Warning: (Awkward) Intimacy

AN: So, apparently, when I'm really into it, I can write about a thousand words an hour. Some of them are even good. As always, feel free to comment and review as you desire. I publish this so you can read it, and hopefully tell me what you think of it. Enjoy…


The sauna was warm and dry, she had poured only the smallest amount of water onto the stones. Doctor Arnesen had warned her about the effects of high heat and moisture on her savaged back, and she had no particular desire to hear that lecture again. Not with all the disturbing detail he'd put into it. She got the message though—and about the cut around her wrist. Her wrist—her hand, still gently clasping Kristoff's. His skin was rough, calloused from years of work as an ice harvester. It had texture, and strength, but beneath that strength was a tenderness she couldn't put into words. She let her hand fall, staring at the floor.

She wanted to thank him, for the song, but no words had come—he had moved to hug her, and still scared of her own reactions around the ice harvester, she had held him back and only taken his hand. A gesture of warmth, but nothing like what she wanted to share. It was so hard, not being able to talk, not being able to reach out—being unable to express herself physically when she wanted to. So very hard. But she was trying, and she would keep trying until she succeeded. It doesn't have to be today, she told herself, but I will get better. I'm better around Elsa, right?

And at that she nodded, more self-assured that she was, in fact, healing. She also remembered sparring with Hank, and even though it had stung at times—and really hurt when he accidentally hit her—she hadn't been afraid of that touch. Nor was she afraid of her sister's touch. Not anymore. She'd never been afraid of the castle physician's touch either—but that was likely because it was strictly professional. She found it odd that she would trust someone she knew so little so well. Perhaps it had something to do with his role as a healer; something people were inclined to trust. So why was she still afraid of Kristoff's touch? Especially when she had encouraged him to touch her. What was it about him that made his touch so different that she would still be afraid of it? Or was it something in her?

"Kr–Kris-to-ff?" it was all she could say, haltingly speaking his name in a quiet whisper, suddenly realizing how unfair she had been to him. Because he'd been there, from the very start, when she first wanted to track down Elsa during the Great Freeze. He had helped her, with a push in the right direction, of course. He hadn't trusted her judgement—but she knew now that perhaps he had been right to question it. Or at least on the topic of Hans. Then he had come back, across the fjord, to save her in the blizzard as she froze to death. He had taken her around Arendelle's countryside after she had first been injured, and she hadn't seen then the importance of what he was doing. Or why.

It was more than courtship, that much was for certain. Kristoff had followed her attempts to rescue Olaf from the top of the castle. He hadn't discouraged her either, just warned her that it was dangerous. Then he helped her up, and after grabbing Olaf's head she'd come unstuck, not having a free hand to grab onto anything with. Then they'd gone to the heartwood, and she'd seen the ruins of his lute—the one she had smashed a wolf with. He'd commended her strength. There was the picnic, a day or so later—time that seemed so long ago now. They'd just talked. She smiled softly, remembering just how normal that had felt. Then there was the time she had gifted him his new sled, now sadly tinder and matchsticks. The sauna, at Oaken's—that had been nice too. He wanted her, and she knew it—she also knew he didn't think he'd earned it, not then at any rate.

But the biggest thing, something she'd not noticed at all until she looked back on it, was the range of activities they'd gotten up to together. Things normal people did. Things people with two arms did. A lot. Things that would never change even though she only had one arm. And she had taken all that for granted. All of it. She didn't feel worthy of that kind of attention—she was the one that made people feel better by doing stuff like that, doing things for Elsa, forcing her into taking little adventures. But she didn't think she'd needed that kind of reassurance herself. Maybe she hadn't, but her escape attempts at the fort, at the hands of the Weseltonian soldiers, those had shown her the limitations of only having one arm—both physical and psychological.

