Cozy.
yeah its cozier when he transforms into a big doggie to sleep and cuddle, but its getting harder to explain all the dog hair on the s
This lovely art by @gathoscorner was nominated by @sirstickbug! This art instantly inspired me, so I was so glad to be able to write a fic to go along with it!
Gatho said that TP Zelda always seemed lonely (not even being close to the Impa of her time), and wanted to capture a moment where she and Link were away from the world—and show how Link being close enough to indulge her in a silly moment like this (and her allowing it) is really a testament to how comfortable they are with each other. I was given free rein for where to go with it so I hope I was able to capture a bit of that with this piece! 🥰 Thanks so much for being willing and I hope you like it!
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@mrmilktrayman14 sent me a delightful request based on some lovely art, and then tumblr ate the ask. :( But here's the fic anyway, hope you enjoy it! 🖤
— Daylight —
All he could think was, Oh no.
He's seen the princess this way before, of course: stealing a moment to herself, free of those carefully erected barriers that kept most of the world at bay, and in the quiet of it, looking exceptionally beautiful. None of that was cause for much alarm. He was often present when she thought herself alone, and though he would never be presumptuous enough to call her beautiful aloud, anyone with eyes in their head could see it.
It was the way the light caught on the pearls and filagree strung in her hair so she glowed like daylight, the way his heart thudded condemningly in his chest and his feet wouldn't move, the way, for that stolen moment, he couldn't breathe.
He swallowed once.
Oh no.
She notices him then, her eyes drifting over her shoulder to acknowledge him. Her look is soft and unguarded, and her smile is warm.
She says, "General."
He swallows again.
But he's been spotted now, so there's no use running. He nods once, forces his feet forward and turns to lean against the balustrade. The balcony overlooks the east gardens, where the view is the most private. One of her favorite quiet places, where she can turn her face up into the sun as it crawls towards its apex, feel that bit of warmth and let it in before she withdraws into the coldest parts of her castle to face the myriad of economic troubles and political instability flooding into the wake of war, and let him see the parts of her she shows to no one else.
He shoves down his pounding heart out of his throat and says, "Highness."
"It's a beautiful morning."
He nods again—because he's afraid of saying something stupid, but also because his tongue is starting to feel swollen in his mouth. He can't quite look her in the eye, but looking elsewhere is proving just as dangerous—a bare shoulder drenched in sunlight, the plunging back of her dress peeking out from beneath her ornate braid. Pale lips, just hinting at a smile.
He swivels his head in the other direction.
A breeze shivers through the garden as they bask in the sun and silence. It fills his nose, clears his head. Helps him stop thinking stupid thoughts. The wind is brisk. He unclips the stays on his cloak, unfurls it from his shoulders and holds it out for her to shrug into. She does easily, demurely—because she’s the queen, and everything she does is elegant, but also because this isn’t the first time he’s offered.
She thanks him, clutching at the collar, and he forgets to answer. He’s frowning, something in the way she moves reigniting starbursts and sensations in his brain, heating his pulse; making his fingers twitch; sending his tongue sliding against the inside of his canines while his lips twist. She notices.
She asks, quietly, “Is something the matter?”
He shakes his head, but the discontent is still scrawled all over his face. He really should’ve seen this coming. He did see this coming. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, shrouded in shadow and wearing wolfpelt, he’d been struck by how lovely she was; but there was always something to pull his mind in another direction, another foe to slay or an army to train or a kingdom to rebuild. There was always reason or discipline or logic to keep him from leaping off the brink into a precipice feelings he had no time for and no right to.
There’s nothing logical about this.
She pulls the cloak tighter around her shoulders, turning to face him and lean gently against the railing, and he makes the very great mistake of meeting her eyes. “Won’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is so husky it comes out closer to a growl. And she’s too perceptive not to notice, and too stubborn to be dissuaded, and still staring, so he resigns himself to the hole he’s dug for himself instead of doing something ridiculous, like try to maintain a shred of dignity in her presence. He folds his arms with a sigh and admits, slowly enough to betray how stepped on he feels, “I was just thinking that you look terribly beautiful in the daylight.”
