Chapter Text
She shouldn’t have looked. Zelda can’t stop chastising herself for it afterwards, cursing herself for her deadly curiosity.
So far, the hot fall day passed like a kidney stone: slow and excruciating. Since breakfast, Zelda and Link had been riding through the mountains with only a short stop for lunch. Now, the afternoon sun beats down as they travel across the exposed cliffside, pricking their skin and sneaking through the protective barrier of Zelda’s sunglasses into her eyes.
If the shrine wasn’t located somewhere not in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, it wouldn’t be an issue. But because it is located smack dab in the center of bumfuck nowhere, they can’t drive or bike in and have to use their horses to traverse the narrow, winding mountain paths. Sheer cliffs drop off on their right and the rocky mountain slopes up on their left, grey rock only broken up by scarce short trees and squat shrubs.
The things she does for her dissertation.
Sweat drips down Zelda’s neck and soaks into her tank top. She keeps applying sunscreen to try and keep from burning because she sweats it off so quickly in the heat. Even Link seems a bit off, shifting in his saddle and acting more tense and twitchy than usual.
Zelda waves the bottle of sunscreen in his direction and asks, “Would you like some?”
Link nods in response, leaning over to take the bottle from her. As usual, he doesn’t talk to her unless it’s absolutely necessary and shows as much emotion as the rocky face of the mountain does. He’s always so boring and quiet and closed-off.
What must it be like lacking any passion for life or knowledge, Zelda wonders? What must it be like to go through life like a piece of white bread, living only as an imitation of a person? In one of Zelda’s better and more cutting insults, she’d joked to Urbosa that Link was the personification of a computer screensaver. She still stands by that analysis.
The only reason she even asks Link if he wants some sunscreen is as a courtesy and formality ingrained in her after years of royal manners training. Even though Zelda hates him, she must retain her bearing and always show him politeness. No matter how stilted or forced that politeness may be.
Though she realizes that Link made the right decision in taking some sunscreen, since his cheeks and ears are splashed with pink. His nose also has more freckles on it than before, making him appear younger than the twenty-three Zelda knows he actually is. It’s not enough that he’s perfect and stoic and blessed, but to add insult to injury, he’s a year older than her.
He already graduated University with his BS, was officially knighted, and pulled the Master Sword from the pedestal. Much to her horror, he was then appointed as her personal knight escort. He doesn’t have to struggle for years to unlock his goddess-given gifts, he doesn’t have to bear the shame and anxiety of the entire kingdom, and he doesn’t even have to attend graduate school like she does. Worst of all, unlike Zelda, he doesn’t have to write a damn dissertation! Or, in her case, two: a real dissertation about the quantum mechanics of ancient Sheikah technology and a fake theology dissertation to appease her father.
But, if nothing else, at least she’s taller.
Without a care in the world, Link squeezes the goop into his hands and slaps it onto his face without preamble.
Hate bubbles up in her throat and for the life of her, Zelda cannot comprehend why everyone else in Hyrule seems to worship Link. Even the wild animals seem to love him! Everywhere he goes, he makes friends, which the many shabby friendship bracelets that cover his wrists attest to. And he gets quite the unsolicited attention from women and men. Which Zelda especially doesn’t understand, since he doesn’t make any effort with his appearance. If a knife was pressed to her throat, Zelda still couldn’t begin to guess when he last took some scissors to his shaggy, long hair that he half-asses into a messy half-ponytail every day.
At least Link’s mercifully very clean and meticulous about his personal hygiene, always smelling quite nice unless he’s covered in monster blood and guts. Sadly, that level of care does not extend to his sense of style. When Link’s not wearing hiking boots, he wears tevas and a horrid waterproof sandal Zelda has come to learn are called “keenes.” The only things she’s ever seen him wear that match are his stupid little blue hoop earrings and his hair-ties that live both on his wrist by his waterproof watch and around his sad excuse for a ponytail.
And even though Zelda has a sneaking suspicion he’s not entirely straight based on calculating the average amount of time he stares at both attractive women and men, Link still wears the worst, most stereotypically heterosexual male cargo pants she’s ever seen. And they’re not even just cargo pants, no, they’re goddamn cargo pants that have the audacity to zip off and morph into shorts. Into shorts. Like a horrible hiking straight male granola bro shapeshifting monstrosity. More than shorts, less than pants, and unequalled in abomination. They belong on an aggressively outdoorsy frat boy’s floor instead of on her appointed knight’s rounded, muscular ass. It’s the most dreadful thing she’s ever seen, and she’s seen Revali try to fly drunk.
The absolute atrocity of the cargo shorts makes even the holey t-shirts, flannel button-ups, hiking boots, and magical fanny pack seem like valid fashion choices. And the damn purple sword bound to him with leather straps that only makes him look more like a ridiculous, frumpy intro-to-bondage elf seems mild in comparison.
In short, pun completely intended, Link is a walking fashion disaster.
The sound of the sunscreen bottle snapping shut breaks Zelda away from her lengthy diatribe on Link’s shortcomings.
“Thank you, Princess,” Link says as he passes the sunscreen back to her. Thanking Zelda is one of the rare occasions he actually deigns to speak to her. When he talks, she’s always surprised that his voice is lower and softer than expected. She wishes it was high and reedy and annoying.
“Of course,” Zelda replies.
