This was written for Day Four of Helsa Week on Tumblr, although, honestly, this came to me in the form of a random idea that wouldn't leave me alone.
Giving away the idea right away would be a little spoiler-y, so that'll be in the end A/N.
She doesn't ask for his name.
He doesn't give it to her either, doesn't give her much of anything at all, really, as he slides onto the barstool next to her like he's entitled to it.
She tries a "Hello," because it seems like the polite thing to do—and because it's unnerving, the way he's smiling at her, and she'd do anything to get him to stop.
He just smiles wider and she wonders, for a minute, if maybe he hasn't heard her, if maybe the music is washing away her voice, and she's just about to repeat herself—louder, this time—when he returns the greeting.
There's a lilt to his voice, just a little one, like he's concealing a joke in those two syllables, like he's going to say more—and she wants him to—but then he's turning to the bartender, quick and officious and he's ordering a drink—two, actually—before she can even register the sound of his voice.
And then she blinks, and the drink is sitting in front of her, ice cubes clinking in the glass.
And still, he smiles.
She stares, because she's not the kind of girl who gets drinks bought for her, because, frankly, she's not even the kind of girl who drinks at all. She tells him as much and watches the corner of his lips twitch against a suppressed laugh.
"Well, forgive me. But you are sitting at a bar."
She consents, then, picks up the drink and takes a sip, because it's easier than getting into the reason why she's here, because that would involve Anna, that would involve possibly telling him about the phone call from the airport, the one where she had expected joy and relief and not Oh, Elsa, I thought you weren't coming back until Monday and I already made plans and then, like an afterthought—though she's pretty sure that Anna was completely aware of how it sounded—You've been gone six months, one more day won't matter.
Too much detail for a stranger without a name.
So she tries a thank you instead and takes another sip before holding out her hand.
She doesn't ask for his name when she gives him hers, because it doesn't really matter, but there's a small flicker of recognition in his eyes, a knitting tension between his brows, one that makes her frown in return. It passes quickly as he offers a "Nice to meet you," and drains his drink, setting it down on the bar and summoning another.
It makes sense, at the moment, that small dawning realization in his eyes, because she is the heir to one of Arendelle's biggest companies—even if the past six months have been spent in Corona, helping the company's sister branch get off the ground—and, besides, she doesn't recognize him from any other part of her life.
And he isn't hard to miss, really, with the sideburns and the freckles and the handsome way his face splits into a grin when he asks if he can buy her another drink—which, eventually, she says yes to, thought it takes a moment—and she surmises that she would know him, if she had met him before.
She distantly registers that he's wearing a suit, or, rather, most of a suit—pants and tie and crisp white button-down-and when she cranes around him, she can see the jacket neatly folded on top of another barstool, and so she finds herself wondering aloud if he's a businessman, or a lawyer, perhaps.
The way his nose crinkles on lawyer makes her laugh and he smiles at that before admitting that, yes, he is a businessman. "Of a sort."
"Of a sort?"
He nods and says no more, just that it's terribly monotonous and I wouldn't want to drive you away with too many boring details. She makes the mistake of nodding, of saying I know what you mean, before she realizes that even saying that is saying too much, especially to a stranger, but it's too late, because he's turned towards her now, eyebrows raised, leaning a casual elbow on the bar.
So she finds herself admitting that she's actually in business too—Of a sort, she echoes, which makes him grin even wider—but that, honestly, she wouldn't have chosen it if she'd had a choice.
He's quiet for a while, biting his lip between his teeth, rolling the ice cubes around his empty glass, and then he cocks his head to the side and looks at her—really looks at her, which is something she can't honestly say most people do.
"What would you do, then? If you had a choice."
Her automatic reaction is to shrug, because no one has ever asked what she wants to do, because everyone-Mama, Papa, even Anna—always assumed she'd be the perfect girl and take over the family business, while Anna would help if she could—if she wanted to—with the freedom to do anything else.
And so, she finds herself blurting "I'd like to trade places with Anna," before she can stop herself.
He quirks one eyebrow at that but says nothing, waving over the bartender who sets down two new drinks in front of them. He watches her take a long sip from her glass before he speaks.
"You can sure knock 'em back for someone who said she wasn't into drinking." He smirks at his own quip and she frowns, half-considering grabbing her things and leaving, but he must sense that, because he places a gentle hand on her forearm—though it isn't too gentle, she notes, because his fingers are pressing white into her skin.
"Anna's your sister?"
Maybe it's the third drink in her hand, or the curious look in his eyes, but she finds herself affirming Yes, she's my sister, before she begins absolutely babbling about Anna, about the company, about the six months in Corona and how they were possibly the best in her life, about how she would like to have stayed there if she hadn't been feeling like a terrible sister.