She doesn’t answer right away, but her eyes sparkle. Maybe she’s laughing at him. Maybe he deserves it. “Is that terrible?”
He frowns. “Is it for me.”
She listens, nods, in that stately way she does when weighing a room full of concerns, but her lips are soft and just turning up at the corners, and his eyes snag on them until they disappear, hidden beneath the collar of his cloak where she’s curled her fist into it and pulled it towards her nose.
“Have I ever told you,” she muses, eyes meeting his and smoldering above the blue cloth draped over her knuckles, “how much I enjoy the smell of your cloak?”
His brow furrows at her, because he can’t tell if she’s teasing him or flirting with him, and either way he can feel it turning the tips of his ears red. Only she doesn’t tease anyone. Nor does she flirt. He unfolds his arms and turns to face her more squarely, and she takes a half-step closer, and one hand falls beneath his cloak near her hip, so close her skirts brush against his fingertips. They flex and curl, lost in the silky texture. And her eyes are still on his, still teasing, or flirting, and for the life of him he still can’t tell which.
He swallows. Hard.
Oh no.
He murmurs, because the words are setting fire to his brain, “This is a bad idea.”
“You’re right,” she says, nodding as solemnly as she can when her eyes are still glittering, and steps away again. Leaving him bereft and dizzy and confused as she turns to look out over the gardens. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”
He blinks. “Were you?”
“What?”
“Suggesting something?”
She tilts her head at him like he’s the one being confusing. “Well, not if it’s a bad idea.”
He licks dry lips, and sunlight catches on gold and jewels and behind his eyes.
He… needs to get out of here.
“I have a report to read,” he says, because it’s all he can come up with and he probably does have one he’s supposed to read somewhere, and makes for the doors.
Her voice is teasing, or flirtatious.
“What about your cloak?”
“Keep it,” he growls.
He yanks the door open, feeling stupid. Stupid enough to chance one last glance at her before he goes.
She’s stealing a moment to herself, looking exceptionally beautiful, the light catching on the pearls and filagree strung in her hair so she glows like daylight. Her eyes are closed, her nose pressed to one shoulder as she breathes deep against the cloth draped over her back. His heart thuds condemningly in his chest and his feet won't move, and for that stolen moment, he can't breathe.
Hey, just as a bit of a brain-teaser/prompt, if you're feeling up to it, based on that recent reblog of BOTW Link in Ancient Armour on horseback, could you do a small one-shot of TP Link absolutely BOLTING across Hyrule Field on Epona towards Hyrule Castle after hearing/thinking Zelda has been attacked/hurt in some way?
Idk I just feel like TP vibes paired with that scene would be absolutely divine.
Hope you're doing well! Cannot tell you how entertaining your MM streams have been lately.
— Control —
Being Captain of the Queen's Guard was both a responsibility and a privilege—one usually bestowed upon a seasoned knight with the respect of his men and an impressive record to recommend him. So it surprised everyone when a ranch-hand from the backwater southern reaches showed up out of nowhere—lanky, awkward, baby fat still in his cheeks—to claim the position. No one had expected him. And there had been growing pains; challenges to his authority, or very public errors as he muddled his way through castle politics and the unfamiliar etiquette that kept the city afloat.
Control, the queen had told him, an encouraging smile in her eyes. To survive in this place, you must show control.
Link took those words to heart, wanting to be useful to his queen and country and do right by her besides. All things considered, earning the respect of his skeptics didn't take terribly long; he had seen enough suffering and sacrifice and bloodshed to know what it was to be disciplined. He had to admit it felt strange, though, to mute joy, or sorrow, or pride, the way he might rein anger. But that was the way of things here. People hid what they were, and anyone who let themselves be seen was flaunting weakness.
He did have more to rein in than most. Not only because he tended to wear his heart on his sleeve, but because he had a creature living in him that had no concept of restraint whatsoever. Sometimes the Wolf would claw its way out, drumming his fingers during tedious meetings or narrowing his eyes when they ought to have been unreadable. But he always beat it back down, cognizant of appearances. Cognizant of the chaos a wolf on the loose in Castletown could cause.
