There was someone in his room.

The thought took a while to register into Link’s mind. He was a light sleeper usually, but after long, rough, nearly sleepless travels, he tended to pass out on his bed after having tiredly dragged himself to his castle apartments. Most people would just let him sleep out his exhaustion, live out his life, leave whenever he pleased. He was the hero, but that didn’t mean he had to be tied down or even be given more attention than anyone else born out of nobility.

That was why it took a while for the thought to enter his mind. It seemed preposterous for anyone to enter his room.

What time was it, anyway? For all he knew, he’d been out of service for two or three hours at most ― he wasn’t sure, but he knew it wasn’t nearly enough.

He briefly considered just going back to sleep. He was too tired to do anything about someone who’d lost way. They’d realize sooner or later anyhow, and they’d have a good laugh about it in the morning. What mattered most was that Link had only just returned from the most exhausting trip he’d been on in a year, and he’d relentlessly fought moblin-like creatures that had been harassing Hyrulian outposts in the north, living in the woods and rain and mud, with only a wet cloak and a miserable fire to keep him warm. The road back had been rocky and treacherous, forcing him to be alert at all times. By the time he reached Castle Town again, he was so tired that his whole face seemed sunken and dark circles had lined his caved eyes.

He hadn’t even taken the time to bathe before dropping on his bed. He was out like a light before he even considered it.

So, a few hours into that blissful sleep, he wasn’t going to be civil with anyone. He wasn’t even going to open his eyelids. They were too heavy anyway.

There was someone in his bed.

Well. This changed everything.

He started, reacting reflexively, reaching for his right side, where he typically kept his sword, but he encountered only air. He’d momentarily forgotten that, in the castle, he didn’t need immediate protection.

And anyway, spearing a lost castle dweller in the middle of the night would bode well for no one.

Instead, he forced himself awake and tried to sit up, reaching to poke his unwanted companion and tell them about their mistake. The sooner they left, the sooner he’d get back to delicious sleep.

There was a sigh, and Link froze.

Was there…? There was a woman in his bed.

Link wasn’t uneasy with women. He’d had his fair share of experiences, but he wasn’t by any means a womanizer. He knew enough about their weak spots and he knew how to avoid their wrath, most of the time.

Usually, though, he was the one who decided whether he wanted a woman in his bed or not. It was only fair to wonder how this one could have lost her way so obviously: this side of the castle was mostly reserved for single men.

Great, Link blearily thought, a courtesan had found her way into his room and now he was going to have to tell her to leave. He never liked doing that. It seemed unnatural and absurd, and most men would have merely taken it all in stride then done the best of it.

But Link was too tired to make the best of it. He was too tired to even poke her again. He considered just going back to sleep, but he could already visualize the situation come morning. He’d never hear the end of it.

So, gathering all his forces, he gave her a little push, hoping he hadn’t touched anything inappropriate. It was so dark at this time of night that he could hardly see the contours of his room. He wondered if she was pretty.

The woman stirred, apparently upset to have been bothered in her own sleep. Link briefly thought that maybe she’d understand how he felt about being woken up untimely.

“What?” She asked, and he could hear there was a pout in her voice, childish and surprisingly innocent. He could imagine her lips pulled into a frown, and something stirred in his lower stomach, but he resolutely ignored it. He wanted to get back to sleep. Just sleep.

He cleared his throat, wondering if perhaps she might realize, in spite of the obscurity, that she was in bed with a man, who hadn’t bathed at that, and that he was not interested in taking advantage of that situation.

“What?” She asked, even more insistently.

Was she dim, or was she simply too tired to realize what was going on? Or was it possible she understood he was there and that she didn’t give a care?

“You’re in my bed,” he said, his voice hoarse with sleep, wondering if perhaps that would ring a bell.

“Huh? I know.”

This conversation didn’t make any sense. If she was in his bed and hadn’t made him any advances, then she wasn’t a courtesan. If she just wanted to sleep comfortably, why had she chosen his bed to do so, knowing, apparently, that he was in it?

It was too late at night to be reflecting on these things, and Link felt his eyelids droop again. But he had to do something about this woman, because he wasn’t going to get any shut-eye if she was in his bed, if he was at her mercy. He knew women could be crafty if a man just slept beside them, and though being awoken by pleasure tomorrow morning was a tempting thought, he would not let it guide his decisions. He was a man, but he was a respectful one.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice still as hoarse.

“Link, do you pose this questionnaire to every woman who joins you in your bed?”

He thought of responding by the obvious negative, but something else caught his attention. She’d called him by his name and not by his title. This alarmed him somewhat. Not only was this woman in a man’s bed, she was in his bed, and she knew it was specifically his. And she was familiar with him.

How many women had access to his apartments in the castle anyway?

