Disclaimer: I realized that I never wrote a disclaimer for this story, although I have a general one in my profile page. In any case, as you all well know nothing belongs to me except the plot…perhaps.

Warnings (please do read!): I think I might have to change the rating for this story because of this precise one-shot. It will now be M. But that's not what the warning is about, I want to let you know that not all one-shots that will be included in "Infinite Plus One" will be fun, fluffy and funny. Others will be something like this one, or falling into other genres as the ideas come to me. I hope that doesn't push you away, but if it does, I thank you for the support you have showed me until now.

If you decide that you want to keep following this story but are unsure on whether you would like to read all one-shots that are not the three F's, fear not, for I will be explicit in the warnings so that you know what you may find in the story if they are rated M, and therefore are able to decide if you would like to read it or not.

In this case, there will be a rather explicit sexual scene. (I won't warn for incest because…hello! This is Elsanna!)

Author's Notes: That said I hope you enjoy it and feel free to leave me a review if you so wish. By the way, this one-shot may have a sequel that I might post eventually. Also! For those of you that care and have been wondering, my story "Snowflakes of Love and War" has not been abandoned, but I'm back at college now and one-shots are the longest things time allows me to write. "SLW" will be finished, after all, the entire browser is complete!

Anyway, thank you for reading!

Infinity Plus One:

Suffering

You shouldn't have entered her office, you knew. You shouldn't have even peeked through the crevice between the heavy mahogany door and its frame. But alas, you could help yourself not, because you had seen things. Half of them you had little effort to make to observe them under the light of the setting sun that illuminated your sister's figure in that moment, particular not for being unusual, all the contrary, but for being frequent; too frequent.

For there she was once again, hunched over her desk with countless papers neatly organized in a semicircular fashion. Her brow knitted in utter concentration, her mind ignorant of the shiny beads of sweat gathering on her hairline below her royal crown as she continued to relentlessly scribble on document after document, her right hand so tense it now resembled the metal arms of the empty armory that decorated the castle's halls, yet you could see the veins from your place behind the door reminding you of her humanity. Not that she could allow herself such vulnerability, for all—or almost all—the Queen could be was—is—the everlasting emblem of perfection, of decorum, of elegance, of excellence.

And the rest of those—many, countless—things that everyone thought—said, proclaimed—with a simple glance at her Majesty, but that never came to mind with a day of your presence.

There were days in which you grieved such a lack of…everything, within your being. Once you had been the savior, the princess who rescued Arendelle with her never-ending will and love for her dearest sister; that alone had been enough. Although, with how dull things had become in your life barely a few months after the events, it was hard not to wonder if that alone had been all you ever had, and if you had been lucky that all you had, coincidentally, had been sufficient to salvage your sister and the kingdom. Once, being a rambling, yet cute fool with impulsive tendencies had been enough to push you through your life, but then you had come to realize that there were few appearances to maintain when every door in your palace had been closed to prying eyes. It is an unbelievable miracle, and a test to your sister's—your Queen's—endless love and patience, that she has allowed you to keep the title of Princess, and of her sister, while you continue to be such a talentless creature.

It's hard not to allow such thoughts to consume you at night, or during the evening, or the mornings, or most—all—of the day truthfully, even more so when you find the Queen being her responsible self, all straight back and dignified expression while submerged in her diplomatic workload. But it is exponentially more difficult, to pretend to not notice the bulges on her shoulders that stress has increased after weeks on end of royal affairs. She brushes your concerns away as easily as she glides her hand through the air in an instant dismiss of your worried comments, but you know better; the tasks are getting to her.

And you think to yourself, for the millionth time, that there must be something you can do for your Queen, for your Kingdom, because let's be honest, without Queen Elsa Arendelle would crumble in seconds. But the majority of times you have gazed up at her, your head full of inquiries on this behalf, you have come up empty. Because let's be even more honest, if the Queen with her superior existence can do nothing for her own wellbeing, what-ever makes you think you can do anything for her?

Nothing, nothing makes you think that. Nothing that you can find in your own self at least, but you had seen things, that other half of who the queen was—is—that you barely pondered upon, for surely those occasion meant nothing. Certainly, you were just seeing things, unreal, impossible things. Perhaps in your desire to be…well, desired—wanted, useful—you had allowed your mind to corrupt your soul with the most sinful of fantasies.

