A/N: Slightly more serious smut. Blame Tumblr.
[KristoffxAnna, M for sexual content, hurt/comfort/romance]
"Belonging"
It's a missive from the Southern Isles that starts it.
They apologize, they say.
They want to resume trade negotiations and a prosperous peace between their lands, they say.
They deeply regret the actions of one of their own, they say…
Anna reads it, studies it, and throws it into the library fire, something uncharacteristically dark in her eyes.
She stalks down the hallway where the royal quarters are (where his quarters are), hands fisted tight at her sides.
Kristoff's door is unlocked.
It always is.
He's never mentioned it, never drawn attention to it. But it's always unlocked, for her.
She loves him so much sometimes. So much that it burns low and tight behind her breastbone, and she burns with it.
Kristoff is half-asleep, stretching and blinking blearily at her from his bed. Anna starts, hesitates in the doorway. "I… forgot it was your day off," she mumbles, suddenly self-conscious, fisting her hands in her skirts and staring down at them.
"'Sokay," Kristoff says, yawning widely and scratching at his bare chest. He frowns a little, focuses on her face. "Are you okay?" he asks, after a moment.
No, she wants to say. No, I'm not okay, because the Southern Isles still exist and he still exists and I know I shouldn't feel stupid but I do every single time it comes up and why…
She can't bring herself to say the words.
She settles for climbing up onto the bed, flinging her arms over Kristoff's shoulders and kissing him, hard, raking her nails along his shoulders, dipping her head to bite against his collarbone.
"Anna?" Kristoff asks, bringing one shaky hand up to curve around her waist. "What…"
"Don't," she says, a bit desperately, hitching her skirts up and haphazardly undoing the stays at her bodice. She's breathing hard, already, pressing her face in against his neck, breathing in to be reminded that she's here, with him, with Kristoff, safe and warm and loved. Here.
"I need you," she manages, slanting her lips over his, taking his hand and drawing it to her breast. "I need you."
Kristoff eyes her carefully, appraisingly, even as the hand at her breast squeezes, caresses. "Anna…" he starts, thumbing at her nipple, "are you sure you…?"
She responds by thrusting her hand unceremoniously down the front of his pants, squeezing at the stiffening curve of his erection beneath her palm. "Please," she says, shoving his pants down his hips, hitching her skirts up high on hers.
Kristoff takes a deep breath before moving down to catch her nipple between his teeth, tugging lightly before suckling to soothe the bite. One hand slides down between her legs, pushes aside the fabric of her underwear, dips questing fingers over and in, finds her slick and hot and ready.
Anna arches her back, holding fast to his shoulders as Kristoff lifts her up and angles her hips down, sliding her deliciously onto him, and she bites back a low moan as he pulses, fills. "Anna," he murmurs again, stroking her back, nuzzling against her temple, but she needs fast, needs hard, needs to be claimed and reminded that to hell with the Southern Isles, to hell with everything that happened before.
He's hers. And she's his.
"Harder," she manages, driving her hips down, curving her spine, her short nails scrabbling against his back. "Harder."
Kristoff groans in response, curving his hands tightly around her hips, fingers digging into the soft skin above her hipbones, and Anna gasps as he dips his head down and latches lips and teeth to the freckled plane of her shoulder, rocking up hard and smooth into her.
"Kristoff," she says, voice breathy and desperate, head falling back as she reaches one hand down to stroke herself, and it's everything she can do to hold on as Kristoff holds her tight and thrusts into her, almost bruising-hard, muscles rippling and skin gleaming with sweat.
"Anna," he chokes, teeth dug tight into her shoulder, one arm moving to wrap tight around her waist and hold her fast to him, and she shudders and cries out against her fingertips as she feels Kristoff give one last, deep thrust into her, feels the liquid pulse of his release deep inside.
Kristoff turns, rests his head against her shoulder, and Anna presses her cheek to his temple. They're both slicked with sweat, breathing hard, spent.
Kristoff finds his voice first. "What…" he manages, "what was that?" His eyes widen in horror as he runs his fingers over the reddened bite mark against her shoulder. "Anna, oh my god… did I… did I hurt you? Oh god, I'm sorry…"
He looks terrified, helpless, dipping his head to kiss at the bitemark over and over, soothing, and Anna feels her heart turn over. "It's okay," she says, wrapping her arms tightly around him. "It doesn't hurt. And I…" She flushes, somehow, even after. "…I wanted it rough?" She gives him a helpless little smile, and Kristoff sighs, runs a hand through her hair.
"Are you okay, though?" he asks, seriously, curving a hand around her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze.
Anna hesitates, just for a moment. Is she okay. Is it okay, is this, them okay, even as the Southern Isles twist and burn in the grate, old memories blackened and burned?
She draws a deep breath as Kristoff noses at her cheeks, her eyelids, pressing comforting kisses over her skin. He knows something's wrong, but he never asks, just stays with her, patient and loving, eternally there, all love and endless warmth on the other side of an unlocked door, waiting for her to cross the threshold.
"Yes," she says finally, feeling the faintest twinge of tears as she sighs and curls in against his chest, nuzzles up and in against his neck and snuggles close. "I'm okay."