Link has missed rubbing the sunscreen in quite a few spots, especially on his ears, but Zelda isn’t going to tell him. Any small victory is celebrated.
Something white catches her gaze and wrenches it down to Link’s thigh where a stray drop of sunscreen has landed. Staring at him and the cargo shorts conjured from some Lovecraftian hell dimension, Zelda amends that they aren’t only terrible, they’re also too tight on his rather generous thighs. Not that Zelda had been staring at his fit thighs, of course. She’d never do that. Especially not stare at how the solid muscles of Link’s legs shift and tighten while he moves atop his horse in a fluid, practiced wave. Never.
While Zelda tries not to glare a hole in his tragic excuse for shorts, Link tenses up, mumbles something too quick and quiet for her to catch, and vaults off Epona.
He’s certainly in a rush. I bet more of those awful Bokoblins were trying to sneak up on us, Zelda thinks with a frown, halting her horse and grabbing Epona’s reins.
In a series of ominous portents that only serve to twist Zelda’s guts up and make her father yell at her more, the numbers of monsters and attacks keep increasing every day. Therefore, Link having to stop to kill things when they travel is a depressingly common occurrence. If there’s anything actually dangerous, Link will have her go ahead to a higher, safer vantage point and wait until he’s done with his murdering. In this case, it doesn’t seem too life-threatening since he didn’t tell her to run.
Something rustles behind Zelda by the edge of the cliff, which is a bit strange. Normally, by this point, the sounds of monster shrieks and clanging metal would ring out during a quick scuffle that Link would emerge from with black blood dripping down that awful, garish sword. But instead of the sounds of battle and Link’s stupidly loud yells and grunts in combat, Zelda catches a noise like a canteen being dumped out and a deep sigh.
Curiosity gets the best of her; Zelda turns around to assess the unusual situation and immediately regrets her decision. Rather than Link impaling a variety of monsters with his silly purple sword, he instead has a very different sword in hand and is certainly not slaying anything with it.
That sword is a penis, Zelda realizes in horror. That’s Link’s penis.
Being blessed with both the Triforce of Wisdom and a functional brain, Zelda fits the pieces of the puzzle together. The words that Link had mumbled were likely something about “examining the moss,” or “collecting moss samples,” which is their code to request privacy whenever they are travelling and nature calls. They’d had to pack up their camp quickly to outrun a thunderstorm this morning, and she doesn’t remember him skulking off behind a tree to relieve himself during their lunch stop, either, since it had been cut short by a surprise lynel attack. Whenever they stop, he always lets her go first and busies himself with setting up their camp or making food for her, waiting until everything else is done to see to himself. And in all of the times they’ve travelled together, he’s never had to stop for himself before, usually waiting until Zelda does or until they stop for a meal. Though she supposes waiting since at least the night before would do it.
But none of that is any excuse for why Zelda has to now be within three meters of Link pissing off a damn cliff.
Or why it’s been at least five seconds and she still hasn’t stopped staring at him.
Zelda shakes her head to clear it and calls out to him, voice cutting and caustic, “Did you grow up on a farm? Show some respect.”
Link makes a noise that Zelda can only describe as a yelp and whips his head towards where Zelda meets his eyes with disgust. His face drains white then settles into burning red as he tries to turn his body and shuffle away from Zelda and her livid glare. In a rare fit of clumsiness, he slips on the loose rocks, narrowly avoids splashing his boots, and almost falls off the edge of the cliff. Not that Zelda would mind if he careened off a steep drop to his death, dick out and all. Though she supposes it wouldn’t be easy to explain the Hero’s untimely, humiliating demise to her father.
With a jolt, Zelda realizes she’s still staring, albeit at his back and hunched shoulders now. Finally, she rips her eyes away, mouth dry and face burning.
Anger licks up her spine and clouds her eyes. Even though this is the first time his perfect façade has ever slipped, she can’t help but despise her stupid, flawless shadow. Why does he have to be so damn gross? She can’t believe it; he’s usually so proper and uptight. For the love of Nayru, they live in the same apartment and she hasn’t even been able to catch him leaving a toilet seat up!
The man himself interrupts Zelda’s internal tirade as he trudges sheepishly back to Epona and flings himself into the saddle. Thankfully, his penis is nowhere to be seen and his long flannel shirt falls over where his pants are now presumably, blessedly zipped.
Zelda drops Epona’s reins as if they’re burning.
“My sincerest apologies, Princess,” Link forces out, collecting Epona’s reins with his head bowed and his face and ears blazing red. Not counting the quiet mumbling and the thanks, it’s the most he’s spoken to her the whole day.
Zelda takes a page from his infuriating book and doesn’t dignify him with a response. They ride past the cliffs in tense silence, Link refusing to speak a single word or meet Zelda’s eyes.
As they decrease in elevation, the gray mountainside gives way to a pine forest that’s their last stop before they reach the shrine on a foothill at the edge of another sprawling mountain range. When they come across a pair of moblins lumbering around a crude campfire, even Link’s obnoxious grunts in combat are subdued. Though his sword work seems more savage than usual.
“We need to keep going if we want to be able to reach the shrine tomorrow morning,” Zelda calls out as she rides past where Link is wiping his sword off on a hacked-up carcass’ back.
Still not looking at her, Link sheathes the sword and whistles to Epona. They continue riding through the forest until the light turns golden and muted and they find a suitable clearing to camp in for the night.