She blinked back tears, looking at the scar around her wrist. She was there, cold stone pressing against the savage welts on her back, a boot hard against her chest, enough weight behind it to make breathing difficult. The cold, piercing pain of that dagger plunging deeply into her flesh. The line of cold fire it left behind, blood trailing down her wrist. Warm, wet, sticky blood. Her blood. She had been terrified. She shivered even in the heat of the sauna, shaken by that memory. The terror had taken over that day, her mind refusing to accept what it was being plainly told. The implications were just… she shivered again, tears falling slowly from her cheeks. Helpless. Completely helpless, unable to fend for herself in any way. Two useless arms.

Tears blurred her vision, and she thought of what something like that would have done to Elsa. Her sister might have collapsed, given up there—but she'd started a fire within her. This new Elsa would not have broken so easily. No, what scared Anna more was the idea of Elsa angry—angry at the harm that had been done to her. Because if Elsa's depression cut loose could cause an eternal winter, what could her anger have done?

She stood there, swaying gently, unsteady on her feet. Elsa's love for her might be a dangerous thing—a very dangerous thing indeed. She'd admitted jealousy about her being able to hug Hank first, but Anna didn't think that malicious. If, however, that had been anger, if there had been due cause for it, what then—what of anyone that came between them? And Kristoff… Kristoff stood there in front of her now, the one person she would let come between them. All because she couldn't love Elsa the way Elsa loved her. She still entertained the thought that one day, just… one day… she might let Elsa do those things to her, to resolve those desires—unless, of course, Elsa used Hank to resolve them first. In the same way Anna wanted to use Kristoff to resolve her own desires—and to fight past her fears.

The fabric of Kristoff's shirt was strangely itchy against her scars, and she took the garment off slowly, turning it around so she could see the inside. There was no blood, but the fabric was rougher than she was used to. Maybe the steam, what little of it there was, was making her more sensitive. She would have simply thrown the shirt aside had she not remembered it didn't belong to her. Instead, she placed it on the lowest bench, and folded it—tried to fold it—the way she saw Gerda working the laundry. One cuff stuck out from a gap in the middle, and the collar was all sorts of wrong. Anna cocked her head, frowning at the garment, but she figured a second attempt at folding it would probably make things worse.

Once more she simply stood there, in front of Kristoff, now wearing only his pants. He stood there as well, and she could see he was fighting the urge to move away. Away from her. He didn't avert his eyes, but he did shuffle back slightly, and not just to get a better view. He was at arms' length now and she knew, somehow, if she advanced he would retreat. What she couldn't figure out was why. She was desirable. She knew that because Elsa desired her—and before his treachery, she had thought Hans did as well. She still wanted all of them to want her for more than just her body—and they did, Elsa wanted to share her heart, Kristoff her soul, and Hans… Hans had only ever wanted her title. But the one she wanted was Kristoff, and she wanted him now. She wanted him to understand, so she could heal properly.

To that end she took his right hand by the wrist, and pulled him closer, preparing to lay that hand against her breasts. Because she had to be able to experience a touch like that, to want that, and not have it turn against her. Not be afraid of being touched there. Not while she was so vulnerable—not defenseless, just vulnerable. Kristoff still held back, his strength enough to keep hers in check, and to keep him from touching her there. Could he not see that this was what she wanted? What she needed?

His strength ebbed, or he let her take control, slower than before. But just before his skin brushed against hers, fingertips hovering over her breast, he held himself back again, asking a single question, voice barely above a respectful whisper. "You're sure?"

She still couldn't trust herself to speak, but she could nod, firmly and decisively, just before letting go of his hand. And instead of touching her breasts as she'd expected, she felt a calloused fingertip tenderly tracing around the scar above her left breast. The same kind of scar she could see on his right arm now that she was looking closer. Now that he was closer. She took half a step back before she regained control of herself. Kristoff's hand fell along with Anna's heart. She had been so close to getting somewhere, to overcoming her fear of being touched.

"You don't owe me anything, feistypants," he spoke softly. "It's your body, and you have a right to use it how you wish. If you want to share your body with me thats perfectly fine. If you want to say 'no', you can. At any time. I'll listen. I don't know what those men at the fort did to you, but I can guess—and that's why we're here alone. It's all up to you. I just wish I'd earned the privilege of seeing you this way."

