He doesn't know any better. It's the only excuse that Zelda can make for him, watching him snuggle his face into her underarm to inhale fitfully. She remembers his desperation in youth, starving for touch the same way tormented stray dogs might. It worsens, the older he gets, the further his courtships go.
He can't demand this of the ranch girl, explain what comfort her body laid bare would bring. Despite never discussing it, she knows it is the proximity. Their fates are entwined, their destinies already known to the bitter end, and what he sees of her now is merely the shell her true self wears in this life.
He could never know another as he knows her.
She feels responsible. Isn't it her fault, anyhow? Her meddling, her prophecy, her expectations of sacrifice that always fall to him alone? It was the fate she set in motion that dragged Link from a comfortable life in the forest. Impa has tried to explain it away, again and again. A princess bears no responsibility— no blame —nor can her chosen hero.
But she can't agree, looking down at him. Link shifts from her side.
Zelda watches as he rises onto all fours, blue eyes flickering with hunger, lips parted. She's caught in how pink his tongue is, the tip just barely poking out in his haze. Isn't this fine? She might consider this atonement. Reduction to a beast must bring him some comfort, and she can play the role of a plaything so well.
Although… The fact that it lifts the royal weight from her shoulders and settles in her gut as a warmth is certainly part of it. Even in this, she cannot call her decision to participate a selfless act.
It is deliberate, their intimate dance, and she... neglects to bathe on such days in silent agreement. His sense of smell is acute, his expression that much sharper in her presence.
Isn't this what he needs? But it is what she needs, too. Another trait in common, alongside their untimely ends.
Her gown is removed. Slowly. Carefully. Delicate fingers pull at thin strings just below her nape, and he needs no further prompting. Link peels the fabric away, no longer befuddled by her Hylian upbringing's demand for technical layers. His maturity in this goes no deeper than skin, barely hiding the childish desperation below.
His nose mashes against the underside of her breast, every inhale akin to a devout man finding divine grace in the spiraling smoke of incense. If he were able to speak, would he worship her? Would she deserve it?
It's as if Link knows her mind, the way he comes up from the thin skin of her bosom to loom over her face. His exhales are her scent, the tartness of her pit and the powdery tackiness her chest collects under so much chemise, leaving her nearly as intoxicated as he. Beneath it all is his own work-sweat, distantly smearing into her hair's perfume. An addictive combination.
Zelda is very suddenly reminded of a wolfhound Impa once owned in her stead, a pet she only snuggled with in secret. Her heart aches bitterly at the memory, a sudden pang soothed over when Link leans in closer to sniff behind her ear.
His nose is wet. Her eyes flutter shut.
By the time he hikes her legs up, the princess is far away from her shell. She's adrift in the sky, arms cast above her head, eyes half-lidded. Dimly, she's aware of her body folding in half until her ankles are nearly brushing her elbows, while his damp huffs linger around her backside. His tongue finally makes that well-anticipated contact, dragging from back to front in a flick that ends at her pearl.
An observer would see her squirms as dismay, but here it is understanding… and pleasure.
This is his mark to be made. The world will never recognize the change he visits upon it, all victories relegated to her enduring memory, but here the divine princess will moan his name in ecstasy.
Perhaps he will imagine a different flower beneath his ravenous mouth. Zelda cares not, because her caution is flung to the winds and her toes are curling with each delicious thing he does. The air will soon be thick with her, humid with her smell. What greater bliss could be found if not here?
A fact of her existence; alongside the built-in handlebars, the flighty little tail that tugs her skirts up, the desperate glances when the stimulation is just too much.
My brain won't stop zeroing in on her sobbing I love you between nice long cervix kisses. Definitely a character that is nervous, eager to please, shivering to make a good impression.
Plus the turnabout. When she finally wrests back her control? Snaps her fingers to put "getting stronger" into practice? Excellent. Musing on that detail too.
Can't take it anymore. Can't breathe around the copper on a bitten lip. Can't even begin to process what's happening—everything becomes a shape-sound-sensation that burrows into the subconscious like weeds in a flowerbed. Teeth become lips, and lips become a command.
♥ Proceed.
Unnatural, unstable, unreal. This isn't right. This isn't a lot of things, but none of that matters because the spinning doesn't stop. It's too easy to bend the narrative, it's too easy to be overwhelmed by the pounding of a heart that doesn't belong. Why here? Why now? Didn't this have another ending?
♥ Susie. We're friends, right?
It hasn't happened yet. It will. This is the inevitable part, the manufactured hell, the glint of teeth in grimace. Desperation, predetermined—
♥ And friends share, right?
None of her words get through. Noelle shivers, terrified, impossibly finding a bliss in this nightmare, and Susie. Pain unmakes this moment, burns it into a memory nobody will be able to blot out. Fingers around claws, commands over disagreements, will overpowered.
♥ Be a good friend now.
Unstoppable. This force with no name. Finger to wrists, to waist, to more.
♥ Noelle will go with me.
Well. That isn't quite right, is it? An inaccuracy. The name lurks, knocking on the incisors that cut through Noelle's pretty fur until the meat of her breast can be tasted.
Does experience estrus for 3 days max. Largely controlled by specific daylight cycles. Mid-October into November. If unmated, she may experience a second heat in 28 days.