While Zelda sits down on a log to review her findings on the Sheikah slate and write down her observations on her own tablet, Link feeds and tethers the horses, puts up her tent, and starts a fire. But focusing on her work becomes almost impossible with Link in her line of sight. Every time she sees him, her mind flashes back to the cliffs and she sees it like an afterimage on her retinas. Concentrating is impossible. The stylus almost cracks the screen of the poor tablet.
It’s getting to be dinner time, so Zelda waves her hand and tells Link in a typical burst of passive aggression, “Make whatever you feel like for dinner. For some reason, I don’t have much of an appetite.”
A terse nod and frown are his only response. Instead of his normal obnoxious soft humming while he cooks, Link stares into the fire and rips pine needles apart while the cooking pot bubbles in front of him. If Zelda didn’t know better, if she didn’t know that Link was a cold, blank slate void of emotion, she would think he’s depressed.
Even though she’s told him to, Zelda knows there’s a greater chance that Ganon will appear to try and murder everyone in Hyrule at their apartment on a Tuesday wearing only a tutu and top hat than there is a chance Link will make something for dinner that he solely feels like. Even though Zelda despises Link, and even though he must hate her too since he never talks to her, he still tries his damnedest to do things that make her happy. Well, except for leaving her alone. But Link somehow found out what all of her favorite foods are and makes sure to always cook them when they travel. Once, Zelda mentioned off-hand that she liked a type of granola bars that had been discontinued and Link went and baked them himself, packing enough of the bars for their next trip to feed an army. They’d even tasted better than the original. Not that she ever told him.
Link even has a sixth sense about when she’s hungry or thirsty or needs a break. He listens with rapt attention whenever Zelda goes on a long spiel about her research, even breaking his normal silence to ask short, intelligent questions that keep her talking. One time, he sprinted to a corner store to buy her emergency tampons because she couldn’t leave her 4-hour afternoon lab. He’s even literally given her the shirt off his back and the shoes off his feet before.
None of these things are even remotely in Link’s job description as her personal knight and escort, but he does them because that’s the kind of person he is. Selfless, caring, and utterly infuriating in Zelda’s opinion. And he isn’t kind to just her, she sees him help others all the time. From fixing their neighbor’s washing machine to paying for struggling people’s groceries and to letting kids ride Epona, he’s incredibly giving. People ask and ask and ask of him, but he requests nothing in return.
Maybe that’s why everyone loves him, Zelda realizes. I’m a complete idiot. They don’t like him only because he’s attractive- well, because they think he’s attractive. They like him because he’s kind.
Warmth not from the fire spreads through Zelda’s chest as she watches Link pull some ingredients out of his magical fanny pack and add them to the simmering pot. The firelight hits his face and casts each of his features in a golden glow. The sloping line of Link’s nose and the sharp angle of his jaw perfectly complement the fullness of his cheeks and lips. Zelda realizes that she should probably amend her previous statement. Even though he doesn’t put any effort into it, Link is unambiguously and objectively attractive. Which is infuriating.
Somehow the fact that Link is so kind and considerate and handsome and all-around perfect, barring the notable exception today, makes Zelda resent him more. It would make hating him so much easier if he was a self-absorbed, arrogant, dimwitted knight. Instead, he’s stubborn and determined and reckless and committed and quick-witted. He’s loyal, honest, intelligent, and gentle. Link isn’t some rude brute, which is somehow worse, since Zelda has to truly work to keep up her ire towards him.
In the back of her mind, Zelda knows she’s never given him a fair chance. She hated him, the idea of him, before they even met.
“I pledge my sword and my life in service to the Crown,” Link recited in the Sanctum for all of Hyrule, kneeling before Zelda with one hand over his heart and the other holding hers.
That’s where he belongs, Zelda thought. On his knees.
Since cameras were trained on her face, Zelda attempted to mask her distain for the man on the ground in front of her. Allowing the shame and jealousy that festered in her heart at the sight of the sword strapped on his back to show would be reprehensible. The whole kingdom didn’t need extra kindling to throw on the pyre of shame she brought to them.
The gold on the scabbard of the accursed sword glinted in the bright sun that filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, mocking her, blinding her. Finally, Zelda said the proper words at the proper time with the proper face and the ceremony had ended. Link rose and pressed his lips to the royal signet ring on her finger.
“I am yours,” Link whispered so quietly that the microphones couldn’t pick it up.
Glancing up at Zelda through his light eyelashes, he met her eyes and held her gaze. Her hand still burned from where his cheek and chin had brushed against it.
Something hot twisted in Zelda’s stomach. For one terrifying moment, she thought she’d be sick all over Link’s spotless, shined boots.
As they walked off the dais together, hand in burning hand, Zelda had to force herself to breathe.
It was only five months ago, but Zelda can picture it as clearly as if it’s happening now. While she remembers, Link sprinkles a spice into the bubbling pot and keeps his eyes cast downwards.
Deep down, Zelda knows her initial contempt had been unjustified, but how can she not hate him and all that he stands for? Some stupid man that stumbled upon and pulled the sword of legend on a damn camping trip and had suddenly succeeded where she’d failed for years and years on end. She will never be good enough, no matter how much she sacrifices and kills herself to be, but this man can just waltz in and be blessed and chosen and gifted by the goddesses.
What does he have that she doesn’t? Why is he blessed and she cursed?