That your sister's hands had caressed your thighs in an almost wanton manner when she had helped you lower your skirt, that her lips had been moistened by her furtive tongue when her gaze fell on the swells of your breasts which the ball gown you donned that evening had not been capable of covering, that her eyes had shone with barely disguised lust at the sight of your pouting lips when denied a particular dessert. Why, they were all inconceivable notions brought forth by a depraved mind.

Yet, maybe, just maybe, just like you had seen the good behind your sister's frightful gaze all those months ago, maybe this time you were right in your wrongs too. Maybe, what you had seen was truly…carnal longing.

So once again, you ignore your mind's yell of "you shouldn't" and you enter her office filled with resolution. The queen notices the determination in your eyes with as much interest as she bestows on your presence, which is none, for her gaze has not left the papers and her ears appear to not have picked up on your unladylike steps. Until you muster strength you never knew you had and you push her chair back before depositing your rear in the edge of her long desk—official papers and quill be damned— you stand as an obstacle between her and her work.

She gasps at the intrusion, her blue orbs rising to yours questioningly. Her words seem to get stuck in her throat though as she realizes who has intruded on the queen in such a way. Her eyes widen slightly and it's like she thinks she's seeing a different you, but is unsure of it. You wonder if it's the seriousness of your features or something in your own orbs, something you can't physically see, but that you can feel within you; resolution.

No time to ponder on such trivialities though. You lean down, your thin arms holding your weight on the armrests of your sister's chair. Your eyes stare directly into hers, even as you near her face and place your lips as close to hers as you can without extinguishing the flimsiest of gaps that is left.

There's turmoil in her eyes and her visible and cold breath puffs against your lips. You wait, because maybe you are mistaken, although her reaction—heaving as she is—clearly states that you are not, but you want to be sure that your wrongs are right, that you are seeing what you saw.

And holy mother of God, are you?

She latches onto your lips desperately. It's like she's famished after fasting for months. And as she grasps the sides of your neck and bites on your lips a whole set of other repressed memories come to you: of a kiss on your shoulder as your sister washed your back, of odd movement beside you on the bed at night and moans that you never saw but heard very clearly, of countless of dress rehearsals of just the two of you with the excuse of being ready for the upcoming ball, of kisses too close to your mouth and hands too close to your rear.

Oh, how blind you had made yourself to your faultless sister's other half, her unequivocally incestuous part. But of course, it is ironically poetic for you, the maladroit princess, to be sightless to the solution to your sister's suffering.

That ends right now though.

You subtract your tongue from within the cold, yet burning mouth of the queen and lean back until you are resting your weight on your palms. Your bosom has risen as bait and each of your boot cladded feet have taken residency on the border of the royal chair, entrapping your sister's thighs within.

It's a come on kind of call, whore-like and indecent, but what in this isn't?

And most importantly, what does it matter when the originally barely darker blue of Elsa's eyes has suddenly transformed into the color of the night, so dim is almost black?

The muscles of your legs tense imperceptibly—or so you hope—when your sister's hands rise towards your knees. They stop though, hovering just above your green skirt as her gaze finds yours.

You keep your words to yourself knowing that your breathing has become laborious with the nerves of anticipation. Meanwhile, your queen is in just the same state, but her orbs are filled with animalistic hunger. And yet, she manages to control herself for one more second, a clearly difficult effort, to ask one small question.

"Are you sure?" Her voice is so husky; you never knew it could lower like that.

By instinct your initial answer is no, and then yes, and then no again because the truth is that no, you are not sure and this is insane and something you have never done and you are sisters and for the love of God what are you doing? But then yes, because your sister wants you and you finally found something you can be useful for, and with practice maybe even good at.

So, you nod your head in affirmative giving her free reign, and the beast is unleashed. In the blink of an eye Elsa is settled between your legs, the proximity parting them ever more. Your skirt has risen to above your thighs and the frantic thump of your heart increases the heat that was already settled on your face which now covers you neck and part of your chest as well. You are sure she can feel it when she, without dislodging her sight from the apex of your thighs, reaches a hand up and with the most dexterous fingers anyone could ever achieve unbuttons the first three buttons of your blouse. Her palm extends over your chest then, caressing up to your neck and down to between your breast, her nails scrapping firmly over your pale skin and leaving faint red marks on their wake.

