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He might ask her tonight.
"Party of two tonight?"
Link blinks. "Yeah," he says, "just us two."
Padok flips through the check-in list. They're getting more travelers lately—a lack of blood moons will do that, Link supposes. He's still not used to it, though. That big inn attached to the Highland Stables tent like some mortared tumor. Whole land seems to be settling down, these days. Planting roots. A lack of Calamity will do that, he supposes.
"I can squeeze you into one of our economy rooms," Padok tuts, "or the deluxe on the third floor. Course, there's the penthouse, too...but it'll run you a little extra."
Link smiles a little. "Dunno. Think I'm running a little light, these days."
"Ah, you've finally dropped into the triple digits," Padok says. "Careful—soon you'll have to work for a living like the rest of us mortals."
"We'll take the penthouse. Think you'll have it ready by tonight?"
"Of course."
"Thanks," Link says, shoulders his satchel and steps away—she said she'd be by the river. Maybe she hasn't wandered off course this time.
"Regular or soft?"
Oh, yeah. "Regular," Link says.
"And for the Lady?"
Link's face falls flat. Two beds. Right. "Soft," he says after a moment, nodding a little. "Yeah, she'd...soft's probably right."
Padok doesn't seem to notice anything. Link's face hasn't changed by the time he's marching off to where she said she'd be at, and he's almost not seeing the treeline he's headed towards, or hearing the running water in the afternoon sun. He'd like to. But he's not really headed to the river, he's headed to her.
His hands feel a little clammy. They always get like this, these days.
"...Do you remember me?"
He thinks. He thinks long and hard. Ghosts in his head. Discolored, grainy shapes, like he's flipping through snapshots in a pictograph, flickering and stained.
She's there. She always is. A girl with the world against her back. And a boy's there, too. There's a Sword on his. He can see him, static and grainy as her, as everything else. Sometimes the boy looks in his direction, like he can see him, watching. Discolored, grainy eyes. But he can't see him, not really. None of them can. They are what they are, and they can't be anything else. They're all just...ghosts. But he can't tell her that. She needs—deserves more than that. But what about the truth? Doesn't she deserve that, too?
Then she asks him again and there's a little fear there, in her tone, because he hasn't answered. He's been staring right back at her and he hasn't said anything. The wind whistles through the grass and the sun flares red behind those distant peaks behind her and still, he says nothing.
Her eyes are wet. Then the sun sets, and he can't see her face anymore.
She's not there when he reaches the riverbank. Link scratches his head, sees the golden surface of the river trickling on by. Part of him just wants to go, oh well, it's not like they have a deadline, anyhow. But he's technically still her appointed knight and he still has the Sword on his back for a reason. This dark thicket, there's hardly any light filtering through the dense branches. Where the hell could she have—?
He rounds a tree and his eyes widen just as hers do.
It's like a painting, almost. The way she stands there, her leg drawn up ever so slightly, naked and tense as her arm over her chest. Pockets of light catch on her skin, turn it gold as her hair usually is. Damp and flat tendrils, now, tangled past her shoulders, and Link only just catches the clothes in his periphery. Dry fabric hanging on the branches around her, waiting to be worn. Her eyes don't stay wide for as long as his do.
They could stay that way for a second or a century without ever knowing the difference.
"Your Highness," Link says, finally tearing himself away. The gravel in his throat. What's it doing there?
"Afternoon to you, too," Zelda says, and somehow her nonplussed tone only adds to his irritation.
Silence. "So," Link says, "you, uh...did end up using the river."
"I suppose I did." Her voice still betrays nothing. "Did you book the room?"
"Yep. Everything's just peachy."
"Good," she sighs, and now she almost sounds pleasant. "I see no sense in delaying such proceedings, then."
"Suppose not."
"...Champion."
He grits his teeth. She still won't use his name. But has he ever used hers? "Yes, Your Highness."
"Would you mind granting me a bit of assistance, here?"
A thinly masked command, and now there's nothing to do but look.
She's almost done dressing. Her hair's swept over her shoulder, the buttons on her corset undone and in need of doing. The bare expanse of her back shifts as she cranes her neck to see him, waiting. She threads her fingers through her hair in an absent sort of way.
Funny. Her gaze is as flat as his usually is. Not a hint of judgement or scorn to be found.
"Yeah," he says, teeth still grit. Gravel in his throat. "Yeah, sure."
She looks ahead when he moves. He does the buttons, one by one. Sometimes the tips of his fingers just barely graze the skin beneath and she shifts so subtly, an involuntary tension. They're so cold on her—it's almost like she didn't just bathe a moment or two ago. She just runs warm, maybe. Did she always, even then? Or does he just run too cold, now?
