minutely, tucking her head up underneath your chin more securely.
"Is that ok?" She asks and it startles you. You were drifting off yourself and had assumed she was well and gone. You shift to awkwardly press another kiss to her brow. You've whispered before. You've whispered warm things and cold things, threats and sweet promises, curses and every manner of all kinds of things... But never have words so soft and sincerely honest been issued forth from your mouth,
"That's more than ok, Elsa."
"Good," she says and her body relaxes entirely against yours, the bite of her nails disappearing from your back. "Good." And it's the last thing she says before drifting off. And in the silence after you cherish her. Her warmth and softness. The myriad of scars both physical and non that she has to carry with her everyday. Her inner glow and that indomitable strength she, at times, doesn't even realize she has.
You hold her and as you follow her, away away away from the waking world and all its darkness and vile, cruel people - as you follow her you find yourself wondering what you did to deserve this woman that lays in your arms, curled up so contently beneath your chin. Because you can't think of a God damn thing.
She's uncharacteristically quiet and sweet the next day. You both wake slowly and she nuzzles into you, presses her soft mouth to your salty skin in precious little kisses. You allow it. You stroke her back, run slow fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. She wishes you a good morning. Her voice is a little hoarse. Some part of you thinks she sounds kinda sexy. That is a very small part and you remind it why it is that her voice is hoarse and it falls silent.
"We should bathe," you tell her and she nods. But doesn't move an inch. You chuckle. "Elsa?" There's the familiar bite of her nails in your back. Well, this one is more of a nibble than a bite. A subtle display of desperation.
"Shower with me?" She sounds very smaIl. Uncertain. ThIs is an Elsa you are unfamiliar with. You have suffered the wrath of a frightened Elsa that runs and runs and ignores all and everyone in her need to get out. Get away from her fears. You have weathered the stormy seas of a sad Elsa. You have paid witness to an angered Elsa. But never had you imagined a chance to see Elsa without thick rigid walls of supposed self-confidence, without her cocky attitude or sarcastic quips.
"But of course," you agree. "Is there any other way to shower?" And it's not like it's funny, in fact according to both yourself and the beautiful woman with the tear stained cheeks that's looking up at you with eyes that've never looked so blue, you're incredibly lame. But she laughs all the same. And because you get this sense like she doesn't want to be without you, you shift so she is on top of you, then you sit up with her still in your arms.
"You're showing off," she accuses as you hold her close and get up and out of bed, carrying her to the bathroom. You settle her on the sink counter and kiss that soft mouth of hers once, twice and step back and towards the shower, fiddling with the knobs.
"I am," you agree. You're grinning. "But as I recall it, I'm just your problem, princess."
"And as I recall it, I'm not a princess, peasant." She sniffs, indignant as can be, nose high in the air so she can look down it at you. You chuckle and step over to her, planting your hands on either side of her naked thighs.
"You could always marry me and share my vampire queen title." She tilts her head back down to consider you. She smiles.
"Or I could kill you and take both your kingdom and your title for myself."
"Hmmmm, you're Ruthless. I think my kingdom would proudly accept you as Queen. Might I offer my humble services in exchange for my life?" She hums in thought, walking her fingers up your arms and settling her hands behind your neck.
"What services might these be?"
"Well, I've been told I'm not too bad in the art of tipping the velvet, but besides that I have impeccable back-washing skills."
"I suppose that makes you lucky that I've been requiring the aid of a back-washer for some time now. And who knows? If you do well enough I might even be willing to test that first claim of yours." She's smiling and you laugh and let her pull you into another press of mouths. More affection than intimacy, even despite the both of you are still very naked and in particular you're standing between her thighs. You slip your hands beneath those lovely thighs and pull her against your body, walking towards the shower.
She draws back with a surprised shriek as you step your tangle of limbs underneath the spray that, even waiting and bantering as you had been, is still slightly chilly. Enough to be a shock to the system.
"How very rude of you, ruining our moment!" You set her down on her own two feet, though she seems a bit unwilling about that. You're almost entirely certain she'll survive. And you inform her as much. She slaps your shoulder. "I can still have you assassinated, you know."
"Oh I know," you push your wet hair back out of your eyes, slicking it back against your head. "But I have to wash your back, oh Queen of mine. Tis my one true purpose in life."
"I can always have you assassinated after." You reach over her shoulder to grab her shampoo, popping the cap and squeezing a liberal amount in your hand. You massage it into her scalp. She's trying to scowl at you. She's failing.
"This is very true, but then of course how could I prove my first claim from the grave?"
"Hmmmm," you're not quite certain if that's her answer or just a satisfied hum. You soon learn. "Well I've always been told that dead girls can't say no."
A bark of a laugh bursts out of you quite without your permission. She's grinning and keeping herself contained with much smaller giggles.
"I," still laughing, you choke out between breaths, "I suppose that's... very true."
"A wise man once said: 'I'm a magical talking sitar and I only speak the truth.' And that's just something I try to live by, you know?" You do love this woman. This strange woman that can be so aggressive, so abrasive. This strange woman that can be so sweet, so silly. This beautiful woman that is far from strange and so much closer to perfect. Even as perfect is simply an idea, an ideal that so many chase and all for nothing, because it rightly shouldn't exist. Doesn't.
But there's an old saying about the exception that proves the rule.
"That is a pretty good philosophy to live by," you tell her.
"I like to think so," And she gives you a look that is accusing, but smiles all the same. There are your own truths you're still ignoring, and for the moment so will she. "Now then slave-"
"I'm a slave now? What happened to being a peasant?" One of her brows quirks up, she blinks water out of her eyes.
"Are you questioning your Queen?" Biting back a smile you drop to your knees, head bowed. And nearly fall and bust you face on the slick floor, but balance yourself out with one hand.
"No of course not, Your Majesty! I simply wished to clarify, and only for myself, exactly my position in your court, oh wise and gracious ruler of the realm."
"You're position is beneath me," you lift your head to waggle your brows at her suggestively. "Yes, that too, you lust-driven heathen. But in this moment you must prove to me your skill in scrubbing backs, as per our agreement. So rise, oh salt of the earth. Rise and do as I have bid of thee."
I couldn't figure out how to end this chapter. So this is where I stopped. Ok, I love you buh-bye.(forgive mistakes pls)