Cold Feet 1/?
anonymous
December 6 2015, 06:28:41 UTC
(Imagine whoever you want. I have a lucky fellow in mind, but for fairness' sake, I am not going to name him, I left some clues as to who it isn't, though.)
She's nervous.
He's not.
And honestly, that's what makes her nervous.
Elsa pressed her back against the wood of her bedroom door. Their bedroom door. Her blue eyes flicked around the room, to the fireplace in the corner, already roaring, two chairs, her privacy screen, a bed-frame and mattress so fresh she could still smell the cedar and down, a table between two blue and white arm-chairs that was piled with food, a bottle of chilled wine in a bucket.
Her new, slightly buzzed, husband pausing in the important work of unbuckling his belt to to look at the silver band around his third finger, and muttering to himself, “You're a lucky bastard,” like he always did when he thought she could not hear and object to his swearing.
This was all Anna's fault.
Rather, it was her fault, really. She had been the one who said, absentmindedly, how much she wanted a love like Anna and Kristoff's.
Of course, that was in front of Olaf. Olaf had told Anna.
So this was Olaf's fault.
Anna had pestered her, and proved an adversary. Years of shutting her out had not made her one to give up. Begging outside her door, a few jovial days together had given way to badgering about what she liked in men, what color eyes she most liked to stare into what color of hair she wanted to feel between her fingers when they clawed in inestimable ecstasy (“Anna!” Kristoff had spluttered, bright red) or what sense of humor she admired, she even asked if she preferred ladies. Elsa's answers had been reluctant and slow, not because she did not want Anna to try but because she had never given men much thought before. She had been fretting her ice powers for twenty one years. It had called for a few sacrifices.
Then, Anna proved a little too determined, kept a list of everything she said, and Elsa's answers got a faster, more certain as the thoughts-what did she like?-kept her giddy and awake at night, and though she did not want Anna to find success in her quest to find her true love, or at least, she did not think she would, she had not wanted her to fail, either. Unfortunately, true love was not something she could buy at the market place, no matter how hard she tried, and so Elsa made the list long, as specific as she could, so Anna would not be so quick to blame herself when she became an old spinster.
Dry wit, Elsa said, but did not care about the shade of his hair, so long as it was well trimmed, strong, but not burly, compassionate and determined, fiercely loyal and brave, but not so bold and rash as to rush to a needless death. She did not care the color of his eyes, so long as they were sharp, good health, tall, at least, taller than her, and certainly able to look past her powers. And then she added, specifically to keep her from trying, “And not a single drop of Westergaurd blood... And no one that worked for the Duke of Weselton. Ever.”
So Anna had found just that.
And here he was, shrugging off of a fancy, tailored red vest (he refused to wear black) and ripping off his ascot, muttering that he hated stiff collars. Some towering, skinny, reckless adventurer that had surfaced in Corona and never even heard of Weselton, did not have a single drop of Westerguard blood in his veins, and when told about her ice powers he simply said, “Yes, OK, but can she make ice cream?” (“He asks all the right questions!” Anna exclaimed, “Can you, Elsa?”) and Elsa had been so nervous because god he was so handsome and so tall he could not be real that she had laughed, a high, girlish twitter she had never made before. Then he had smiled, his eyes flashing, teeth gleaming, and eyes flicking over her, a little in wonder, a little in hunger.
And her dress had nearly melted clean off she was so infatuated.
Anna started planning the wedding that second.
He turned back, fiddling with the button of his stiff collar. His eyes flicked over her again, just like they had before, just like she hoped he always would. A little in wonder, a little in hunger.
Re: Cold Feet 2/?
anonymous
December 6 2015, 06:30:56 UTC
When Elsa looked back to his eyes, they were looking at her with a little in concern, “Uh-oh. You don't look to good. Drink too much?”
“Y-yes.”
He tilted his head, “That's... not her drunk face. That's her nervous face.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“That's her nervous voice.” he stepped forward, fiddling with the stiff collar he hated so much, his eyes bright, lips pulling tight over his teeth, stooping his head low, as he said flirtatiously, almost patronizingly, “... And that is her defensive glare.” He gave his eyebrow a little flourish, “Getting cold feet?”