You are nervously excited or excitedly nervous, who can differentiate when chilling breath ghosts over your inner thighs and a freezing hand gropes at your left breast. When did she discard your upper garments? You know not, nor can you think about that as she pinches your pink nipple, much less do you care about how she managed to throw your lower garments to the floor when a tongue inserts itself between your embarrassingly wet folds.

You scream at that, it is impossible to not do so. A few laps at the moisture that to your bafflement—little do you know about the works of sexual intercourse—only increases with each tongue swipe. Your legs widen of their own accord and you are sure you are crumpling some important document but you can't afford the mental capacity to let it go.

And then suddenly, to your outmost displeasure the mouth leaves your center, but to your strangest delight—enjoying this so much was not something you had counted on—it travels up your midriff, stopping for a second on your navel to submerge and swirl her tongue in it and make your entire body shudder. Then it continues upwards, between your ribs and your breast. You gasp and shriek when she sucks on each nipple, once, and almost whimper in discontentment when she leaves your hills. But all is made well when she settles on your neck, nipping on it up to your ear. You pull your head back, giving her more space to continue her wonderful ministrations and she does not disappoint for a short while—you can only imagine the expressions of pleasure that accompany your mews—then with a scrapping of her teeth on your strongest vein she returns the same way she came, sitting on her chair once again.

Panting, with your body feeling aflame, you look down thinking it is over. How wrong had you been this time, for in the lapse it took you to lower your head your sister had launched herself onto your center to devour it savagely. It is an automatic response to clutch at her hair, to bring her closer and push yourself into her mouth, to throw your head back and moan and scream and whimper as you buckle against her face. You feel that crisp tongue sailing your length, teasing your entrance and you almost shout for her to go in, to intrude in your virtue, but she doesn't and you have no time to whine about the lack of penetration when her lips latch onto that small bulge you never knew what it was for; now you know. She sucks like she would at a fruit miraculously found in the Sahara Desert. Is magnificent, and glorious and its making your lower stomach burn and your insides clench and you have never felt something like this but bless God for allowing your sister to show you; and for allowing you the courage—impulsivity—to let her know it was okay to show you.

You should wonder about the people outside, about the servants that could come in, but you don't. Instead you continue to writhe in that desk like nothing else matters, your wetness propagating on the queen's face, probably even onto the desk, while chanting the only letter you know "Ah, ah, ah" and moaning the only name you remember, "E-Elsa…"

And then your eyes clench as tight as your inner walls, maybe more, and you scream a combination of "Ah!" and "Elsa!" and you are sure somehow light has slipped behind your eyelids because that's all you can see for an eternity.

You are floating while your heart thumps noticeably harder against your ribcage as if you had just run from the palace up to the ice castle, and then you are falling, feeling lighter than a feather, lighter than the wind.

Luckily for you, and all the objects in the desk, strong arms encircle your back preventing you from collapsing. You rest your cheek against a delicate shoulder that you think is Elsa's because no one else has that relaxing, feminine perfume, but then the mush of your brain doesn't want to cooperate much so it could be anyone right now. You are still on that cloud, what number was it? Nine? Ten?

It is Elsa though, you are relieved to find when after five, ten, minutes of deep breathing and soothing caresses to your hair you lift your head of the queen's shoulder to gaze into her beautiful blue eyes. They are still dark, but no longer hard with stress and worry. Her shoulders have slumped at ease too, and you wonder why that is when you have yet to do anything. She did all the work, yet she is the most…no, she is not the most satisfied, is she?

The Queen doesn't smile, but beams at you and you find yourself returning the expression full force, even as she leans down to kiss you and you can taste yourself on her lips.

This you can do, you tell yourself. To kiss her back until she sighs in contentment, to return her embrace until her shoulders lower in relaxation, to pleasure the stress out of her body, with your lips, with your tongue, with your fingers, with your whole body.

This you will do, for your sister, for your queen, for your kingdom. It is after all, the least you can do.

The End?

A/N: Wow it's been a while since I ventured into writing a lemon. How was it? Most importantly, what do you think about this point of view? And/or any comments on the story itself? Thank you for reading! ^-^