"Champion?"
He blinks. Her corset, it's done. He'd run his palm between her shoulder blades, fingers curling into the warmth there. When'd that happen?
"Is the task complete?" The barest shiver in her voice. Her eye just barely peeking past her cheek, wide and trembling and utterly fixed on him. Waiting to see what he'll do next.
Link backs away, clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, we're done here."
"You have my thanks," she says, and just like that she's quiet and smooth as before. Then she's slipping into her vest, buttoning the cufflinks. She cocks her head at the supplies she's got perched on a wayward tree stump. "Could you hand me my brush?"
Link leans against a tree with his arms crossed as she brushes away, finishes freshening up. Maybe she's looking at him. He wishes to Calamity and back she wouldn't.
They're getting settled in when she announces she wants to cook tonight.
Link frowns to himself as he puts down the last of their things. "Yeah?"
"Something spicy," she says from the kitchen, out of reach, "I've not tried such a dish in near a millenia."
Link smiles despite himself. But then her proposal sinks his mood back down. "We're out of peppers," he says, hopeful. "The kitchen stocked?"
Rummaging noises. "Indeed."
Damn. "Well, I guess that does it."
"Indeed."
That's all they say for a while. Link flops back on his bed with his hands behind his head and examines the oak ceiling like it's a Shrine puzzle. It's a nice loft. Spacious, mostly pine aside from the ceiling. Glass doors lead to a balcony overlooking a dying afternoon. Eventually Link hears the furnace light up.
He dreads heading to the kitchen, but someone has to make sure she doesn't burn the inn down. All of the cabinets are drawn open and she's hacking away at radishes like no tomorrow, piling the slices right next to the sirloin she's already cut up. An empty pan's sizzling atop the furnace, ready.
But no peppers.
"Your Highness?"
"Ah, just in time." Zelda leaves her business on the countertop, points at the cabinet above the furnace. "We've some dried red peppers but I'm afraid it's a tad out of reach."
He's her height. "Could use a chair," he says.
"The craftsmanship looks faulty."
She's crossed her arms and fixed him with another one of her innocent stares, relaxed and open. Ordering and not ordering at the same time. Link shakes his head and breathes deep and slow through his nose.
He hoists her up with no difficulty. She's never been very heavy—at least, she's never looked it. He doesn't know how the boy in the memories fared. His hands squeeze the space above her hips as she rummages through the cabinet, taking her time. His grip tenses for a moment on reflex and so does she, for a moment. Like a secret response to an unbidden message. Her hair tickles his nose and he catches a whiff of pumpernickel.
His jaw's clenched. The thought always comes on impulse in times like this: Just what in Hylia's name does this girl want from him? But he knows. Of course he does. And that's when the next thought always comes, flashing through his head for a second before he snuffs it out.
What does he want?
Zelda gives his hand a quick pat and he knows to set her down. She jingles the jar of peppers in her hand, flicks her hair behind her shoulder and gets back to work. "You have my thanks, Champion."
She dismisses him. Link sticks behind for a moment as she dumps the cutting board's contents into the pan. If she notices his lingering gaze, she doesn't show it.
He doesn't expect her to invite him to dinner. He has to keep from clenching his fists when she does.
"Kebabs, huh," he mutters. His plate steams before him, the meat decidedly unburned.
She's already eating hers. Lamplight casts her figure in orange hues as she nibbles away with a despondent look in his direction. "Kebabs."
He grabs the stick and looks away while he chomps. Night's settled in but the stars aren't there—it gets like that sometimes. Just an ink abyss beyond their window drapes, not a single sound aside from their munching, and it's an indistinguishable sound. He can almost pretend he's not sitting right across from her.
He can almost pretend there isn't an open bottle of wine between them.
They go on eating in silence. Minutes pass. Hours, maybe. Wine sloshes around in Zelda's glass. His own stays empty. There's a tension in Link's gut, tightening, curdling. Some kind of silent expectation she always gives off whenever they're like this, or does he imagine that? Always some riddle in what she says, what she does. He almost wants to chug the damn bottle wholesale.
"It's strange, isn't it?"
He blinks. "What is?"
Zelda puts her kebab down, emptied. She's looking around them. "All this, I suppose," she says softly. "I'm so used to the stables."
"The lack of privacy."
Her smile's small. "The simplicity of it," she says. "Here's a bed, rough or soft?"
"Get in, get out."
"Precisely," Zelda says, leaning in on her elbows, "now there's this business of room hierarchy, economy, deluxe...we've not the economy for it."
Link gives a short snort. "We don't?"
