Chapter Text
She hadn’t meant to touch him. She shouldn’t have, for half a dozen reasons.
Her glove should have been on. She’d only taken it off because she’d spilled her tea on it earlier that day, and she couldn’t stand the sensation of the wet fabric on her wrist.
His bracer should have covered his arm. Had his sparring partner not drunk the night before, he would have thrust at him with the dull end of a training sword instead of the sharp side of a standard issue, and the leather straps tying the bracer to his arm would not have been slashed clean through.
Under his bracer, his tunic should have protected the bare skin of his arm. Had he not ripped off enough strips of fabric to fashion a makeshift tourniquet for the man who’d faced the brunt of his hungover sparring partner’s anger, it still would have covered his arm.
She shouldn’t have been on the training grounds, because her father had ordered her to pray at the Spring of Courage, and she was supposed to have left hours ago, but she didn’t want to go. It had been selfish, foolish, childish—she knew it was all true, but she couldn’t bring herself to follow orders that morning, so instead she hid where she wasn’t supposed to be.
She should have turned to run at the sight of blood, at the commotion, at the violence—she hadn’t witnessed enough of the details, only heard a sharp gasp, eyes turned to find the source, caught on a belligerent fool with a gleaming blade, a shout for order, a cry of pain, the stain of fresh blood on the soil.
Her curiosity got the best of her.
She ran toward the commotion instead of away, eyes locked on the horror, too mesmerized to look away, nearly slipping in the blood soaking the mud, hand grasping for the only stronghold in reach.
She should have been at the Spring of Courage, but she wasn’t. She should have run to safety, but she didn’t. She should have had her glove on her hand, but she didn’t. His bracer should have protected his arm, but it didn’t. The fabric of his tunic should have covered his skin, but it didn’t.
She shouldn’t have reached for him, he shouldn’t have anticipated her fall, shouldn’t have reached up to help her.
Her hand wrapped around his wrist, eyes flashing to his, drowning in the deepest blue before—
Her palm lit flame where it met his skin. Limbs tangled together under sheets, fingers threaded through his short brown hair, lips on her neck—no air in her lungs because his mouth was hungry on hers, tongue tasting the roof of his mouth, fingernails scraping down his back—his face pressed into her hair, arms around her middle, pressing her back to his front—
She blinked and the visions were gone. It wasn’t even his face she saw—unless it was? She released her hold on him instantly, palm still burning, and she could see in his eyes that he saw it, too.
She stumbled backwards. He stared so intense she wondered if he saw more, felt it, if it was the visions or his gaze that brought the flush to her face, the heat to her body, the goosebumps to her arms.
She turned and ran, because she shouldn’t have touched him. She understood enough to know that she shouldn’t have touched him, that she should make for the Spring of Courage, and do everything in her power to forget what she must have imagined.
He walked through the castle gates with the Master Sword hanging on his back less than a week later.
It hadn’t been him, in those visions, she was positive—his hair was too long, too blond, and she hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the man whose tongue had traced hers to really prove it but it couldn’t have been him.
Not that it mattered. There was an all-consuming fire that raged inside her now, that hadn’t cooled since that day in the training yard, that made her physically ill. There was a magnetic pull in the universe that drew her eyes to him, and she always found his staring back. She wondered if he felt what she did, if that was why he watched her, if he had been plagued with skin that ached to burn the way it had that day.
She had known since that day, of course, that he would eventually find that sword. It was the only explanation—past lives, previous universes aligning to repeat history one more infinite time.
She didn’t care for it. She had enough distractions, enough on her mind, she didn’t need piercing blue eyes reminding her of the ghosts behind her eyelids, the taste of lifetimes long forgotten, lines of bodies once held close.
When her father appointed him her guard, she had been too stunned to speak. Horrified, a fire sparked in her lungs that stole her breath. Curious, her flesh crawled with interest at what would happen the next time their skin brushed in contact. Hungry, her strength waned, consumed by some thirst that she couldn’t figure out how to quench.
His eyes scalded her. She couldn’t read his face, features frozen into an emotionless mask, but she ached so intensely that she knew he must feel it too.