It was almost as bad as Hank, she considered quietly, but where Hank was quiet and reserved, Kristoff was simply sure of his actions; sure he was doing the right thing. It was all about her, she would have to take the initiative, because he was afraid of hurting her. It was a comforting realization. He was letting her take the lead not because he didn't want to, but because he wanted her to feel safe, in control of the situation. But he still hadn't touched her breasts—so she took his hand once more, and placed it against her left breast, expecting him to do something to her.

He did, tracing the scar above that breast again—but this time his fingers moved down the centre of her chest, gently tapping at the tiny puncture that annoying splinter had left there. His hand continued tracing a flickering path down her ribs, ghosting over the giant bruise on her right side. Everywhere he touched it seemed to light a fire within her. She knew what it was she wanted, she just didn't know how to get it. At least, not yet. Not while those fingers were tickling her exposed belly. She loosed an explosive laugh, so bright and loud it seemed to echo around the sauna for some time. It also sent fire shooting down her side, and her hand wrapped protectively around her stomach as she give him an apologetic look. She liked to laugh—it just hurt, and she didn't like being hurt. He mumbled an apology as his hands fell to his side, not entirely sure what to be doing with them.

He reached out first this time, slowly, making sure she could see every movement. She shivered as his hand drew close, but managed to suppress the urge to step back. The hand was only going for her stomach, not her breasts. Her skin tingled at his touch, rising like gooseflesh. It was a very peculiar sensation—but not unwelcome, she found herself thinking, just strange and new. His fingers traced toward her waist, a subtle warmth spreading in their wake. She sucked in a breath as his nails just caught around her waist, and she shivered in delight. He was closer now, beside her, turning slowly so that he would soon be behind her. She closed her eyes, still a little afraid of stepping away if she saw a shadow that large looming over her. She calmed herself, a tiny shiver running through her body, and she could feel his fingers against the little hollow in the small of her back. She also heard his short, sharp gasp. Unlike Elsa, he hadn't seen how hurt she really was. Until now.

Those treacherously tantalizing fingers continued to move; she could feel them gliding over the skin of her back. She risked opening her eyes. His shadow was close, but she didn't feel the urge to step away. Not anymore. She didn't want to move at all, those fingers carefully tracing between all of her scars, tenderly caressing her spine. Soon they had risen to her shoulder blade, then they rested against her right shoulder, gently massaging the muscle there. Kristoff's other hand pressed against her left shoulder and she started, ducking slightly before she managed to straighten herself out. The massage felt nice, an act of someone more than a friend. She felt a kiss against her crown, through her fuzzy hair—because any amount of steam tended to do that—another kiss, and a firmer grip against her shoulders, not rough, even though his skin was a little, but strong. The kind of strength she could almost feel flowing from him to her. A tiny part of her asked if Elsa could ever have made her feel like this, but she put it aside as best she could.

Her shoulders began to sag, and her eyes were half lidded. She knew she probably had a stupid grin on her face, but she just didn't care—it felt too good. She let out a sigh of contentment. She knew then just how right Kristoff had been in refusing to touch her at first, refusing to touch her breasts—because she hadn't needed something like that, an act of lust and desire. What she'd needed was this—like what she'd done in the cave for Elsa, she realized. Not lust, or sexuality, or desire, but intimacy. Tender, loving, physical contact, and the kind of contact that made her forget worries and fears for even a moment. It just felt so nice, she didn't really have words for it. It was relaxing and freeing and healing all at once and a lot of other things besides. She just wanted it to continue so she could melt into a puddle on the floor, free of all her tension and worry—a puddle that would closely resemble a very, very happy red haired young woman. Princess. Even if she had been the spare—not that she felt like a spare anything right now.

