She doesn't feel the cold. She is aware that it exists, of course. It is an extension of her. If she stretches her mind, she can touch everything in the palace, feel the slickness of the walls, hear the centuries-old ice beneath her creak like a ship at sea, taste the snow crystals as they fall on the spires. It is all part of her, sparkling glistening white as far as the eye can see. Clean. Beautiful. Deadly.
The Snow Queen can smell the hunter long before he is dragged into the throne room. The hot animal smell of blood, so different to the sterile purity of the ice. She feels the heavy beat of his heart and it stirs an echo in her. His breath sounds harshly, resonating from the carved pillars, another sharp contrast. Her minions drag the man up to the dais and fling him to the ground. They are almost indistinguishable from their surroundings, these creatures of ice and magic, and they are rendered closer to invisibility by the solid presence of the human. His furs look almost black against the ice.
At a gesture, the Snow Queen's servants slink away and she descends from the platform to view her latest captive. She can feel the heat pouring off him, coiling into her as she extends one white hand to grab his hair and tilt his head up. The first thing in his eyes is fury and she drinks it in like the best wine. And then as he realises, truly realises, where he is and who he faces, the rage drains away to be replaced by a heady mix of fear and awe. The Snow Queen releases her grip and motions for him to stand. He is nearly as tall as her and he keeps his head up as he stares at her, pupils wide like the trapped animal that he is. She brings her hand to his hair again, running the coarse strands through her fingers. With a predatory smile, the Snow Queen pulls his head back hard and runs her tongue across the pulse beat in his throat. He gasps and the sound rings loud around the throne room. When she turns from him and walks towards her chamber, there is no question that he will follow her.
Her chamber is the same glacial white as the throne room, but small enough to allow the tiniest hint of blue into the shadows. The bed is carved directly from the ice with twisted pillars rising to the ceiling. Although they look delicate, they are strong as iron. Should she need to tether her captive – and she has done so in the past – there would be no chance of him escaping. She may bind him later but right now he is ensnared by her beauty and the memory of her mouth on his throat. He moves to her as if she has pulled on an invisible leash but does not try to touch her. It would be sacrilege to do so without her permission. Slowly, the Snow Queen pushes the furs from his shoulders and his clumsy fingers follow her deft ones, dropping his clothing to lie forgotten. Although his face and hands are tanned, the rest of his body is pale, a slight fan of dark hair spreading across the lean planes of his chest and down. Goose bumps spring up on his exposed skin and he begins to shiver. She leans into him, savouring the warmth of his body, and places her lips firmly against his.
- the first, to take away cold –
The kiss is brief and the man has barely time to register the cool of her mouth before it is gone. She steps back from him, unfastening her robe and throwing it negligently onto the bed where it blends seamlessly with the white fur of the covers. Then, and only then, does she turn to look at the mirror.
It is not a true mirror, of course, but a sheet of clear ice flooded with magic, almost filling one wall of the room. It reflects her and the human with crystal clarity despite the low light. The Snow Queen admires the image that they make. Next to her marble pallor, his skin looks flushed with colour. Glittering tattoos twist across her body, too faint to see their proper pattern but accentuating every curve and plane. Her long white hair ripples as she turns her head. The only real colour is in her eyes, lilac-blue as the deep shadows in the ice. The man is staring at her with desire and reverence, longing to run his hands along the silk of her flesh. Still looking in the mirror, the Snow Queen closes the gap and smoothes her hand over the man's chest, then up across his shoulder. He glances at her in the mirror and then, greatly daring, brings a trembling hand to hover over her breast. The Snow Queen's mouth curves in triumph and she leans forward into his touch, curling her hand around his neck. As his hand, bolder now, explores her breast, his fingers leave the softest trace of pink, stroking warmth into her skin. She lets her head roll back, and he takes the invitation, kissing the graceful column of her neck until he reaches her mouth.
- the second, to take away memory –
There is nothing chaste or hurried about this kiss. His mouth is locked against hers, tasting her, devouring. He wraps an arm around her waist while his other hand pinches her nipples hard. She can feel his arousal hot and demanding against her hip. He slides his hand down from her breasts, gliding it softly across her stomach and parts her legs, long fingers probing into the slick cleft of her sex while his tongue dances with hers. Sometimes, the Snow Queen will take her time playing with a captive but not this time, she decides. She winds both hands into his hair, wrenching his mouth away from hers and pushing him to his knees. Obedient to her unspoken command, he reverently cups her buttocks in his hands and traces the curves of her hipbones with his lips. She tightens her hands in his hair as she feels his searing tongue delve inside her and gazes over his bend head at the mirrored wall, watching the glow of the crystal tattoos spread from the point of contact. Tempting as it is to remain here, she wants more from this captive, so she pulls his head away and motions him onto the bed.
Deep layers of white fur cushion the man as he lies back, keeping his back away from the ice. Not that the Snow Queen cares about his comfort, but she would not want anything to distract him from her now. He knows his place, knows that he is there to be used but the second kiss took away any notion that he was anything other than her devoted slave. She runs a pearlescent fingernail down the straining length of his member and gives a feral smile as the man groans softly. She has waited long enough, though. She straddles him, taking his arousal inside her. He grips her hips in firm hands and she allows this because it pulls him all the deeper. Her nails score his shoulders, the lines she draws not blood-red but the same crystal ice as her tattoos. As her desire reaches its peak, she leans forward over the man and lays her mouth almost tenderly over his, a lover's kiss, drinking in the awareness, the heat, the vitality of him, giving him one last gift.
- the third, to take away breath –
The Snow Queen arches back sharply, her hair brushing the man's thighs, colour spiralling across her skin as she cries out. There is nothing human in the sound. It echoes around the chamber and the man's moan of release is shattered by it. Slowly, the Snow Queen runs a finger down her abdomen, watching the healthy flush of colour fade back to white. As she moves, the man's hand on her hip falls to his side, limp, the fingernails tinted blue. Frost starts to form over his open eyes and his cold flesh is as pale as hers.
The Snow Queen pulls a fur from the bed and wraps it around herself. She does not look in the mirror again.
Author's Note: Written as a gift fic for celticwitch_0 on LJ who wanted a "kinky and perverse" Snow Queen story with prompt objects of furs and mirrors.
I do not own the Snow Queen, which is a bit of a relief, really.