Zelda rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn't go away. "You know what I mean."
Link doesn't answer. He's too busy chewing. She's still looking at him as he does, her shoulders all bunched together and her face scrunched up. That little glint she gets in her eyes whenever she's set her mind on something.
He masks his smile with a swallow, sets the stick down. "I liked it too," he says, "the simplicity of it."
She sits back and sips her wine, beaming like she won something.
"You know, we're technically not of age," he says. "Technically."
She casts him a sly look. "Are you going to tell my father?"
The smile's still tugging at the corners of Link's lips when hers falters and she says, "None of that's to shame our accommodations, of course. They're very—accomodating."
"We've not the economy for it, though. Your Highness isn't used to it."
"Come now, I—"
"I'll let Padok know in the morning."
Zelda shakes her head again and again, "No, no, that's not what I meant!"
"Down with the hierarchy."
She starts laughing somewhere along the way. Covering her mouth, smacking her knee like it'll do anything. He really can't ignore it, can he? The way his chest always gets, seeing her like this. Grounding. Warm.
Is he going to ask her?
Her glass shatters against the floor and she yelps. "Goddess, my apologies—"
"Here," Link says, moving already, "let me—"
They're both scrambling to clean the shards with their bare hands like idiots. She grabs a rag and they're trying to gather all those shining pieces and that's when they bump their heads, drawing a small chuckle out of him.
"Sorry," he says, smiling a little, brushes her forehead, but she's smiling too. She's okay. She's more than okay, he can see it in her eyes. That dazzling green. He only notices his hand's drawn down to caress her cheek when she nuzzles into it. Another secret response.
Another game of hers for him to fall into.
His hand falls and he shoots back up, grimacing. "Almost had me, this time," he says, "congrats," and then she gets up and her smile's gone, her face full of worry.
"What? N-no, I—"
"That trick with the glass, that was real slick," he says, and he can't hide the bitterness in his voice now, sudden and real, "the kebabs, you learn that just for tonight, too?"
"Remember who you speak to," she snaps, trying to muster some of that authority she'd lost somewhere along the way. "Mind your tongue."
"Wine, that was new too," he mutters, almost to himself, "You pulled out all the stops."
"That wasn't—"
"Couldn't even be assed to ask if I drank in the first place. Could've saved you the—"
"You don't!"
Silence. She pants, glaring at him, like her own outburst sapped the anger out of her. Not her eyes, though. It's still very much there, hard and hurting. Then she looks away, and the pain sours into that familiar bitter gaze.
"You never did," she says. "You'd scold me for sneaking where I could...but you'd never stop me. You knew I knew my limits."
Same height. Same height, but she looks so small, like this. Link opens his mouth, ready for some new biting retort. But nothing comes out. She looks at him again and the bite's all there in her eyes once more. Her chin quivers.
"And you're the one who taught me to cook kebabs, y-you...you imbecile."
He sighs, his shoulders sagging as he rubs the bridge of his nose. "I did, huh."
"And how to tame a horse," she says, louder, "and how to clear my thoughts and speak my mind, to, to really speak it. All of that and so much more, everything that made you you, so don't tell me you know more about me than I do when you don't even know—" she breathes in sharply, snaps her head away again, wipes furiously at her face.
Link collapses back in his chair, rubs his temple. "...Look, I—"
"Don't," she sighs, like she's frustrated with herself as much as everything else. When she speaks again she's back to her usual soft self. Composed and restrained. "Don't bother. My apologies, Champion. My thoughts just...ran away from me, I suppose."
She doesn't seem to know what to do, now. Just standing there with her chin dipped, her hands clasped at her waist and her gaze rolling across the floor, and then it's there again, in him, just as strong as it ever is. That rolling tension in his gut that only seems to go away when he touches her. When he sees the way she looks at him sometimes, how badly she wants him to take just one step further. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's hard to hide the disbelief on his face, how lost he really is. "How well do you know me?"
"Well enough."
"No, I mean," he gets up, rubbing the back of his head. How the hell to put it. "How...how well did we know each other?"
She frowns, looking at him. He grimaces.
"Today, at the river. You acted almost like...like I'd seen you that way already."
Her expression shifts just a bit. Then she holds her arm with her head cocked, eyes forlorn and away. She doesn't say anything, and yet...
Then she looks at him just once, and her answer's there.
He doesn't know why the shock comes to him, small and fleeting as it is. Guess there's a difference between thoughts and statements...or the lack of one, in this instance. Of course things make more sense, now. Of course they do. Those lines she casts him, every day. The river, the peppers, it could be anything. But he already figured. Already thought. And, now...now he knows.
"Champion?"
