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practical anatomy

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Two days later, Zelda pins him against a tree.

It’s late morning and Link is down by the river again, filling his waterskin before they begin the next leg of their journey. They had overslept, and were leaving their departure later than he would have liked, but it was more than worth it, waking up next to her—curled up on the same bedroll with their limbs tangled together, touching skin-to-skin at every point, her hair golden and tousled in the morning light that filters in through the canvas and peppering soft, drowsy kisses down his neck as she stirs herself from sleep.

She’s wide awake now, though, and kissing him filthily as she pushes her knee between his legs. Link drops the waterskin and utilizes both hands to pull her closer against him, cupping her jaw to tilt her head the way he likes, the other arm wrapping around her to draw her in at the waist. She sighs against his mouth, her thigh pressing up against him, and that along with the vivid awareness of her hands sliding down the front of his tunic is almost enough to distract him from the looming threat of the weather causing them further delays. Almost.

“We should get going,” Link murmurs, between kisses. “It looks like it might rain, and we’re headed up a mountain—”

“Oh, hush,” Zelda says dismissively, and sinks to her knees.

Link freezes, then, because this is new. True, he’s already brought her to climax with his hands or mouth so many times he’s beginning to lose count, and she’s always been eager to reciprocate one way or another—but not like this. This feels… dirty. Almost pornographic. Vulgar bordering on obscene.

“You don’t need to do that,” Link says, losing his voice a little as she palms him over his trousers, but she ignores him and pushes up his tunic to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his hipbone. He feels her grin when his breath hitches, and then she pulls away to work at his belt.

“I’d like to try,” she tells him as she gets his trousers open, pulling them down to mid-thigh. “You do it for me—it’s only fair. Hold this, will you?”

She’s pushing his tunic and undershirt up over his abdomen; Link automatically takes the material from her, hand closed into a fist at the base of his sternum to hold it there.

“This is—this is different,” he says, even as his undershorts go the way of his trousers. A sudden rush of heat shoots through him at the appreciative gaze Zelda levels at his crotch, and he twitches a little as she takes him into her hand.

“Different how?” she asks, gently beginning to stroke him to full attention.

“Because,” Link tries, resolve melting with every pass of her fist. “It’ll be messy.”

“I know that,” she says.

“It doesn’t taste good.”

“It was fine the last time I tried it.”

He sucks in a sharp breath at the memory. “Yes, but—not when—not like this.”

Zelda quirks an eyebrow, and Link is about to insist, no, seriously, it doesn’t, but then she leans in and licks him—a long, wet stroke along the underside, from the base of him right to the tip—and the noise he makes is pathetic. She glances up at him, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, and waits until he swallows and nods his assent before shuffling forward again, settling more comfortably onto the ground.

“You’ll have to tell me what to do,” she says.

“Right,” Link says weakly, fingers tentatively weaving into her hair.

“Don’t mess up my braids,” she adds, and takes him into her mouth.

He murmurs instructions whenever she needs them, little things like use your hand and watch your teeth, but otherwise he lets her figure it out on her own. She’s cautious, a little clumsy, and it’s far from perfect but it’s Zelda—Zelda on her knees, Zelda watching him carefully through her lashes, Zelda swirling her tongue inexpertly around him and humming when he moans—and it isn’t long at all before she’s found herself a rhythm, her hand and mouth falling into sync, Link’s hips quivering and abdomen tense with the orgasm building low in his belly.

When he chokes out a warning, she just carries on.

“Stop,” he rasps. “Zelda, seriously—stop.”

Zelda makes a noise, dissenting and impatient, and her eyes flutter closed as she takes him as deep as she can go. It takes all of Link’s self-control not to drag her in closer, his hand releasing her hair to push back his own—but when she opens her eyes and looks up at him again it makes something snap, makes his head fall back and his hips jerk up, needy little sounds catching in his throat as she lets him come in her mouth.

He sinks against the tree when he’s done, out of breath and so blissed out he can’t even find it in him to feel remorseful when Zelda pulls off with a grimace and spits on the grass.

“Told you,” he says, a little dazed, as she snatches up his discarded waterskin. She casts him a glare as she takes a long drink, making a hand gesture that she could only have learned from him, and Link can’t help but laugh.

Zelda fixes her hair and refills the waterskin as he readjusts his clothing, and they head back up to the campsite. She takes his hand somewhere along the way; Link is completely enthralled by it somehow—her fingers laced through his, the warmth of her palm through the leather of his glove, heat spreading through his chest and belly and tingling all the way down to his toes.