Another realization came to her slowly, as Kristoff's hands moved closer to her neck, gently easing the tension there. He hadn't touched her beasts—aside from the moment she'd placed his hand there. Not because he didn't want to, because she'd seen the desire in his eyes, but because he didn't want to touch just a part of her. Like she was a collection of objects, of things to be touched. And the way he was massaging her neck and shoulders… he was touching her body. As a whole, not as pieces. That was why his fingers had traced and tickled their way from that scar above her breast, down her stomach and around her waist, and finally up to her shoulders. Without saying a word he told her that everything was hers, and whole, and could not be separated from the other. Because if he were to touch her breasts—she could suddenly see the way he was thinking here—if he were to touch her breasts, he wouldn't just be touching her breasts, but her whole body, everything she associated with it, with the parts of herself she liked to touch, to bring herself pleasure. That kind of pleasure.

Which meant maybe he thought she had been… and she still hated to say the word, so ugly did it sound. He thought she had been raped, and he was afraid of triggering those memories with his touch. She had to tell him it was okay, he was allowed to touch her, and nothing bad would happen. She hoped. Because she hadn't been raped, but those men… they had used her body, like an object, something just there for them to take as they pleased. And Sten—she froze, suddenly remembering what Sten had nearly done, his hand against her flesh; and what he'd nearly done before Elsa froze his heart. She could still remember those rough hands pressing against her, fingers sliding against her core—and the way her body had responded with pleasure as her mind recoiled at the thought of what was happening.

She staggered sideways, knees weak. She might have fallen had not strong hands caught her around her upper arms, gently guiding her towards the low benches, forcing her to sit. She took a deep breath, and another, fighting to bring her racing heart back under her control. She wasn't there. This wasn't the fort. Kristoff wasn't them. But he was here, and he was kind, and loving, and warm, and she found herself leaning against him, almost falling into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around her, trying to avoid the scars on her back, and she didn't feel caged by them. They were still a barrier—but to keep the world out, not to keep her in. She looked up at her boyfriend, blinking back tears as she gazed into those soulful brown eyes. It wasn't fair, what she was forcing him to do.

Calming her mind, Anna let out a little sigh, trying to smile for the man whose arms she was now in. He might not have been everything she wanted, but then again, she wasn't sure what she'd wanted. Not anymore. But she did know the two things she valued most about him. Honesty, and loyalty. Sure, he could be blunt sometimes, but he'd never lied to her. And even after everything, he still stood by her side. He'd even come to rescue her, although Elsa had gotten there first. Kristoff was not someone that belonged at the back of her mind, someone on the outside of her life. He deserved better, even if he didn't think he'd earned it. Or maybe he just wanted to be sure he'd earned it, and it wouldn't be taken away from him again. She really wasn't sure about that. But she was sure about something else.

She wanted him in her life. Forever.

And he deserved the same honesty she had with Elsa, he deserved to know some of what had happened. All of it. And damn it, she would tell him. She was going to talk. She was going to try harder. Because he deserved her strength just as much as Elsa did. So she lay there, in his arms, gathering her courage. She closed her eyes, because somehow it was easier to talk right now if she didn't have to see his face. To see the horror he would feel upon learning the truth about those three terrifying days. So she said the first thing she felt, her voice small and quiet even in the serenity of the sauna.

"I'm scared."

She hadn't wanted to admit it, but it was true. The only problem was that she didn't know what she was actually afraid of. All she knew was that she was afraid of something, something that still held her voice, something that took hold of her body, something that threw her mind backwards, back to those three days. She knew she was healing, but she was still scared—scared she might be different, after. Even if her friends were trying to treat her as if nothing had changed. She was also scared of something else, something worse. She was afraid that after she told Kristoff all this, she might not be able to tell Elsa. She was afraid to ask why she couldn't have told her in the first place.

Then she felt Kristoff shift slightly, and felt him gently kiss her forehead, as a parent comforting a child. She tried to curl up, pulling an imaginary blanket towards her shoulders. Anna blinked, opening her eyes. Kristoff was looking down on her, smiling softly.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore." And she wasn't, because she felt safe here, in his arms. She knew he would protect her, but he wouldn't hold her back. She lay on her side, Kristoff's arms around her, using his legs as pillow. She curled up a little because really, it was quite comfortable, and more than warm enough despite neither of them wearing a shirt. There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of gentle breathing. Anna frowned softly, unsure of where to begin. She said as much.