“By the way,” she continued in the dark, her voice not nearly as sleepy as his, “you know you stink of travel, don’t you?”

He just wanted to sleep. He’d clean up in the morning. “What―”

Suddenly, it struck him. Zelda. Only Zelda would grant herself free access to his rooms, and only she would dare tell him what she thought of his smell. She was always very straightforward.

And now that he thought about it, he had thought for a split-second that her voice was familiar. It was absurd, of course, not to have figured it out sooner.

The realization caught up with him. Zelda, Hyrule’s queen, was in his bed, and he was half-naked and he had briefly considered that she would pleasure him. Embarrassment filled him, but he did his best to hide it.

“At least let me clean you up,” Zelda continued, unawares.

He was about to acquiesce. Once she deemed he was clean enough, then maybe he’d be allowed to go back to sleep and forget about his idiocy. But if he let the queen clean him, then he’d be really naked and that would be worse than inappropriate.

“Link?”

Avoid the subject. Avert the conversation. “Zelda, why are you in my room? Did something happen?”

The young queen, in the dark, sat up. He knew because of the whisper of the blankets and the weight shift at his side. He could imagine her looking down at him sternly as she said, “I missed my friend. Is that so strange?”

He was so tired. He really did care for the queen, but sometimes she could choose the oddest moments to catch up on news or ask rhetorical questions. “No, it’s not,” he answered, and his exhaustion must have shown, because her voice softened.

She said, “Link, it’s unhealthy to sleep without cleaning up. Please, I had a tub of hot water brought in while you slept. If you want, you just have to sit in the tub and I’ll do the rest.”

He felt a surge of gratitude for her, but a sharp tinge of embarrassment too. “It’s not a good idea for me to be― for you to―”

“Link.” There was the stern tone again. “I’m in charge of the kingdom, aren’t I? I decide what is appropriate, no one else.”

She had a point. Ever since she’d risen to the throne, the nobles followed her blindly; so captivating was she in her every action and word. She’d started trends and fashions, decided new laws, and moved to establish a primary form of what she called commonwealth ―by which the people could give their opinion and ask for their own laws, a system that Link thought incongruous but genial at once― and she’d drawn the eyes of the known world to herself, like a glorious, shining beacon of royalty.

If Zelda decided it was fine to bathe a nude man without any chaperones, who was he to stop her?

With a tired sigh, he said, “I suppose I better move before the water cools down, then.”

He couldn’t see her, but he was certain she’d smiled broadly, glad to have his cooperation. By some feat of strength, he stumbled out of bed and slowly searched for the tub of water. It sat in a puddle of very faint moonlight, steam still wafting up into the cold chamber air. Link stopped before it, wondering how he was going to disrobe without upsetting the Queen’s sensibilities.

Apparently, he needn’t have worried, because her soft hands calmly touched his bare back, startling him. She was, it seemed, far more comfortable with this than he was. He didn’t care much for being naked in front of her, though the concept that she’d soon be running wet hands over him was a daunting and alarming one.

He needed to find a way to dissimulate the direction of his thoughts, or she’d probably get the wrong idea. Or rather, she’d get the right idea, and that would not augur well for his sanity.

He wondered what she looked like when she bathed, and a brief fantasy stirred something in his abdomen, though he hastened to forget it. Her cool hands were still resting on his broad shoulders, and the sensation made him feel weak and vulnerable.

Those gentle fingers trailed down his back, eliciting terrified and electrifying shivers on his part ―she had no idea what thoughts ran through his head and there was no doubt she’d flee if they were revealed to her― and when her hands came to rest on the waist of his breeches, they stilled. He’d sucked in a silent breath, and they both waited.

“Shall I divest you, hero, or will you spare me the task?” She asked, her voice betraying very little, though he was certain she knew what she was doing to him.

Rather than wait for her to continue on the road of sensuality, he stepped away from her and hurried to get rid of his trousers, and, rather than expect an appreciative comment on her part about parts of his anatomy he had never planned on revealing to her, stepped into the tub and sat, as quickly as he could. His face would have betrayed him if she had been able to see colours in the moonlight.

The water, he had to admit, was a relief. It soothed his until-then achy muscles, and he knew it was washing away any dirt on his lower body. He couldn’t help a sigh. She chuckled a little, patting his shoulder fondly when she heard it. The motion was enough to halt any relaxing he could have otherwise enjoyed. He tensed. Something told him he’d not leave the tub with his dignity intact.

Carefully, the queen dipped a soft cloth in the water next to him. He carefully examined her silhouette in the dark, grateful that she could see little as well. At least she could not see below the water.

She gave him a cloth to wipe his face with. It was ritual to wash one’s face before anything else; he did so carefully, whilst she reached for a large cup, which she carefully filled with water. When he was done scrubbing the grime off his face, she took the cloth from him and, he saw in the faint moonlight, smiled. Instructing him to close his eyes, she poured the water over his head, drenching his hair and wetting his shoulders.

