Can I just say that I'm super happy that you play Link as Agender?!? Because I am. I'm super happy. And this is so apt for link's character. In my opinion of course.
ah yeah thank you anon!!
(i have gender headcanons for so many characters... pls...)
His wickedness only devolves into that of perverted corruptness, the grin remains if not more ominous. A hint of what is to come, as amusement dances across features. They thought they had an option but they did not, nor would they ever. As much as they would want to deny the once again appointed tyrant it would prove to be futile.
❝ A trophy. ❞
His trophy. His prize, demoted from being a being not even a weapon. No simply a possession to which he’d do whatever he wanted with until they bore him. & when that did happen they would die but by his terms.
❝ Don’t worry, I will kill you. But when I see fit. ❞
Reminding them that their life was no longer their own. Deciding to re-sheathe his sword, finding no point on bleeding out the hero. After all there still had to be some things done. Their future looking more dim than it had moments before. Especially with the plans unfurling in the dark lord’s mind.
As the blade finally remains encased by his side, silently he uses his free hand to fully grasp his prize but it was no caress by any standard. Still grasping the strands of hair to keep them in place just in case they decided to throw another fit. Fingers trace against battered skin, brushing past the curve of their breast. Moving towards the shallow slashes & dragging appendages along cut flesh. His fingers now coated in their blood though some had dried but not all.
The liquid clung to his calloused digits, it was near revolting. But the sovereign always did have a liking to be coated by the sanguine fluid. Forever a man with miscreant tastes. So it came to no surprise when he drew his hand up to their face. Prodding their mouth with the finger that smelled of stale copper, of their own blood.
No comfort resided in the knowledge that Ganondorf was at least as stubborn as they. That he would not be deterred by Link's callous words did not bode well for the hero ... did, in fact, scare all the words that may have been spoken far away from a mind going quickly blank.
Traditional weapons sheathed, all that remained were the psychological, and against these Link had no armor. Link was in no sense weak-minded, but neither were they prepared to face the situation at hand-- at his hand briefly cupping their breast they shuddered woefully, screwed their eyes shut, and their weakness was laid bare.
Link's refusal to acknowledge the abuse visually meant that they missed the digits rising to their lips, and the pressure against them, slick and sudden, brought them to gasp. The invasion was, however unwittingly, granted. Their brows furrowed, narrow slits of blue visible beneath the dark canopy of their lashes and they glared down at the offensive appendage, clearly disgusted.
Gloved hands rose and gripped the Demon King's wrist, keeping his hand in place as they bit down on his fingers just as hard as they could.
It’s been centuries since she graced a throne, ice cold eyes spearing through a castle not her own, familiar and yet so foreign. Golden hair, so unlike the now perished monarch’s tawny mane, spills over slender shoulders, as glorious and magnificent as in the prime of her reign.
But once gentle, innocent eyes cut sharply across the crowd, all of the wisdom they had read of in legend and none of the sweetness. She stands, blinding in the sunlight striking her, eyes fixed on a broken form being led to the dais.
Ruined, bloodstained hat of green stays pinned on a head bowed in defeat, the shattered hero bearing nothing but a loose white shirt similarly stained, and torn tights.
Ice blue eyes narrow, a silent look of cold wrath taking her features.
This is the hero, the one the Hero of Time trained, this broken toy, disarmed and still chained from the Thief King’s possession. How small and frail they appear to her, so weak and ineffectual to be dropped at her feet like some sort of rejected prize.
Pathetic.
She allows the court to fall silent, allows eyes to pierce through the hero uncontested. She allows the weight of their eyes to speak for her, the disappointment, the wrath. There’s others too—she can hear soft murmurs of sympathy, hisses of contempt.
❝ The Evil King is dead. ❞
— she says simply, though her calm voice does not mask disappointment.
