Chapter 4: Confusion & Memories
The water had long gone cold. Anna sat hunched in the copper tub, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the goosebumps on her arms. She’d scrubbed her skin raw, but the feeling remained. A phantom warmth. A deep, lingering ache between her legs that echoed with every slight shift.
Elsa’s face, pale and shattered in the dawn light, was burned onto the back of her eyelids.
What did we do?
She had asked the question. She still had no answer. Only the evidence written on her body: the tender bruises on her hips, the soreness of her breasts, the swollen, sensitive feel of her own lips. A weird, crawling shame fought with a sharper, more confusing thrill. Her body remembered a pleasure her mind could not. It was a betrayal from within.
She climbed out, shivering, and wrapped herself in a thick robe. Her room felt alien. The cheerful tapestries seemed to leer. The tidy desk was a mockery. She crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head, wanting the dark to swallow her whole.
Sleep, when it came, was not an escape. It was an invasion.
She didn’t dream. She remembered.
The memory was not her own. It was older, simpler. She was five. Elsa was eight. They were in the old nursery, the one with the vaulted ceiling. A storm raged outside, and little Anna was afraid of the thunder. She’d crept into Elsa’s bed.
“I’m scared,” young Anna whimpered.
“It’s just noise,” Elsa whispered, but her voice was tight. A crack of lightning lit the room. In the flash, Anna saw the panic in her sister’s eyes, the way her hands clutched the blankets. Elsa was scared too. But not of the storm. Of herself.
Another bolt struck. Elsa flinched, and a spark of blue light shot from her fingertips, dusting the bedpost with glittering frost.
Anna gasped. Not in fear. In wonder. “Pretty!”
The fear in Elsa’s eyes softened, just for a second. She looked at the frost, then at Anna’s awestruck face. A fragile, unseen thing settled between them in the dark. Elsa’s magic had always been a cause for separation, a reason for doors to close. But in that instant, it became a secret shared. A bridge.
From the warmth of Anna’s admiration, a new warmth bloomed in Elsa’s chest. A flicker of pride. A spark of protection so fierce it felt hot. That spark, in the sleeping Elsa, did not vanish with the dawn. It retreated. It grew. It became a separate ember, banked in the depths of her psyche. And from Anna’s instinctive, fearless acceptance, a counterpart took root—a bold, curious little flame that longed to get closer to that beautiful, dangerous cold.
They were just seeds. Fragile, sleeping things. They were Frost and Ember, in their infancy.
The memory shifted, blurred, years slipping past in a cascade of hidden glances and accidental touches—Elsa brushing Anna’s hair, her hand lingering a second too long; Anna leaning into Elsa’s side during a scary story, feeling her sister’s breath hitch. Each tiny, unacknowledged moment fed the sleeping entities within them.
Then, the memory crystallized, sharp and vast. The Great Thaw. The castle gates swinging open. The feeling was a torrent—relief, love, a joy so profound it was painful. That night, after the celebration, after the doors were finally, truly open, they slept. Exhausted. Hopeful. Together in Elsa’s room for the first time in over a decade.
And in that sleep, Frost and Ember awoke, fully formed.
Anna—Ember—felt the transition like a sigh. The clumsy, waking-world anxiety fell away. She stretched, feeling her body not as a burden, but as a instrument of warmth. She turned in the big bed. Beside her, Elsa—no, Frost—was already watching, her pale eyes no longer fearful, but dark and intent as a winter lake.
“Hello,” Frost breathed, the word misting in the air between them.
Ember smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. “Took you long enough.” She reached out, tracing the line of Frost’s jaw with a single finger. A trail of shimmering rime followed her touch. “All those years, locked away. So lonely.”
Frost caught her wrist. The cold was a shock, but not unpleasant. It was an anchor. “I’m not lonely now.”
They moved together like a current pulling into a tide. There was no hesitation, no guilt. This was their domain, their truth. Frost’s mouth found Ember’s, and the kiss was not sweet. It was claiming. It was cold lips parting, a tongue that tasted of peppermint and starlight sliding against her own. Ember moaned into it, her hands tangling in platinum hair, pulling her closer.
“Mine,” Frost growled against her mouth, the word vibrating through Ember’s entire body.
