A/N I am a terrible, terrible person. But I hope you all enjoy this! I personally believe I wrote Anna a little out of character, but I can see her as this fierce little thing. She's gentle with her sister, of course, but she's certainly not a pushover. Talk to Hans, for example, and he'll tell you she packs a punch that could match those of his brothers!

Regardless, enjoy this not-quite smut and let me know what you think!

If Anna knew half of the things that went through his head while she slept, she would slay him. He had no doubt that she was capable of murder, with all that fury he had seen earlier. How so much wildness could be wrapped up in a petite, adorable package, he had no idea. That was all the more reason that he thanked the stars above him that she was sound asleep, curled up in the bed a room away.

He had put her to bed himself, carrying her from the window-sill to the bed he usually had. It didn't bother him, of course. She was tamer when she was asleep, and the way her nose scrunched when she cuddled into his chest was beyond sweet.

His annoyed groan rumbled through the floor as he slammed a pillow from the spare bed into his face. He didn't need this tonight; his wild fantasies was getting more than out of hand. Anna wasn't far enough away, in his opinion, for him to handle this problem properly. Then again, she was definitely not close enough for his usual liking.

It was her fault he couldn't sleep, anyway. Little witch.

How could someone so small have so much heat packed into the little body of hers? She way tiny compared to him, barely coming up to his shoulders. It was like having a tiger compressed into the smallest frame possible; a frame that then became as attractive as that wild cat, and just a deadly.

He was in so much trouble.

It would take a smarter man than him to identify what made her so intoxicating. All he knew what that the mere presence of her in his home was driving him to distraction. Watching her walk from the door to the kitchen table, making herself right at home in a place that didn't look a thing like what she was used to, and yet, seemed to fit her so well—it was infuriating.

She was slowly driving mad, and he wasn't complaining a single bit. The sway of her hips, the way she would lean up against him and laugh as they watched Sven stumble over his too-large hooves—he swore she was doing it on purpose. Whenever he went to call her on it, she'd look at him with wide, innocent eyes, and he would lose his train of thought.

It had driven him mad enough to take matters into his own hands, merely a room away. Be damned that she was so close. This was her fault anyway. If he was careful, and quiet, he could get away with it.

The entire day had been torturously amazing. It had been nothing but fun; a day in the snows of the mountains, gathering ice and shoving her into snowbanks. They had stumbled back to his cabin in stitches, laughing harder than he thought was possible. She snorted when she laughed, he discovered, and he found it endearingly cute.

But then she had stripped out of her soaking clothing as she had walked out of the room, and he saw her wet white shift plastered against alabaster skin. She had turned and looked at him, eyes glinting with mischief, and it had taken all of his effort to keep his eyes on her face. It was if she didn't know he fell victim to the same urges every man had, and that she was making it infinitely harder to resist those urges when he was around her.

If she woke up tonight, she would come looking for him. Then he'd be in more trouble than he already was with the red headed temptress.

He began his movements slowly, ignoring the cold chill of the wind that slipped through the logs, focusing only on his own pleasure. This wasn't a new task to him; the person who drove him to perform this task wasn't new, either. But at this point in time, it was a distraction, and he needed it to go away.

His knees drifted apart slowly, and he sighed, moving his hand in circles across the head. A quiet whimper escaped his lips, but he silenced himself quickly. Calloused hands would never be the same as small, white ones at the head of his cock, but they would do for now.

He brought images of other women to his mind first, trying desperately to ignore that they all had red hair, or small hands, or were so terribly small that he could lift them up without trying. His imagination tried to conjure the brunettes, the blondes, anything that wasn't her.

It was a losing battle, but he put up a valiant effort.

He surrendered soon enough, and the visions that ran rampant in his head were of her. They were together, alone, curled in the same bed and buried beneath thick fur sheets. She was beautiful, like she always was, but her hair was down and cascading over her bare shoulders, and he could run his hands through it as much as he liked. It shown around her head like a brilliant, red halo, and he relished the sight of her.

That mouth, usually so active and brilliant, remained silent and curved into the most delicious smile he had seen in a long time. He moved to capture it, her lips meshing with his as they moved closer together, her lily white breasts pressed into his chest. Another sigh escaped from him; he couldn't help himself. His knees drifted further apart, and he gripped himself harder, imagining that it was her hand instead of his.

She'd wrap her legs around his waist and he'd hold her close, nuzzling between her breasts and silencing her with kisses, swallowing the moans he would drive from her soul.

By the gods, he just wanted her. He wanted her in his bed, whimpering his name as he took her beauties in his hands and felt what those tantalizing creations actually felt like. He wanted her hand on his cock, moving quicker, quicker, harder, oh gods, he wanted her now…

The climax came hard, and his eyes rolled back in his head. A low groan rumbled out of his chest and he settled back onto the bed, letting himself rest, member still in hand, covered in sweet release.

She would kill him, one day, whether by her own intent or simply by existing.