He listens the entire time. At some point—right about the point, in fact, that she sharply jerks her arm off the bar as she tells him about the phone call—he shifts his hand to her knee in a way he must think is reassuring. It lies there, burning through the fabric of her skirt, hot and gentle and uncomfortable.
She doesn't shrug him off.
The fourth drink—and she orders this one herself—brings up her parents, for a reason she can't possibly fathom, her parents and how she was sure they loved her, but that they were probably disappointed in her, because she wasn't as perfect as they would have liked and unlike her therapist—who had tried to offer a pithy Well, no one's perfect—he sits perfectly still and listens, eyes fixed resolutely on her face.
She finishes, abruptly, and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, waiting for him to say something.
He doesn't. He doesn't, actually, do much of anything—though his hand shifts on her knee like he wants to move it—but continue to watch her, head tilted to the side.
Her drink is empty, now, and her heart is beginning to throb in her chest. Her arms wrap around her body automatically—holding, hugging—and she's just beginning to wonder if it's possible to have made herself look like a bigger freak in front of a total stranger, when he leans closer.
"I understand, Elsa."
She doesn't really like the sound of her name in his mouth, the way it falls so casually in the air, but then he leans even closer—and moves his hand even higher— and presses his lips to hers and she decides that she likes that just fine.
He kisses her again while he slides his hand up her thigh.
She doesn't ask for his name.
She doesn't ask for his name, either, when they're pulling up to his apartment, or later, when he's unlocking the door, or even when he pushes her against the wall and hikes up her skirt.
Instead, she lets him tug her blouse over her head, wraps her legs around him and lets his hands grab her thighs and squeeze, lets him scrape his teeth across her pulse point, lets herself pretend this is okay because she doesn't have to do this, but she wants to.
It's only when he slips his tongue inside her mouth, when he tugs her panties aside and thrusts into her, when his hips slam against hers, hard—too hard, and she sinks her teeth into his neck like a warning—it's only then that she realizes that she's finally getting something she wants.
(Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thinks that she should thank Anna for being too busy tonight.)
(Somewhere, too, she thinks it's funny that she's getting what she wants and she doesn't even know him.)
She comes as he sucks her earlobe between his teeth and bites, and he follows with one final crash of his hips, breathing her name against her neck, shuttering her cries with a kiss.
She doesn't ask for his name.
She learns it, eventually.
He's sitting in her apartment a few days later, the one she shares with Anna—though, really, she's never there, so sometimes she forgets it's even her place—and her first thought is that he's been looking for her or that she left something at the bar, or that, maybe, he wanted to see her again.
She says "Hello," and starts to smile, just a little, but then he smirks, cold and awful and it makes her stomach sink. She's just about to apologize, to say that she thought he was someone else, when Anna waltzes into the room.
She has a spoon in her hand and an apron tied around her waist and she rises on her tiptoes and kisses him before turning to Elsa with a smile, before twining her fingers with his, before leading him over, before proudly announcing, "This is the guy I've been telling you about!"
The only thing that crosses Elsa's mind for one long blank second is that she has no idea what Anna is talking about, and she almost tells her as much before Anna adds—bouncing on her toes like this is the moment she's been waiting for—that Didn't you read the e-mails, silly? and We've been dating for months!
And then, it's like someone has shot her through the brain and she remembers now, remembers the e-mails piling in her inbox, frequent at first and then less so, less so once Anna realized that Elsa wasn't really into responding, and she remembers, amidst the updates about the company, updates about Anna, about I met this great guy, and His names is Hans and then, Y'know, Westergard, our company's biggest competitor!
(A businessman. Of a sort.)
She feels something like white-hot panic bubble in her chest and fights the urge to wrap her arms around herself, because Anna would know then that something was wrong, so she sucks a cold breath in between her teeth, clenches her fists, and smiles.
She lets her eyes flick to Hans now, to find him watching her, to find his lips held tight against a smirk, and she grits her teeth and holds her hand out and offers what she hopes is a pleasant "Nice to meet you, Hans,"—and thinks it would've been nice if these e-mails had included a picture, that maybe some sort of visual reference would've stopped her from fucking her sister's boyfriend.
(She really wishes, now, that she would've asked his name, but even that wouldn't have done a thing, because it would be a lie to say that she actually remembered anything about these e-mails from Anna.)
Anna practically beams at the superficial cordiality going on in front of her—even as Elsa is squeezing his hand as tight as she can, even as he raises one perfectly royal eyebrow at her, running his tongue over his teeth—and then the microwave beeps somewhere in the distance.
"I'll go get it—," Elsa tries, but Anna dashes away first, tells them that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, that You two can get to know each other while I'm gone!
Elsa waits exactly five seconds after Anna disappears around the corner before she brushes past him and out of the room.
But she can feels his eyes burning into her back, can hear his footsteps against the floor, and before she can slam her bedroom door in his face, he pushes in after her, flipping the lock with a deft flick of his wrist.
