#renwrites

Marriage isn’t easy. You’ve always known that, of course – some sort of knowledge hidden in the depths of your mind, vague enough to never cross your thoughts. Until now. If you’re perhaps smarter than you’d been, you would’ve thought twice before jumping into it and agreeing. You’ve got a general idea of what you’re getting into: your new role as a wife, the responsibilities expected of you, but you’ve never once thought it’ll be this exhausting.

If you’d known any better, you wouldn’t have jumped into it as easily as you had. Blame your mother for instilling all these ideas onto you, and blame your friends for romanticizing the Hero of Hyrule. He’d be a perfect husband, they’d told you. With how sweet and caring he is to strangers – people whose name he doesn’t even know, imagine how sweet he’ll be to his own wife. Bah. You’d imagined, indeed, and now you regret it. Not that it isn’t too late for regrets, but still. It’s not like this is something you’d wanted to happen in the first place. This has been, after all, a marriage of convenience, rushed and impulsive, something you had actually no say in no matter how much your mother tries to pretend otherwise. It hadn’t been your idea; it had been your mother’s, tinged with desperation as she tried to find a way to settle your father’s debts after he ran away from your mother and you, eager to hide and start life somewhere else.

Looking back at it now, it’s a bad idea, but at the time, there’s very little you can do. Stuck in a house where your mother resents you for reminding her too much of the man who’d left her, the choice had only been to get away. And so you’d agreed. The marriage had been quick, private, with little ceremony. Attended only by your mother and a handful other villagers, there were no vows spoken, no kisses shared. Everything was stiff and formal, quick and hasty. Before you know it, you’re being driven off into Hateno Village, with all your belongings packed into a single rucksack, your old life growing further out of reach with each second.

Three year later and you’re stuck in a house as cold and hollow as the one you’d left behind. You doubt there’s any real love involved between you, not even an ounce of fondness or attraction. It’s not that Link isn’t nice. He’s nice, exactly like a hero is nice. He’s helpful, considerate. He washes the dishes, puts them back the same way you’d left them. He fixes his bed every morning so you don’t have to. He doesn’t leave any mess behind for you to clean up. He’s exactly how your friends describe him – the ideal man, a hero.

But they don’t know that he could be distant too, cold as ice. Perfect and flawless. Like a statue, meant to be admired only from afar. This close, everything you know about him falls apart. He’s like a ghost in your home, a phantom presence you’ve learned to coexist with in the course of three years. He wakes early in the mornings, long before you, and sleeps late at nights, in the room across from you. He’s never around enough for you to share your meals with, or for you to get to know. You can’t remember a single time where you’d sat across from each other on the dinner table and talked. Even when the two of you had shared your meals together, which was rarely, perhaps a once in a blue moon occurrence, he was quiet, mostly just keeping to himself. He’d eat his meals in silence, and you’d do the same, listening to the clatter of the tableware as you do so. Some days, when you’re feeling particularly friendly, eager to get to know him on a more personal level, you’d strike a conversation, telling him things about your old life, asking him about his own in turn. He’s never offered much about himself, and after a few times, you’d finally given up on your attempts to get him to open up to you more.

But he listens. He always does, even as you ramble on with your mouth full of food, getting carried away with a that he hasn’t asked for, or even cared enough to know. You wonder if he finds your life more interesting than his – highly doubtful and you’re sure of that, or if he’s just humoring you, trying to be polite to make you feel better, but he listens. Or maybe he just knows how to look like he is. With how quiet he is around you, you never could quite guess what he’s thinking. Or feeling.

 Even now, if pressed, the only thing for certain that you know about him is that his name is Link, and that he’s the Hero who saved the world from the Calamity a hundred years ago. Things that could be found just from listening to the people alone. Nothing personal, nothing intimate. You never knew how he was raised, never knew the kind of village he’d grown up in. The things he likes. The things he dislikes. Whether or not he’s really okay with this arrangement.

You do know, however, how he likes being away from home. Years of observation have made you jumped to that conclusion, at least. You could almost count the hours he’s here in your home – his home, one that he’d graciously shared with you; just one, sometimes three, and only to rest and recuperate. He never stays the whole day, not even a half. Most nights, he doesn’t come home at all, preferring to spend the rest of his days elsewhere, without your company to keep him.

Not that you could blame him, of course. He was probably forced into this as much as you had been, and the only reason he’d agreed with this was because he was too nice and couldn’t find it in his heart to say no to your mother, with her crying and whimpering. Oh, well. You suppose there are worse men out there for you to marry. At the very least, he doesn’t hit you. Or scream at you, or take his anger out on you in all the worse ways one could imagine. You’ve heard of tales from your old village, where women escape to get away from their husbands’ anger. You suppose it’s only luck that you’re not considering the same course of action.

Still, that doesn’t make this life any less lonely than it is. Surrounded only by women your age, married happily to their own husbands, sometimes even with children on the way, makes you feel envious. All your life, you’d never imagined you were going to be married to anyone, preferring to live a life of solitude and freedom, but now that it’s the kind of life you live, you can’t help but feel some kind of resentment. How different your life would’ve been had you married for love and not convenience? If you’d listened to your heart instead of your mother?

Two years ago, back when you were younger, more impatient, you were certain you would’ve been happier with running away, living somewhere in the woods, alone and free. As old as you are now, you’re not so sure anymore; besides, it’s already too late to change courses, and it’s not as if Link is a bad husband. It’s not a bad life, by all means. You live in relative comfort, and the people in the village are as nice as you’ve always imagined. You’ve got food, shelter. In fact, you even have people you call your friends now: two women around your age, married and with children, eager to visit you in your empty home to keep you company when their own husbands are away and their kids are busy with schooling. They stay until the sun begins to set, and the three of you would do all sorts of things together, trying to pass the time: sewing the tattered clothes from your respective husbands’ closets, gossiping about the other villagers, exchanging details about your lives as married women.