He couldn’t help a rueful smile as he pushed strands of hair out of his face. A few seconds later, the queen was running a natural lather of powdered roots and scented oils through his hair, massaging his scalp. He closed his eyes and sighed. She was rubbing tender spots all over his skull, easing tensions he hadn’t realised were there, like when one untied hair that had been pulled in a tight ponytail. She’d cut his hair before he’d left, but it had grown somewhat long again, covering half of his pointed ears in a scraggly and unruly mess. She carefully combed through it with her fingers, and washed out the oils with more water. It felt like he was finally back to civilisation.

He could have drifted to sleep, but she now ran the cloth over his bare shoulders, and the motion made him snap back to attention. She was running the cloth over his back and chest, in slow, circular motions, making sure between each stroke to keep the cloth wet. She pushed on his nape, and he was coaxed into leaning away from the tub’s side, exposing her his whole back and feeling all the more vulnerable. She did not exploit it, though. She washed his wide back efficiently, like an experienced nurse.

When he thought she was done and he could sit straight again, he felt her bare palm stop him. This was alarming. Where was the cloth?

They spoke no words. He let her do as she pleased, confident that she would do nothing out of line and anxious not to let his tension show. But her feather light touch was both a tickle and an unbearable pain. The tips of her fingers were running over his shoulder blades, outlining muscles he knew were there but which he had never seen for himself. She ran a finger over one of his older scars, one caused by an arrow, and he felt her warm breath over the wet skin of his neck like the kiss of a flame. It sent a nearly imperceptible shudder through his whole body, and he could no longer deny that it was painfully arousing.

Finally, she removed her hand, and he sat up straight. The queen picked up the cloth again. His face contorted as he anticipated the torment. Immediately, he schooled his expression back into stoic passivity. He had been subjected to torture a few times when he’d fallen prey to the enemy, and he’d come out of it sane and relatively unscathed. This would be no different. He would remain marble-like in his composure: pale and much harder than he ought to be.

Something inside him cracked at his own analogy, but he did his best to ignore it. The queen was running the cloth over his chest, leaning over the side of the tub and exposing what he could only imagine was a low neckline.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of other things, like a big open blue sky, for example. He visualized clouds, and imagined wind blowing across a vast field. It was blowing through his hair, over his skin, cooling him off and…

Her hand trailed down from his chest onto his stomach and abdominal muscles. The single proximity of her hand was enough to make him throb, and he refrained from groaning. He couldn’t give himself away. What would she think of him? He was not so weak that he’d give in to what his body was so desperately demanding.

Why, he wondered, couldn’t he just have slept this all away? How was he going to hide his arousal now? Especially since she was done washing his arms and sides, and her hand dipped below the water surface, presumably to scrub his thighs.

Warnings went off. He caught her wrist firmly, trying not to tremble or roughly pull her closer.

It occurred to him that she was only wearing a thin nightgown, and the moonlight behind her made her seem strangely luminescent. Her hair, in the dark, still seemed sunny. Something inside him hurt, pained that he would think so impurely of her.

Then again, her breath was a little short, like she was missing air. He knew she was perfectly healthy, so either she’d done something physically exerting ―doubtful, since he’d been so stubbornly obedient― or it was something else.

Something, he dimly thought when her pale chest heaved, that wasn’t too far from his own thoughts.

“Why are you in my room?” He asked, doing his best to keep his voice direct and controlled. It came out curt and strained.

“I missed―”

“Zelda,” he interrupted her, uncharacteristically tense, “why are you in my room?”

He could feel the pulse in her wrist under his fingers. She was silent for a long moment, when suddenly she seemed to surrender and exasperatedly admitted, “Because I’ve been waiting for months to touch you.”

In one movement, she leaned over the side of the tub, pressing her lips firmly to his. She was shaking, and he was so stunned that for a moment he almost forgot to respond.

When she broke away from him, he couldn’t stand it. It was like the air in the room was rationed, his breath came so short. It was so strange, since he hadn’t moved from the tub. Pushing himself up, he reached for her shrinking figure and pulled her close. Without a doubt, she could feel his tremor and desperate need. His lips couldn’t get enough of her. He would prefer to die asphyxiated than to stop kissing her now.

Blood was humming in his ears, deafening him, but he was quite certain she’d moaned in spite of herself. He stood in the tub and wrapped his arms around her. He knew that she could feel how aroused he was, but most of his blood had stopped irrigating his brain: he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed anymore.

Hardly stopping his kiss, he stepped out of the tub a little clumsily. She was clinging onto him weakly, her chest heaving. She was warm.