Remembering her failings, the warmth that had flared in Zelda’s chest fades and is replaced by icy tendrils that root in her stomach and spread through her chest. She can’t forget herself and allow the obnoxious, short knight any charitable thoughts. After all, he must loathe her, too.
As the sun dips down over the tree line and the sweltering fall heat of the day melts into the dark chill of night, they eat dinner in silence. Thankfully, Link has cooked a rich vegetable soup that Zelda’s very partial to and not anything remotely phallic. Small miracles. Zelda doesn’t want to imagine what it would be like to stuff a carrot or sausage in her mouth after that sight.
Flames crackle between them and cast Link in flickering orange light. Though many hours have passed since the incident, the strange tension in his face and body hasn’t dissipated. No one who didn’t know Link extremely well would be able to tell the difference between his normal, neutral stoic lack of expression and this new dejected, aggressive rejection of emotion. However, Zelda has been forced to spend the last five months in very close company with him, and she can discern the minute differences in his face. Maybe it’s the slight tension between his thick eyebrows or the taut set of his lips. Perhaps it’s the way he stares off into the distance. It could even be how he balls up his hands on top of his thighs. Whatever it is, something is undoubtably off about him. Could she have been wrong about Link? Could he have the capacity to feel after all?
The soup bursts with flavor and comfort, but her stomach turns at the sight of Link’s stone face across the fire. Wolves howl, birds cry, and a chilly autumn wind rustles through the trees. Zelda shivers and only finishes half of her bowl.
Of course, Link notices her discomfort and reaches into the magic fanny pack to pull out a thick cloak. He makes his way over to the log she’s sitting on, sits down beside her, and offers her the bundle without words.
Even though she hates accepting anything from him, the cold wins out over her pride. Zelda takes the cloak from him. For a fraction of a second, their fingers brush against each other. She’s back in the Sanctum and her hand burns and stomach turns.
“Thank you,” Zelda forces herself to say while she drapes the heavy fabric over her shoulders.
As he nods, something sparks behind his eyes that she can’t quite discern.
It’s too quiet. Can he hear her breathe? Can he hear how hard her heart is beating?
Link shifts as if he’s preparing to get up.
“Here, I’m finished,” Zelda announces and pushes her half-full bowl at Link before he can leave, soup sloshing and almost spilling in his lap.
His fingers touch hers again when he takes the bowl from her. She burns.
With something horribly close to hope in his eyes, Link glances up at Zelda. But he quickly lowers his eyes when she meets him with a scowl. That strange almost-expression fades and hollowness trickles down his face, covering any emotions.
“Thank you, Princess,” Link replies, staring down into the soup.
Zelda nods in acknowledgment. Maybe she’s getting sick, or perhaps there’s something else wrong with her, because her chest tightens up in pain.
Link retreats back to his log, shovels the rest of Zelda’s soup into his mouth, and then begins to clean up dinner while Zelda goes off to wash up before bed. While brushing her teeth, Zelda continues ruminating on the events of the day and dinner. Even though she wants to stubbornly cling to her belief that Link’s a soulless, unfeeling automaton, Zelda has to admit that that he seems upset. But that’s not her problem, Zelda rationalizes, since it’s his fault for being too quiet when telling her the code phrase. It’s his fault she inadvertently got an eyeful. Still, for some reason, a tiny shard of guilt mixes in with her anger. Zelda spits out the toothpaste onto the forest floor with a grimace.
In her sleeping bag in the tent, Zelda tries and fails to sleep. She can’t keep her mind from snapping back to him every time she forces herself to think about complicated mathematics or ancient engineering or principles of botany or something else relaxing. Every time, she sees the relief on his face, the familiar grip of his hand, the softness of it against the hard line of his body.
Zelda scrunches her eyes shut, but his goddamned penis is branded into her memory. She wonders what he would feel like in her hand instead, if he would be as smooth to the touch as she imagines, if the tip would be soft when she pulls his foreskin back and strokes her thumb over it. She wonders how he would flush and grow with arousal, how heavy he would lay on her tongue, if he’d feel warm inside her. How much would she stretch around him as he-
Realizing that her fingers have snuck between her legs and have subconsciously started stroking herself over her thermal leggings, Zelda rips her hand away. Rage forks through her. As if it’s not enough that she has to see the damn purple sword every day in its lurid, phallic ostentation, now she can’t even get to sleep without being tortured with thoughts of his actual phallus!
Why is she even thinking about him like that? Zelda’s forced herself to admit that he’s attractive, but that doesn’t mean she’s attracted to him, right? Though almost masturbating to the thought of him seems to disprove that hypothesis.
Damn.
Zelda’s hands clench into fists against the nylon of her sleeping bag and her fingernails dig into her palms. Giving in and touching herself to the thought of him would mean losing, and Zelda has suffered enough losses in her life than to give her obnoxious knight a petty victory.
So she’ll make him suffer with her.
Link hasn’t put out the fire yet, and through the tent wall Zelda can make out his outline going through forms with the stupid sword, slashing and jabbing through the air. It’s like he’s taunting her with his skill, his divine gift. At least she can make him stop for a moment, maybe annoy him a modicum of the amount he frustrates her.
“Knight, bring me the slate,” she barks out in his direction, getting out of her sleeping bag and sitting up properly. “I wish to further review my notes from today.”