They’d egg you on and tease you, pressing you for more details about your life with your husband, asking you all sorts of things: whether or not the hero’s good in bed, if he’s that good of a kisser as they’d imagine him to be. You don’t have an answer for any of that, and it’s the truth; ever since the two of you had got married, there had been no chances for intimacy. You’ve never even kissed, not even once, nor have you ever held his hands in yours. The most he’s ever given you as an act of affection is a nod and a polite smile – which isn’t an act of affection at all, according to anyone who’s ever had a shred of romance in their bones.

Realizing you’re speaking the truth, your friends give you a look of sympathy. The teasing soon turns into consolation, and you can’t tell which is the worse. He's just busy, they tell you. Maybe he just doesn’t have the time; he’s a hero, after all, and a knight too, at that. He’s already got so many things on his plate. You know all of this, of course, and more. They always forget to mention how this is a transaction, a marriage of convenience, something he doesn’t even have to like, or even reciprocate. Or maybe they’re just trying to be considerate, not mentioning it in your presence. Everyone in here has no doubt learned of it; it’s not as though it’s a secret anyhow. Not like it changes anything.

-

It shouldn’t be surprising to learn that he’d do something like this. It should be unthinkable, to discover that someone like him would cheat, but the truth sits in front of you nonetheless. There’s no refuting it, not when all the signs are here, flashing in front of your eyes. How he never seems to be around lately, how his clothes seem to smell differently now, not like the usual, at least, and certainly not the one you’ve grown to memorize. The red marks at the collar of his shirt, obvious to nearly no one else but you. Isn’t this, too, a kind of truth?

Still, you’re not sure why you care. There’s no reason why you should feel this way, as though you’ve been hollowed out and left empty. No reason why dread sits in the bottom of your stomach, heavy like lead, or why your heart hurts, as though a thousand needles pricked it all at once. It’s not as if he owes you any loyalty, and it’s not as if you love each other. You’ve established that, early on in your marriage. You’ve never talked about it, not explicitly, but it’s always there – a lingering knowledge, something you both know but have never said out loud.

And yet it doesn’t stop you from feeling this way. You’ve tried to rationalize it, sitting there on the dinner table, holding his tunic in your hands, glaring at the very obvious lipstick stains on the collar, feeling both angry and heartbroken at once. But there’s no reason to, you know there’s no reason to feel like this. You don’t love him, you’re sure of it. You can count all the times you’ve shared a conversation with him with one hand, and it’s not enough to justify whatever feelings of possessiveness you have over him. As far as you know, he can do whatever he wants. And so could you, for that matter.

And yet it doesn’t stop your heart from hurting. Nor does it make your anger abate even for just a second. You hold the tunic tighter in your hands, glaring angrily at it, not sure what you want to do with it. You’re meant to sew it, initially; it had looked to be in poor condition the first time you’d laid your eyes on it, tattered and ripping at the seams already, but now you want nothing more to do with it. Another irrational thought, one you’re supposed to quell, crush beneath the weight of all your other worries.

You exhale a breath, stand up, leaving the tunic where it is as you fetch a drink.

-

He comes home for dinner that night. Another rare occurrence, one you don’t even dream of happening, especially now that you’ve learned of the truth. You imagine he’ll be out and about at this time, busy making love to whatever mystery girl he surrounds himself with. Wide-eyed, naïve. Doe-like and innocent, she’d be younger than you for sure, this mystery girl whose only mark of existence is the lipstick stains she keeps leaving on your husband’s clothes. Even just the thought of her makes you annoyed, though you’re not quite sure why.

You’re quiet as you serve dinner, quiet even as you sit across from him and eat. Normally, you’d at least try to make some conversation, just to ease whatever awkwardness lingers in the air. He wouldn’t speak, like always, though he’d listen to you go on about your life even if he’s heard the same story more than once. But you don’t. Not this time. With your mind circling back toward this so-called mystery girl, you can’t even bring yourself to speak. Or enjoy your dinner. Each bite seems almost bitter, the taste of blood lingering on the tip of your tongue long after you’ve swallowed a spoonful down. It takes you more than a few minutes to realize that you’ve been biting your tongue this whole time, stewing too much in your own jealousy to pay proper attention to your meal. Hurriedly, you excuse yourself, grabbing a nearby kitchen towel to wipe at your mouth.

He doesn’t say anything as he watches you go, though you could feel his eyes on your back, eyeing your every move. You don’t have to look back to know that he wears the same expression as always. Opaque, unreadable. Far out of your reach.

-

You find him in your room after dinner. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands on his lap, staring at something on the floor. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks like he’s deep in thought. You lean against the door, cross your arms over your chest. Taking a glance at your surroundings, just to confirm you are indeed in the right room, you clear your throat, catch his attention. “This isn’t your room,” you say stiffly, your voice flat, empty.

He looks up at the sound of your voice, eyes boring straight through yours. The blue of his eyes seems even brighter in the semi-darkness, piercing as he continues to stare at you, through you. Does he know then? Does he know that you know? Does he know how you feel about it? “I know where my room is.”

You raise an eyebrow, purse your lips together. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

He shrugs, looks away, casts a curious glance around him. He takes it all in, at once, as if for the first time. “I came to visit.”

You frown. He’s never come to visit your room before, at least not when you’re around, and you can’t imagine why he’d want to now. Not when he has something else to keep himself busy – someone else. “I don’t see why there’s a need to.”

His voice grows quieter, nearly a whisper. Still, every word rings loud against your ears, echoes and reverberates in the hollow of your soul. “I came to check up on my wife.”

The words catch you off-guard, and for a second, your mind blanks out, unable to find the right words. He’s never referred to you as such before; you can’t confirm if he’s ever done so in front of other people, but it’s not as though you’re outside often enough to ask. And even if you are, it’s not an appropriate question. Still, that doesn’t make you any less surprised. “Your… wife?”