That was his planning-something face. The face he made when he wanted to outfox her. That face was always followed by something shocking, unexpected, and ultimately dress-melting. Like a simple kiss to her hand while he was stooped a little too low and a little, too close to her body, with a gleam in eyes that never broke from hers that let her know he was not thinking about kissing her hand, that made her, the one immune to cold get chills all over. A stupid, stale pick-up line delivered dryly, jokingly, when she was just stressed enough from affairs of state to laugh at it, or the sudden, unexpected shout across the courtyard, “Elsa, you make babies when you sneeze? Marry me!”
It was not normal not to be nervous.
“No. I'm not nervous.”
“Elsa, the bouquet shattered when you threw it. It was frozen solid. You're nervous.”
She looked down, her eyes sliding down that figure. She nodded, fiddled with her own band, pressing her thumb against the diamond with just a little hint of blue, before confessing, “I.. I'm nervous.”
He did not fuss, muttered, “Well, got the rest of our lives.” as he slipped the silk ascot off his shoulder and finished undoing that nightmarish collar. He let the strip of yellow and grey silk fall on the back of one of the chairs, sat down, poured a glass of wine and looked at her, then the other chair, his eyes asking why she had not moved away from the door, his mouth asking, “So, what changed?”
“W-what do you mean?”
“Between us? You put a ring on it and now you don't want it anymore? I'm hurt.”
He was teasing.
He set the glass of wine down on the table, in front of the other chair, pouring a second glass for himself and giving her every indication that he wanted her to sit, relax, be comfortable. Elsa was acting like this was their first time alone. If they were not expected to... if she did not have the weight of the ring on her finger... She be over there, laughing, drinking, asking him questions about all of the nicks and scratches and burn scars she could see now that his collar was open and the shirt was open down to the last three buttons.
“If you're waiting for me to get up and force you, I'm not going to. I'm never going to force you.”
She glanced down, wondering why her legs felt like solid blocks of ice. She swallowed, dragged her eyes back to him. Her entire body felt frozen stiff, but she knew she must be shaking like a leaf. He looked at her like she was shaking like a leaf. He did not look wholly sympathetic about it. He looked more amused than sorry. Her hands clenched into fists around the satin flounces of her skirt, partly to stop herself from tripping on it, partly for reassurance, partly in anger-he just did not get it. It was the closest thing to a security blanket she had-and right now, she needed it. Her heart was pounding. It was good thing the dress was not ice. It would have shattered into a million pieces by now.
His eyes followed her longingly as she walked to the chair beside him. Her body was lead. She smoothed out her skirts and sat primly on the edge of the chair, sat strait backed as she reached for the wine, trying to look as unappealing and matronly as she possibly could. He was valiantly holding back a fit of giggles, “You'd think I was a stranger!”
She glared at him. It was hard to glare at him for too long. He was cute.
He set his glass of wine down, leaned towards her, elbows digging into his armrest, the collar of his unbuttoned silk shirt slipping seductively off his shoulder. Elsa's eyes followed the motion. Her body inched away, into the corner of the far side of her chair.
Re: Cold Feet 3/?
anonymous
December 6 2015, 06:36:46 UTC
He moved back immediately, “You want me to stop?”
“No. No I... I just want you to wait.”
“For...” he cocked an eyebrow, “What, exactly?”
She quickly set the wine down and stared at her knees, “Uh, well...”
Carefully, he got up, kept himself low, until he was on his knees in front of her he kept his hands were she could see them, one on the armrest she was closest too, giving her a clear escape route, the other came to rest against her wrist, his thumb sweeping across her gloves. He waited.
“Do you want this?”
“Well...” She had been thinking about it. A lot. The final six days, it had been with anticipation. She had looked forward to it, watched him with just as much hunger in her eyes as he had watched her-maybe a little more. She had been the starved one. This morning, the same giddy thoughts, but then she started walking down the aisle, remembered the dread of walking down it for her coronation, she remembered nearly killing Anna. The flowers had turned to ice in her fingers. Her dress had bristled with beautiful curling trusses of frost. Everyone had thought it a brilliant display.
What if she nearly killed him?