In one of her self-imposed rules, she doesn’t ever address him by name. That would be too familiar, especially for someone as reserved and uptight as Link.
Seconds later, the tent flap unzips and Link crouches in the entry, slate in hand. She could possibly reach it from where she’s sitting on top of her sleeping bag, but she doesn’t want to.
Holding out her hand, she orders, “Hand it to me. Don’t be rude and make me reach.”
Face still blank, Link clambers into the tent, rezipping the flap so that bugs don’t get in. The blue glow of the slate illuminates the interior, clashing and melding with the red firelight filtering in from outside. When he passes her the slate, their fingers brush against each other again.
Her fingers burn, her hand burns, she burns.
In the cramped confines of the tent, Link is so close that Zelda can smell the pine soap he uses and the sharp mint of his toothpaste. And Zelda can’t help her eyes falling to the muscles of his thighs and the way the fabric of the too-tight disaster currently masquerading as pants stretches across them as he squats down. The long hem of Link’s worn, flannel shirt falls over the space between his legs, but Zelda doesn’t need to see the bulge between his thighs to conjure up the image of what’s lurking beneath his zipper. It flashes across her eyes again and her fingers burn and her stomach flips and she thinks she’s going to be sick. She puts the slate down to the side and tries to breathe.
“Do you need anything else, Princess?” Link asks, voice rasping out hoarse and hesitant. His big eyes are earnest as ever and still struggle to meet her gaze. Strands of dark blond hair fall over his face and it disgusts Zelda how handsome he is.
It’s not fair that he can just have everything she’s wasted her entire life training for, it’s not fair that he’s kind and everyone loves him, it’s not fair that she’s forced to spend every waking second with the living embodiment of her failure, and it’s not fair that she hates him so much and still wants him so badly. She’s burning, skin gobbled down by flames, eyes dry and searing, smoke filling her lungs and choking her. It’s all too much and she can’t bear it for another second.
“I hate you,” Zelda whispers, and Link’s blank stare finally falters, shattering and crumpling in hurt before she grabs the back of his neck and wrenches his face down into a violent kiss.
Zelda always overthinks and overanalyzes her actions, paralyzingly afraid of failure. But she kisses Link before she even knows what she’s doing, acting purely on instinct and blind rage. She wants to horrify him, shock him, make him feel, make him human just like her.
Their teeth clack together and Link freezes for a moment before melting into the kiss and opening his mouth. He surges back against Zelda, one hand on her cheek and the other at her hip as they fall back onto her sleeping bag. The kiss grows less brutal but doesn’t lose passion as Link straddles one of Zelda’s thighs and pushes his right leg up between hers.
Moaning into his mouth, Zelda’s fingers twist in his hair and her thighs clamp around him as she rocks back, meeting and matching his movements. The solid muscle of Link’s thigh rubbing up against her builds a sweet pressure in her stomach that bursts bright behind her eyelids. And Zelda knows that Link is affected too; she can tell by how he groans and sweeps his tongue against hers, hungry and fierce. She can tell by the way his hand strokes up her body to cup her breast. She can tell by the hardness that presses and grinds against her hip.
Zelda’s seen Link fight many times, and it’s impossible for her to not notice the fluid grace, explosive power, and breathtaking skill he possesses whether he’s sparring or when he’s taking the lives of enemies. But she somehow couldn’t have pictured this, the artistry and skill he kisses with, the fervor and confidence of each of his movements.
It’s so good that she’s shocked.
Forgetting herself completely, Zelda sinks into the heat and closeness of him, giving in to feeling and pleasure and want. Fire spreads everywhere, licking up her back, around her breasts, between her thighs. And the tent could burn, the kingdom could burn, the whole damn world could burn for all she cares. Nothing matters now.
And then it’s all pulled away, yanked off like a warm blanket in the morning. Without any warning, Link rips himself away from Zelda and scuttles back, putting as much distance between them as he can in the tiny space. On his hands and knees and breathing hard, his mouth flaps open and closed. Zelda’s never seen him so flustered or so unguarded, and the reality of what they’ve done, what she’s done, slams into her. Panic and rage and dread stitch themselves into her skin.
“I shouldn’t-” Link huffs out and shakes his head as if trying to clear it. His hair flies around his face, wild and down, hair tie lost somewhere in the dark shadows of the tent, and his harsh breaths fill the space between them.
Zelda catches the exact moment when Link shuts down his face and dons the impassive mask again.
He tries again, his voice a soft monotone, “I’m so sorry, Princess. I shouldn’t have done that.”
As if he’d been the one to instigate it, as if he is solely responsible for everything. Anger threads through Zelda’s veins, snaking around her spine, settling behind her eyes. Her heart pounds and her vision blackens.
“Why?” she asks, not bothering to temper the sting in her tone. “Oh, I apologize, am I ruining the good knight’s reputation? Are you too good to lower yourself to my level? Am I besmirching your impeccable virtue?”
Link’s throat bobs as he takes a harsh swallow. “No, it’s not allowed. I–”
“There isn’t a written rule,” Zelda interrupts. “We’re living in the modern age now. The letter of the law does not forbid it, just the spirit. If you don’t want me, that’s fine, but don’t lie to me about it.”
She balls up her fists so tightly she wouldn’t be surprised if blood leaked out.