He looks back up at her, and whatever malice or anger there was in her is quickly draining now, giving way to a raw vulnerability, shimmering in her gaze.
"Yeah?" His voice is hoarse again.
She hesitates. "When you look at me...what is it that you see?"
Any other night and he might not have answered. If he did it'd be by manner of lie. Some throwaway line about how honorable and fair she seems. Lie. He's too tired for that, tonight. And so is she.
"Someone who thinks too much," he says. "Hell of a lot more than I do, probably. A lot smarter than I think. Someone who's got so much to say about things I'd probably only have a word or two for, who knows a lot more of those than I do. Puts them in such neat ways."
He swallows the lump in his throat, because neat wasn't the first word that came to mind. Pretty, maybe. Cute. "Someone...Someone I wouldn't mind having a dinner or two with."
A moment of quiet passes. Then he cocks his head at the table next to them and she smiles, giggles a little. Then it all falls away again as she leans on a chair with her hands, her chin dipped like she's thinking very hard.
He hides his grimace. Nice as it all is, he knows it's not what she wants to hear. But then she looks back at him, and her smile's there again, soft and accepting.
"Thank you," she says. "For asking, for answering. Truly, I—knowing is more of a comfort than you'd know. Thank you."
She bows her head, and really he doesn't know what to do with that. The Princess of all Hyrule, bowing to him? Feels unheard of. Then she rises back up, tucking the loose hair behind her ear with her cheeks a little flushed and smiling that same, damned beautiful way. The way that fries his brain, turns his knees to jelly. The way that just makes sense.
"Well," she says with a sharp breath, "I cannot speak for you, but I don't think I'd be able to sleep tonight knowing we'd left such a mess—"
"That's," he says, and it's almost like he's not really the one speaking, the one stepping forward just a little, but still the words keep coming, "that's, uh. I was gonna ask something else."
She stops moving around, blinking. "Mm?"
And now his body decides to return itself to him and he's got nothing. "You wanna just...maybe..."
"What is it?"
She's completely innocent, and he knows what it's like when she's not. She's got no clue what he's trying to say here. He breathes in, slow and hoarse.
"...If you still want me, knowing that I'm not...me...then I don't mind."
It's like she's not there anymore. Her eyes kind of go vacant and for all he knows he just spoke complete gibberish to her. Ice in his chest, a faint numbing in his head. He's done more than inch, he's crossed a mile over the line.
Then she blinks. "Want—?"
He cocks his head in the other direction. Their conversation from earlier echoing in his head. Here's a bed, rough or soft?
Something breaks in her eyes and for a moment she's frozen. "Oh," she says, quiet, soft. She paces around the room and her face scrunches up as she taps her chin, thinking, thinking. Link's legs might've become one with the floor for all he knows—he just can't seem to move.
She shakes her head, stopping at long last with a pained expression. "If it's only that you don't mind...it's flattering, truly, but you need not go to such lengths just to appease me. Please, your answer to my question is more than sufficient for our current working relationship to—"
"It's," he says, sighing, grimacing, "it's...more than, not minding."
Another frozen moment for her. "It's...?"
He looks at her like he's trying to say what his mouth just can't seem to. Her eyes dart over his face, searching, waiting. He breathes again.
"Our current working relationship. It's—it's not sufficient," he says. "Not to me."
It's surreal, seeing the changes her expression undergoes. The way her eyes shift from disbelief, to shock, to something unadulterated but quiet all at once. Her lips part a little as she looks at him, all the muscles soft on her face. A new energy brimming just beneath the surface.
"And this is what you want?" she says, her voice shaky, a tinge of uncertainty there.
"Yes."
Relief flashes over her for the briefest second. Rolls through her body like a sudden chill, he can see it. Her hands clasp at her lips and she seems to think for a little longer. Processing. Then she looks at him again.
"Well...I suppose we should clean up, then."
It takes a few hours for the elixir to kick in, or so she says. They occupy themselves with menial tasks in the meantime, cleaning the place up and such. They don't talk much. By the time Link draws the curtains in, it's well into the night. They should change the oil in their lamps. It's getting a bit dim.
"Which," she says, stops. Like her voice is too loud for herself. He turns and sees her between the beds, fidgeting with her fingers.
"Which should we—or perhaps—push them together?"
It's like his mouth's lined in sandpaper. "Sounds good," he says. "Here, just let me—"
He means to do it all himself, but he can't exactly stop her from helping him push the two together. Wood scraping against wood, harsh and grating in their quiet little penthouse. He's readjusting the bedsheets, maybe taking a little too long with it, when he turns and finds her standing right there behind him.