Paraded from his dungeon to her feet without rest or, indeed, any indication of their destination at all (for her guards did not see fit to speak to them beyond a few words), it was only the dual curse and blessing of Courage which allowed Link to make the trip. Mere courage, however, would not bear the lead weight of each step they took. They pulled the hem of their filthy white undertunic as low as it would reach as they marched to an unsure fate in an attempt to hide their skin marked with mementos of their fight and capture-- bruises and cuts placed indiscriminately all over. The most deliberate reminder still burned upon their tired visage, and it prickled even then with electric restlessness.
Their wrists remained encircled by the bruises of captivity, but these had never even been bared-- with bindings still present, the possibility that they were being guided to freedom hardly touched the corners of their consciousness. When they laid eyes upon the sunshine-haired beauty with unfeeling eyes, they were knocked completely breathless. It was almost a relief to take to their scabbed knees, heedless of the many pairs of eyes upon them while they were transfixed by the woman, so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
She was blindingly radiant, yet she cast no warmth at all. Link gazed up at her unabashed despite the way her gaze clenched their heart and effortlessly strangulated the muscle, the spell only broken when she spoke.
They looked away abruptly and bowed their head as was proper in the presence of royalty-- they suddenly recognized that that was what she was and felt massively ashamed, for this had to be Zelda. She was not the young woman they had briefly known, but she was still undeniably Zelda ... even if the sound of her voice chilled them to their very core in a way it never had before. She had a right to be disappointed-- their actions had erroneously allowed her descendant to be murdered. Selfishly, Link regretted that they had not been the one to perish, instead. Just as quickly, they denied the feeling purchase; they would not wish the same that had befallen them on anybody, especially someone they cared as much for as they had Zelda.
Link's shoulders hunched. In the midst of their returned awareness they'd begun to note what was being said by those who fringed the scene and briefly, while nobody would catch them, they smiled dubiously at the floor. They deserved every hateful sentiment, and were glad that these were louder, more prevalent than the sympathetic.
They wished they could say that happiness flooded their person as the knowledge of Ganondorf Dragmire's demise began to sink in. Instead, they felt... not much of anything. They thought they might be grateful, at the very least.
'I see.' The voice they answered in was hoarse from either disuse or strain, and it shook-- from relief, one might guess.
trans headcanon Link, and a whole mess of warnings in the tags of the OP in the linked post and this one, definitely read those first
They clung to life though theirs was empty, and remained unsure whether it was courage or cowardice that kept their heart beating.
That morning, they’d thrown up. While washing their mouth clean afterward, it dawned on them that they may never escape the painful cycles of days (nights), weeks, months that they experienced like a broken record, endlessly repeating. Though they scrubbed their teeth until they shone; their tongue, the insides of their cheeks ‘til they were sore; their gums ‘til they bled— the taste of bile never fully expelled from their mouth. Part of Link hoped that the next time his lips suffocate theirs, he will taste at least a fraction of the sickness they feel every time his hands brush their skin.
They knew that those hands had not been the reason behind their writhing stomach, this time. They were no longer blessed by the naïveté of youth that would conceal even truths near enough to inhale; that, they had lost even before his hands had stripped them of other things, so many more. One of those hands on its own was large enough to choke the life from them if he so desired.
All that choked them then were sobs, dry and unsatisfying, and the pleas which bubbled up in between. Promises of anything would escape their frantic mouth, but then he’d ask, and Link would be forced to rephrase: anything but that, anything but this.
What he wanted, Link knew not how to give. They would sooner die than see him hold it, regardless.
What he took as substitute… to lose that was more terrifying and cruel to Link than it would have been if he had simply taken their life.
Though perhaps, that was exactly what he had intended.
Listlessly, Link allowed his sisters to dress them, to cover their pale forearms in baubles that stacked near to their elbows, jingling merrily at each of their most minute movements. Their neck was similarly outfitted in jewelry befitting the station to which they would rise today. Not a ruler by their own right— but they would become the lawful mate of one.
Queen-consort to the rightful King of the Gerudo; Ganondorf Dragmire.
The first portion of their title has been stressed to them by his tongue, by his tongue on the shell of their pointed ear, by his tongue dipped into their sex.