It was all her fault, he thought as he commandingly pushed her towards his bed. It was all her fault. If she didn’t smell so good and if she hadn’t come into his room, if she hadn’t insisted on giving him that sensual bath, he wouldn’t be kissing her like a love-starved man. He wouldn’t be pushing her down onto the bed and climbing over her. He wouldn’t be trailing his hands all over her, hating that thin nightgown for getting in the way of her skin.

Meanwhile, the queen continued to whimper, pliant and submissive, so different from her usual domineering self. She reminded him more of a woman than ever now, lying on his bed in the dark, holding onto him like he was the last tangible thing in the world. She was pulsing under him, arching, undulating, her weak voice filling his ears by bursts, like his every movement was perfect but surprising.

He left her lips long enough to catch his breath, though he needed too much air to catch it fully, and he couldn’t stand being so near her without being able to kiss her. Never mind air; he would just have to deal with apnea.

“This is a mistake,” he mumbled against the skin of her neck. She tasted like honeyed bread, soft and warm and sweet. He couldn’t get enough. She filled his senses. “This is wrong,” he groaned when she brought her hands to his hips and pulled him even closer to the junction of her legs, “oh gods, this is wrong…!”

But the queen only kissed him again, and he refrained from adding any further comment. It was pointless to add more if he was so unconvinced.

His hands reached for her smooth thighs and brushed the hem of her nightgown over the skin, exposing her as gently as he could while trying to focus all his energy on kissing her throat. She was sighing under him, so openly sensual and willing. He’d had fantasies, but none of them matched this.

The nightgown was pushed up, over her waist, over her breasts, which he kissed the moment they were revealed, and it bunched up around her collarbone, but she swiftly disposed of it. He regretted that there wasn’t enough moonlight to see her properly. There was no doubt she was spectacular. Just the feel of her skin under his fingers nearly led him to ecstasy, and he couldn’t get enough of her.

She was moaning. The sound carried well enough amid their gasps and sighs and hisses.

“Please,” she whimpered, “please, Link…”

His fingers told him so many things. She was soaked with sweat and desire. The very thought that it was for him aroused him beyond hope.

No turning back. Their friendship was ruined, and he stood on the edge of a cliff, knowing it was too late to catch his balance again. He would fall. Why ruin it, then? He jumped willingly.

She gasped and moaned the instant he entered her, and he suppressed a shaky, guttural groan, trying to stay steady without collapsing. He buried his face against her shoulder, breathing harsh, mouth sloppily open against her soft skin ―she tasted like exotic fruits, like youth and delicacy and something sharply exciting― unable to keep himself from biting her a little. She was whimpering helplessly, and he moved, moved, fell, fell, because he had nothing else he could do.

Her legs would twitch at the sharp jolts of pleasure she felt, her arms would flail erratically, try to hold on to something real, something to anchor her, but he moved still, and eventually her arms found their way around him again, where they belonged, and he moved and moved, repeating the same pleasurable, unbearably exciting motion over and over and over again, feeling it nudge him closer and closer to something indescribable, something so dark, so hotly wet, so ancient and so very necessary.

He heard her utter a sound that was more of a cry than anything else, like she had wanted to say his name and failed to shape the word, letting the sounds escape her throat unaltered. It was shaky, uncontrolled, and he didn’t stop moving, didn’t try laughing, feeling too breathless, too desperate, too unfocused for it.

Yes… Yes… This was so good, so good. Gods, oh, gods, yes. So good, so good, yes.

“Ah…”

So good. Oh gods, so good, yes, so good, oh gods, yes…

“Aah! Oh gods!”

So good… so good… Zelda…

“Link! Oh! Link!”

He felt his whole body move down, try to enter her, his whole body through such a tiny hole, there was no way he could do it, no way he could live after something so immense, so pleasurable, but there was an after, there was a more.

She tightened around him, her legs moving up to gather him closer, force him in, peals of pleasure making her gasp and beg, and oh gods…

Blackness. Intensity inside a void. No sound, only his breathing, her nails on his skin, and gods bless him and her both, he was inside of her, unable to move coherently anymore, his insides pouring out between them, inside her, and the pattern slowed, erratic, erotic, and he collapsed without breath, feeling his whole body throbbing with pleasure and unbelievable gratification.

For seconds or hours, all he could hear was his heavy breathing, the way she heaved in shock and satisfaction under him, the way he was limp and spent, the way he felt he had no way of ever recovering and couldn’t bring himself to care.

“We need to do this again,” he heard her pant, knowing her smile without seeing it.

He chuckled against her neck, lulled by the way she wove her fingers through his still wet hair.

“Link?”

“Hm…?” He asked, feeling himself crumble slowly.

“…You can sleep now. I believe I shall allow it,” she whispered, teasingly regal, and he only barely caught the authorization, his eyes drifting closed and sleep overtaking him, a tiny small curling at his lips.