He nods his head, gives you a lopsided smile. You’ve only ever seen this smile of his on a handful of occasions, and it always makes you feel conflicted each time. A flutter in your heart, a knot in your stomach, a sudden jump in your pulse – things you could never quite explain how, note even to yourself. “There’s only one of her, isn’t there?”

You snort, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, your words. “I don’t appreciate you thinking you could fool me again, mister.”

“I see.” His voice grows quieter, softer. He lowers his head, stares at the floor. He doesn’t speak for a second, and once again, you could never quite tell what he’s thinking. “That’s why you’ve been quiet.”

You scoff, feeling your temper rise at his sudden shift in attitude. Still, you’re careful to keep your voice flat, refusing to give in to the heat of your anger, the excruciating burn of your jealousy. “I don’t think you know me as much as you claim to.”

He lifts his head, looks at you. He meets your eyes this time, and something in his gaze pins you to your spot. You’ve never seen him look at you this way before, and something about it makes you yearn for it and deny it at the same time. “I’ve watched you,” he says. His voice is calm, steady. Soothing, almost, though it only does the opposite for you. “You didn’t see me, but this afternoon, after you ate your lunch, you laid on the couch and napped for an hour.”

You shake your head, look away, crossing your arms over your chest. “You watching me like a stalker doesn’t prove you know enough about me.”

He doesn’t falter. “You take your coffee with three sugars and no less because it’s too bitter for your taste.”

He’s right, like he’d been right the previous time, and yet the same problem remains. You exhale a sigh, growing more exasperated by the second. “I don’t see what that has to do with any of this.”

His eyebrows furrow. A hint of irritation flashes in his expression, rare and quick as a lightning bolt. Frustration creeps into his voice, makes it rise just the slightest bit. “That I know you as much as I claim to.”

You shake your head, exhale another sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation. There’s no point to this argument, is there? The boundaries of your relationship had been clear from the start; you knew what you were getting into the moment you’d agreed to the marriage. “Even if you do, we’re still strangers.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he stands up, takes a step forward, and another, then another. Until he’s standing in front you, just barely out of reach. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

He takes another step, closes the distance between you until there’s none. “Even if I know everything about you?”

Does he? Even the thought seems almost unbelievable. Laughable, too. He has too much on his plate to bother learning everything he can about you. And even if that were true and he truly did do all of those, what difference would it make? Still, you can’t help but be curious, one eyebrow raising as you keep your eyes on him. “And what do you know about me?”

He nods, smiles. A different kind this time – tiny, a subtle twitch at the corners of his lips. One you’ve never seen before, and yet one that sends an unexplainable thrill through you. “That you’re jealous.” It’s a statement, a simple fact, one that makes your ears burn in offense.

“There’s no reason for me to be,” you snap, glaring at him. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you take a step back, attempting to mask it in the semi-darkness of the room. He follows after you, takes another step forward when you take a step back, refusing to let you maintain that distance you’ve been trying to keep. The game continues on for approximately a minute before you finally hit the wall, rendering all chances of escape null. You glare at him instead, annoyed at the look of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I know what I got myself into when I agreed to marry you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look,” you begin, taking a step to the side, refusing to play his game any longer. He doesn’t let you, stops you before you can go any farther, placing both his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. “I’m not sure why you’re here in my room right now, but I’m not going to be your entertainment tonight just because you’re lonely and in mighty need of company.”

He looks almost surprised at your implication; you catch the widening of his eyes, the shock that flickers behind them, just briefly before it fizzles out, disappears once more. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

 “It’s not worry,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in exasperation. Has he always been this annoying and you just never even know it? Is this a side of him you would’ve killed to know a few years back? You would’ve been certain of the answer years ago, but now you’re not so sure. Everything’s too confusing, conflicting, and you’re not sure what to think, especially not when it comes to him. “It’s called—”

“Jealousy,” he finishes for you. He gives you another small smile, and it looks smug, victorious. You’ve half the heart to wipe it off, and the other half to kiss it away. You’re not entirely sure where the thought comes from, and it makes the heat in your cheeks rise, grow warmer.

You glare at him instead. It’s easier to mask whatever embarrassment you feel with anger; it’s familiar, comfortable, and it’s something he expects. You open your mouth, try to protest, but he stops you this time, refuses to let you speak. He shakes his head, presses a finger against your lips, shuts you up. His smile grows wider, and he leans down, close enough that he could look you in the eye. This close, the blue of his eyes seems infinite. Mesmerizing, as though it would swallow you whole if you forget to look away. He removes his finger from your lips, moves to cup your cheek, cradling it in his hands. Your vision swims. Your breath steams. Your heart stops. There’s a split second where everything grows still as he touches you for the first time.

Every feeling after this is magnified. The warmth of his hands burns like liquid heat against your skin. Your flesh sings. Your bones ache. You feel like a livewire at this moment, coiled and very much alive. You fear you’ll explode, turn into sparks if he touches you any longer.

You take in a shuddered breath, lifting your head just a bit, enough to meet his gaze. When he looks into your eyes, could he tell how badly you enjoy this? How much you’ve yearned for it, subconsciously, and in secret? Whatever he finds there must not be satisfactory enough because he’s leaning even closer, just enough that his breath steams against your cheeks. He’s close enough to kiss, to touch, the way he never is for the past few years.

You could tell him to stop. You won’t be his plaything tonight, and you’ve made it clear from the start. Just because he’s the hero doesn’t mean you’d bend to his whims, even if he has you at his mercy. He traces your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and every retaliating thought in your mind disappears, along with every half-formed protest you might have. The gentleness with which he touches you opens up a valley of desire in the pit of your stomach, hollow and greedy. It makes you lean against his touch, like a moth waiting to be burned.

