"Anna," he hisses during the middle of the night, waking her up in a confused state of panic.
"Wha…?" she raises her infamous mass of bedhead and glances around her. "Wha's wrong? Kristoff?" she slurs.
She finds him bent over her legs, her feet propped up on his lap.
"Your feet are freezing." He accuses, rubbing his hands together for friction before placing them on her icy toes.
Her breathing steadies after she spends a few sleepy moments registering what he just said.
"Oh Kristoff," she flops down on her back, sighing tiredly. "Don't ever scare me like that again. I thought somebody died or something."
"Why didn't you tell me you were cold?"
Already her feet feel worlds better, salvaged from a chill that hadn't affected her sleep in the slightest.
"Because it's February. We're in a stone castle. It gets cold. It's no big deal. Now let me go back to sleep."
She never liked to admit she loved his overprotective side at some moments, because it only encouraged situations like this.
He grips her ankle, giving her leg a slight tug to regain her attention.
"Your feet were like ice," He says softly, glancing at the small bare foot in his lap, "I just…I just can't not take that as a big deal. I wake up and you're shivering and… I hate seeing you like that, okay?"
At this, she rises back to her elbows, the dim light from the moon slightly illuminating her face, biting her lip with guilt.
He sighs, his big, attentive eyes never missing anything she does, and grabs one of her hands to hold in his.
"I shouldn't snap at you over this. It's not your fault. I just, want to make sure you're okay, and that you're safe, and… warm enough."
His face twists up nervously at the confession, they've never been good at communicating this stuff; it either came out in a rushed blur or not at all.
She squeezes his hand, now fully awake whether she wanted to be or not, and stared at his face contemplatively.
"Alright," she says causally, releasing his hand and dropping back against the pillows, "Warm me up."
The challenge is so, so delicately poised between them, about to teeter over and barrel towards him with her intentions, and they've both gotten much better at getting double meanings over the last few months. Quicker than she expected, surprising her somehow, he grabs her waist, hovering his body over hers. She craves his weight on top of her body, but the moments before he lays himself down where just hovers like a predator are all the better for riling her up.
Her eyes glimmer with the alertness spreading through her brain. She's awake now, that's for certain, and she holds her hands to his face, warming his cheeks.
"Your skin is cold," She accuses teasingly.
He shakes his head in her grasp, dropping his gaze to hide the flush spreading across his face. She giggles, nuzzling his face with hers. Her hands draw him down to blanket her body with his, tingles spreading through her spine at the contact of all of his body over all of her body. He uses his hands to create friction. He's used to numb fingers and cold noses, so much that he doesn't notice them on himself. But he's training his fingers to the feel of her body, when it flushes with rushing blood and eager nerves and when she lies in a curled ball, willing the sun to offer some comfort. Well, at night, they have little faith in the sun until morning. Kristoff will have to act on its behalf.
She clings to him as his grinding against her body progressively has less and less layers covering it, and finally once they've slid skirts up and pants down and all in-between aside, he's filling her with slow, deep thrusts that have sparks flickering in her spine. His face nuzzles hers, savoring her flushed skin against his, her warm panting brushing his lips and ears. His hands make eager work of hardened nipples and the terrain of her spine, working the chills out until all that is left is a pooling warmth that makes her head thick with pleasure.
Her placeholder sun, her fire in a blizzard, her warmth. She wants to smother herself with him, the fur at his chest and the warmth on his skin and the body that is both soft and hard, when his limbs and torso surrender and soften hiding the hard planes of muscle underneath.
He has a good hold of her legs, working her over with his cock as she mewls and lets out quiet whimpers in his ear. He's using a lot of strength but also is incredibly gentle with his touch. There is no tension in his hands as he strokes them over her thighs, his grip won't loosen but it is nimbly relaxed.
She lies, her limbs dancing underneath him, feet trying to gain traction on the sheets so she can jack her hips up to meet his thrusts. Her hands grab at whatever offers a good hold for her, she feels as though she's climbing a cliff and all her footholds slip under her feet. Still, his thrusts are steady and rolling, a lullaby against her body. It eases her efforts until she lies against his tide, rising and falling into her body.
She accepts every kiss he offers her. He loves when her wildness is eventually tamed under his influence, she's too heady with need and in a trance of pleasure to buck and grind against him.
He adjusts her hips to brush his cock along the place inside her they don't speak about but both know, dragging his pelvis carefully whenever her leaves her to grant her clit attention with his body. the force of his sex is winding down to deliberate acts of pleasuring her, and when they build a rhythm that was she's suddenly grinding and whimpering again, then moaning, them smothering herself with his lips and tongue as her walls clench around him, while something with the force of an avalanche rolls though her body. He follows her clenching walls down her fall, and they cum together; she has to thank his attentiveness and attention and over-protective intentions for that. That he learned her body so well, so he could put her first.
He noses her face gently, curiously, for approval. She tangles her fingers in his hair, smiling sleepily. Her sated face is enough of an answer and he pulls her to his chest, spooning their bodies. He brushes her sweaty bangs from her brow, kissing her cheek as she grows limp for exhaustion. It's a good tired, a familiar tired that assures her that sleep will come soon.
"You know, most men would just fetch me socks and call it a night," she teases, lazily drawing closer to him.
He laughs in spite himself, pressing his brow to her shoulder. "Do you need them?"
She closes her eyes. "I'm sweating all over, Kristoff," she chuckles breathily, her voice gaining that flat quality that it gets when she's tired, humor still there but no energy behind it.
"Well…I'm glad that worked." He kisses her shoulder blade before cuddling her in his big arms.
"Yeah that was…pretty effective."
"Glad you thought so."
"You still worry too much."
"You'll never have to see that again. What happened to me. I'm going to be okay." Her eyes are open again when she says this. He watches her face carefully, his expression softening.
"I know. I just get scared."
"It's okay to be scared. Just don't worry so much."
"I'll work on it."
There's a silent stillness, as clean and untouched as a fresh layer of snow, and they savor it for a moment. He presses his lips to her temple.
"I just don't want to lose you." He says quietly, in a tender little voice that makes her think of a child.
"I'm not going anywhere." She draws his hand to her heart, to feel her pulse. Still thundering in her chest, thudding with life, pumping with warmth.
He'd always manage to warm her heart.