He doesn’t release her when they reach the top of the hill, holding fast when she tries to pull away. She looks amused as he draws her in close, and he can feel her smile when he brings their lips together again, leaning into him easily as he kisses her, their clasped hands caught between them with her knuckles pressed to his ribs, and he’s breathless again by the time they break apart.

“Sorry,” Link says, because he thinks he should, wondering if she can feel how hard his heart is beating. “About—you know. In your mouth.”

Zelda flashes him a wide smile. “It’s okay,” she says, and gives his hand a brief squeeze before letting go. “Eat more fresh fruit. I’ll get used to it.”

She walks away to pack up the last of their things. Link stares after her, red-faced and incredulous, probably ready to go another round if they didn’t have a mountain to climb.

 “How do you feel about sexual intercourse?”

Zelda is presently half-dangling off the edge of a cliff, so her voice is slightly muffled by the wind. She’s gathering a cluster of flowers she’d excitedly spotted on the way up, and Link—kneeling behind her, his fingers tucked into her belt as a precaution—takes a moment to digest the question. He had been thoroughly enjoying the view of her bent over like this, but now he’s especially glad that she’s facing away from him and unable to see the flush crawling up his neck.

“Pretty good, I guess,” he says.

Zelda goes motionless for a moment, and he gets the feeling that she’s reading much further into that statement than the average person would. When she starts to straighten up, Link tugs at the back of her belt until she’s cleared the cliff edge and properly seated on the ground, clutching a handful of plants. She pulls out a handkerchief and begins separating the buds from the stems.

Link thinks—almost hopes—that’s the end of it, until she says, “So you’ve done it, then.”

It isn’t a question, and his stomach twists unpleasantly. He watches her work for a while before speaking. “Does that bother you?”

Zelda looks up at him, then, her eyes searching his face for a long moment before returning her gaze to her herbs. “I mean, I assumed you had,” she says. “Because you’re very good, you know, with your hands—and your mouth. I imagine that comes with practice.” She glances up at him again and gives him a small smile. “But no, it doesn’t bother me.”

Link ducks his head to hide his reddening face. He’s a little lost as of what to say, unsure whether he should apologize or reassure her somehow—or even if such a transgression requires an apology at all, considering the offense occurred over a century ago—but Zelda spares him the trouble of puzzling out a response by abruptly holding out one of the plants.

“Do you know what this is?” she asks.

Link studies it. “Armoranth, right?”

Zelda nods. She plucks the final bud and places it in her handkerchief with the others, folding it up carefully and tucking it away. Then she stands and scuffs up the dirt with her boot. “The seeds can be ground and boiled into an elixir,” she says. “As long as it’s taken consistently, it’s very effective at preventing conception.”

She drops the stems on the ground. Link watches numbly as she covers them with earth. “Conception,” he echoes.

“Yes,” Zelda affirms, not meeting his eyes, her cheeks tinged pink. “If I start tonight, it should take effect in a few days.”

She resumes the hike without him, leaving Link sitting heavily in the dirt and reeling

Zelda prepares the elixir when they stop to make camp.

Link makes dinner, watching her grind some of the tiny seeds in a mortar and pestle, but he ends up leaving her to it as she boils the water over the fire. She’s always been better at making elixirs than he is, and this feels private, somehow—personal and delicate. Once boiled, the brew is set aside and left to steep, and they sit together while they make short work of the meat and mushroom skewers, Link hyper-aware of the covered billycan sitting at Zelda’s feet.

After they eat, Zelda strains the ground seeds out of the liquid, apprehensively swirling the contents in a flask. Link doesn’t envy her as she drains it with a grimace.

He hands her the waterskin. “How is it?”

She takes a mouthful of water before she speaks. “Bitter,” she says eventually, running her tongue over her teeth in distaste. “Probably better than having to chew them, though, and this method has the least side effects.”

Link frowns in concern. “What kind of side effects?”

Zelda gestures vaguely below her waist. “Dryness.”

“Oh.” He watches her take another swig. “Where did you learn about all this?”

“I had some books on herbal medicine.” She plugs the cap on the waterskin and hands it back to him. “My tutors probably would have confiscated that particular one, had they known.”