It had been irrational. It had been stupid. But the further the sun sank, further it dug at her, the more frightening and real concept it became, accidentally freezing him solid in what was supposed to be a heated moment of passion. That would be a terrible way to go.
“You want too.”
“I know what I want.” he thumb stopped his lazy arch, “What do you want?”
Elsa bit her lip. She looked from his face to the easy escape he had given her, and she considered taking it, but where did she have to hide? The dressing screen? Sure, she'd be a virgin in the morning, but would she have her dignity anymore? She was not about to run screaming from the bridal suite on her wedding night, and she was not going to kick him out, either. What would people say?
“M-Maybe you could just... get right to it? Just get it over with quickly?”
“Get right to...?” he looked offended at the very idea, but he gave a low, purring chuckle, “Elsa, dollface, babe... Your Highness.” His eyes wandered, he grinned, hand moving from the arm rest to the narrow space between her thigh and the chair, crushing layers of satin and organza. “If I do that, you might not enjoy it. If you don't enjoy it... How on earth will I get you to do it again?”
He leaned forward.
She leaned back. “Wait!”
He pulled away, his hand went back to the arm rest instantly. “Okay, okay. Baby steps.”
“I'm just... I'm scared.”
There went that renegade eyebrow again, “Scared of what? Me?”
“Scared I'll hurt you.”
It seemed a little stupid to say, now that it was out of her mouth, and considering he was a little dinged up already. Old scars. Old stories. He would never tell her the oldest ones. He thought about it, still toying with her wrist-the most chaste thing he could do for the time being-a little frown on his face like it had never crossed his mind before. He gave a little shrug that might have been in agreement, “Leave the gloves on.”
She opened her mouth, taking a sharp, angry breath, about to tell him very firmly and very regally that she thought he was not taking her concerns seriously and that issue was going to be fixed before anymore shenanigans were attempted that night. He said very quickly, “I'll leave something on.”
She was not sure what to say.
(If it's OK to have some element of audience participation... what does he leave on? I'm actually gunna come back in two or three days.)
Re: Cold Feet 3/?
anonymous
December 6 2015, 16:48:12 UTC
I'm not the OP but I would guess he leaves on a shirt or maybe a sock?
I also have a couple of ideas of who I think her husband is. I've got two guys in mind. Both of them were in animated movies that came out in 2010, one of them is a Disney movie and the other is not.
She's nervous.
He's not.
And honestly, that's what makes her nervous.
Elsa pressed her back against the wood of her bedroom door. Their bedroom door. Her blue eyes flicked around the room, to the fireplace in the corner, already roaring, two chairs, her privacy screen, a bed-frame and mattress so fresh she could still smell the cedar and down, a table between two blue and white arm-chairs that was piled with food, a bottle of chilled wine in a bucket.
Her new, slightly buzzed, husband pausing in the important work of unbuckling his belt to to look at the silver band around his third finger, and muttering to himself, “You're a lucky bastard,” like he always did when he thought she could not hear and object to his swearing.
This was all Anna's fault.
Rather, it was her fault, really. She had been the one who said, absentmindedly, how much she wanted a love like Anna and Kristoff's.
Of course, that was in front of Olaf. Olaf had told Anna.
So this was Olaf's fault.
Anna had pestered her, and proved an adversary. Years of shutting her out had not made her one to give up. Begging outside her door, a few jovial days together had given way to badgering about what she liked in men, what color eyes she most liked to stare into what color of hair she wanted to feel between her fingers when they clawed in inestimable ecstasy (“Anna!” Kristoff had spluttered, bright red) or what sense of humor she admired, she even asked if she preferred ladies. Elsa's answers had been reluctant and slow, not because she did not want Anna to try but because she had never given men much thought before. She had been fretting her ice powers for twenty one years. It had called for a few sacrifices.
Then, Anna proved a little too determined, kept a list of everything she said, and Elsa's answers got a faster, more certain as the thoughts-what did she like?-kept her giddy and awake at night, and though she did not want Anna to find success in her quest to find her true love, or at least, she did not think she would, she had not wanted her to fail, either. Unfortunately, true love was not something she could buy at the market place, no matter how hard she tried, and so Elsa made the list long, as specific as she could, so Anna would not be so quick to blame herself when she became an old spinster.