She got as far as the door to chambers immediately following his appointment before she broke. She turned to face him, stepping closer, eyes desperate to swim through the ocean of his irises to understand him.
“What did you feel?” She asked, licking her lips in anticipation.
His eyes flicked quickly to her lips, returning for a second look, longer this time, before settling back on her eyes. “You,” he said, voice husky, gravel in his throat.
She clenched her fists, because she wasn’t wearing her wretched gloves, and it would be so easy for her to reach for his face, to run a finger over the line of his jaw, to feel whatever it was that had plagued her at his touch again.
She clasped her hands behind her back, wondering if he could read the desperation on her face.
She resisted, turning to disappear behind her door, to scold herself for considering such an indulgence. She reminded herself of her place, of her duty, of her responsibilities.
Perhaps Princesses past may have enjoyed such luxuries, but she had not earned pleasures of the flesh, certainly not with him.
It didn’t stop his eyes from following her, didn’t stop him from offering his touch where he could. She could refuse, of course—she could wear her gloves, she could tuck her arm into the crook of his elbow where his tunic would provide a layer of safety, could decline. He would stare, eyes burning hotter than she could bear, but he never questioned her.
She meant to touch him the second time. She knew it was wrong, knew she should not have, but the aching in her chest, her stomach, between her thighs—it only grew with the intensity of his stare, hollow pangs akin to hunger settling into her core the longer she wondered what she might see the next time she felt his flesh.
He had given her the opportunity, like always, a careful strip of skin exposed along his wrist as he offered his arm. They were alone, out in Hyrule Field, away from prying eyes. Her mouth watered at the opportunity, short of breath, and she met his eyes just long enough before wrapping her hand around his skin to see him inhale sharply in anticipation.
Her hand wrapped around him tightly, fingers slick with her own saliva, tongue licking up his length in tandem with her fingers, feeling his grip in her hair tighten as he gasped—her face pressed into his shoulder, whimpering, panting as his fingers explored inside her, palm pressed against the place she wanted friction most, whispers of sweet praise and encouragement in her ear—pinning his hands above his head, watching his eyes widen in shock and then narrow in acceptance of her challenge, straddling his pelvis, feeling him desperately press against her center with all the strength of a worthy hero—
She closed her eyes, gripping his arm too tightly, trying not to pant, but she could feel the muscle in his arm tense with how tightly he clenched his fist.
She couldn’t breathe. His skin was fire under hers, but she couldn’t let go, or she’d collapse over such weak knees. She didn’t dare reach to grab him any more solidly, afraid of how familiarly her hands would trace his body, how little willpower she would have, which curiosities she would feel compelled to explore.
She tried desperately to collect herself, nails digging into the skin of his forearm where she clenched, opening her eyes only to stare up into the sky, to remind herself where and who she was.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, sounding as breathless and she felt, and his voice so desperate pulled compellingly at the hunger in her belly.
She knew how to sate it. This ailment that had overtaken her, that had consumed her body, she knew exactly how to relieve herself of it, what would cure her.
She released his arm, listening to the rhythm of her own heavy breathing to try to slow her racing heart.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, as composed as she could manage, desperate to see his face, to watch him burn with as much need as she did, forcing herself not to turn, knowing what she would do if she met his fiery blue gaze.
She couldn’t touch him a third time, not unless she could add to the visions, not unless she could test if he tasted the same, if his fingers filled her as thoroughly, if he pressed into her as demandingly.
They returned to the castle wordlessly, and he did not offer her his arm.
He did not offer her the indulgence of his flesh again, after that. It should have cooled the fire between them, should have smothered it, should have stamped it out until she could think about anything else again, but her chest had never felt tighter. His presence constricted her tighter than any corset, turning the air so thick it made her dizzy, sent her head spinning.
His eyes hadn’t cooled, and she could see the vicious desire in them even clearer, now. The set of his brow felt possessive, jealous, ravenous in a way that she couldn’t explain, boiling her blood and chilling her flesh until every inch of her cracked under the pressure.
Had he seen the same moments she had? Had he felt her tongue in his mouth, on his dick, felt the silky strands of her hair between his fingers? Or had he seen something she hadn’t, been privy to fantasies she wouldn’t dare imagine lest they tempt her too intensely?