Link huffs out a laugh, reaching over to set the waterskin down with the rest of their things, and Zelda leans into his side when he straightens up, closing the meager distance between them. He thinks about holding her hand again, ponders the irony of his anxiety to do so even after having spent the better part of two days with his face between her legs, and he’s still working up the nerve to put his arm around her shoulders when Zelda asks, “What’s it like?”


“Sex. What’s it like?”

Link clears his throat awkwardly, feeling his face heating up. He had truly never expected to have this conversation with the Princess of Hyrule—but then he had never expected that he’d be spending most of his evenings with her legs wrapped around his neck, either. “It’s... good.”

“I assumed as much,” Zelda says, a little impatiently. “But what does it feel like?”

“What—like, physically...?”

“Yes. I mean—” she swivels around to face him properly, expression curious and entirely unabashed. “It must be quite remarkable.”

“Um.” Link shifts uncomfortably, gaze fixed on the fire. “Well. It’s… warm.”

In his periphery, he sees Zelda give an encouraging nod. “And?”

“And, uh. Soft. And, you know—wet, I guess.” He flushes deeper and glances sideways at her. “Please don’t make me use more adjectives.”

Zelda laughs, and Link feels the tension in his neck and shoulders dissolve a little at the sound. The need to apologize still niggles at him slightly, but when she moves into his side again, pressing up close, he feels much more at ease. As she snakes her hand into his lap to lace their fingers together, Link thinks how odd it is—how they’ve been so much closer than this, and wearing so much less, but somehow it doesn’t quite compare to just this, the quiet intimacy of sitting together after sharing a meal, of feeling her contented sigh as she leans into him again.

“Link?” Zelda says softly.


“How is it… emotionally? How does it feel?”

Link takes a long breath, just absorbing the warmth of her body next to his. Tries not to think about how, if he held her close enough, listened hard enough, he might be able to hear the pulse of her heartbeat.

He says, “It feels like this.”

Zelda doesn’t move or speak for a moment, then she abruptly pulls her hand from his and stands. The absence of her body heat is so sudden that it’s like being plunged into a cold bath, but it’s nothing in comparison to the icy tendril of panic that roots itself in the pit of his stomach, certain that he’s offended her, that he’s fucked up, that he’s ruined it—

“Coming to bed?” she asks.

She offers her hand, and relief—warm and glowing and tentative—spreads through his chest. Link doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, so he just scrambles to his feet.

He takes her outstretched hand again and follows her into the tent.

“I was thinking,” Link says, a full day later, “maybe we should wait.”

They’re camped out overlooking Mount Rozudo for the night, in a quiet, wind-sheltered niche with a hot spring and a few trees. Zelda had taken her second dose of elixir during dinner—blithely informing him that she should be well-protected by the third—before they ventured into the spring to wash off the day’s exertion. It’s late evening now, the two of them taking full advantage of being clean and refreshed, sprawled out in the tent getting sweaty again.

At his words, Zelda, currently in the process of kissing her way down his torso, lifts her head to look at him. There’s a fairy in a bottle strung up on the ceiling support, casting a soft pink glow on her puzzled expression; Link realises how abrupt he must sound, but he’s been thinking about this all day—including the last hour when his mouth was otherwise occupied—and he has a tendency to lose his train of thought whenever she gets her hands on him, so.

“Until we reach an inn,” he clarifies. “Or even a stable—they have private rooms, sometimes.”

Zelda taps a fingertip against his hipbone. “Why?”

“It might—” he gasps here, because she’s firmly but gently cupped him right between his legs, but he pushes through it. “It might be nice.”

She gives him a look, and Link deflates a little, turning his gaze to the ceiling, watching the fairy drift peacefully inside the bottle and wondering how he can adequately convey his concerns about deflowering the Princess of Hyrule on the floor of a tent in the middle of nowhere. Eventually, he relents, “You deserve a real bed.”

Zelda makes a thoughtful noise as she resumes her journey down his midsection. Link’s hips unconsciously flinch up when she wraps her hand around him, and he hears her laugh softly as she starts to stroke.

“We’re still bound for Hateno Village, aren’t we?” she asks.

“Yes,” Link replies, head already spinning.

“Don’t you have a house there?”

“Yes, but—”

“So I presume you have a bed.”

She presses a kiss to his lower belly, and Link allows himself to imagine it for a moment—carrying her upstairs, laying her down on a real mattress and pillows, on his bed, in his home—and is hit with an inexplicable surge of anxiety. “Is that what you want?”

