(Disney) Shards
Title: Shards
Fandom: Disney - Frozen
Pairing: Hans/Kristoff
Rating: R
Words: 1227
Notes: AU - Hans wins. Rough sex. Character death. For 100_men, prompt "possession", and Porn Battle XV, prompt "Hans/Kristoff - take, guilty, need".
Summary: Kristoff made an excellent toy, spoils of a war Hans barely had to fight.
It had been remarkably easy really, to claim the kingdom as his own. Hans had everything he’d ever wanted - the crown, the riches, the attention, the power.
He’d barely had to lift a finger, in all honesty. Queen Elsa had cemented her fate the moment she’d revealed her magic. She’d taken care of herself, branding herself a monster in the eyes of all, and even taken care of her ridiculous sister, freezing the girl’s heart.
Hans still remembered how cold Anna’s breath had been against his lips as she begged him for a kiss that would break the spell. Innocence and naivety in her eyes shattering as he’d said no, as he’d brushed her off with a cruel laugh and sealed her in the room that was to be her death chamber.
To think, he’d been concerned about creating a believable ‘accident’ for Elsa. In the end, her murder made him a hero.
With the queen and princess dead, the throne belonged to Hans alone. Nobody disputed his claim, instead falling over themselves to offer him kind words, and he filled his days with the petty needs of his people, maintaining the sweet and caring persona he’d so carefully crafted for himself in their eyes.
But by night, he found time to indulge himself.
The ice harvester wasn’t exactly pleasant company. Kristoff was no more than a shell of a man now, filled only with sorrow and anger. He was withdrawn, quiet, surly and antisocial, and he always smelled of wet animal fur and dirt. Not a suitable companion for royalty, but there was something about him that Hans found addictive, like a scab he couldn’t help but pick at just to see it bleed.
The truth was that he’d always wanted a pet.
Kristoff was broken. That much had been obvious from the day they’d met. Kristoff had forced his way into the castle halls, knocking down several royal guards with a kind of strength that made Hans’ heart race, pure and hysterical violence clear in his eyes. Ranting and screaming that the princess couldn’t be dead, that he’d bought her home, that he’d bought her to Hans so her heart could be thawed, and for a moment Hans was afraid.
Afraid because of the passion in Kristoff’s voice, the love for Anna so obvious. Afraid because somebody was actually questioning him, because there was somebody out there that didn’t take Hans’ story of Elsa and Anna’s deaths at face value.
But Hans had drawn himself up, stepping forward, hand settling on Kristoff’s shoulder. Keeping his eyes gentle and sad, everything about his posture earnest and empathetic, the tilt of his head and the droop of his shoulders creating the portrait of a person in mourning.
“She was not returned to me in time,” he’d murmured, voice hushed and breaking at the edges, a consummate actor through and through. “Princess Anna is gone.”
He’d been worried that Kristoff would flare even brighter, would tear the castle down brick by brick in his quest for the truth.
But instead Kristoff had deflated, shrank in upon himself, eyes haunted and empty as the truth began to sink in, and Hans had thought that this man was indeed broken and no further threat to him.
Hans had thought that this man could be his.
It had taken time, longer than it had taken to capture Arendelle ironically enough, but he’d succeeded. A broken man had only so much pride to crush beneath Hans’ boot heel, after all. There hadn’t even been the need for sweetness and patience in his seduction, since it transpired that Kristoff had always been distrustful of others, and Hans did not need to censor his personality around somebody who already thought the worst of him.
That bought a kind of freedom Hans hadn’t even realised he’d craved. He could be selfish with Kristoff, demanding and haughty. Kristoff would hiss and spit in his gruff manner, insult Hans with everything he had, but he never pushed away from Hans’ touch.
It was almost as if he desired the harsh treatment, as if he took it as a punishment he thought he deserved, and it was a mindset Hans was only to happy to cultivate.
Perhaps the brief possibility of romance that Anna had bought into Kristoff’s life was enough to make him realise how much he needed human contact, how much he ached to be touched. Perhaps Hans was the only one who could give him that, but still allow him to keep apart emotionally, no fear of love ever growing between them, no fear of Kristoff leaving himself open to that kind of pain again.
Either way, Hans found himself with a plaything the likes of which he’d never dreamed of before.