He leans in, brushes his lips against yours. Tentatively, like he’s waiting to see how you’d react. Seeing as you’re not pushing him away, he leans in even more, and kisses you fully. There’s hunger with the way he kisses you, mirroring the desire that sits in the hollow of your stomach. You grab the hem of his shirt, balling it into fists as you pull him closer. He responds by cupping the back of your head and pulling you against him, kissing you more greedily.

You don’t know how long you’ve kissed, but you’re breathless by the time you’ve pulled away. Catching your breath, you give him another glare – a last show of strength, even if it’s futile in the end, especially with how putty you are now in his hands. “I’m not going to be your plaything tonight.”

He shakes his head, looking almost annoyed at your comment. “You’re not.”

He doesn’t let you protest anymore. He leans down, latches his lips on your neck, peppering kisses all over: the underside of your jaw, your pulse, the curve of your neck. Your skin singes and burns with every kiss, but he doesn’t stop there. He kisses his way down: from your collarbone to the slant on your shoulder. He runs his tongue along your skin like he’s eager to taste you, and it sends another spark of thrill through you. You let out a shuddering breath, not quite expecting that; absently, you reach up, grab hold of his hair, tugging on it just so, and it only spurs him on, feeds into his ego. Impatiently, he pops the buttons of your blouse, not caring that he’s nearly ripped it off in the process. He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he moves to kiss his way down your body: the valley of your chest, your breasts, your navel until he’s kneeling down in front of you. With your skirt in the way, he’s unable to go further. Hurriedly, he tugs it down, pulls it off your ankles, then throws it somewhere in the room.

“Hey!” you protest, but he simply ignores you. Or maybe he’s just simply too far gone to care. With you left only in your underwear, there aren’t much obstructions left. He runs his eyes up and down your form, and something in his eyes makes you want to cower and hide. There’s greed in there, mixed with something else, something you can’t quite name. Hunger, perhaps? Or maybe even desire? Either way, he doesn’t let you linger on the question much longer.

He’s much gentler this time, slower than he’d been just a while ago, when he was practically ripping your shirt and your skirt off of you. Now, it feels as though he’s got all the time in the world. He tugs at your underwear, pulls it off your ankle, no longer impatient. He takes his sweet time as he leans in and presses kisses on the inside of your thighs, each one leaving you more breathless than the last. Soft, teasing, each one a kind of agony that only makes you yearn for more. You’ve lost count after the first one, every rational thought pushed out by the impatience to feel something. You glare down at him, only to find him already watching you, his gaze glued to your face, drinking in every reaction you make. You’d have blushed if you’ve still got some semblance of dignity left somewhere in you.

“Hurry up,” you say, the words a breathless rasp as they spill out of your lips. He gives you a dark look, but he listens anyway. He inches his face closer to your bare cunt. He doesn’t give you a chance to complain this time. He buries his head between your thighs, catches the trickle of arousal spilling out of you with the tip of his tongue. Heat rises once more to your cheeks. There’s a part of you, embarrassed and shameful, that wants to run away and hide, push him off you. There’s another part that wants him closer, wants all he could offer. Right now, you’re not entirely sure which is which.

And he’s still going torturously slow. It feels intentional, mocking. He moves with the patience of a saint, all his earlier impatience forgotten in a flash. You hate it, but you can’t bring yourself to speak when he blows against your cunt, making your mind blank out. “Link,” you say, your voice thick and raspy. You’ve never imagined you’ll call for him like this – a mix of desire and desperation, and it’s so unlike yourself that you’d have laughed if you hadn’t been

You glare down at him once more, and you could almost swear that he gives you a smug smirk in response. He doesn’t let you dwell on it any further; he dives back in, surprises you this time, delving his tongue deep into you. A shudder leaves you, and your eyes flutter shut, your head hitting against the wall behind you. You could barely register the pain; there’s a dull throb in your head, but all is quickly lost in the sea of pleasure that surrounds you.

You tug a fistful of his hair, hard enough that it’s sure to hurt, and he responds by burying his tongue deeper, lapping you up like a man starved. Every part of you feels hot, every nerve ending alight and on fire. You should tell him to stop, but your body aches for more. Your hips buck, involuntarily, against him, and he lifts one of your legs to rest it upon his shoulder. He places his hands on either side of your thighs, keeps you in place as he furthers his assault, delving into you over and over until he rounds in on that spot that has your legs shaking, the entirety of your body overwhelmed with feeling. “T-there!”

He doesn’t stop. Eager to discover what’s made you tick, he only grows rougher, hungrier, zeroes in on that spot over and over until your mind is spent with pleasure. Your stomach tightens, coils. Everything’s too much, too sudden, and everything in you breaks at once. With a sharp cry, you fall apart, limbs shaking, legs trembling. He’s there to catch you, keeps his arms around you as he holds you steady against him, his tongue ready and waiting to catch every drop that spills out of you, his throat bobbing with each swallow.

And then it’s over, and he’s leaning back, wiping his mouth the back of his hand. You stare at him dazedly, too busy trying to catch your breath to pay him proper attention. You could barely find it in yourself to move. Every part of you feels paralyzed. Your chest rises and falls. Your mind is still empty of any thought; distractedly, you watch him as he picks himself back up, stands up so that he’s in front of you again. You swallow the lump in your throat, lick the dryness off your lips as you find the right words. Nothing comes. All that spills out of you is a breathless noise that falls somewhere between a croak and a whimper, nothing that resembles anything coherent.

It isn’t rare for him to get into trouble; months of traveling with him have taught you that much, but it’s rare for him to need help, especially yours. Not that he’d said it out loud; he’s always been a bit more prideful than he’s willing to admit, unwilling to share a burden despite how much it hurts him in the end. But it doesn’t seem as though he’s got a choice on this one. You’ve been relaxing at the inn that night, nursing aa glass of beer when the innkeeper walks over to you, her eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Your friend,” she says, shifting her weight from side to side as she struggles to find the right words. “I think he needs some help.”