Zelda pauses again, so close that Link can feel her breath on him. “I will have you wherever you consent to take me,” she says steadily, and when she closes her lips around him there’s not much else that he can say, so Link just threads his hands into her hair, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt at the back of his mind, and gives in to the heat of her mouth.

As they’re drifting off to sleep, Zelda commends him for his recent eating habits. Link turns pinker than the fairy hanging from the ceiling and buries his face against her neck.

A noticeable tension sets in after Zelda takes her third elixir.

They’ve just spent all day making their way down Meda Mountain, and have stopped for the night in a small forested area with a water source nearby. They would rejoin the road on Marblod Plain in the morning, and would reach Hateno by nightfall if they kept up a brisk walk, where they would then, presumably, consummate their… whatever this is.

Link has been worrying himself sick about it all day.

He’s currently in the middle of preparing a creamy vegetable soup for dinner in the hopes of settling his stomach; the anxious niggling had shifted to full-blown queasiness ever since the road ahead came into view. Zelda seems unconcerned as she does her own thing, busy making notes in her journal and browsing through the Sheikah Slate, the light from the screen reflected in her eyes an odd reminder of the night she had made the uncomfortable discovery that brought them to this point. It’s strange to think about; it feels like a lot of time has passed since the day she followed him down to the river. And yet somehow simultaneously very little time at all.

For a while there’s nothing but the bubbling of the cooking pot and the crackling of the fire, then Zelda says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Link swallows. Thinks, here we go. “About what?”

“About why you’re so nervous.”

When he doesn’t respond immediately, Zelda sets the Slate aside and stands to face him, and Link blows out a sigh, annoyed at his own transparency. Though nervous doesn’t quite encompass the gravity of what he’s feeling, it’s... close enough. “Why would I not be?”

Zelda shrugs a little. “Because you’ve done it before.”

“Not in… a long time.” Link keeps his eyes fixed determinedly on the soup. “And not with you.”

“Are you afraid of hurting me?” she asks bluntly. “Link, I’ve been riding horses my entire life—”

“That’s—” he blanches a little, struck with a fresh wave of panic at the thought, but continues, “That’s not it.”

She takes a second to absorb this, then tentatively lays a hand on his arm. “Do you not want to have sex with me?”

Link closes his eyes. Breathes out, slowly, through his nose. “Of course I want to.”

Until now, these words have gone unspoken but implicit. This is the first time either of them have said it without the veil of euphemism, and Link feels the weight of the statement settle on them both as he lets his eyes open, gaze drifting skyward. “It’s just—” he gestures helplessly. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

The silence feels somehow abrupt this time, Zelda’s touch suddenly heavy. Link forces himself to look at her, finding her staring at him, wide-eyed, expression so unreadable that for a moment he isn’t sure if she’s going to kiss him or hit him, but then she just gives an incredulous laugh.

“Too soon,” she says. “One hundred years and you think it’s too soon.”

The heat from her hand slowly crawls up his arm, spreading through his chest as her words sink in. There’s something soft and affectionate in her eyes and it hurts a little to look at, so Link just takes a shaky breath and leans in—not to kiss her, just touching his forehead to hers, closing his eyes again just to feel her there—finding her hand in the firelight and threading their fingers together.

“Did you still think this was some kind of practical anatomy lesson?” she murmurs.

Link allows himself a smile. “Maybe.”

He isn’t sure how long it is they stand there with their heads bent together, but eventually Zelda squeezes his hand and they step apart. They sit together to eat, bodies pressed close from shoulder to knee, and retire to the tent afterwards, stripped down to their underthings but too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.

Link wakes up in the night with Zelda curled up behind him, her arm thrown over his waist and her breath warming the back of his neck—and though the anxiety doesn’t completely recede, it does soften a little, if only slightly.  

They reach Hateno just as the sun has begun to set, and Link is on the verge of a meltdown.

His nausea had only increased in intensity the closer they got to the village, and even Zelda  becomes uncharacteristically quiet as they cross the bridge to the house. She dusts a little and comments on his interesting choices in home decor while Link makes dinner, and then they eat in relative silence, facing each other across the small dining table. Zelda rises first to clear their plates, and sets about preparing her elixir for the night, nonchalantly enquiring after a bath.

“Sure,” Link says, watching her strain the elixir into a flask. “Easy. No problem.”