"Should be safe now," she almost whispers. "The elixir, it doesn't take longer than this to take effect, normally."
He looks her over, nodding a little. "So we're about ready, huh?"
A brief nod on her part. She keeps playing with her fingers. A small, spiteful part of him wants to mock that. This is what she wants, isn't it? Why the nerves? But another part of him wants to take her hands and kiss them and that, too, feels like something he should mock.
All these emotions flying around. Maybe...maybe they shouldn't.
She clears her throat, an awkward, anxious sound. "Can...may I—?"
He doesn't know what she means, but then she's inching closer and her fingers brush his cheeks and he almost flinches. Oh, right. This is what comes next, most of the time. Maybe.
She catches his tension and pauses a moment. She's looking all over his face, seeing if he's okay. That's sweet of her, he supposes. He ought to be a little nicer. She's technically royalty.
And he's technically done this before.
He signals with his eyes. She nods a little, and hers close as she dips just that much closer.
They're soft, her lips. Course they are, he thinks. What else are they supposed to be? There's a hint of wine on them, some spice mixed in, and now he's thinking of kebabs more than anything else. Focus. His jaw rolls, hesitant and stiff. She's stiff. Her fingers haven't moved once on his face.
Goddess, why can't he just focus?
His teeth clamp around something soft. She makes a sharp sound in her throat and they pull away at the same time. Her fingers are at her bottom lip and he's grimacing, moving his hands up over hers.
"Hylia, you alright?" His frustration. What a way for it to manifest, he thinks.
"I'm fine," she says, laughing a little nervously. "It's just—you took me by surprise, is all."
"I dunno what happened, I—"
"It's alright, it's alright," she's saying, and now she's got her hand on his shoulder, her tone so earnest and forgiving. It makes him feel stupider. He keeps looking away from her and his silence seems to infect her, until it doesn't.
"Do you want to stop?"
There's no judgement in her tone, and there's none in her eyes when he looks at her again. Just that same earnestness she's yet to drop. It drags his hands over hers, pulls them back up to his cheeks, and she smiles softly as she leans back in. He pushes into the kiss, almost like it'll push his slipup further away into memory if he does. Her thumbs rub small circles as she lets herself give in a little, laxing into him as she draws out kiss after kiss, faster, heavier. She swipes her tongue over his top lip, drawing circles around his mouth and he almost groans.
She looks at him, eyes smoky and dark, studying, and he's about to ask where the hell did she learn how to do that when she leans back down to swirl her tongue at the corner of his lips, kissing, suckling. He tries to stifle the bubbling hum in his throat and it comes out as a staggered grunt.
She makes another soft, adorable noise and he has to pull away for a bit. Her eyes dart over his, her lips open, cool air on his own. "Are you alright?"
He frowns. "Yeah, yeah I—are you okay?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," she giggles, scanning him, trying to be sure of something even as she smiles uncertaintly. "You can touch me, you know."
He blinks. His hands. They've been lying limp ever since she started kissing him.
...He can't be this useless, can he?
A flash of worry in her eyes. "T-that is, if you want—"
She squeaks as he pulls her back in, kissing hungrily, chasing whatever it was she'd been doing to him, and for the first time he feels how she feels against his body. That warmth he'd always unknowingly reach for time and time again, backed now by this solid form beneath her clothes he'd only ever had glancing touches of.
He presses on the space between her shoulder blades, dragging, digging with his hands. Feeling how she arches into him so easily, so naturally, and the sensation of it all starts to dizzy him a little. The sounds their lips make, soft, wet smacks. Breathy moans in her throat, shifting fabric as he pulls and kneads on skin just barely out of reach.
He wrenches away just to breathe, panting, gather the bearings he almost hadn't known he'd been losing. She's panting alongside him, caressing his cheeks again as her forehead dips against his. Electricity, there. In her hands, her touch. He could go weeks without sleep and it'd start him right back up.
"Yeah," he mutters, brainless, "guess I can just touch you."
She breathes out her laughter, sighing. "See? Don't think about it too hard," she whispers, "about any of it, okay? Just...do."
It feels like something he could've told her, back then. He almost wants to ask her if he did. Instead his fingers curl into the nape of her neck and he hears the excitement in her throat as he dives back in, touching, tasting, scrambling his hands over her frame.
The seam, the seam, where's the—all this damned—fabric—
Her lips pull away again with a firm, full smack and her breath's hoarse as she tries to help his search. Her vest goes up and over her and there it flies, tossed into wherever discarded clothes go as he pulls her flush against him once more. She hisses as his hands fist at her back, tightening, throws her head back with a groan as he pops the buttons of her corset one by one, freeing her. She doesn't even stop to shrug the piece off as she moves to rip his tunic off him, and if Link's head wasn't somewhere his train of thought couldn't hope to reach he might've laughed at the image. They look like idiots, they've got to.