Dry wit, Elsa said, but did not care about the shade of his hair, so long as it was well trimmed, strong, but not burly, compassionate and determined, fiercely loyal and brave, but not so bold and rash as to rush to a needless death. She did not care the color of his eyes, so long as they were sharp, good health, tall, at least, taller than her, and certainly able to look past her powers. And then she added, specifically to keep her from trying, “And not a single drop of Westergaurd blood... And no one that worked for the Duke of Weselton. Ever.”
So Anna had found just that.
And here he was, shrugging off of a fancy, tailored red vest (he refused to wear black) and ripping off his ascot, muttering that he hated stiff collars. Some towering, skinny, reckless adventurer that had surfaced in Corona and never even heard of Weselton, did not have a single drop of Westerguard blood in his veins, and when told about her ice powers he simply said, “Yes, OK, but can she make ice cream?” (“He asks all the right questions!” Anna exclaimed, “Can you, Elsa?”) and Elsa had been so nervous because god he was so handsome and so tall he could not be real that she had laughed, a high, girlish twitter she had never made before. Then he had smiled, his eyes flashing, teeth gleaming, and eyes flicking over her, a little in wonder, a little in hunger.
And her dress had nearly melted clean off she was so infatuated.
Anna started planning the wedding that second.
He turned back, fiddling with the button of his stiff collar. His eyes flicked over her again, just like they had before, just like she hoped he always would. A little in wonder, a little in hunger.
And he was not nervous.
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When Elsa looked back to his eyes, they were looking at her with a little in concern, “Uh-oh. You don't look to good. Drink too much?”
“Y-yes.”
He tilted his head, “That's... not her drunk face. That's her nervous face.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“That's her nervous voice.” he stepped forward, fiddling with the stiff collar he hated so much, his eyes bright, lips pulling tight over his teeth, stooping his head low, as he said flirtatiously, almost patronizingly, “... And that is her defensive glare.” He gave his eyebrow a little flourish, “Getting cold feet?”
That was his planning-something face. The face he made when he wanted to outfox her. That face was always followed by something shocking, unexpected, and ultimately dress-melting. Like a simple kiss to her hand while he was stooped a little too low and a little, too close to her body, with a gleam in eyes that never broke from hers that let her know he was not thinking about kissing her hand, that made her, the one immune to cold get chills all over. A stupid, stale pick-up line delivered dryly, jokingly, when she was just stressed enough from affairs of state to laugh at it, or the sudden, unexpected shout across the courtyard, “Elsa, you make babies when you sneeze? Marry me!”
It was not normal not to be nervous.
“No. I'm not nervous.”
“Elsa, the bouquet shattered when you threw it. It was frozen solid. You're nervous.”
She looked down, her eyes sliding down that figure. She nodded, fiddled with her own band, pressing her thumb against the diamond with just a little hint of blue, before confessing, “I.. I'm nervous.”
He did not fuss, muttered, “Well, got the rest of our lives.” as he slipped the silk ascot off his shoulder and finished undoing that nightmarish collar. He let the strip of yellow and grey silk fall on the back of one of the chairs, sat down, poured a glass of wine and looked at her, then the other chair, his eyes asking why she had not moved away from the door, his mouth asking, “So, what changed?”
“W-what do you mean?”
“Between us? You put a ring on it and now you don't want it anymore? I'm hurt.”
He was teasing.
He set the glass of wine down on the table, in front of the other chair, pouring a second glass for himself and giving her every indication that he wanted her to sit, relax, be comfortable. Elsa was acting like this was their first time alone. If they were not expected to... if she did not have the weight of the ring on her finger... She be over there, laughing, drinking, asking him questions about all of the nicks and scratches and burn scars she could see now that his collar was open and the shirt was open down to the last three buttons.
“If you're waiting for me to get up and force you, I'm not going to. I'm never going to force you.”