He shows her the bathhouse and continues down to the pond to hyperventilate.

He spends an inordinate amount of time sitting in the water with his face in his hands, but eventually drags himself inside again. Zelda isn’t back yet, so he heads up to the loft to change into clean undershorts and light the lamp on the nightstand, haphazardly tidying the sleeping space and trying to control his breathing. He’s just replaced the linens and turned down the bed when he hears her footsteps on the stairs.

He turns around, to tell her that they don’t have to do this—they don’t even have to share a bed, they don’t have to do anything if she’s changed her mind—but the words die in his throat.

It’s warm in the house but it seems stifling suddenly, the air in the loft grown heavy and hot as Zelda stands completely bare at the top of the stairs. She’s lightly flushed, hair damp and skin still dewy from her bath, and as Link meets her eyes, her gaze soft and open and vulnerable, it occurs to him that while he’s seen her without her clothes on before, he never thought he’d see her looking quite so naked.

Zelda moves first, but they meet each other halfway.

There’s a quiet urgency about it when their lips come together, the way Zelda’s hands thread into his hair and Link pulls her in at the waist to close the distance. It’s like they’ve never kissed before, somehow, just the novelty of kissing her in this context making everything feel new, and while he’d vaguely registered stumbling towards the bed, it doesn’t properly dawn on him until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and Zelda pushes him down.

“Now?” he asks, breathless, as she climbs astride him.

“Now,” Zelda says, and brings their lips together again.  

Link has precisely zero objections to her being on top, and when she grinds down against his lap his toes actually curl. His hands are shaking but he can’t seem to stop touching her, and as he pulls her hips down to better push into the wetness he can already feel through his shorts, Zelda breaks the kiss with a gasp. She mumbles, “Off, take them off,” tugging at his waistband and rising up just enough to give him room, and then they’re gone, there’s nothing left to separate them, just warmth and skin and her.

She immediately rocks down, dragging herself wetly along the length of him, and Link almost loses it. “Fuck.”

Zelda gives a fluttering laugh, straightening up slightly to watch him. She does it again, both of them shivering at the friction as she moves, her voice stuttering as she speaks. “It’s good, right?”

“Fuck,” Link repeats weakly, hands roaming mindlessly over her sides, barely grasping at the final shreds of his dignity. “Gods, Zelda—you have no idea.”

She leans down to kiss him again, still moving steadily against him all the while, and Link can only cling to her uselessly and groan against her mouth. She’s so slick and hot he could easily get off from this alone, but Zelda, not one for wasting time, quickly breaks the kiss and shifts back a little to reach down between them—and it’s somehow only then it hits him that this is really happening.

“Wait, wait,” Link says, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. It may have been a while, and she may have rendered him completely inept, but he’s done this enough times to know she’s probably rushing it. “Let me—I should do something—”

“Unnecessary,” Zelda says, her palm planted on his chest to steady herself as she guides him to her. “Why do you think I was in the bath for so long?”

And there’s… absolutely nothing he can say to that, so Link just rests his hand on the curve of her hip and doesn’t take his eyes off her face. She sinks down on him slowly, inhaling sharply at the stretch, brows pinched together and eyes slipping closed, lowering herself until she’s flush against his lap and he’s completely buried inside her.

Link is barely breathing. He swallows thickly, fighting every instinct that’s telling him to move, and reaches up, trembling, to brush her hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

Zelda nods hastily. “Yes, I just—I didn’t account for—” she shifts a little and chokes on a breath, eyes snapping up to his face. “Just—show me, show me how.”

The warmth and closeness of being inside her is dizzying; Link feels lightheaded as he pushes himself up on one arm. “Like this,” he murmurs, snaking his free hand around her back to splay his fingers at the base of her spine. “Now, just—”

He gently encourages her to roll her hips forward, and her mouth goes slack. “Oh.”

Link tries to laugh but it sticks in his throat. “Good?”

Good,” Zelda says, and starts to move.

There’s no words now—just quiet breaths amongst the soft shifting sounds of their bodies as they rock together in a slow grind. Her motions are still tentative, unhurried and unsure, but it’s close, and it’s easy, and it’s her so it’s perfect, and when Link rolls his hips up, searching for that spot inside her that makes her whine, her head falls back on a moan. He does it again and again, gasping open-mouthed against her throat, and though his movements are slight it’s apparently enough, because Zelda is already making those sharp, breathy noises that mean she’s almost there.