“I do, Princess.” Link rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and repeats himself, “But I still really shouldn’t-”
Zelda cuts him off and bites out, “Why? Are you afraid? Nervous?” She narrows her eyes and speaks with all the venom that’s welled up in the past months. “Is this your first time? For all the talk of you being perfect, I bet you’re not good at everything.”
Link bites his lip and doesn’t respond to the goads.
When Zelda thinks back on this incident, she will never be able to parse what exactly possesses her to blurt out, “I bet you couldn’t even bring me to orgasm if you tried.”
Silence crashes between them and fills the space of the tent, choking and arresting. Link freezes, staring at Zelda without even blinking. She can’t read his expression and is about to move away and say something else rude to get him to stop staring at her like that and leave when Link finally breaks, arrives at some internal decision, and speaks.
“Ten minutes.”
Zelda scoffs. “What, is that all you’re good for? Though perhaps that’s more than I would have assumed.”
“No,” Link replies and wipes his palms on his thighs. He’s wearing gloves. “I’ll do it in less than ten minutes.”
Zelda’s pulse skips and her stomach drops, just as it does when her foot misses a step or her horse stumbles by a cliff. What has she done?
Instead of diffusing the situation, she throws kindling to the fire. “You’re setting yourself up for failure. Care to wager?”
Link shrugs. “If you wish to.”
“If I win, you will formally resign your post as my knight attendant, since I do not require an escort. You will never be in my presence unless ordered to by my father.”
“I accept those terms,” he says with a nod. “But you’ll need another escort. You need to be safe.”
Zelda rolls her eyes and ignores him. “If you somehow manage to win, I will never complain about you again.”
“No.” Link narrows his eyes. “I set my own terms. If I win, you will tell your father the truth about these trips. You’ll tell him the technological discoveries and advancements you’ve made with the ancient Sheikah technology and that you refuse to not be allowed to do your research anymore. You’ll tell him what you’re actually writing your dissertation on.”
Why would he say that? Zelda wonders, too shocked by the content of his words to think about the fact that it’s the most words Link has spoken to her at one time. Does he want me to be humiliated in front of my father? Why wouldn’t he suggest something that would benefit himself?
“That’s- Fine, I agree to your terms. It’s not like you’ll win,” she goads as well as rationalizes.
Instead of responding to that taunt, Link undoes the buckle that fastens the leather belt holding the scabbard on his back. The sword thumps to the nylon tent floor behind him. His bracer hits the ground and he peels off his gloves. Suddenly, it’s real to Zelda. She’s actually about to have sex with the man she just told she hates. Who, coincidentally, is her appointed knight and the damn Hero chosen by the Goddess. She’s about to have sex with Link.
“Take your clothes off if you want to truly bet against me,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. There’s something both sad and determined to the tilt of his head. “Unless you’re afraid. Nervous? Maybe it’s your first time?” He echoes her own words, but from his mouth they’re somehow teasing instead of taunting.
Zelda glares at him and spits out, “Of course not.” There’s no way she’s afraid of him.
When she’s stripped her leggings and shirt off, Link clambers over to her and gestures at her boring black bra. It’s supportive and practical enough for riding and hiking, but Zelda wishes she was wearing something a bit more seductive so that she could fluster him.
“Here, let me,” Link offers, sliding his arms around her chest and unhooking her bra in a single motion.
At the ease and speed he unfastens the clasp and slides the straps off her shoulders, a trickle of trepidation runs down Zelda’s neck and spine.
It is definitely not his first time taking off a bra, Zelda realizes. But, no matter, that doesn’t mean he really knows what he’s doing. Surely he’ll be bumbling and clueless.
Link sets the bra on the side of the tent and lets himself stare at her breasts for a moment before placing his hands right below the swell and moving down to the waistband of her cotton underwear. At his touch, her pulse beats a fast rhythm between her legs and some small part of her brain fixates on the fact that his skin is warm. Only the dilation of his pupils and the way his lips part slightly serve as the tell that he’s eager.
“Lift your hips, please,” Link asks, sliding Zelda’s underwear completely off when she complies.
Apparently, Link does possess some modicum of a self-preservation instinct after all, because he doesn’t comment on how soaked her underwear is. Instead, he wets his lips and stares at her in a way that strikes Zelda as feral and hungry.
“Would you please do the honors, Princess?” Link asks and holds his wrist up to Zelda. With his other hand, he runs his fingers up and down the crease of her inner thigh. She twitches.
It takes Zelda a few moments to parse what he’s asking, but then it sinks in and she presses the button on his watch that starts the timer. The bright blue display taunts her.
“Thank you,” Link says and kisses the skin right below Zelda’s navel. “I’ve always enjoyed timed challenges.”
Zelda hears her own heartbeat, quick and deafening, pounding away in her ears.
As Link lowers his head and scoots down her body, his fingers move from her inner thighs to the center, dragging up and down with light pressure. The pads of his fingers barely touch her skin, but it still makes her want to squirm. It still makes that tightness in her stomach bloom hot and her breath hitch.
Even though she knows better, she still can’t help provoking him. “If you’re just going to tease me, you’re never going to win.”
At that, one finger dips inside her body and Zelda tries not to jolt, tries not to show any reaction. Link’s eyes, dark and blown, keep flicking between his fingers and her face. Warm breath brushes against the short hair between her legs, tickling and teasing and torturously close. Zelda’s mouth runs dry. He breathes out and wets his lips again.