The first time he acted to pleasure them, for a time the former hero had been stunned. Later they ruminated that if they had remained thus for moments longer, it may have also been the last.
Instead, upon regaining a modicum of their sense, they had screamed, for Ganondorf pulling shivers of anticipation from their taut thighs, their pink lips, had been so, so much worse than his demanding their painful accommodation. They did not wish to desire the man at any level of consciousness, and knowing their body a traitor had brought forth that shrill cry of unfettered agony. That brought the man far more pleasure than fucking them ever would— their pain.
The women didn’t realize that the bride-to-be they were tending to had come to understand just enough of their native language to catch the gist of their steady stream of gossip, all of it concerning them. Their expression remained unchanging enough that they would not catch on.
'She looks so dour on her wedding day,' said one sympathetically, and another answered as she braided Link's hair.
'I have heard she has miscarried no fewer than six times,' she tuts, 'I don't see why he is marrying one so unlikely to give him an heir!'
Six was a bit of a stretch, but not a far cry from the true three. The first pregnancy had been much like the second. Both times, Link had done their best to end the life growing inside of them before it could begin, for they were unwilling to inflict their misery upon a child (and because they feared and hated what sort of creature could possibly be born from their union with its father).
The third time had been the first that they had failed; for tens of hours they had labored to birth a girl (red-haired and amber-eyed, Gerudo blood strong in her veins), a hardy little one that they felt no love for in the brief time they held her in their arms.
When he killed her, Link sobbed tears of relief and let them masquerade as sorrow.
They were married. For the rest of the night, his hand remained upon them, possessive, not holding them as one would hold their beloved but as one would clutch at an object of another’s envy simply because. The longest string of words he expended for their benefit were only to state with a grin that they looked fine in traditional bridal garments, but he spoke in such a tone that the same words suggested they tended to look repulsive otherwise. Link hadn’t answered, and his attention had wandered to more worthy distractions, such as more beautiful women.
It was a very nice party, Link supposed. People that were not them seemed to enjoy it. They didn’t look forward to what they knew must come after.
Consummation was a mechanical affair. Even their position that night was reminiscent of riding such a bull, and Ganondorf was certainly large enough to be compared to one. He finished with a groan and then deposited Link on the bed with fresh imprints of his hands left on their hips.
He moved to leave, but Link caught one of his wrists in both of their hands. That earned them the momentary satisfaction of his genuine surprise as he turned again to face them, one auburn brow raised high.
'Men sleep with their wives,' Link murmured, the words near-perfectly accented in the desert peoples' tongue. They were almost as surprised to hear the bark of laughter escape their husband as they were to witness him considering, and then heeding their words.
They fell asleep held to his scorching chest and hoped desperately to burn.
i really want a plot where muse a and muse b both go to a private school and muse a is really studious and innocent like never been kissed type thing and muse b got kicked out of their old school for for sleeping with a teacher and one day muse b sees muse a in the hall and is like ‘i’m gonna make it my mission to corrupt them’ and yeah
As depraved as the tyrant is he holds off any assault for now, the inner working of his mind churning as he recalls the lore of the hero. Always depicted as a male ( more or less, rather a child if anything ) & even the previous one was of well less softer implications. But Ganondorf aside from his being of high birth & god like abilities was still a man. A man who did have some appreciation for what was shown to him even if not by choice. & though small in size the colouration was appealing, hues far lighter than the Gerudo woman that he had been with ages ago. They were of light, of dawn approaching & just barely sun-kissed.
The hero sex aside was vulgar as usual which left the previous opinion in tact, if not more of high praise. But this does not dissuade the sovereign or cause him to soften his touch if anything his grip tightens around their hair. Women in his mind far more formidable then any man would be. So with a curl of his lips, a baring of teeth as he now lightly traces the tip of his sword back upwards. Causing a thin line to appear among their flesh, faintly & not as deep as the other gash.
Towards the chest, to where it seemed like they were hiding. Oh, how he did enjoy picking at one’s weak points & there was added enjoyment since he had lacked some other forms of hobby during his entrapment.