Sometimes Kristoff would make token efforts to resist, would attempt to shove him away. Sometimes he would be waiting for Hans with dark and impatient eyes, more animal than human.
The end results were always the same, lust sticky and rough and gloriously hateful between them.
Kristoff was a hard and angry lover, and their tumbles were always violent. Hans had never been able to lash out through sex before, had always needed to keep that cruelty inside where it couldn’t be seen. But here he could scratch at Kristoff’s back, leave stinging stripes along the skin, and Kristoff would retaliate with a string of bites along Hans’ collarbone and chest. He’d pull at Kristoff’s hair until the other man’s eyes began to water, teeth moving over neck and ear and throat, grinding against each other with a kind of savageness that left Hans breathless.
The pace and the terms were always dictated by him, of course. He was the one who decided if they’d rut mindlessly against each other, if he’d fuck his way into the wet heat of Kristoff’s mouth, if he’d push Kristoff down and ride him, or if he’d twist his fingers inside just to watch Kristoff come undone by his hand. Kristoff was the stronger of them, and it was always an exhilarating rush to be able to command someone so physically powerful, to have them bend to his whim.
And when those nights came, few and far between, when Kristoff’s eyes shone clearer, when his mind no longer seemed to be a swirling snowstorm and clarity settled on his shoulders once again, Hans had no fear. When Kristoff tried to claw his way back from the brink that Anna’s death had pushed him to, something Hans could not allow, he had only to lean forward and whisper those six little words.
“If only you weren’t too late.”
He’d settle back to watch as Kristoff cracked open once again, imagining the picture he must have made, racing towards the castle with Anna curled in his arms, trying to outrun her death. Seeing it in Kristoff’s eyes as he relived those last few moments he and Anna had shared, seeing the tragedy break him all over again, and on those nights Hans took Kristoff slowly in a parody of gentleness, hips rolling deep and steady, lips pressed against the back of Kristoff’s neck and fingernails biting into his hips. Taking his pleasure, and listening to the muffled sounds of Kristoff’s tears, the gasps and choked-down sobs, the slurred and crushed litany of “too late, too late, too late.”
Fandom: Disney - Frozen
Pairing: Hans/Kristoff
Rating: R
Words: 1227
Notes: AU - Hans wins. Rough sex. Character death. For 100_men, prompt "possession", and Porn Battle XV, prompt "Hans/Kristoff - take, guilty, need".
Summary: Kristoff made an excellent toy, spoils of a war Hans barely had to fight.
It had been remarkably easy really, to claim the kingdom as his own. Hans had everything he’d ever wanted - the crown, the riches, the attention, the power.
He’d barely had to lift a finger, in all honesty. Queen Elsa had cemented her fate the moment she’d revealed her magic. She’d taken care of herself, branding herself a monster in the eyes of all, and even taken care of her ridiculous sister, freezing the girl’s heart.
Hans still remembered how cold Anna’s breath had been against his lips as she begged him for a kiss that would break the spell. Innocence and naivety in her eyes shattering as he’d said no, as he’d brushed her off with a cruel laugh and sealed her in the room that was to be her death chamber.
To think, he’d been concerned about creating a believable ‘accident’ for Elsa. In the end, her murder made him a hero.
With the queen and princess dead, the throne belonged to Hans alone. Nobody disputed his claim, instead falling over themselves to offer him kind words, and he filled his days with the petty needs of his people, maintaining the sweet and caring persona he’d so carefully crafted for himself in their eyes.
But by night, he found time to indulge himself.
The ice harvester wasn’t exactly pleasant company. Kristoff was no more than a shell of a man now, filled only with sorrow and anger. He was withdrawn, quiet, surly and antisocial, and he always smelled of wet animal fur and dirt. Not a suitable companion for royalty, but there was something about him that Hans found addictive, like a scab he couldn’t help but pick at just to see it bleed.
The truth was that he’d always wanted a pet.
Kristoff was broken. That much had been obvious from the day they’d met. Kristoff had forced his way into the castle halls, knocking down several royal guards with a kind of strength that made Hans’ heart race, pure and hysterical violence clear in his eyes. Ranting and screaming that the princess couldn’t be dead, that he’d bought her home, that he’d bought her to Hans so her heart could be thawed, and for a moment Hans was afraid.