Then his tunic's off, and she's brushing her hair past her shoulders as she leans down to press her tongue on his abdomen, planting kiss after reverent kiss up his chest, and then his coherency really flatlines. His hands shake, bunching her hair into fists as he breathes hard through his nose with his head dipped back and his eyes squeezed shut. Goddess. Arrows, hammers, hell, his own remote bombs. All the damage his body's taken and it's this reverent spoiling that actually caves his chest in. He's pathetic.
Her corset's still not off yet.
He pulls her up to meet his gaze and his hands drift over her face, fingers dragging across her cheeks, her lips. She leans into his touch as he pulls the corset away, stiff fabric tumbling to their feet, and neither of them seem to think before they're on each other again. Her fingers curl against his shoulders and their kisses grow languid, slow. He can feel the way her chest ghosts his own, soft tips brushing against the hard muscle.
Her lips drift away, pressing wet and soft against his cheek, his jaw. She nestles into the crook of his neck with her arms slung underneath his own, palms flat on his back. He mirrors the motion on pure instinct, callused hands roaming the soft velvet skin of her back. His breathing's ragged, heavy on her neck. It's almost like she welcomes it, the way her grip tightens on him in response, fingers digging into the space between his shoulder blades. An eager, desperate hold. It lifts this intoxicating fog from his mind ever so much, lets his thoughts drift and bounce off each other, rambling.
Is this how she wants it? Does he take the lead or stay as they are? What does she want, what does she need, how, how can he give her what she—
A new weight at his ear. Warm breath, wet lips, and her words come in a heavy sigh. "Are you okay?"
He stiffens even further. Is she supposed to ask him this much? When they do this—when they did this. Is this how it went, how it goes? Or is he going about it all wrong? "Yeah," his voice hoarse, strained, "yeah, why..?"
One of her hands glides down, fingers pressing against his abdomen, further and further until...
Oh.
She moves until he can see her again, her eyes searching his face, worried. Her hand stays where it is, down there, feeling him through his trousers. This touch. It should be something, right? Heady, intoxicating. He should be tongue-tied, his mind blank and yet it's so frustratingly full, now. The hell's the matter with him? She's right in front of him and he can't even—
She darts forward and pecks him on the cheek, once, twice. When she pulls back her eyes are glittering, smile soft and easy. "Come here."
He blinks as she starts pulling him. A dumb, questioning grunt from his throat as she falls back onto the bed and brings him down with her, the world swirling in his vision, bedspring creaks in his ears. She's got him against her now, his back on her chest and her cheek against his. He grits his teeth when she caresses his stomach, a wave of shivers cascading over him as her fingers curl against his grooved muscles.
"This," he breathes, straining to meet her eyes, "you're fine like...?"
"Ssh," she whispers, and Link almost doesn't feel her palm press against his groin this time as she says, "I'm more than fine."
He glances her out the corner of his eye, grimacing. "Really?"
She nods pleasantly. "Mhmm."
He swallows. "Just making—"
Zelda squeezes and the world goes white. Link hears himself groan, this surprised, urgent sound, and he bucks up into her touch just once before coming back to his senses again.
"Sorry," he says, "sorry, I—"
She ducks her head to kiss his neck. "Why are you apologizing?" Her smile, he can hear it in her voice, "it's perfectly natural."
He's got no reason to trust her...but her tone's so damn genuine...and yet....but if...
Link sighs, like his own thoughts sap the strength from his shoulders. "I'm not exactly doing this right," he says, "am I?"
Another kiss on his neck. Link feels her hands work his trousers, undoing the knots as she murmurs, "Well, that's just the thing..." He feels her hand slip beneath his waistline, sliding against bare skin as she nuzzles her way back up to his ear with, "when you're like this, with me..."
Her shoulders tense as she grabs hold and strokes him in one smooth motion. He bucks again with the groan bubbling in his throat, her free hand pressing him flush against her as her legs coil around his to ground him.
"You don't have to do a thing."
If she says something else, he doesn't hear it. The muscles in her arm shift as she pumps with the roll of his hips, dictating his rhythm. His head's thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut as he fights the groans from leaving his throat, desperate notes. His hands bunch the sheets together, shaking. He's so tense. His body's a stone, hard and rigid, this, this can't feel good to—
She slows down and draws the stroke out, swipes her thumb across the tip, once twice, and his breath catches in his throat right as she squeezes, hard. His teeth grit as he rises involuntarily, the entire length of him curling, tensing. A shuddering gasp tears out from him and she hums in response, pulling him back down as she pumps faster, faster, and it's like each stroke slackens his jaw that much more.