“Yours,” Ember panted, arching into her. “Always yours.”
The clothes—their simple nightgowns—were a nuisance. Frost didn’t bother with buttons. With a sharp, graceful gesture of her hand, the fabric frosted over and fell away from Ember’s body in brittle, silent shards. The cold air hit Ember’s skin, and she gasped, her nipples hardening into tight peaks. Frost worshipped them with her eyes, then her mouth, her tongue circling, then sucking deep, the cold making Ember cry out, her back bowing off the bed.
“Frost… please…”
Frost’s hand slid down Ember’s stomach, through the fiery curls, and found her soaked and hot. “You’re burning for me,” she whispered, awed.
“Only for you.” Ember spread her legs wider, an open invitation. “Make me yours. For real.”
Frost pushed a finger inside, and Ember choked on a sob. It was cold, so cold, a shocking, perfect contrast to the desperate heat clenching around it. Frost fucked her with that finger, slow and deep, her thumb pressing rhythmic circles against Ember’s clit. Then she added a second, stretching her, the dual sensation of icy intrusion and burning need driving Ember mad.
“More,” Ember begged, her hips pumping. “I need more of you. Fuck me, Frost. Fuck me proper.”
With a low, possessive sound, Frost shifted. She guided her own length—a solid, graceful shape of hardened, smooth ice—to Ember’s entrance. They had discovered this form, this manifestation of desire, in the pure language of their dream selves. It was part of her, as natural as breathing here.
The broad, cool head pressed against Ember’s heat. Frost looked into her eyes, a final, silent question. Ember answered by dragging her down into a searing kiss, biting her lower lip. “Now.”
Frost sheathed herself inside in one long, relentless push.
Ember screamed. The fullness was unbelievable, the cold a radiant ache that spread through her core, tempering the fire. It was too much. It was everything. Frost began to move, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting back in with a powerful snap of her hips. The pace was brutal, purposeful. Each stroke dragged against a place inside that made Ember see white.
“You feel that?” Frost snarled, her breath icy gusts against Ember’s throat. “That’s where you belong. Taking my cock. Your perfect, tight little cunt is mine.”
The filthy words, spoken in that regal, icy voice, undid her. Ember clawed at Frost’s back, her legs locking around her waist. “Yes! God, yes! It’s yours! I’m yours! Harder!”
Frost obeyed. The bed frame groaned. The air crackled with cold and the scent of sex and snow. Ember felt the climax gathering, a coil of fire in her belly about to snap. “I’m gonna come,” she whimpered. “Frost, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” Frost commanded, slamming into her one final, devastating time. “Come on my ice.”
The orgasm tore through Ember like a wildfire, violent and consuming. She shook, sobbing Frost’s name as waves of pleasure burned through her. As she clenched and pulsed around her, Frost followed, a sharp cry escaping her lips as she stilled, buried deep, her own release a quiet, powerful rush of intense cold that mingled with Ember’s heat.
They collapsed, tangled, breathless. Frost nuzzled into Ember’s neck, placing a soft, final kiss over her pulse point—the kiss that would bruise, that would mark Anna in the morning.
“My Ember,” Frost sighed, content.
“My Frost,” Ember whispered back, already feeling the pull of the waking world, dreading it.
Anna woke with a jolt, gasping as if breaking the surface of a frozen lake.
She was drenched in sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs. The physical memory of the dream—the truth—was upon her, vivid and brutal. The soreness made sense now. The bruises. The look on Elsa’s face.
It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t an accident.
It was them. A part of them so deep, so intrinsic, it had grown in the dark for years. It had loved, and fucked, and claimed, while they slept, ignorant.
“Oh, God,” Anna breathed into the silent room.
The shame was still there, a oily stain. But now it was tangled with a terrifying, exhilarating understanding. And a new, more immediate fear.
If she knew… then Elsa would be figuring it out too. And the waking Elsa, the queen with her rules and her fear… what would she do to something inside herself that she could not control? Something that loved her sister in a way that broke every law, both of man and nature?
Anna threw back the covers. The dawn was just a grey suggestion at the window. She had to find Elsa. Before the sun rose. Before the frost settled. Before the queen decided to lock away more than just her magic.