Unbidden and unwanted, the buried memory of Link and the peanut butter cup slams into Zelda’s mind. Link’s habit of bringing snacks wherever he goes extends even to lectures, and one fateful, dark day during the middle of Quantum Mechanics 251b, he pulled out a single serving cup of peanut butter. But instead of doing anything dignified like using a fork or crackers to eat the peanut butter with, Link peeled back the foil, dipped his tongue in, and went to town.
The fact that no one paid any attention to the lecture and instead directed their undivided and shameless focus to Link licking the plastic peanut butter cup clean incensed Zelda. She also feared that Mipha was going to faint and she would be the only person in the entire lecture hall who would have the wherewithal to perform first aid and call the paramedics, since she wasn’t ruled by base urges like the rest of her colleagues. Throughout the entire graphic spectacle, Link remained oblivious. And then pulled out another peanut butter cup to offer to Zelda.
Zelda hasn’t thought about the Peanut Butter Fiasco of Quantum Mechanics 251b for months. Now, with Link’s face and wet lips between her spread thighs, less than a breath away from her, Zelda can’t help herself from reliving the entire sordid incident in explicit detail. She can’t help herself remembering exactly how his pink tongue lapped and swirled around the cup.
Oh goddesses, I’m the peanut butter cup now, Zelda thinks. Oh no oh no oh no–
Link wiggles his finger back and forth inside her and cracks a small smile. She’s so rarely seen him make any expression that it shocks her. For some reason, when he made the decision to continue this, he’d made the decision to open up to her more. And Zelda can’t deny that she enjoys seeing his true expressions and hearing his words.
Zelda gulps. “You’re going to have to do more than that.”
Another finger effortlessly presses inside her, and Link crooks them up towards her stomach and starts rubbing, searching. But Zelda refuses to let him have the satisfaction, refuses to give anything away and make this easy for him. She’ll never-
“Oh!” Zelda cries out when he pushes his fingers against the right spot.
So much for keeping him in the dark. Cursing herself for being so obvious and wishing she could take it back, Zelda glares down at Link and vows not to make any other obvious signs.
Link smiles wider and keeps pressing down hard against that exact spot, asking, “Does that feel good?”
It’s much too late to save that knowledge from Link, since he seems to have already memorized just where to touch her inside to make her squirm. Even so, Zelda refuses to give up so easily. Taking a page from Link’s own book, she does not answer him. But her body betrays her by clamping down on every thrust of his fingers. Sharp pleasure stabs into her stomach in time with his motions. It doesn’t just feel good, it feels fucking fantastic, and it’s torture to keep still and to not move against him.
A sense of impending doom settles over Zelda as the pleasure builds with each rub of Link’s fingers inside her. But even though he seems to be well acquainted with the g-spot, maybe there’s still hope. Maybe he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Maybe the Peanut Butter Fiasco of Quantum Mechanics 251b was just a fluke and doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s just another stupid man who thinks he can just use his fingers or penis to pound away to orgasm and to whom the clitoris is as foreign to as shower products that aren’t an 11-in-one unholy bodywash/shampoo/conditioner/weedkiller combo.
“Hm,” Link hums and drops his head to lick from where his fingers move inside Zelda up to her clit.
Shit, Zelda thinks. Maybe not.
His tongue is wet and hot and everything Zelda’s been wanting. Gritting her teeth and squeezing her nails into her palms, she tries her best to stay still and keep it together. But just the sight of him so close to her, with his pink tongue lapping against her skin and his light eyelashes fanned out across his flushed cheeks, turns Zelda on even more. His tousled, untamed hair tickles the insides of her thighs and she tries not to shiver.
Holy goddesses, this is so much worse than the peanut butter cup.
Link kisses the top of her crease and asks, “Good?”
Zelda doesn’t respond verbally. But a muscle in her thigh twitches and gives her away. Traitor.
“If you tell me what you like, I could make it even better,” Link offers after a particularly vigorous pass of his tongue. “I want to make you feel good.”
In response, something close to a growl leaves her mouth.
Zelda wants nothing more than to tell him exactly what she desperately wants him to do. She wants nothing more than to move her hips, to force Link to stop teasing and bring his tongue right where she needs it. But he’s not the only one who’s stubborn, and even though Zelda knows she’s fighting a losing battle, she’ll still keep fighting.
With his free hand, Link spreads Zelda open and starts circling his tongue right around where she wants him the most without actually touching it, never stopping the short thrusts of his fingers inside her that rub over the right spot every single damn time.
I’m literally and metaphorically fucked, she thinks. This has to be divine retribution. I must have done something terrible in a past life.
In that moment, Zelda knows she’s made a grave tactical error. She should never have bet against the man who has a Bachelor’s of Science in goddamn Anatomy and Physiology, is ambidextrous, has greater mastery of his own body than anyone alive, is already gifted by literal goddesses at manipulating other’s body mechanics, and is blessed at doing everything and anything physical. And that was without even entering his innate love of eating things into the equation. Or considering how depressingly, pathetically attracted she is to him.
Fuck.
Zelda’s nails dig into the nylon fabric of the sides of the sleeping mat so hard she’s surprised it hasn’t ripped and deflated yet. To try and keep her head, she counts the freckles scattered on the tops of Link’s cheeks and nose.