You stare at her for a long moment, blinking a few times. “Why do you think that?” you ask, voice soft, quiet. The last time you’d seen each other, which was earlier this morning, he’d been okay, seemingly still like his normal self. You’ve never caught a glimpse of him after that, though in your defense, you’d been wandering outside of town, hunting down monsters in exchange for meager pay and had only arrived back at the inn just recently.

The innkeeper shrugs, looking at you almost helplessly. She bites her lip, as if hesitating for a second, before leaning in, whispering conspiratorially. “He didn’t look good when he arrived back here,” she says, voice a quiet whisper. She looks around her, as if trying to see whether or not someone else is listening in before turning her attention to you, voice growing quieter. “He stormed off toward his room without another word and hasn’t come out since, not even for lunch.”

You frown, eyebrows furrowing in thought. Now that’s odd. He’s not the type to miss out on lunch – or even any kinds of meals for that matter; months of traveling with him had led you to that observation. He’s got an appetite that could rival a savage wolf’s, able to eat for two on a normal day, and more after an exhaustive battle, and you’ve got to admit that this bit of revelation stirs a worry in you that wasn’t quite there before.

“Is he injured?”

“I didn’t get a good look at him all that much when he arrived,” the innkeeper admits, giving you another helpless shrug.

You nod your head, leave the conversation at that. There’s no much information the innkeeper has left to offer; you’ve been staying here in this inn for at least two weeks now, memorized practically everything you needed to around here. You know where Link’s room is – on the second floor just beside yours, away from where everyone’s rooms are. A special privilege, says the innkeeper, after the two of you had offered to slay the monsters hanging just outside town, stealing supplies from the inn and the neighboring shops and stores.

With a quiet sigh, you walk up toward the stairs, stopping in front of a familiar room. You raise your hand, knocking on the door a few times, tentative. There’s no response. You wait, count the seconds in your head, before knocking once more, this time louder. There’s still no response. Your eyebrows furrow, more in confusion than in worry. For a second, you’re tempted to just kick the door down and see the problem once and for all, though you stop, knowing you can’t afford to make a mess. That, and you don’t really want the innkeeper to be mad at you, especially since she’s the only one you could almost call a close friend in this town.

“Link?” you call, pressing your head against the door. There’s nothing to greet you but silence. Still, you keep trying, careful to keep your voice relatively quiet. “Are you here?”

There’s no response at first. But then the door opens, just a crack, a familiar face peering at you from the other side.

“Hi,” you say, smiling awkwardly.

Link frowns, tries to shut the door on your face, but you’re quick to react, reflexes kicking in before you even have the chance to think about what you’re doing. Quickly, you shove your foot against the crack, forcing him to open the door just a little wider. You slide yourself in, moving at lightning speed, stepping inside the room just before he can cast you out, push you away.

And now that you’re here, you can see exactly how different he seems at this moment. He looks pale as a sheet, his skin matted with sweat. Even his hair sticks to his skin, and his cheeks seem aglow with a crimson flush. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice quiet, raspy. There’s an impatience to his voice that you’re not quite used to, a kind of annoyance that seems unfamiliar, mostly because you’ve never heard it directed at you.

You stare at him, taking in his disheveled state. Then, you clear your throat, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

He scowls. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. You give him a curious look, eyeing him from head to toe. “The innkeeper says you don’t look very good.”

He scoffs, grumbles almost to himself. “And what would she know about it?”

You frown, crossing your arms over your chest as you give him a scolding glare. “Well, she’s right,” you shoot back, voice growing defensive. “You don’t look very good. And you’re not acting like your usual self.”

He opens his mouth to protest, though before the words are out of his lips, he stops, keels over. He clutches at his stomach, and he looks almost as though in pain. Quickly, you step forward, ready to help him, but he shuts you out with a scathing glare, shaking his head. “Don’t.”

He closes his eyes, exhales a shaky breath, tries to calm himself. He looks a little different now, worse than he’d been before: paler, weaker. His skin glistens with sweat, soaking his tunic all throughout. You bite your lip, hesitating before you slowly make your over to him, slow and careful, trying not to startle him too much. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t try to stop you; with the way he’s too focused on his breathing, you doubt he could even notice you.

You stop, stand in front of him, crouching down and placing a hand on his arm comfortingly. He opens his eyes, stares at you, his gaze slightly hazy. Like he doesn’t quite recognize you.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, quiet.

He shakes his head, his words coming out in a breathless rasp. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

You’re quiet for a moment, hesitating once. “I can help you if you like?”

He exhales another breath, his nostrils flaring. He opens his eyes, stares at you for a long moment, blue eyes searching your face for answers. He looks away after a second, shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I wouldn’t know if you won’t tell me,” you say hotly, glaring at him in annoyance. Worriedly, you place your hand against his forehead; his skin is hot against your palm, almost feverishly so. You purse your lips together, staring at him for a long moment before you begin to stand up, decisive. “If you need a village healer, we can call for one.”

His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly. “No,” he says, his voice oddly scratchy. Slowly, he sits up, swallows thickly as if every word is a struggle to get out of his throat. “No healers.”

“But you’re feverish—” you begin to protest, though the words quickly taper off into a painful whimper as his fingers grip your wrist a little too tightly to keep you from moving.

“Not feverish,” he rasps out, his voice weak as a whisper. He exhales another shaky breath, more sweat dripping down his skin. You’ve half the heart to tuck the loose hair behind his ear, just to see his face more clearly. “The healers… they won’t know what to do with this.”

You blink, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice. “It’s happened to you before?”

He nods, offers no response outside of that.

“Then I can help you!” you exclaim, eyebrows furrowing in determination. You try to yank your hand free from his grip, though despite his fever, his grip remains firm, unyielding, refusing to let you go just yet. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

He shakes his head, lets out a low laugh. Cold, bitter. Disbelieving. Like he’s not entirely sure you can do it or that he can trust you to do it, though you’re not sure which is which. “What makes you think you can help me?”