Kristoff's reply didn't come as words, not at first. His right arm disentangled itself from her, and his hand hovered above her breasts. She froze, going stock still. She was scared now, because if he touched her there, she might not be ready for it. Her worry dissolved a moment later when his fingers traced that same scar, the one the crossbow bolt had left above her left breast. Only then did he speak, only then did he ask about the scar.

"Crossbow," she replied breathlessly, miming firing one one-handed, then placing a finger against the scar. Perhaps a little too swiftly, because that stung. "I—I shot someone. He shot back." Kristoff's fingers—her boyfriends fingers—traced the tiny puncture between her breasts. "Splinter," she almost laughed at that, remembering. "I was tied… tied to a—flagpole? I think. Uncomfortable. Got splinter." His fingers pressed tenderly against her bruised side and broken ribs. She sucked in a quiet gasp, because any kind of pressure was still painful. He stopped after a moment, just resting his entire hand against her stomach. It felt wonderfully warm. But he still deserved an answer to his wordless question. "Mikkel—kicked. Hard. So hard. Crack. Br-broken rib. I tried escaping. Tried so hard—like Flynn Rider. Fought the guards."

"Of course you did, feistypants. No one gets to keep you prisoner." All she could do was smile up at him, a stupid grin on her face. He knew her.

His hand trailed back up her chest, and she fought her body to remain still when she realized where that path would take it. It was what she thought she had wanted, a touch she thought she needed to feel, to overcome the fear of it. But it wasn't, and she was suddenly terrified, breath coming in short gasps, heart hammering in her chest. She could just say 'no', and she knew he would stop. But she had to let this happen—had to prove that even the lightest of touches was not something to be feared. Before she could calm her fevered mind, his fingertips brushed like feathers across her breast and she shivered violently, a single traitorous tear rolling down the side of her face. It was all over before she knew it, and she was suddenly being cradled in his arms.

"I'm sorry," he spoke softly, voice tinged with regret. "You weren't ready. I'm sorry."

She reached up to run a finger along his jaw, sighing as she did so. "I'm scared, Kristoff. Of everybody. When I came back… Elsa… she… I… in the bath… she–she gave me the soap. I thought she was going to… but it's crazy. She would never… never hurt me. Never. But I was so scared. I'm still scared, and I don't know why. I wanted to tell–to tell her. But I couldn't. Why couldn't I tell her? Why did my voice go away? What did I do wrong? What did I… did I…did…" her voice was still there, she just couldn't make it work. Couldn't say the rest of the words. It was only when Kristoff's face became a blurry outline that she realized it was because she was sobbing in—anger? fear? pain? She didn't even know why she was crying now. She just was—and she hated it. Because her tears should have had a purpose, right? But she knew this time they didn't. A quiet, firm voice interrupted her sobbing.

"Anna. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You–you're sure?" she dried her eyes with the back of her hand, taming her suddenly ragged breath.

"I'm sure. You did nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve this. Well, you have cost me two sleds—how's a man supposed to—ow!"

And she smiled, thumping him squarely in the chest. He had a point about the sleds. She knew he couldn't actually work to make money without one. She'd never really had to work—except at her studies to be the royal princess, at which she had been less than stellar. She sometimes wondered, even now, if she'd been born to a different family, if things had been different, would she have had a happier childhood? Maybe. She would have had freedom, but would she have been happy, with a different sister? Would Elsa have been better if she'd never been there to get hurt? She blinked as a hand waved in front of her.

"Are you okay—you looked so worried."

"I—" Anna started, but cut herself off. She was okay for now, but it might not last, and she had to be honest, with herself as well as with him. "No. I'm not okay, Kristoff. Not right now."

"Do you want to stop—stop talking? Go home?"

She considered those options. Both of them actually seemed like smart ideas, except for the fact that she liked talking, and she was actually pretty comfortable just lying here, with her boyfriend. Yes, she decided, he was definitely her boyfriend—especially if she eventually wanted to do those things with him. Things that made her sister flush a magnificent shade of scarlet from the mere thought of them. Kristoff has asked her a question before she got distracted, and she gave him an answer, and a question of her own.