She couldn’t help but wonder, couldn’t help but dwell on what set his eyes so alight, had tempted him so thoroughly that he had to set such a barrier.
She did not dare to ask, afraid of how quickly her willpower would crumble if he told her, but it did not make his stares any easier to withstand.
The third time had been desperate; they had both been distracted.
He had saved her in the desert, she was terrified, and he was there when she had tried to make sure he couldn’t be.
He helped her up onto her feet, so much emotion in his eyes that she reached to cup his cheek with her hand.
Her fingertips curled over his, lifted up until he could press his lips over her knuckles. A mischievous glint in his eyes as he met her gaze through his bangs, she could feel herself smiling back—a dance hall, not unlike the one she spent each solstice and equinox in, his hand dangerously low on her back, hers reaching for the exposed skin of his neck. He held her close, closer than she would dare, but she wouldn’t push him away, not when his lips could whisper into her ears all the things he wanted to do to her once the ball ended—muffled giggles into his shoulder as they hid in the kitchens, because they weren’t supposed to be here this late, and one of their instructors was just around the corner, and if Pipit saw them then they’d never hear the end of it, but it was tradition for them to sneak snacks on the last night before the end of the school year, and this would be their last one ever before Link would fly in his Wing Ceremony—
She didn’t let go. She couldn’t. His hand reached up to cover hers, pressing her palm into his cheek, blue eyes nearly glowing in the desert moonlight.
She opened her mouth to speak, watching his eyes drop her lips, and she froze.
He gave her a moment, an opportunity to speak, but it flew past her, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, throwing her arm over his shoulder, guiding her back to the Kara Kara Inn.
She squinted her eyes as he walked her, trying to push the thoughts from her head. Shouldn’t sweeter visions tamper down the heat in her core? Shouldn’t they ease the hunger, the aching need? Shouldn’t they at least inspire her to have some semblance of rationality—she didn’t know him, not like each of her past selves knew his, and it was complete insanity for her to feel any sort of desire for him at all.
He helped her onto a bed, made to untangle his arms from hers, but she pulled him in for an embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in his ear, lips grazing over the shell of his ear. It took everything in her power not to lean in further, not to press her tongue against whatever skin she could reach to taste him.
His grip around her tightened at her apology. “Don’t be,” he breathed, and she buried her face further into his neck.
Maybe it was okay not to fight it, she wondered. Maybe this was Hylia’s way of speaking to her, of guiding her. Maybe she had only ever heard silence before because she had been missing Hylia’s Chosen as Her conduit.
“Stay with me?” She asked, letting her fingers reach up for the ends of his hair, surprised at how soft it felt on her skin.
“Of course, Princess,” he murmured, keeping his hold tight on her as he reclined back onto the bed, pulling her body flush to his.
“You feel it, too, don’t you?” She asked into his neck, unable to face the blue of his eyes. She wasn’t sure what it was she was referring to, outside of the primal need for him that flowed ancient through her veins.
“Yes,” he affirmed, his own hand reaching to feel the softness of her hair, to smooth it down over her back, to feel the curve of her body.
“I don’t want to fight it anymore,” she admitted, pulling away just enough to look at his face. She wanted to see those steely blue eyes gaze at her with enough intensity to excuse her weakness, but all she saw was black pupils blown, reflecting her own feverish expression back at her. She was too desperate to feel ashamed.
“So don’t,” he whispered, dilated eyes landing on her lips again, breaths heavy as his grip around her tightened. “Please, don’t.”
Somebody cleared their throat loudly, and Zelda squeezed her eyes shut to cut off the intoxication of his stare. So much agonizing time spent alone with him that nearly drove her mad, and now that she wanted to give in, they couldn’t be afforded any privacy? She inhaled deeply, trying to clear her mind, but she still smelled him and it didn’t help.
She pressed her forehead against his before opening her eyes again, finding his equally pained. “Soon,” she whispered, and he smiled, nodding his head ever so slightly, the promise of the future enough to stave of the current hunger.
They fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, aching to pull closer.