One. Two. Three– Holy fuck that’s good– Wait, start again. Focus, Zelda, focus. One two three four–
When Link moves his fingers and tongue off of her, Zelda almost cries. But Link grasps her hand and requests in a low voice, “Please hold my hair back, Princess.”
Zelda doesn’t hesitate to run her fingers through his soft hair and pull the choppy bangs and side sections away from his face before he lowers his head again. Now that she has more control over him, she can’t resist nudging his head so that his tongue presses exactly where she wants it. Maybe it’s weakness and failure, but Zelda can’t bring herself to care anymore, since it’s agony to deny herself any longer. She can still win by running out the clock, and she also can enjoy herself while she’s at it.
Right?
But Link isn’t as obliging as she thought, since he pulls back and starts a series of short, quick flicks with his tongue. The sense of control slips through Zelda’s fingers like the fine strands of his hair.
One freckle. Two. Three. Four– Oh Goddesses…
Before she can stop it, a pathetic whimper crawls its way out of her throat.
“Okay, I’ll stop doing that,” Link apologizes and drags his tongue up and down, dipping in to join his fingers and then swirling around her clit with each pass.
“Do you like it when I do this?” He does it again. “Do you want more?”
Her hips jolt forward at every pass of his tongue and it’s so good, but not quite enough. And the insufferable bastard knows that. But she still won’t tell him, won’t give voice to what she feels or wants. Though thankfully, Zelda can tell she’s not the only one getting something out of this. The sleeping mat creaks as Link’s hips rock side to side against it in a way that shows his genuine enjoyment. It does something to her, the fact that he’s so turned on by putting his mouth to her that he can’t help but rub himself against the ground.
“Relax, Princess,” Link orders, fingers speeding up their thrusts, “Let go.”
When Link purses his lips and starts sucking, Zelda makes a strangled sound and slams her head back against her camp pillow. It puffs out air in annoyance at being flattened. Link groans and thrusts hard against the ground when Zelda pulls at his hair and scrapes her nails against his scalp.
It’s too good and building much too fast and Zelda has never had less control of her body before. Now, it’s not a question of if she’s going to come but when. There’s nothing she can do to stop it, even thinking of unpleasant things like spoiled milk or vivisections or his damn cargo zip-off pant monstrosities can’t help her now because her mind has been obliterated by white light and the sight of his mouth and hand moving between her thighs.
But every time Zelda stands at the edge of the cliff, wanting to take the final step and plummet to her death, Link suddenly eases off, going back to slowly circling and flicking his tongue.
It’s torture.
Time loses all meaning as Zelda squeezes her eyes shut, torn between wanting to beg him to let her take the plunge and trying to hold on to her anger and pride. Her desire to win wanes with every motion of Link’s mouth and fingers, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can take it.
Zelda shouldn’t look, but she always does. She’s never been one to not indulge her curiosity. She finally cracks open her eyes to meets Link’s and he doesn’t break the stare as he increases the pressure of his fingers while he’s pumping them in perfect time.
Some garbled noise flies out of Zelda’s mouth and she pushes her hips against Link’s face and gasps out, “Ah! Link, please!”
As soon as the words pass her lips, saying just his name for the first time out loud, Zelda wishes she could take them back. Link’s eyes gleam and Zelda knows she’s on borrowed time. But a sick part of herself rejoices at her slip, relieved at last. It’s freeing to finally surrender and give in, knowing she can stop fighting for once and still be safe.
Keeping his eyes fixed on her face, Link continues steadily working his hand and starts sucking at her again, this time adding pressure with his tongue, too.
Zelda leaps from the cliff, wordless screams echoing through the fall, and breaks upon the rocks. Her fingers seize in his hair and her thighs crash against Link’s ears and jaw while he keeps going, carrying her through each twitch of her hips and contraction of her abs, waves battering her body. Using his mouth and fingers, sucking at her clit and hitting that spot deep inside her, Link draws each peak out until it devastates her. Zelda can’t see, can’t hear, can’t notice anything but how the burning pleasure consumes every single part of her body.
When she finishes, she’s staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling of the tent, body boneless and lax, still clutching Link’s head against her and gasping for air. Zelda panics that she’s forgotten how to breathe. Then Link withdraws his fingers and kisses her hipbone and she finally takes in a shuddering breath. Zelda’s hands drop from his head and Link attempts to tuck his wild hair behind his ears.
Finding her words at last, Zelda breathes out, “Oh holy goddesses. How did you…?”
“My degree is in Anatomy and Physiology, Princess.” Link raises his eyebrows and licks his goddamn fingers before moving up to kiss between her breasts. “And I’m sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t my first time. It would be awfully selfish if I didn’t know where certain anatomical features were by now.”
Zelda responds with a scowl.
With a small smile, Link examines his watch and holds it up for Zelda’s inspection. “Nine minutes and fifty-five seconds. Not bad. I was going for exactly 9:59.”
Zelda’s rage flares again and she grabs his ear and drags his neck to her mouth. When she bites down hard enough to draw blood, Link cries out and falls down to his elbows, pushing his hips forward against her. The taste of metal hits her tongue as she sucks a bruise around the bite. There’s going to be no way for him to hide the mark, since it’s right under his jaw, but consequences be damned. He can wear turtlenecks and scarves for the next weeks or keep his hair down for all she cares. Nothing matters now.
“I bet,” Zelda hisses into his ear, “you can’t do it again. Without your mouth.”