"No—no. But, Kristoff, why can't I tell Elsa? What am I doing wrong?"

"Nothing, feistypants. Nothing at all. Trust me, I'm the one who knows the love experts"—and at this she stuck out her tongue at him—"anyway, they told me this, when I had to talk to Pabbie about my problems instead of Bulda—she was my troll-mother. Pabbie said this to me: 'Sometimes our burdens are too great to share with the ones we love most; so we share them instead with those we trust.'. It means sometimes things are so bad, or scary, that we're afraid of breaking the people we love by sharing them."

"Really?" she asked quietly. "I can't tell Elsa because I'm afraid of breaking her? But I trust her with everything. We're sisters. How can I not tell her?"

"Maybe you're afraid how she'll react when you tell her the truth?"

"I did tell her the truth, you stinker. When I could talk—and you don't know what she's going through!" Anna was surprised at her reaction, surprised she could go from sad and scared to angry so very quickly. So quickly she wanted to thump Kristoff again, because this was his fault.

"I don't know what either of you are going through because no one would talk to me!" Kristoff's shout echoed through the sauna, and the horror on his face told Anna that he knew he'd crossed a line—too far. Way too far. But he tried to soften the blow, explain himself. "I'm sorry. I should know better—but no one told me anything. Anything. Until you came to see me that morning I didn't even know you were still alive. Well, you had to be, the castle was still standing and we weren't buried under a thousand feet of snow. But I didn't know anything.

"You were safe. That's about it, Anna. That's all I knew, damn it. The only thing. But you come out with Que–with Elsa, and you kick Olaf's head at me. Nice kick, by the way; please don't use it on me. You came out, you couldn't speak, and you all but ran away screaming. I know it wasn't like that, but seeing you afraid—it's not like you to be afraid, feistypants. So I was scared something bad happened. The next time I saw you you were walking with lieutenant Erikson, and then, today. I was scared for you, after everything they probably did to you."

"You were… scared… for me?" but even as she spoke she could see why. He loved her. He didn't want anything bad to happen to her, didn't want to think about it—just like she didn't want to think about bad things happening to Elsa. He loved her, and he was angry with her—not really. She knew that anger, because she felt it for Elsa all too much. She was afraid of losing her. So that fear became anger that provoked an awful kind of honesty.

"I still am. I don't know what happened there. I don't know what you're going through. I want to help, but you have to let me in first." Anna could have laughed at that. It was a like a mirror for her and Elsa's relationship, at least at first. There she was the strong one, asking to be let in. Here she was the one who needed strength. Maybe she needed it, but she also felt she was strong enough to do this on her own if she had to. Having people who loved her helping her would just make it easier.

"I can't talk about all of it."

"That's okay. You don't have to tell me all of it. Just… when you're ready, I'll be here. Unless I'm on a harvesting trip, of course. Then you'll have to tell someone else. Olaf, maybe."

"You wouldn't dare." She looked him straight in the eye, challenging him to make good on his words.

"No, you're right," he admitted at last. "He'd tell too many people. Maybe you should try Marshmallow?"

That earned him a good thump, and a laugh. But it also got her wondering, up there, all alone on the North Mountain, just what was the snow monster doing? Doing in Elsa's ice palace? And what if an unlucky explorer made his—or her—way up there? This wasn't a Flynn Rider story. But while Marshmallow was dangerous, she didn't think he was malicious. He just wanted to keep Elsa safe. And alone. She spared a thought for herself—here, lying back in Kristoff's arms, she was safe. But she didn't want to be alone. She'd been alone for thirteen years, lonely, even with the guards and servants and staff to talk to and occasionally play with. She'd accepted Hans's offer because she didn't want to be alone anymore—and because she didn't think she'd get another chance after the gates closed and the coronation was over.

But now? Now she had all the chances in the world—unless she managed to hurt him so badly he left. She doubted that, she would never mean to hurt anyone. Except maybe Hans, if he showed his stupid sideburned stupid face anywhere near her. It had felt undeniably good to punch him. Even better when she realized she'd managed to pitch him over the side of the ship. Of course they'd had to fish him out, and then they'd sent him home. And they had heard nothing at all from the Southern Isles until that very morning, Elsa granting an audience to their Crown Prince.