It all crumbled when a messenger from the Castle burst into their training camp just outside the Great Bridge of Hylia, red-faced, panting, drenched from the rainstorm, with a sealed letter clenched in his fist.
"The queen," he managed, breathless, holding the message out for him. "There's been an attempt on the queen."
Read the letter, the knight in him said. Weigh your options. Don't be rash.
The wolf said, Run.
He'd burst out of the tent, thoughtless and reckless and burning with feeling, and set the horse call in his teeth and blown so hard the signal was shrill and unintelligible. Epona knew it anyway, tearing out of the temporary stables to meet him as he yanked a torch out of its sconce and carrying him out into the night before the clamor behind him could slow him down.
The rain and the muck were awful, drenching them both and sucking at her hooves. But she could feel her master's fury, the way all the parts of himself he normally kept under lock and key were radiating off him now in waves. He knew he was driving her too hard, the foam dripping from her mouth whipping up to paint his shoulder and her neck frothing white under the torchlight. He thought of running as the wolf; but even exhausted, Epona was faster.
They spotted him from the watchtower and called to bring down the bridge. He drove her through town, through the castle gates, and slid off the saddle before she had a chance to stop. Her legs were trembling, her nostrils flared and barrel swelling with each labored breath. But the grooms would see to her.
He tore into the atrium and down the halls, every breathless demand of Where is the queen? met with stunned gestures and choked out, garbled answers. He weaved up into the towers, and finally burst into her private library, where she was sitting up late in front of the fireplace with a book in her lap.
She seemed... fine.
She looked up at him—and then, slowly, her features marred with a gentle scowl. He must've looked as much a mess as Epona: soaked through, shaking with adrenaline, hair matted with rain, wind, and sweat, and too out of breath to cobble together a sentence.
She demanded, "Did you read my letter?"
"No," he admitted, panting, and raked a hand through his drenched hair. "I didn't. No time."
She sighed. "I told him to make sure you read it."
"Then you're—?"
"I'm fine."
The Wolf seemed to ripple out of him with his sigh of relief, his legs suddenly the consistency of jelly and his eyelids so heavy he could've put his head on her couch pillow without a thought of lifting it until the morning. His breath puffed out of him a few more times, that, the fire, and the patter of the rainwater dripping off his tunic the only sounds in the condemning silence. He finally moved, sliding down to the floor on his hip with his back to the furniture and dropping his forehead to her knee, still panting. This position would be neither dignified nor appropriate if there were anyone around. But it was late, and he couldn't imagine anyone following him up here after the scene he'd made. And even if they had. To Twilight with propriety.
He swallowed once, muttered, "Good."
Slowly, softly, her fingers found their way into his hair, across his scalp, and it sent soothing jolts of electricity down his spine. It made all the tension fall from his shoulders.
"I should scold you," she hummed, but when he lifted his eyes she was smiling at him. "But it was very sweet."
He untangled one of her hands from his hair to bring it down to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm.
"Scold me later," he suggested, and dropped his face back into her skirts.
She traced the long line of his ear while he caught his breath. Imagining the wolf, swishing his tail. It made her lip quirk.
And then her blade found his throat, pressing deep beneath his chin and forcing him up into the moonlight, familiar, narrowed eyes and cutting brow bleeding out of shadow and into form. The sight of him made her chest cramp and drained the feeling from her fingers, his name falling from her mouth in a broken whisper.
“Link?”
His fist came down hard on her forearm, sending her stumbling and dislodging her dagger. He was quick, snatching her knife out of the air and bringing his knee up to meet the underside of her chin. She landed flat on her back in the dirt, winded and skull rattling, and scrabbled to get up onto her elbows. He stalked closer, angling the blade so the tip glinted between her eyes, quaking with quiet fury.
“Don’t,” he hissed, “call me that.”
(because this art by @ramenana is doing things inside my brain)