"Shit," he pants. A chink in his armor. She ducks her head back down and kisses his neck again, then again. Her tongue grazes his tendon and he groans louder, "Shit," and she chases the sound, kissing and sucking at the pulsepoint. Her lips work in tandem with her hand to tear him down, and before Link knows it he's utterly melted, crying out and spasming in her touch.
They’re like that for Hylia knows how long, and they only begin to slow down when Zelda starts chirping sheepish apologies about how her arm’s getting a little sore. Her fingers curl and drag across the length of him and she murmurs, “Are you ready?” Her thumb at the ridge of his tip, rubbing smooth circles. “Or do you need a little more?”
She yelps when he twists around in her grip, his legs kicking, hands fumbling at his waist. His trousers can’t leave fast enough and then he’s working her leggings down, bit by bit. She’s trying to help him, her legs arching, tensing, she’s really trying. They just hug the skin so damn much. Back then, following her all over Hyrule in these infernal, sinful things. He wonders how he ever got by, but he didn’t, did he? Neither of them did. That’s why they’re here.
Goddess, she’s beautiful.
“Apologies,” she’s saying nervously, “it really shouldn’t take so—nggh!”
He wraps himself around her suspended leg the moment she’s free, another cry tearing from her throat as his fingers dig into the supple flesh, his lips dragging up her inner thigh. So smooth. So smooth and tender. His teeth clamp down and she sobs, her fingers in his hair, kneading, pulling,
“The—linen,” she gasps as he works away, tasting her, “My—my linens, they’re still—”
It’s like he can’t hear her. He’s burrowing his face between her legs, the damp cotton of her undergarments brushing his nose as his lips smear across the surface of her skin, brainless and sloppy. He can’t. He can’t get enough of her.
“Link,” she whimpers, and he freezes, panting. His name. It’s...it’s the first time she’s…
Her hands cup his cheeks, bringing him up to her face, her eyes fogged and desperate. It’s the same. That day, with the sun setting and Ganon dead and her looking at him this same, hopeless way. That day she needed something, and he couldn’t give it.
“I need you,” she whispers, sobs, “Goddess, I—”
Her eyes flutter shut when he kisses her forehead. He doesn’t really know where it comes from, this movement, gentle and caressing. It just feels...right. His forehead dips down against hers and they breathe in tandem, whispery gasps. “Okay,” he murmurs, “okay...c’mere.”
By the time they’re situated and that last article of clothing’s gone, he finds himself staring again. Looming over her with his hand burrowing into the bedspread, his eyes roaming helplessly over her as he guides himself in. The way she shivers when his tip just barely kisses her entrance, her brow scrunched up and her eyes squeezed shut. It’s almost enough to distract him from the jolt of pleasure that shoots up his groin, tightens his core further into this evergrowing knot that’s been there since she started touching him. Link licks his lips but they stay dry as his throat, because this is it. This is the plunge.
This is what they both want, and the last thing he needs is to mess this up.
“Link,” she says, gentle, doting. “Look at me.”
He meets her gaze again. Something akin to anxiety in there, uncertainty, but she’s smiling through all of it. Her fingers lace through his, and she pulls him in by the neck for another slow, chaste kiss, and before he knows it, he shifts forward.
The slightest bit of resistance. Then warmth, slick and inviting, taking him in nice and easy. Their lips part but she keeps him close as she sighs, breathing in his gasp as he sits there, perched and tense on his knees, feeling her around him. The sensitivity of it, of him. It’s like the slightest shift has the potential to unravel him completely. She’s peppering his face in kisses, murmuring words of encouragement, waiting as long as he needs.
And then they start.
He’s gone for those first few thrusts. The way a hand gets after touching a hot pan—for a moment all feeling’s gone, and the only thing he can really perceive is her eyes, wide and trembling and boring into his own as she works to match his building rhythm. That faint musk of sweat in the air.
Then the feeling’s there, just like that, and they both groan when he buries himself to the hilt in her. Her head thrown back, jaw slack as her hips roll in a desperate bid to keep up with his quickening tempo. He’s rigid and taut against her, holding her by the waist and angling himself just—just—
Her moan rises an octave and she throws her arms around his back, clinging to him same as her legs do around his hips. She’s never been very heavy. He reaches out for the bedframe, his other arm slung around Zelda’s waist as he bucks up into her again and again, over and over.
“Goddess,” he pants, his voice trembling in ecstasy, “Goddess.”