You glare at him, hating how easily he brushes off your concern. “I’m serious!”

“Are you?” His voice drops lower, grows colder, more serious. Something in his tone sends a shiver through you, though you’re quick to mask it, swallowing thickly, eyes flickering restlessly to avoid staring directly into his eyes. He laughs, and the sound is deeper, hollow, mocking. It should irritate you, this obvious condescension he shows toward you, but all it does is make you feel tingly all over, a different kind of warmth pooling in the pits of your stomach.

Still, you try to keep yourself firm, unwavering. This isn’t about you, regardless of your growing feelings for the matter. “You’re my friend,” trying to affect as much seriousness as you can into your voice, ignoring the urge to squirm under the weight of his gaze. There’s a part of you that wants to look away, duck your head and avoid it entirely, but something in it keeps you from looking away, pinned helplessly like a prey caught between the jaws of a hungry wolf. Is it the blue of it, that savage depths behind it, threatening to swallow you whole if you so much show an ounce of weakness?

“Friend,” he repeats, spitting the word out almost disgustedly. Like he doesn’t approve of it – of your usage of it. “You’d help your friend with this?”

“Wouldn’t you?” you ask, voice growing quiet, softer. There’s a vulnerability in your voice that wasn’t quite there before, too late to take back. “If that were me in your position, wouldn’t you have helped me? As a friend?”

He laughs, curses under his breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he says, snorts. There’s a moment of silence that settles between you, short and brief before he starts again, his voice softer, no longer cold. An opening. “And if I tell you the problem, you won’t run away?”

You nod your head, tongue darting out to lick the dryness of your lips. Vaguely, you see his gaze following the movement, his eyes dark, heady. He shifts closer, places a finger under your chin, tipping your head up so you can look at him. He’s closer now when he speaks once more, close enough to whisper the words directly against your lips, his breath hot as it fans against your skin. “Then you can help me with my problem.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond. He leans in, kisses you, lips crashing against yours. It’s clumsy, needy, rough and sharp that it almost hurts. It’s all teeth, all bruising. All heat and roughness between you. His teeth dig into your lower lip, sink hard enough you feel your mouth bleed. Drops of blood trickle down your tongue, your throat, the taste of iron making you feel a little heady, but he laps it up with his tongue, runs it soothingly along your lip before he sucks on it, starts everything all over again. Savagely.

Everything he does is done instinctively, done without any sort of rationality. Raw and predatory. He knocks the breath out of your lungs over and over, kisses you until your lips are bruised and numb, swollen and bleeding. And when he tires of it, he moves on to your neck, treats it with the same roughness he’s handled your mouth. This time, he leaves marks. On your throat, your shoulders. Your collarbone. Fills each part with enough bruises they become a canvas of their own, all red and purple in color.

“Mine,” he growls into your neck, his voice rough, harsh. Primal. He sounds more different than usual – more beast than man, and a single look at him is enough to confirm that. Blue irises blown wide, blazing with barely-hidden desire. It should terrify you, being under him, this wild beast that’s far different from the man you know, but all it does is turn you into a mess, pliant and yielding.

He runs his hands along your sides, touches you everywhere. Each caress sends pleasure racing down your spine, makes you feel needier than you should be. Your head feels lighter, faint. Everything you do is a mirror to his actions, a direct response to his own desires, echoing it in twofold. He sneaks a hand under your shirt, his hands warm and battle-worn, calloused. He feels you up, touches you all over, fondling your breasts a little too roughly to make you whine.

A low growl spills out of his throat, a sound that would’ve terrified you out of your wits if you’re not entirely too lost on the feel of his hands on your skin. He pulls back, breathes hard. You feel his eyes wander all over you, the sharpness of his gaze settling on your face. Whatever he sees there must be enough to fuel his hunger, because a moment later and he’s leaning in once more, ripping up your shirt in a single, fast move, without a care for your sudden protest.

And then he’s touching you once more, and each protest dies on your tongue, as though they’re never there at all. He twists your nipples between his fingers, the nubs hardening beneath his touches. He leans down, runs his tongue along one of them before his teeth grazes against it, and he bites. It hurts, though the pain begins to dull when he runs his tongue soothingly around it, sucking on it gently.

“Link,” you say quietly, barely able to recognize your own voice. It sounds weak against your ears, utterly pathetic. Needy and whiny that you’d hate it if you weren’t too drunk on this sudden pleasure running up and down your bloodstream. You’re not entirely sure why you’ve called for his attention like this, not completely sure what you want from him, but he lifts his head, looks at you, his eyes dazed.

Your eyes meet. You open your mouth, try to say something, but nothing comes out except a quiet whine. Still, he seems to understand. With his hands, he tears the rest of your clothing off, leaves you wearing nothing, the breeze cold against your skin, enough to make you shiver. His clothes follow suit, his pants and tunic deposited somewhere on the floor, suddenly forgotten. He turns to focus on you after a second, looking almost hungry as he runs his gaze all over you.

A quick call of his name, and he’s quick to snap into focus, moving to work. Gently, he moves to line himself up against your entrance, pushes in. Slow. He gives pause, breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he savors the warmth of you wrapping around him for the very first time. His hips buck, just once, and with a groan, he’s fully inside you, buried all the way to the hilt.

He gives you a millisecond to adjust. He grits his teeth, sucks in a sharp breath, fingernails digging into your hips as he starts to move. He’s slow only for the first few times before the last threads of his self-control snaps. He pushes his hips back, snaps it against yours, hissing at the feeling. You close your eyes, throw your head back, unable to do much except accept whatever he’s giving you.

He speeds up, almost animalistically so. This time, he doesn’t give you respite. No time to rest. There’s no method to his movement, no rhythm, just relentless pushing and pushing until he’s deep enough inside you that you feel him everywhere. And even then, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a break. He lifts your legs, rests them on either side of his shoulder, rutting against you even more. With this angle, he hits into you deeper, much more than before.