She glanced down, wondering why her legs felt like solid blocks of ice. She swallowed, dragged her eyes back to him. Her entire body felt frozen stiff, but she knew she must be shaking like a leaf. He looked at her like she was shaking like a leaf. He did not look wholly sympathetic about it. He looked more amused than sorry. Her hands clenched into fists around the satin flounces of her skirt, partly to stop herself from tripping on it, partly for reassurance, partly in anger-he just did not get it. It was the closest thing to a security blanket she had-and right now, she needed it. Her heart was pounding. It was good thing the dress was not ice. It would have shattered into a million pieces by now.
His eyes followed her longingly as she walked to the chair beside him. Her body was lead. She smoothed out her skirts and sat primly on the edge of the chair, sat strait backed as she reached for the wine, trying to look as unappealing and matronly as she possibly could. He was valiantly holding back a fit of giggles, “You'd think I was a stranger!”
She glared at him. It was hard to glare at him for too long. He was cute.
He set his glass of wine down, leaned towards her, elbows digging into his armrest, the collar of his unbuttoned silk shirt slipping seductively off his shoulder. Elsa's eyes followed the motion. Her body inched away, into the corner of the far side of her chair.
He inched forward.
“Wait.”
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“No. No I... I just want you to wait.”
“For...” he cocked an eyebrow, “What, exactly?”
She quickly set the wine down and stared at her knees, “Uh, well...”
Carefully, he got up, kept himself low, until he was on his knees in front of her he kept his hands were she could see
them, one on the armrest she was closest too, giving her a clear escape route, the other came to rest against her wrist, his thumb sweeping across her gloves. He waited.
“Do you want this?”
“Well...” She had been thinking about it. A lot. The final six days, it had been with anticipation. She had looked forward to it, watched him with just as much hunger in her eyes as he had watched her-maybe a little more. She had been the starved one. This morning, the same giddy thoughts, but then she started walking down the aisle, remembered the dread of walking down it for her coronation, she remembered nearly killing Anna. The flowers had turned to ice in her fingers. Her dress had bristled with beautiful curling trusses of frost. Everyone had thought it a brilliant display.
What if she nearly killed him?
It had been irrational. It had been stupid. But the further the sun sank, further it dug at her, the more frightening and real concept it became, accidentally freezing him solid in what was supposed to be a heated moment of passion. That would be a terrible way to go.
“You want too.”
“I know what I want.” he thumb stopped his lazy arch, “What do you want?”
Elsa bit her lip. She looked from his face to the easy escape he had given her, and she considered taking it, but where did she have to hide? The dressing screen? Sure, she'd be a virgin in the morning, but would she have her dignity anymore? She was not about to run screaming from the bridal suite on her wedding night, and she was not going to kick him out, either. What would people say?
“M-Maybe you could just... get right to it? Just get it over with quickly?”
“Get right to...?” he looked offended at the very idea, but he gave a low, purring chuckle, “Elsa, dollface, babe... Your Highness.” His eyes wandered, he grinned, hand moving from the arm rest to the narrow space between her thigh and the chair, crushing layers of satin and organza. “If I do that, you might not enjoy it. If you don't enjoy it... How on earth will I get you to do it again?”
He leaned forward.
She leaned back. “Wait!”
He pulled away, his hand went back to the arm rest instantly. “Okay, okay. Baby steps.”
“I'm just... I'm scared.”
There went that renegade eyebrow again, “Scared of what? Me?”
“Scared I'll hurt you.”
It seemed a little stupid to say, now that it was out of her mouth, and considering he was a little dinged up already. Old scars. Old stories. He would never tell her the oldest ones. He thought about it, still toying with her wrist-the most chaste thing he could do for the time being-a little frown on his face like it had never crossed his mind before. He gave a little shrug that might have been in agreement, “Leave the gloves on.”
She opened her mouth, taking a sharp, angry breath, about to tell him very firmly and very regally that she thought he was not taking her concerns seriously and that issue was going to be fixed before anymore shenanigans were attempted that night. He said very quickly, “I'll leave something on.”
She was not sure what to say.
(If it's OK to have some element of audience participation... what does he leave on? I'm actually gunna come back in two or three days.)
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I also have a couple of ideas of who I think her husband is. I've got two guys in mind. Both of them were in animated movies that came out in 2010, one of them is a Disney movie and the other is not.
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