❝ Well it seems we both have different tastes. ❞
Keeping his voice light & conversational but the all too familiar tone was sadistic if just barely. Apparent in his features as well, not just in his grin but those golden hues reflected something far too perverse to be said as they continued to watch & not deviate his gaze.
❝ There might actually be some use for you,
truly a trophy i’ve acquired from this pointless
w a r. ❞
Hinting that this alone would not temper whatever he desired to do, that this was the beginning. To break the hero & make them his, even if it would be time consuming it would do good to have a hobby during his reign.
The hero let out a breathy yelp as the grip in their straw-blond locks tightened; their scalp already burned in protest of Ganondorf’s insistent tugging (subjectively, Link supposed they should be thankful that their hair grew thick enough that his handful hadn’t simply been yanked free altogether). Fresh tears gathered in their eyes as they were very nearly lifted from the ground.
The blade hardly even marked pale skin itself then, but the quickened pace of Link’s heartbeat pushed beads of crimson up which recalled the path of its ascent. The subtle wound stung like a paper-cut, if not several times amplified in terms of pain.
In his wicked grin, in his cold eyes, Link found no solace. At Ganondorf’s hands there would be no mercy. But—
As long as it was only his sword that caressed their flesh, the hero could cope. Hands still armored in tattered leather clenched at their sides.
'A what,’ Link said after Ganondorf spoke, voice monotonous with rage. Eyes narrowed enough in suspicion that the wetness which had clung to their lashes ran down their cheeks. Thick brows furrowed, but their apparent fury with being compared to an object only existed as a thin veil to hide their raw mounting panic.
'Forget it, pig,’ they spat with as much venom as they could muster, hoping that if they could anger him enough he might decide they were simply too much trouble, and heed their next words, 'you may as well just kill me.’
"Yes, it certainly is out of the way,” he mused, looking out past the lake to the sun’s peak, hovering over the sands that had somehow separated themselves so grandly from Lake Hylia in the time between Sheik’s and this one. He wondered just how many things had actually changed, and then decided that that was a question for another time.
Link’s question made Sheik pasue to think a moment. He did not think he could lie to the Hero, especially not if he was to help him through the Spirit Temple. And after what he had seen outside of it, the Sheikah was not going to leave the Hylian to go through the desert on his own. That would be an extremely stupid decision on both of their parts.
“Curiosity, I suppose,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. "I tend to travel Hyrule rather sporadically, and have not been to the desert, so - thought I would visit.”
'Oh, I see.' So they said, but the thoughtful gaze which they had fixed upon Sheik as he'd spoken did not fall for long moments. It was not that they didn't believe him, but they did suspect there was more to his story than what they'd been supplied. Link let the issue drop with blue irises, however.
Fingertips curled in the grass, absently petting the green blades and the earth beneath its verdant pelt. As their hands were occupied in the goalless venture, their lips pursed in preparation of questioning the man further.
'You said you were... a Sheikah?' They asked without specifically inquiring as to his origins, but hopefully the friendly, open-ended nature of their words would invite more than simply a yes or no (although they would be satisfied if that was all he saw fit to give them). They were genuinely interested in cultures other than their own, having been raised in such a small village with not many different kinds of people populating it, and generally enjoyed learning.
“No, not a kiss, a fist is
what I was talking about.
I don’t have the need to kiss you,
I would never dare to do such a thing.
Don’t flatter yourself, Hero.”
And so he pulled away from the other,
twisting his body before he looked back at them,
a frown upon his features.
The younger was hardly offended by Zant’s apparent... well, they could place the emotion somewhere between disinterest and disgust, perhaps a smidgen more confusion than either of those. On such an inhuman face, it was a little difficult for Link to make heads or tails of any expression. At any rate, they flashed a playful pout for the Usurper King's benefit.
'You're no fun, then,' they teased, simply because they believed nothing would come from it. The thought of Zant rising to the challenge didn't cross their mind even once.
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