That wasn't her problem, however. Hers was a fear of being touched, especially by men, and especially if there was any lust behind that touch. But she knew one way to deal with her fears. Make things happen, and prove that they weren't bad. Prove that nothing bad would happen. So, lying there in her boyfriend's arms, she whispered seductively—well, she hoped that kind of husky voice was seductive, because it was something Elsa liked too…

"You can touch me, if you want. When you're ready," and she smiled at him, knowing it would take him some time to reach out.

They just lay there, in the warmth of the sauna, not caring to talk. It was a calming silence, one that didn't need to be filled with words. The kind of silence she would happily share with other friends—only with more clothes on, of course. It was the kind of silence in which nothing had to happen, because nothing was happening. The world outside fell away, and Anna found herself drifting on the edge of sleep, so completely relaxed she was. She didn't even start when gentle fingers and rough skin brushed against her hip. She could feel her skin rising like gooseflesh, but it hardly registered in her sleepy mind. It did feel nice though, she was still awake enough to remember that.

The fingers walked up her waist, warmth spreading somewhere deep within her. They tickled her ribs like ghostly feathers, just enough that she let loose a pleasant little shiver. Still they continued on, the hand that owned them gently pressing against her belly, seeming to caress her entire body. She almost melted with that touch, feeling the warmth of that hand lifting slowly, fingertips brushing and tickling around her navel. The roughness of his skin made it quite the most exquisite thing she had felt in a long, long time. She shivered again, head to toe, feeling her entire body shake just a tiny bit.

Kristoff's fingers continued to wander, gently climbing her chest, tapping softly against her skin with every step they took. Her heart beat faster, and this time it wasn't only fear driving its increased rhythm. The side of his thumb swept against her collarbone and she tried not to tense at what had to come next. What she had to let happen. What she had given him permission to do. It happened slowly, because he was being slow and deliberate—and teasing her, she understood. Trying to make it seem normal, like something they would get to do together many, many times. But it still scared her, more than she wanted to admit.

Calloused fingertips brushed against her like feathers, gently tracing the outside of her breast. Her hand balled into a fist beneath her as she fought to remain still. Her breathing slowed, becoming shallower. It wasn't meant to be like this. Those fingers continued moving, exploring the slight curve beneath that breast, thumb resting next to her nipple. It felt wrong. It felt like those bastard soldiers at the fort. It didn't feel any different—because some of them had taken their time to explore instead of abuse as well. They just hadn't stopped touching her. And now, now their actions made her so damned afraid. She bit back tears, and felt her nails digging into her palm. She could do this. Kristoff wasn't them—he was her boyfriend. But it was all too much, and she whimpered quietly, her mouth barely moving to make the words.

The hand was gone, fingers no longer exploring her intimate flesh, no longer gently pressing against her. Instead it wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her into his chest, so she wouldn't have to see his face—or he wouldn't have to see hers. It was too much, and she hiccoughed slightly, trying to talk. She breathed deeply, breath returning to her lungs, unaware she'd been holding it so long. She didn't sob, or fight, or rage. Because she knew now that Kristoff's touch was different from theirs. Not because he touched her skin differently, or pressed against her in other ways, but because, when she asked, he stopped. Just like that.

And that was it. That was all it was. The only difference. He stopped when she asked—he didn't ask why, he didn't linger, he just stopped touching her. Not like the soldiers—they had touched her more when she protested, beaten her when she struggled. But Kristoff did none of those. He said nothing, made no lewd gestures. Instead of striking out at her or questioning her, he comforted her, without being told she needed it. He had just known. Maybe he was a love expert too.

"Thank you," she whispered into his chest, gently pushing his arm away so she could rest her head on his lap again. It really was quite comfortable, and if she was going to push herself, let him touch her again, she wanted to be comfortable. She knew she might get scared again. She probably would. But it would be her choice to let him touch her again, and her choice to stop him—if she had to. "You can keep touching me, if you want."