Afraid because of the passion in Kristoff’s voice, the love for Anna so obvious. Afraid because somebody was actually questioning him, because there was somebody out there that didn’t take Hans’ story of Elsa and Anna’s deaths at face value.
But Hans had drawn himself up, stepping forward, hand settling on Kristoff’s shoulder. Keeping his eyes gentle and sad, everything about his posture earnest and empathetic, the tilt of his head and the droop of his shoulders creating the portrait of a person in mourning.
“She was not returned to me in time,” he’d murmured, voice hushed and breaking at the edges, a consummate actor through and through. “Princess Anna is gone.”
He’d been worried that Kristoff would flare even brighter, would tear the castle down brick by brick in his quest for the truth.
But instead Kristoff had deflated, shrank in upon himself, eyes haunted and empty as the truth began to sink in, and Hans had thought that this man was indeed broken and no further threat to him.
Hans had thought that this man could be his.
It had taken time, longer than it had taken to capture Arendelle ironically enough, but he’d succeeded. A broken man had only so much pride to crush beneath Hans’ boot heel, after all. There hadn’t even been the need for sweetness and patience in his seduction, since it transpired that Kristoff had always been distrustful of others, and Hans did not need to censor his personality around somebody who already thought the worst of him.
That bought a kind of freedom Hans hadn’t even realised he’d craved. He could be selfish with Kristoff, demanding and haughty. Kristoff would hiss and spit in his gruff manner, insult Hans with everything he had, but he never pushed away from Hans’ touch.
It was almost as if he desired the harsh treatment, as if he took it as a punishment he thought he deserved, and it was a mindset Hans was only to happy to cultivate.
Perhaps the brief possibility of romance that Anna had bought into Kristoff’s life was enough to make him realise how much he needed human contact, how much he ached to be touched. Perhaps Hans was the only one who could give him that, but still allow him to keep apart emotionally, no fear of love ever growing between them, no fear of Kristoff leaving himself open to that kind of pain again.
Either way, Hans found himself with a plaything the likes of which he’d never dreamed of before.
Sometimes Kristoff would make token efforts to resist, would attempt to shove him away. Sometimes he would be waiting for Hans with dark and impatient eyes, more animal than human.
The end results were always the same, lust sticky and rough and gloriously hateful between them.
Kristoff was a hard and angry lover, and their tumbles were always violent. Hans had never been able to lash out through sex before, had always needed to keep that cruelty inside where it couldn’t be seen. But here he could scratch at Kristoff’s back, leave stinging stripes along the skin, and Kristoff would retaliate with a string of bites along Hans’ collarbone and chest. He’d pull at Kristoff’s hair until the other man’s eyes began to water, teeth moving over neck and ear and throat, grinding against each other with a kind of savageness that left Hans breathless.
The pace and the terms were always dictated by him, of course. He was the one who decided if they’d rut mindlessly against each other, if he’d fuck his way into the wet heat of Kristoff’s mouth, if he’d push Kristoff down and ride him, or if he’d twist his fingers inside just to watch Kristoff come undone by his hand. Kristoff was the stronger of them, and it was always an exhilarating rush to be able to command someone so physically powerful, to have them bend to his whim.
And when those nights came, few and far between, when Kristoff’s eyes shone clearer, when his mind no longer seemed to be a swirling snowstorm and clarity settled on his shoulders once again, Hans had no fear. When Kristoff tried to claw his way back from the brink that Anna’s death had pushed him to, something Hans could not allow, he had only to lean forward and whisper those six little words.
“If only you weren’t too late.”
He’d settle back to watch as Kristoff cracked open once again, imagining the picture he must have made, racing towards the castle with Anna curled in his arms, trying to outrun her death. Seeing it in Kristoff’s eyes as he relived those last few moments he and Anna had shared, seeing the tragedy break him all over again, and on those nights Hans took Kristoff slowly in a parody of gentleness, hips rolling deep and steady, lips pressed against the back of Kristoff’s neck and fingernails biting into his hips. Taking his pleasure, and listening to the muffled sounds of Kristoff’s tears, the gasps and choked-down sobs, the slurred and crushed litany of “too late, too late, too late.”