“Yes,” she whispers urgently, hands fisting in his hair, “almost—Gods, Linkhold me—

Link wraps both arms around her and buries his face against her neck, mindlessly murmuring encouragement as she comes apart around him. She holds him to her, keening softly into his ear as he moans and rocks them both through it, and though Link has felt her come before, he realises now he’s never known the true scope of it—how tight she becomes as she rides it out, lost to the pulse of climax and the rush of heat inside her.

He doesn’t release her as she gradually slows, breathing softly together as they still.

For a moment, all she can do is pant and tremble against his shoulder, but then she draws back to kiss him and everything speeds up again. Their mouths are hot and clumsy as Link falls back on the bed, wordless little whimpers spilling from their joined lips, and when he pulls her down against his body she makes this sound—rising and desperate, so he rolls them until she’s pressed to the mattress, drawing her leg up high on his hip, and unthinkingly drives into her as deep as he can go.

Zelda lets out a strangled gasp, clutching his upper arms. “Link.”

“Fuck, sorry—I’m sorry,” Link stutters, immediately shifting back, taking his weight off her and trying to withdraw—but she holds fast, crossing her ankles at his lower back to keep him there.

“No, no—stay,” she says quickly. “Stay. I just need a minute.” 

They're still for a moment, both breathing hard, Zelda looking up at him while Link gazes down. He takes in her golden hair fanned out over the blankets, flushed and warm in the dim light of the loft with her chest still heaving from orgasm, and as she reaches up to brush the hair from his eyes something fractures inside him, burning like broken glass in his throat.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “For wanting to wait. I’m really glad we’re here.”

Link’s eyes flutter closed as his forehead falls against hers. He feels her palms move over his jaw, thumbs just tracing his cheeks, and he exhales slowly in relief. “Me too.”

He doesn’t move for a long time, just letting himself feel the gentle pulse of her body and how her hands cradle his face, but then Zelda tilts her hips, shifting enticingly against him, and Link sucks in a breath, hyper-aware of the contact. “Do you—do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and threads her hands into his hair to pull him down against her. “Please, yes.”

Link starts controlled, rocking into her slowly, feeling it in every nerve whenever she tightens and flexes. She moves with him, arching when he pulls her hips up to push into that spot, and he chases her lips to taste every whimper and whine, moaning desperately against her mouth as his resolve begins to slip. He wants to kiss her for longer but he keeps losing his breath, so he draws back to watch her—to see the tendons going tight in her neck, the light sheen of exertion decorating her chest, and when Zelda meets his eyes again there’s something wild there, hotter than the sting of her nails against his scalp as she drags him down by the hair, sets her mouth against his ear and hisses, “Fuck me.”

Something primal threatens to tear out of Link’s chest as he pushes Zelda against the bed, his motions steady and hard until she’s crying out with every thrust. She whispers not to stop so he just fucks her faster, grasping and clinging with an agonized moan. She’s making those noises again, only louder and more frantic, and as the climax hits her—pulsing and tight and almost sobbing his name—Link just drives in, grinding down, consumed by thoughts of yes, yes, yes and mine, mine, mine and love, love, love—

Link jerks back, gasping, suddenly overcome by the realization and the desperate need to tell her. “Zelda,” he chokes, hips stuttering, “Zelda, I—”

“I know,” she breathes, her trembling hands cradling his face again, “Link, I know,” and her eyes are warm and bright and tender and Link just—

He presses forward, burying his moan against her neck, and comes so hard he cries.

Later—after Link has dried his eyes, after they’ve tumbled apart to lie on their backs and their breathing is filling the silence—Zelda finds his hand, laces their fingers together, and says, “I love you too.”

They sleep bare that night, safe in his home in Hateno, and Link is woken by the light of early morning shining through the windows and a warm, pleasant weight in his lap. Zelda is sitting atop him when he opens his eyes, blankets pooled at her hips and Sheikah Slate in her hands, and Link is perfectly content in just laying there for a moment, absorbing the comfort and correctness of waking up with her in his bed—until he hears the soft click from the Slate.

Link frowns, blinking up at her blearily as she reaches over to set the Slate on the nightstand. “Why?”

“Just immortalizing the memory,” Zelda says casually, leaning down to kiss him, and as her lips brush his she adds, “And the lighting is nice.”

Link just laughs, rolling them over until she’s laid out on her back, and pins her hips to the mattress.