Eventually she’s at his neck again, muttering into his ear, “Turn me around.”
He’s cognitive again at her voice, just barely. “What—?”
Her hands wrestle his face away, her legs' grip loosening as she breathes, hard, “ Just—trust me —”
He flips her over and slides back in, one smooth motion. She arches up with a groan, the muscles in her back flexing taut and rigid and for a moment the word ‘lovely’ crosses Link’s mind before she clenches around him and he flatlines once more. She brushes her hair over her shoulder and ducks her head down as they start their rhythm again, meeting each other tit for tat, flesh smacking upon flesh. Her voice edges out from murmuring praise to whimpering notes, each one higher than the last as he bears down on her, and just the sound of her almost finishes him. But he can’t do that.
She’s not done yet.
He breathes hard through his nose as he undulates his hips, reaming her out in deliberate, harsh strokes. She shudders with each shift, breaking into a forlorn squeal that edges out into a scream as he presses down on her back, lower, lower, until all she can do is bury her face into the pillow. Her legs give out and Link dives with her, chasing her muffled cries.
He’s flat along the length of her back when they both finish, her legs quivering as she squeals, high and breaking and so, so sweet. It draws the moan from his lips, a hoarse, soft sound that saps whatever strength he has left. His head lolls over hers as he breathes into her scalp, hearing her come down along with him.
They’re like that for some time. He almost thinks she’s fallen asleep. He wouldn’t blame her. He’s got half a mind to pass out himself. This warmth they’ve surrounded themselves with. It’s like it begs him to stay. But he really ought to move. Give the Lady her resting space.
“Don’t go,” she murmurs, her eyes still shut.
Link doesn’t say anything. Then he settles in, and lets her fingers lace through his once more.
“Alright," he murmurs, "alright, Zelda," and the last thing he feels is her hand squeezing his.
“We’ve had several noise complaints.”
Link thought he’d know what to say. Looking at Padok, he just shrugs.
“Damn kids,” Padok sighs, flipping his checkbook shut, “what am I supposed to do, fine Her Majesty?”
“Could fine me.”
Padok snorts. “You’ve got your hands full as it is. Scram.”
Link fetches their horses. Couple customers pass him by, give him the side-eye every now and then, like he won’t notice. Maybe they want him to. Scolding with their looks and all. A part of him feels sheepish, it really does. But he never blushes. Funny, that. Maybe he never did. Even back then.
What did he mean, ‘got your hands full?’
“We’re right on schedule.”
He looks up with a blink. Zelda’s saddling her horse, looking more at the road ahead of them than anything else. Sun’s just barely rising over those Dueling Peaks, glitters the grass, the hills. Her hair.
He hasn’t said anything yet. “Oh yeah?”
Zelda nods, and he mounts up alongside her. “Not a cloud in sight,” she says. “I’m sure King Dorephan will be most pleased with our punctuality.” She sighs, pleasant and cool. Like the light keeps her fresh, alive.
Happy. Finally, happy.
Oh, she’s looking at him. Link clears his throat, smothers that pesky ache in his chest. “What is it?”
Her gaze drifts away for a moment, pensive and reserved. Then she looks up with a small smile. “Our working relationship,” she says, “I think...I think this is a good business model to follow for the time being. If I’m not being too presumptuous.”
He clears his throat again. Something he had for breakfast, maybe. “You’re not.”
Her smile grows, her cheeks flushed just a bit. “I’m happy to hear it, Champion,” she says, and for some reason it just sounds wrong , now. Champion. Like a rotten apple.
“...Link,” he says, like he’s testing how his own name sounds on his tongue, “you can...just, Link. That works. That works just fine.”
Her smile drops for a split second. Then it’s like it never left, relieved and nervous all at once. “A-alright,” she says, “alright, very well...Link,” and oh, there’s no smothering that. That flutter in his stomach when she utters that single syllable. It almost tips him off his horse. Goddess, man, really?
“Yeah, well,” he clears his throat, settles further into his seat like it’ll fly away from him if he doesn’t, “punctuality, and all that, right? We should get—”
“Ah, yes, ahem,” she says, suddenly sheepish, suddenly coy, “about that...that pesky schedule…”
He looks at her, sees that new gleam in her eye, how sly her smile’s grown, and he almost doesn’t quite hear her when she keeps going, “I was checking the map again, and I was noting just how prolific these inns have grown...our room here was perfectly serviceable, but...perhaps, it wouldn’t be a terrible notion to delay our arrival and inspect one or two more...assess their quality, ensure everything’s up to code…”
Oh. Oh, that’s what Padok meant. Oh, Hylia...