I seem to have a thing for writing the quiet moments.



There is a staggering amount of sensitivity in the very tips of human fingers. That is something that Elsa has known for the better part of her life, but it took over a decade of having her own shielded by gloves to truly bring home the difference in finally being able to touch with her bare hands. Even the lightest of brushes is filled with sensation; from the smallest change in temperature from temple to cheekbone to the invisible, individual hairs on a warm cheek that kiss her fingers with unrivaled softness. Below that is the gently rounded line of a jaw – faint bumps in the actual bone concealed beneath smooth skin – followed by an ever-so-slightly pointed chin and – when she traces a single finger upwards – soft, silky lips with only the most minute, natural creases that she can somehow still make out one by one through touch alone.

She remembers reading somewhere once that with one sense lost, the others tend to heighten in sensitivity in order to compensate, and privately admits to the truth in that. At this hour, the room is dark enough that sight is essentially impossible, but when she leans in just enough to touch her lips to that smooth cheek, even that part of her can feel the tiny hills and valleys that her eyes would be unable to make out from more than maybe an inch away.

Anna’s scent, too, fills the air around her when she inhales slowly, and reminds her mostly of a meadow after a summer rain; clean and sharp with the tang of water, but also rich with fresh soil and bruised grass. Beneath the covers, there is the shared warmth of their bodies and the steady movement of Anna’s chest under her arm, and Elsa doesn’t bother to open her eyes as she presses just that little bit closer and simply listens to the sound of slow, even breathing.

Touch. Smell. Hearing.

All it takes is a faint cant of her own head to let her add taste to the list, and when she lingers there with their lips only just meeting, she is so utterly, perfectly immersed in everything Anna that it brings tears to her eyes. Still, the smile that comes is irrepressible, and so she stays where she is with soft skin beneath her fingers and warm breathing against her mouth; close enough that she actually feels the flutter of long eyelashes.

“You’re s'posed to be asleep,” Anna burrs groggily, but also cranes her neck enough that their lips brush again.

“I know.” The hand that comes up to cradle her cheek is noticeably more calloused than her own, but still warm and gentle and achingly familiar, and she presses into it before turning her head enough to kiss the palm.

“Hmm.” The digits lazily tracing her own skin twitch faintly in time with the slow exhale. “Then why aren’t y–” A sharp stop there of sound and motion both, and the mild chill of the single drop that was caught by the tip of Anna’s thumb. “What’s wr–”

“Shh, nothing is wrong,” Elsa whispers, and kisses her softly one more time because she can. “Everything is right, in fact. I just wish I had the words to describe this.”

This time, the exhale that warms her face is almost huffed, and she picks up on both the soft, halfway-frustrated sound that Anna makes, as well as a faint motion that might have been a shake of her head. Then the slender body below her shifts enough for their mouths to meet more firmly while two hands now cradle her face, and though the kiss is deeper this time, it remains so slow and sweet that every split-second of it is enough to make her heart stutter in her chest. Anna is so, so warm against her, and the fingers that trace her own features and twine in her hair so unmistakably tender that words…

Words really are entirely superfluous.

“Alright,” she chuckles when they part, and smiles in pure reflex when their noses brush. “I see your point.”

“Good,” Anna murmurs, and gives a low hum of approval when Elsa nuzzles her face into the crook of her neck and relaxes. “Least y'got some of the brains in the family,” she then decides around a yawn, with her arms and hands serving as comfortable weights against Elsa’s back.

That, she bites her for. Not hard, but enough to cause a slight jerk that makes her grin. “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

The exhausted groan by her ear is adorable. “It’s way too early for your brand of sass,” Anna grumbles, but still starts scratching lazy circles between her shoulderblades. “Go to sleep.”

Grouch, Elsa decides fondly, and gives the bitten spot a lingering kiss before sinking contentedly into warmth, and peace, and slumber.