Her open palm connects with his face before he can say anything, but he catches her wrist in one crushing hand before she can hit him again and then she is screaming at him—though it's a closeted sort of screaming, hissed through her lips, fully aware of just who is around the corner—screaming while he smirks at her, while his teeth split into a Cheshire grin, smiling as she asks just what the fuck his problem is, that Didn't you know who I was?
He laughs at that, hollow and dark and it sends a chill prickling up her spine.
"Of course I did. I'm not stupid."
"But you're dating my sister."
He nods at that, nods and crosses his arms across his chest and leans back against the door like he's bored.
"Yes, and you would've known that if you actually talked to Anna."
Her lips open and close at that, soundlessly, because it's true, it is, and yet, it's none of his business.
"And besides," he continues, and his eyes catch the overhead light as he looks at her, glinting poisonous green. "What kind of person fucks a complete stranger?"
She doesn't even grace that with a reply—not even an I could ask you the same thing—because whatever he would have to say in return would no doubt be similarly disgusting, so she turns away from him and folds her arms across her body.
"I won't tell Anna. You won't tell Anna. It's that simple."
"You think so?"
It's phrased like a statement and she can hear the smile in his voice and she feels, rather than hears, him come nearer to her, feels it in the sensation of heat that radiates across her back, in the breath that ghosts across her neck like a laugh when she says that yes, she does, in fact, think so.
"Oh, Elsa." He laughs for real now, and it rumbles in the space where his chest meets her back. His thumb smoothes a pattern across her shoulder—and she really wishes, right now, that she hadn't worn this dress, because there's nothing separating the rough touch of his hand from her skin, nothing to hide the goosebumps that are rising on her back.
His lips press against the spot behind her ear, the spot that makes her legs shake even as she keeps her voice level, even as she tells him that she doesn't understand what he's doing, why he'd want her when he has Anna and he laughs at that, laughs into her ear even as one of his hands drifts around her hip.
"I know you don't understand, Elsa." He fails to keep the condescending edge out of his voice and now she really doesn't like the slick way his lips slide over her name, or the way his teeth scrape over her neck but then her body is betraying her—because she does like it—and her thighs start to tremble, and the arm he wraps around her middle to steady her doesn't help.
He breathes into her ear even as his hand slides down her leg and then up again, dragging her dress up with it, and he murmurs "You see, there's something I need from you," even as his hand reaches between her thighs and his fingers slide into her panties, and then he is touching her there and her hips buck against his hand, and she has just enough time to bury the sound that rips from her throat before she remembers Anna.
But when she reminds him, with a hitch in her voice as his fingers slide against her, he laughs against her neck, "She's making dinner, remember," and then he pushes two fingers inside her as he adds, "We have twenty minutes."
His teeth graze across her earlobe as his fingers slide in and out, as he continues, "There's something I need from you", as his thumb brushes against the spot that makes her hips jerk, as she comes—hard—and muffles the sound against her wrist.
He takes his hand from her, slowly, and waits until she's pulled her dress back into place and has turned to face him before he finishes with a smirk, "And I think there's something you need from me, too."
"What makes you think that?" She tries to sound cool and controlled even though her thighs are still shaking, even though there's a sticky wetness between her legs, even though Anna is on the other side of the apartment.
His reply is a grin, all white pointed teeth, and then he takes his fingers and cleans them with his tongue, slowly, laughing when her face flames with embarrassment.
What he needs, he tells her, once he's done, is her company—she balks at that and he immediately backtracks, explaining, not the company, per say, but your company's help, and when she narrows her eyes and purses her lips, he says there's time for details later.
He puts a nasty little inflection on later, tongue running over his top teeth, but before she can say anything, Anna's calling them from the kitchen, Dinner's ready, c'mon!
Elsa notices, then, that even though his teeth are bared in a smirk, his face is red and flushed and he's still half hard, so she takes extra care to press up against him as she pushes past to exit the room, enjoying the small sound he makes in the back of his throat when her backside rubs against his front.
She stops, just outside the threshold of the door.
"Are you sure that's the only thing you need from me?"
The small crease that forms between his eyebrows is the only answer he gives.
It's the only one she needs.
She didn't ask for his name.
She knows it now, of course, breathes it into his neck as he moves above her, as his fingers dance across her hipbones, as he sinks his teeth into her shoulder and bites.
She knows it, too, when Anna talks about him, about Oh, you'll have to meet his brothers and We just had the most wonderful date, and, lately, You'll have to help me plan the wedding!
But when she searches for the gnawing sense of guilt that should be weighing in her chest, she can't find it.
She should've asked for his name.
Well, hindsight's always twenty-twenty.
A/N: Thank you for reading!
The idea that sparked this: Essentially, my mind was like "what if Elsa and Hans slept together before Elsa knew who Hans was, and that he was dating Anna?" and it spiraled out of control from there.