Your skin grows hot, your head feeling suddenly light. Your limbs ache, grow heavy. You could hardly move against him even if you try, could hardly push him away even if you want to – which you don’t. Liquid heat bubbles in the pit of your stomach, grows hot enough to feel almost unbearable.

“Mine,” he says again, whispering the word against your throat, sharp teeth digging into the flesh of your skin, leaving a near-permanent mark. “Mine.”

A needy whimper escapes you, and in response, you wrap your legs around his waist, pushing him closer, deeper into you. His hips stutter against yours, movements growing animalistically fast. There’s a part of you that wants to push him back, away, too overwhelmed by the sensations he’s making you feel, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps his grip bruisingly tight around your hips, pushing into you still. He tilts his head up, kisses you once more, nipping and biting at your lip as he does so.

The knot in your stomach tightens. Something simmers inside you, a low boil that grows hot and heavy, threatens to explode. There’s no time to warn him, not when he’s still kissing you, his tongue pushing into your mouth, swallowing every noise that threatens to spill out of you. There’s nothing you could do but tremble, release washing over you like a tide. He swallows the whimper that spills out of your throat, the high-pitched whine as you finally come undone beneath him. By the time he’s pulling away from the kiss, you’re breathless and panting, dizzy and lightheaded.

But he’s still not done. He moves his hips into yours, tries to prolong that orgasm, while simultaneously chasing his own. He reaches down, places his palm against your mouth, covers your mouth to keep your from making too much of a noise. You pant against his hand, but there’s not much else to do but watch him and wait. His hair falls over his eyes, his sweat making it mat against his forehead. He bites his lip, teeth digging into the already-swollen flesh as he tries to stifle his groan.

His movements grow quicker, haphazard, and then he’s falling apart, spilling into you without warning. Your hips twitch, legs trembling from the aftershocks. Panting, Link remains on top of you, not bothering to pull out just yet. He rests his forehead against yours. His eyes are dazed as he searches your face, his breath warming your cheeks.

It takes a moment for you to find your voice. When you speak, your voice is raspy, breathless. Weak against your ears. “You’re okay now?”

It’s cold enough in the cabin, colder still with the kind of silence surrounding you. Even with the furnace on, with the logs burning all around you – it’s still not enough to keep warm. Neither are the layers of clothes you’re wearing, thick and endless in your desire for survival. Outside, the snowstorm is relentless, unnatural in its persistence. You rub your hands together form warmth, pressing them against your cheek afterward, hoping the friction would be enough to transfer the heat to all remaining parts of yourself. It isn’t. It never is.

You shiver, grit your teeth, pretend you don’t notice the way your companion glances at you, the concern obvious in his eyes, pretend you couldn’t see the worry written plainly on his face, bared to no one else but you. You’re mad at him, after all; you had been for a while now, too caught up in your own jealousy to let him explain, or to explain to him yourself what’s happening. All you’re able to give him in turn is a silent treatment that’s lasted as long as this snowstorm.

It’s irrational, you know, senseless, even. Perhaps unnecessary too, if you’re only able to get hold of some responsible part of your brain. Link’s only doing his job, his duty as a knight (as well as the Hero of Hyrule) as best as he possibly can, and here you are, getting mad at something trivial, feeling something you’re not even supposed to feel. But you can’t help it, not really: feeling this way, acting on it, acting out – it’s as though some evil has taken root of your heart, giving control to all these emotions you know you shouldn’t even allow to get to you. It doesn’t help that you’re not entirely sure where you stand with him; you’ve known each other for a while now, accompanied each other in countless adventures, bonded long enough that you could almost think of him as a friend. But the two of you have done things that no mere friends should: shared a room, a bed, a kiss; spent a night in each other’s arms, enough times that you’ve lost count; lingered a little too long in the mornings each time it’s time to leave, as though you could somehow freeze the tenderness of the moment and stay in it forever.

You’ve never once talked about it. He’s never brought the topic up, and you’ve never been brave enough to call him out on it, content on whatever intimacy lies in the space between you, casual or otherwise; or perhaps, you’re simply too terrified to confront it, fearful to put a name on something that might disappear if you prod it too much.

But the nights only grow longer, colder. You’re not entirely sure how long the snowstorm has gone on, not sure how long you’ve been cooped up in this cabin, silent and not at all speaking; without ever seeing the sun, it’s hard to tell the hours, the days, whether a day has passed, or a whole week has gone by without your knowing. Still, you remain where you are. Too prideful for apologies, and too cowardly for confrontations, you sit there shivering from the cold, as far away from him as you can, while still remaining as close to the fireplace as possible.

“Cold?” he asks after a second, the first one to break the silence. There’s a hint of concern in his voice, genuine enough that it makes your heart flutter just a little, your anger melting for a fraction. For a moment, you’ve half the heart to ignore him, pretend you didn’t hear his words. A moment of silence passes, followed by another. You’re still thinking how to respond when his voice cuts through the silence once more, loud and firm: “Come over here.”

It’s not a request this time, but something stern, certain. A command, or something close to it. Still, he doesn’t let you dwell on it too much. He scoots over to you, huddling close enough that you feel the warmth of his body pressing against you, pleasant despite all your internal protests. For the briefest of moments, there’s a part of you that wants to be stubborn, to move away and bask in your anger until it consumes the rest of you, but something in him keeps you from doing so. Maybe it’s the warmth of his body against yours, or the way this sudden proximity lights up each one of nerve-endings on fire, just enough to kill off every protest you might’ve ever had.

A beat passes, and then another. You still don’t say anything, don’t do anything. You remain where you are, close enough that you could feel his warmth, hear him breathe. He’s the first one to speak. This time, his voice is soft, quiet, barely audible even in the growing silence between you. “You’re mad at me.” A statement, not a question, simple and straightforward, as though he’s been certain of it for a long time.

