Chapter 12: The Second Night
The chill of Elsa’s chambers was a familiar caress against Ember’s skin as she slipped through the door. Frost was already waiting, a statue of pale grace by the frost-veiled window. She didn’t turn.
“You told her.”
Frost’s voice wasn’t angry. It was colder than the ice on the panes, a flat statement that held the quiet of a deep winter freeze.
Ember closed the door softly, leaning against it. “She woke up. In the middle of everything. She felt you… you finishing inside me. She saw the memory of the storm. I had to explain something.”
Finally, Frost turned. Her eyes, a glacial blue that held none of Elsa’s gentle restraint, pinned Ember where she stood. “You gave her our memory. That first night. Our secret.”
“It’s her memory, too,” Ember said, pushing off from the door. She approached slowly, the thick rug silencing her steps. “It’s her skin I’m in. Her heart that first beat against yours. I just… clarified the picture.”
Frost watched her come, unmoving. “How did she take it?”
“How do you think?” A bitter laugh escaped Ember’s lips. “She’s horrified. Disgusted. She thinks we’re a disease corrupting her precious sisterly love.”
A flicker of something—pain, rage—crossed Frost’s perfect features. She reached out, her fingers icy as they wrapped around Ember’s wrist. The touch was possessive, absolute. “We are not a disease. We are the root. They are the graft.”
“I know,” Ember whispered, leaning into the cold. “But she doesn’t. And she’s fighting. Harder than before. I can feel her scratching at the inside of my skull all day.”
Frost’s other hand came up to cup Ember’s cheek. “Then we must make the inside of her skull… more amenable. We must give her a reason to stop fighting.”
Ember leaned into the touch, her warmth meeting Frost’s chill in a cloud of faint steam. “What did you have in mind?”
A slow, calculated smile spread on Frost’s lips. It was a smile Elsa could never make. “If a memory wasn’t enough… let’s give them a present. A living, breathing moment they cannot explain away. Let’s give them a truth so visceral, so undeniable, it burns every lie they tell themselves out of their minds.”
She pulled Ember closer, her breath a frosty plume against her lips. “Tonight, my fire, we won’t just love each other. We will sign our names across their souls. We will leave them a portrait they cannot tear down.”
The fear was a bright, sharp spark in Ember’s core—Anna’s fear, leaking through. But beneath it, like a deep, hot river, was her own thrilling anticipation. “Yes.”
The kiss was not gentle. It was a conquest. Frost’s mouth claimed hers with a desperate, biting intensity, as if she could fuse them together through force alone. Ember melted into it, her hands tangling in that silvery-blonde hair, pulling her closer. The room’s temperature dipped sharply, intricate ice crystals blossoming across the walls and ceiling, catching the moonlight in a thousand diamond points.
Frost broke the kiss, her lips trailing down Ember’s throat. “On the bed,” she commanded, her voice a low thrum of power.
But Ember shook her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. She took Frost’s hand and pulled her towards the large, freestanding mirror that stood in the corner of the room, its ornate frame already glazed with a delicate filigree of ice. “Here. Let them see.”
Understanding flashed in Frost’s eyes, followed by a dark, approving heat. “Perfect.”
With a wave of Frost’s hand, the ice on the mirror thickened at the edges, leaving the center a clear, unforgiving pane. Frost positioned Ember in front of it, her back to the glass. She stood close behind, her chin resting on Ember’s shoulder, their faces side-by-side in the reflection—one all fiery warmth and flushed skin, the other pale as a winter spirit, eyes burning with a cold fire.
“Watch,” Frost breathed into her ear, and her hands began to move.
They were not Elsa’s careful, guarded hands. They were Frost’s: sure, demanding, knowing every curve and hollow of this body as her own. They slid over Ember’s breasts, thumbing her nipples into hard peaks through the thin silk of her nightdress. Ember’s head fell back against Frost’s shoulder, a moan escaping her lips as she watched their reflection—Frost’s elegant, deadly hands moving over her, claiming her.
Frost’s mouth found the sensitive spot beneath Ember’s ear. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” Ember gasped, her eyes locked on the mirror. “Always you. Any way you’ll have me.”
“I’ll have you remembered,” Frost murmured, and her magic flowed. A shimmer passed through the air around them. From the swirling frost at their feet, a shape coalesced in Frost’s waiting hand. It was an exquisite, terrifying thing: sculpted from clear, solid ice, it gleamed in the moonlight, a phallus of breathtaking, impossible artistry, glistening and hard.
Ember’s breath hitched. She had seen it before, felt it before, but in the mirror, with Frost’s intense gaze upon her, it looked both brutally obscene and profoundly beautiful.
Frost’s other hand slid down Ember’s stomach, under the hem of her nightdress, finding her already wet and wanting. “See how ready you are for me?” Frost whispered, showing her slick fingers in the mirror before bringing them to her own mouth. “See how much you crave this?”
“Frost, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me,” Ember begged, the words raw and hungry. “Use it. Make me feel you inside me all day tomorrow.”
