Firebreather

Anna trains Elsa to fight beside her in the war against Hans. More often than sometimes, Anna convinces Elsa to stay the night… not that it’s ever a challenge.

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T-rated max? Idk man there’s a mention of boob. Some queenly Elsa.

I need sleep.

Callin this The Firebreather series. The other drabbles can be found here:

Anna and Hans

Elsanna and Olaf

You bet I’ll be editing this piece later.

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Things had started off innocently, Elsa supposed.

Training was long. The sun was unyielding. Anna spitting out fireballs—the usual.

Naturally, both of them were sweaty, half-coherent messes stumbling about on newborn legs when night came. And while the blue-rimmed, glowing orb perched in the starry sky was a welcome sight, it never brought along that refreshing breeze they had grown accustomed to in Anna’s home country.

So, she would lay a hand across Anna’s neck and encourage just a bit of magic to break free—just enough for a light sheen of frost to chill the redhead’s skin.

But like a child, Anna had whined.

“My cheeks feel hot!”

“Elsa, my forehead!”

Of course, she couldn’t deny the hero, so, the requests (and hand-guiding) had grown into something decidedly dangerous for them both.

“Are you sure you can make it back on your own?” evolved into “It’s safer if you just stay the night, Elsa.”

And it turned into…this.

She knew Anna would never confess that she enjoyed being held by Elsa just as much as Elsa enjoyed holding her—‘hero’s pride’, she might say. Hero’s pride’ being the ridiculous weight she had thrust upon her own shoulders—surprisingly obedient when it came to her duties, despite that fiery temperament the redhead seemed to embody—where everyone was ‘protected’ and she the ‘protector’.

Yet, the façade always disappeared when they lay together in Anna’s little sanctuary. Nude—not naked. Grass tickling their skin. Limbs acting as blankets. All-over each other and nowhere all at once.

Elsa would allow her fingers to skim over the oddities of tanned skin, savoring the sensation of physical imperfections and how those imperfections played with (ruined) the sigils tattooed across her body. Sometimes before Anna would drift into sleep, she would mumble out their stories, figuring out at some point that each lingering touch of the blonde’s fingers was a question she was too shy to ask.

How did you get this?

Where?

When?

How badly did it hurt?

Her favorite, when Anna’s position permitted access, was the collection of thick, raised lines cupping her ribs and wrapping around her side—a reminder of the enslavement of Lyona.

A reminder of the quick liberation that followed shortly after the redheaded hero’s appearance.

Once, Anna confessed that she thought her scars made her ugly.

Elsa disagreed.

While Anna was snoring into the grass and drooling without a care, the blonde’s hands would smear themselves across velvety skin, committing the dips and valleys to memory as best they could. Then, she would lay them across those infamous whip marks, digging her fingertips into the flesh there until she could feel Anna’s heart echoing through the bone.

Anna’s heartbeat was the sound of the people’s dreams.

A noisy intake of breath marked the redhead’s sudden entrance into the living world; perfectly in sync, Anna rolled onto her back and Elsa seamlessly meshed their hips together, still thumbing her ribs.

Teal eyes slowly blinked open, still hazy with sleep, but those lips immediately curved into a smile that made Elsa blush and turn her head in an attempt to hide.

“You’re on top so often I’m beginning to forget what you look like anywhere else,” Anna chuckled, reaching out to knead pale hips and pin the blonde firmly atop her. Her eyes closed again.

Warmth seeped from those calloused fingertips, coyly tiptoeing up and across her breasts—ripping a pained hiss from her throat, and making her hips shoot forward to relieve some of the mounting pressure between her legs. Anna was talented that way—making her suddenly long for that damned physical closeness neither were truly permitted.

Anna’s nostrils flared—curse that dragon-like sense of smell.

“I hate when you do that,” Elsa pouted, threading her smoother hands in the redhead’s to keep them at bay.

“Don’t make that face at me,” Anna replied, giving an experimental squeeze of their hands, “It’s too cute.”

“Your eyes aren’t open, Anna!” the blonde frowned, disconnecting their hands and giving a rough tug at the tuft of copper hairs that hung across the younger woman’s forehead.

The hero tutted in response, “Stop it.”

“No.”

Feeling brave, Elsa stroked down a freckled cheek and began playing with the wooden piercings (gauges, possibly, she couldn’t remember) that set in Anna’s earlobes—one of the woman’s more sensitive areas.

“Elsa,” she whined.

“Anna.” The blonde hissed back, smirking at the shiver that resulted.

Their symbiosis was beautiful and deadly—fire and ice.

Elsa wondered if Anna had held counsel with The Gods or her sages recently. Were they scolding her for becoming intimately involved with another? From what she had gathered, Anna, like the hero past, was supposed to remain “pure”…

And far away from the sin of kisses, like the ones the blonde had been pressing against the shell of her ear.

Onto a flushed cheek.

The bridge of a button nose.

The scar just over her right eyebrow that disturbed the perfection of a russet eyebrow.

The blonde pressed a firmer kiss on her forehead, pulling away when Anna breathed a sigh against her neck, and looped her arms around her waist and pulled their fronts flush.

Anna would never admit it, but Elsa knew she enjoyed feeling Elsa’s full weight on top of her. Like they were trying to fuse together and melt into the earth.

The short, copper hairs of Anna’s head felt like silk beneath her fingertips, with the only quirk being the thin scar the blonde herself had inflicted while attempting to shave the younger woman’s hair. Anna had laughed and commented how the then-bleeding wound would be her favorite scar.

Artic blue eyes locked onto the headpiece holding the longer, russet strands on the top of Anna’s head in a neat bun—the only reason her hair hadn’t exploded into a fiery mess while asleep. The tempered piece of gold and red metal shaped like flame had been Anna’s final gift from The Gods. For some reason, the hero had been particularly attached to it, possibly because she had been sobbing when Elsa had begun lopping off chunks of hair.

Or maybe it reminded Anna of when they had defiled the sanctity of The Gods’ spring shortly after that particular ceremony.

Whatever the reasoning, Elsa decided she didn’t like it sitting atop the woman’s head like a mark of ownership.

So, her nimble fingers plucked the pin holding it together, heart fluttering pleasantly when the locks drifted free from its hold.

“Elsa?” Anna whispered, confused, yet her hands remained obediently by her side.

The blonde ignored her curious gaze in favor of sitting up and loosening the ribbon holding her golden locks in a loose ponytail, taking the cerulean fabric between her teeth for safe-keeping.

Anna stopped breathing when Elsa leveled her that look—the same one Elsa reserved for when an advisor pissed her off—gingerly looping her silvery hair into the headpiece and placing the pin through the side, never once breaking eye contact. Always the epitome of beauty and grace.

She was shaking like a leaf when Elsa grabbed her hands, guiding them together and slowly looping the ribbon around them.

“You might be hero to The Gods,”

The redhead hissed, fabric cinching tightly against her wrists, and allowed her arms to be guided above her head.

Their noses bumped together, mist materializing between their lips. A smile ghosted over the plush lips hovering above the hero’s own.

“But your adulation is mine.”

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