You frown, scoff, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, even now. “You’ve only just noticed?”

He ignores your comment. From the corners of your eyes, you see him scoot closer to you, turning his head so he can look at you fully. “I’ll make it up to you,” he declares, his voice steady, almost firm in its determination. You turn to him, frowning still, as though you’re not quite sure what you’ve heard, but he only repeats it once more, his voice loud, his words unmistakable. “Let me make it up to you.”

And then, before you can even say anything else, he’s making his move.

_

You should push him away, tell him no. A part of you knows he would’ve let you go immediately if you’d said the word out loud, if you’d even once dared to stop him: a hand on his chest, a shake of your head, some quick dismissal of a sort. But you haven’t, and he hasn’t yet stopped. He pins you down on the floor, kisses you again and again, enough to make you forget all thoughts. His mouth is warm against yours, his lips soft as they press against yours. There’s familiarity in his movements, certainty in his actions. It isn’t the first time the two of you have done this, but it’s the first time it’s ever felt this tense, this charged with atmosphere.

You’ve had him close him before, though in those moments, the lights are always off, too dark to make anything out of him: his face, the kind of expression he makes when he comes apart beneath your touch. But now, it’s different. Now, there’s the light of the fireplace behind you, and the flicker of the flames casts a soft glow upon him, makes him even more beautiful. Even the photographs you have of him in your locket wouldn’t do him any justice, nor would the poems that talk of him: the depths that hide behind his gaze, the brightness in a way that captures your reflection and makes it its own.

You wonder if this is his way of apologizing, trying to quell whatever anger sits in the pit of your stomach long enough to make you give him the silent treatment for long. Or maybe it’s something else. A confession, perhaps, or a show of vulnerability. You don’t want to ask him about it, afraid it’ll further ruin the moment, but you can’t rely on simple guesswork, or even your instincts. As if he could read your mind, however, he shakes his head, pulls back long enough to look at you. He places a finger against your lips, as if to shut you up. “Not now.” His voice is soft, a little raspy. “Don’t talk.”

You nod quietly, too startled to give him a proper response. Your heart races against your chest, and your mind swims with thoughts, none of which you can say out loud. Link smiles at you then, miniscule enough that it’ll be imperceptible had you not been this close. But you are, and it makes your heart flutter, your chest ache with a longing that your mind protests against.

Satisfied with what he perceives to be your obedience, he leans down, kisses you once more, long enough to leave you breathless. Even when it’s over, he lingers still, his face hovering inches away from yours as he stares at you, takes you in. You see your reflection in his eyes, and the look of longing in your eyes mirrors the one that sits inside your chest. It’s strange, almost embarrassing in the ache it carries, an echo so very similar to your own, and for a second, there’s a part of you that wants to look away, forget its existence, but something compels you to keep looking, keep staring.

There’s a tingle in your lips when he finally pulls away, a kind of warmth that makes you ache for more. When he starts to move away, your instincts begin to take root, take hold. Propelled by the weight of your desire, your hand moves, reaches out for the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him close, closer again. A moment of silence passes, one after the other. For the briefest of moments, you’re both frozen, not moving, not saying anything. You catch sight of his expression: the way his eyes widen just a fraction, imperceptible if you haven’t been paying any attention; there’s a flicker of surprise somewhere in there, perhaps at your sudden boldness.

It’s true; you’ve never been this brave before, at least not when you’re sober, and even now, you’re still not sure why you’re moving, why you keep trying to pull him closer: one hand on the back of his neck, the other still clutching at the hem of his tunic as you tug him back toward you without ever being certain as to why.

Everything that happens that is a blur, a little hazy. All you know is that he’s kissing you again, and it’s the different from all the kisses you’d shared before. There’s no gentleness to him now, none of the tenderness you’ve come to recognize from him. This time, it’s hungry, thick with something you can’t dare to say out loud. Desire, maybe, the same one that beats inside you like a second heart? Or perhaps, something else, something more – the kind you’re too terrified to name because it skirts too close to the truth you don’t want to acknowledge?

Either way, he doesn’t let you think much about it. He kisses you still, knocks the breath right out of your lungs, and it’s hot enough to make you forget the snowstorm outside. Sweat drips down your skin, and all of a sudden, your clothes seem far too thick, too much for the occasion. By the time it’s all over, you’re breathless and panting, your lips numb and swollen.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. You stare at him. He stares at you. The expression on his face is unreadable, and you’re certain that yours look like an open book, the ache in there bared to display like a raw wound. You swallow the lump in your throat, try to find the words to speak, but nothing comes except the sound of his name, soft and raspy in your own voice. “Link.”

Even now, you wonder what that means. There’s desperation behind it, some sort of plea, though you’re not entirely sure why – or what for. A flicker of emotion passes in his eyes, brief enough that you catch wind of it before it goes away for good, and you wonder whether or not he understands it, what you’re saying, what you mean without you explaining yourself.

He moves closer, leans in. The warmth of his breath tickles your cheek. He looks at you, takes you in, and you feel your heart race against your chest, an echo of desire, a product of your longing, one you’re not sure you want to acknowledge. He remains quiet, doesn’t say anything, though there’s something in the way he looks at you now that makes you feel exposed, like he could read your mind, whatever thought you’ve kept hidden from him.

He leans in, lets his lips hover inches just above yours, close enough to kiss though not quite. His breath is warm against your lips as he remains still, waits, like he wants you to make the first move. A question, one that’s directed you. If you were less chained by your desire, you would’ve been more rational, more stubborn. You would’ve sat in your anger, demanded for a more cohesive answer, stoked the conflict until the truth is plain for you to see, to understand. But it’s too late for all that anymore. Now all that’s left of you is this longing, an ache palpable enough that you feel in your chest, everywhere in your body, hot and burning.