16"Proper Conduct"
Anna hears it so often, in muted and not-so muted tones, whispered behind hands and over glasses, beneath eyebrows arched in disapproval and judging glances.
What does she see in him?
Oh, how she burns from it, wants to push up the sleeves of her tailored gown and storm over to the tittering peacocks in their ostentatious formal wear and give them a good what-for, but it takes only a single word from Elsa, a pointed glance, and Anna huffs, crosses her arms over her chest, and lets the rage simmer tight in her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line as the hushed whispers continue.
She is the princess.
She must conduct herself properly.
She convinces herself that Kristoff doesn't notice, at least at first — more out of a hope for his sake than anything else. He looks handsome enough in his formal attire, albeit too-stiff, awkward, uncomfortable, and he keeps close to her side, keeps his hand at her elbow as the night wears on and the whispers grow louder. It's all so overwhelming to him, Anna understands, and understands the need for him to anchor himself to something familiar, something he cares for. It's a warm thought, a pleasant one, and she's already become accustomed to the feel of Kristoff's hands (ungloved, always, at her request, and he's always so happy to acquiesce to all of them) at her waist, settled along the small of her back, large and warm and safe.
But he does notice.
She sees it in the slumping of his shoulders, a slight rounded fall, sees it in the dimming of his eyes, sees it in the growing space he keeps between them when the eyes of Arendelle's elite pass over them.
He lets her dance with visiting dignitaries, doesn't intrude.
He fetches her drinks and retreats into the shadows, out of sight but not, to those in attendance, out of mind.
Her heart aches for him. She wants to rush to his side, wrap her arms around him as much as she can manage, hold him close and remind him that no matter what wagging tongues may say about his station, about him… she is his.
But she is the princess.
She must conduct herself properly.
And so Anna holds her tongue, holds herself in regal bearing and performs the duties of princess, of dances and tiring small talk, of the elegant intermediary to those of only the mildest import as her sister holds audience with heads of state.
Kristoff leaves, more often that not.
Anna aches to follow, heart and duty grasping hard and sharp and pulling her in opposite directions.
Duty wins.
As it must.
At least at first.
She finds him, always, not long after.
He never strays far from her, even as voices carry and follow him, follow her.
"You're the princess," Kristoff murmurs against her as she curls tight against him, tugs his lapels open, presses her lips, warm and soft and lingering, to the space over his heart.
"I'm yours," Anna says simply, raising her eyes to his, feeling his fingers tracing soft patterns over her hipbones, coming round to rest along her back as he tilts her up, kisses her.
This, they will never understand, she knows. The gentle touch of his rough hands against her skin as he undoes the stays of her corset, pushes aside the rich fabric of her gown. The brush of his wind-chapped lips over the curve of her jaw as he nuzzles in against her, adoration and devotion fairly screamed through silent touch. His work-strengthened body leveraged above her, all firm, taut muscles burning-hot and slick against her, arms trembling, mouth pressed hot and fast to hers, his length thick and hard and deep inside her as he moves, slow and easy, steadily stoking the embers within her to a flame.
He holds her tightly after, always, brushing lips over her temple, her cheek, a warm, wordless exhale communicating everything he has no need to say.
No, this they will never understand.
This is theirs.
"I'm sorry," Anna murmurs against his skin, threads her fingers through the sweat-slick hair at his nape.
"For what?" Kristoff says, kisses her forehead, strokes the warm, soft skin of her back.
"For… them." She inclines her head vaguely towards the castle, towards the departed figures of disapproving nobility.
Kristoff dips his head, nips at her earlobe, nuzzles in against her. "Don't be," he says. "Just matters what you think." He darts his tongue lightly against her skin. "Just you. Not the princess. Just Anna."
"Just Anna, huh." She presses closer, luxuriates against him.
"Mm-hm."
She smiles lazily, runs her fingers through her hair. "I love you."
Kristoff leans back to look at her, eyes soft, running the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. "All that matters then, isn't it," he murmurs, lips tilting into a hint of a smile as Anna raises her hand to lay it over his.
Her lips are warm as she tilts her face up, closes the distance between them.
She is still the princess.
But here, in these moments between them, she is simply Kristoff's.
It's better, somehow, at the next event, some hazily-defined saint's day she's already forgotten.
Kristoff is late, and tongues wag early, a gaggle of painted faces whispering behind daintily-gloved hands, eyes turned in her direction as she stands by Elsa's side and burns, glowers.
"Princess," Elsa whispers to her, her hands neatly folded at the front of her dress, and Anna breathes slow and deep and calms herself, even as she wishes she could launch herself bodily into their little congregation.
She's so busy entertaining thoughts of the things she could do if she weren't the princess, of retributions and tongue-lashings and her little fists cracking sharp into upturned noses, that she doesn't notice when he arrives.
It's the gasps from the assembled women, the slight choking noises, the sudden cessation of their prattling.
"Sorry I'm late," Kristoff says in a low voice as he reaches her side, tugging at his lapels, at his waistcoat. "There was, uh, kind of a mishap with the outfit I usually wear to these things. Thankfully I still had this one at the back of the closet. Managed to stuff myself into it."
Anna listens only dimly to his explanation as her eyes travel down the too-tight expanse of his suit, to the defined lines of his biceps, the broad plane of his chest, down to…
Oh my.
He takes his place beside her, his hand at her elbow, steady and anchoring as always, and it takes every ounce of decorum she has to tear her eyes from the front of his too-tight pants, to the… substantialness at the front of them, and she unconsciously presses her thighs together beneath her skirts.
The whispering begins again within the group of gathered women, eyebrows formerly arched in simpering judgement now raised in surprise, eyes wide, powdered cheeks darkly flushed as they stare.
Anna raises her chin, stares at them. Waits.
Eventually, they catch her eye. Glance from Kristoff, to her, back and forth, gossiping mouths slack, cheeks growing darker.
Anna affords them a small curtsey, her pink lips tilted into a benevolent smile.
"What was that for?" Kristoff asks beside her, glancing from Anna to the still-staring women.
"I'll show you later," she whispers, laying her hand over his at her elbow and squeezing gently. "Much later."
A tinge of pink rises to Kristoff's cheeks, but he smiles at her, wraps an arm warm and tight around her waist.
Oh yes, she thinks to the women, smile growing just a fraction wider.
She is his princess.
And she will conduct herself properly.