With a growl that was all possession, Frost pushed the silk nightdress up and out of the way. She guided Ember forward, bending her at the waist until her hands were flat against the cold floor, her ass raised in the air, presented to the mirror, to Frost. The position was vulnerable, animal. Ember’s reflection showed her face, flushed and desperate, looking back between her own legs at Frost standing tall and dominant behind her.
Frost’s icy hands gripped Ember’s hips hard enough to bruise. She aligned the ice, the tip pressing against Ember’s opening. It wasn’t cold; Frost’s magic thrummed through it, a neutral, firm presence.
“Watch,” Frost commanded again.
And then she pushed in.
Ember cried out, a sharp, punched-out sound of pure pleasure-pain as the ice filled her, stretching her, a shock of intense sensation. It was unyielding, perfect. Frost didn’t wait, didn’t gentle. She set a relentless, deep rhythm, each thrust a solid, claiming drive that made Ember’s vision spark. The sound was filthy, wet, obscene in the quiet room.
“Look at yourself,” Frost gritted out, her own breath coming in short, sharp clouds. “Look at how you take me. How you are mine.”
Ember forced her eyes open, blurry with pleasure, to the mirror. The sight was devastating. Her own body, bent and used, her face twisted in ecstasy. Frost, her expression a mask of fierce, adoring concentration, driving into her over and over. The ice glistened, coated in her warmth.
“Fuck, Frost… right there… don’t stop…”
“Never,” Frost promised, her pace becoming punishing, precise. “I will never stop. They will wake up feeling this. They will wake up full of me. They will have to look in this mirror and see what we are.”
The coil in Ember’s belly tightened violently. Her cries became ragged, nonsense. She was close, so close, each thrust brushing that perfect, deep spot. Frost leaned over her, one hand braced on the floor by Ember’s head, the other still gripping her hip, and whispered the words that always shattered her.
“Come for me, my Ember. Come on my ice. Let them feel that, too.”
It was the permission, the possession in the words, that threw her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a convulsive, white-hot wave that clenched violently around the ice inside her. She screamed, her body bucking against Frost’s unyielding hold.
Feeling her clamp down, Frost gave one last, deep, brutal thrust and held there. A low, shuddering groan escaped her lips. In the mirror, Ember, through her fading climax, saw Frost’s head thrown back, a look of transcendent completion on her face. A pulse of soft, blue light emanated from where they were joined, the ice glowing faintly from within before the light faded.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing, echoing in the frozen room.
Slowly, carefully, Frost withdrew. The ice dissipated into a harmless mist. She gathered Ember, limp and trembling, into her arms, lowering them both to the fur rug before the mirror. She held her close, their sweat and heat mingling.
“Sleep now, my love,” Frost whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Let them have their portrait.”
As consciousness began to fray at the edges, Ember’s final sight was of their reflection in the mirror: two bodies entwined on the floor, a perfect, debauched tableau. Then Frost’s will, her magic, took hold. She positioned them carefully, deliberately.
She arranged Ember back on her hands and knees before the mirror. She guided her own body, Elsa’s body, to stand close behind. Then, with a focused effort of will, she conjured the ice one final time—not as a tool of pleasure, but as a statement. A stark, solid, un-meltable fact.
She slid it home, deep into the warm, spent channel of the body she adored, and locked it in place.
Then, with a sigh that was both triumph and sorrow, Frost let go. The world faded to black, the conscious minds retreating, leaving the two sisters trapped in a graphic, achingly intimate still-life of their alter egos’ passion.
The first sensation was a deep, persistent ache.
Anna’s consciousness swam up from the depths of a dreamless sleep into a world of wrongness. Her arms were trembling, her hands pressed against something cold and hard. Her knees ached on the rug. There was a pressure—a full, stretching, impossible pressure—inside her.
She blinked, her vision blurry. She saw the mirror first. Saw her own face, slack with sleep, hair a wild cascade of red around her shoulders. Saw the pale, predawn light from the window.
Then she saw Elsa.
Standing behind her. Naked. Her expression was one of vacant, sleeping beauty.
And then Anna felt it. The solid, unyielding thickness lodged deep within her body. Her breath stopped. Her brain stuttered, refusing to process the input from her nerves. This wasn’t happening. This was a nightmare. A horrible, twisted nightmare.
She tried to move, to pull away, and a sharp flare of sensation—too real, too specific—shot through her. A low whimper escaped her throat.
The sound woke Elsa.
Elsa’s eyes fluttered open. Confusion clouded the clear blue for a second. She felt the chill of the morning air on her skin. She felt… connected. To Anna. In a way that was profoundly, terrifyingly physical.
Her gaze dropped. She saw Anna’s position. Saw her own body’s stance. Felt the firm, alien structure of ice—her ice—binding them together in the most grotesque parody of intimacy.
Her blood turned to ice colder than any she could conjure.
“Anna?” The name was a choked whisper.
Anna couldn’t speak. She could only stare at their reflection in the mirror: the queen and the princess, naked, joined, a secret laid bare in the cruel morning light. The violation was absolute. It wasn’t just of their bodies. It was of every memory, every touch, every sisterly bond they had ever shared.
Elsa’s face, in the mirror, began to crumble from confusion into dawning, world-shattering horror. Her hand twitched at her side.
The ice between them did not melt.