"You're sure?" he whispered.

She shook her head softly. "No. I'm scared. They touched me like that too… but they didn't stop. They never stopped. It was like… like I was a thing, just there to please them. They didn't care about me, just touching my body. I hate them! But I don't want to hate them. I want to forget them, because hating them means I care about them. But… but they're all dead now. All dead. I can't hate them anymore."

"I'll tell you a secret, the same one the trolls told me: 'Love is the most powerful force in the world'. Between family, friends, lovers, tribes, even entire nations. Love conquers all—and the trolls know why. Because if you love someone enough, you can do the impossible to save them."

"Then touch me. It'll be okay, I promise," at that she took his hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around his. She placed both their hands against her breast, taking a deep breath as she moved her own hand away. Kristoff didn't move his hand, not for some time. Not until her breathing had evened out, and the fear had faded from her eyes. She knew what he was doing; what her body was doing. He was making sure she was able to accept that touch, properly, and without reservation. He was making sure she could appreciate such contact for what it really was, and not what she was afraid it would be.

He was right to do so, because this decision wasn't just hers, and only just now was she seeing that. She had been forcing him to touch her, and she hadn't even considered that he might not be ready for this, even if she supposedly was. She'd given him permission to touch her, but she hadn't asked his to act on it. Selfish. In the worst possible way. And was this the way Elsa felt too… the reason she had refused her advances?

Those worries faded as Kristoff's hand began to move. Her mind couldn't be there, worrying about what she might have been doing to the people closest to her; and also here, taking in everything currently happening to her body. Especially the way she was being touched. A fingertip explored the curve of her breast where it met her chest, while his thumb traced down the inside of the same breast, eventually meeting the fingertip and giving her a gentle pinch. A pinch that ignited a fire she hadn't known was burning deep within her. Her body was beginning to respond to the touch against her breast, just like it had when the soldiers touched her. When Sten touched her.

But this was different, and damn it if Kristoff wasn't trying to tease her again. She couldn't think straight when he did that, but she could still feel the fear. She fought it, fought it with all her considerable willpower. She would not let it take ahold of her. Not this time. Because as Kristoff's fingertips traced a spiralling pattern across her breast, carefully avoiding her nipples—damn him—she found she was actually enjoying his touch. Almost enjoying her body's frustration. The fear was lessened because what came next was taking so damnably long. Her breathing was shallow, fear and excitement in equal measure. He ran a finger around her nipple, not quite touching it—just suggesting he might. Nails dug into her palm, but it felt amazing.

It felt amazing. She'd crossed the tipping point between fear and desire without even realizing it, so frustrated was her body. There was a warmth at her core, and a fire in her belly. She wanted this—more of this. All of this. And she wanted it with him. Only him. And suddenly those fingers where ghosting across her breast, a delicate flick running over her nipple. Gods damn it, he knew what he was doing to her—he had to. He had to be enjoying it too, judging from the happy smile he wore. The tiniest bit of fear slipped into her mind, and she bit her lip as her nails dug deeper into her palm. She would not let the fear control her. She was in control, all she had to say was—

"Stop."

And he did, but this time his hand lingered, not on her breast, and not in a way that worsened her fear. Instead, that evil hand wandered over her belly and tickled around her stomach, eliciting a soft giggle as the fire within her dulled slowly to embers. She was in control, and there was something else she wanted—but she could deal with that later herself. Because she knew Kristoff wouldn't be ready for it, and neither, really, was she. But she did feel a little off balance. Because of something very simple.

"I have two breasts," she stated matter of factly.

"I know," he grinned down at her. "But this one"—he gently tapped her left breast—so damnably frustrating—"is more perfect." Then he leaned down to kiss her, and silly little things like that didn't matter anymore. Because anyone who could make sweat and reindeer work for them deserved everything they got. Including the tumble onto the floor. She lay there, red hair spilling like a frizzy halo, her insides melted completely. If she was going to be reduced to a puddle resembling a certain famous princess, at least she'd be a happy puddle. Very happy, when Kristoff reached over to kiss her again.