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1up-girl · 12 days

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Obligatory annoying ass reblog because Reverdie officially has 200 hundred bookmarks! I know that number might be kinda small compared to other works but I am still to this day so shooketh and so very grateful for all the love I've received in the last couple of years writing in the Zelda fandom. 💕💕💕 You can read on Ao3 here.

Reverdie (2022)

Chapter 1

Fandom: The Legend of Zelda Pairing: Link/Zelda Words: 4.4k + Rating: T, will raise for M, for sexual content

Summary:

"....And it seems that he was right…if you don't round your lips a bit more on the last vowel, it certainly does look like you're preparing for a kiss." It's the precise moment in which darkness flashes across hungry, viridescent eyes. She leans further in, her lips ghosting against his skin.

"Unless…that might be something you're after."

His brow wrenches with unbridled need and he throbs in more ways than one as he notices the tensing strain against the lower half of his tunic. She smells of fresh lavender.

Link thinks he might like to smell of lavender, too.

Chapter 1: my favorite fantasy

Keep reading::

Nascent zephyrs promise glorious days to come as spring reacquaints itself with Hyrule. Doubts and inhibitions find themselves swaddled in rosy blooms and in iridescent ribbons of air that brush gently across those starved of warmth. The kingdom rejoices as it bids farewell to dark, wintry days, and there is a new flurry of activity throughout the region as the thin smell of snow evaporates from the grounds. The castle bustles with renewed energy as optimism begins to seep its way back into its halls. But the season arrives far too quickly for the Princess, who cannot seem to make the most of the borrowed time she's attemtping to harness; the somnolent power that dwells somewhere within has yet to answer her desperate calls to action.

On the evening of the spring equinox, Zelda finds herself atop the cathedral's altar, dwindling in the shade of her father's austere presence as he presides over the vespers’ final message, his booming voice ringing out to praise Hylia in a manner that Zelda deems far too indelicate; the closing remarks prepared for him by another's quill are poetry incarnate, and yet he barrages through the text as though he's scolding her on the stone just beyond her study. She'd deliver the speech differently, she thinks, with special attention paid to the aureate descriptions that he seems to trample right over without a second thought.

From the sidelines, her knight attendant watches as King Rhoam acknowledges his daughter with a bow. Under the monarch’s studious eye, Zelda steps forward and raises both hands to the sky, deep emerald robes draping from delicate wrists. Wrapped in the verdant wash of the garment, she appears almost nymph-like, with recently picked flowerheads expertly embedded into the neckline. She lifts her eyes to the domed ceiling, and though the litany tumbles from her lips, Link hears none of it; he's fixated on the way golden tresses cascade across one shoulder to expose an elegant neck, on the soft motion of her jaw moving as she recites standard prayers that have been effortlessly committed to memory after so much repetition.

In the dawn of the new season, Link finds himself caught in a whirlwind of a predicament; he's realized, in the last few weeks at her side, that he's developed a rather…unbecoming desire to learn more about the girl that he has sworn to protect with his life. To discover every part of her, commit the inner mechanisms of her mind to memory. Even now, in a holy place constructed entirely for the divine blood that runs through her veins, he's brazen enough to wonder what her tantalizing skin might feel like beneath his mouth.

Link half expects to be struck down on the spot for such sacrilege.

He's trying to be good, truly–but as the venom in her glance disappears entirely to allow amity to pave over its ashen remains, he remembers that they're destined for one another, that the threads of fate intertwine to keep him near to her as they've done again and again throughout the ages. He's resigned to his fate–has been since the day he pulled the treacherous sword from its pedestal–but he looks upon his assignment now with a bit more optimism than in days past.

In the cathedral, Zelda's devotional is so brief that when her gaze lands upon him, he assumes for half of a panic-stricken moment that he's expected to contribute--but the pinched sensation in his chest dips when he catches her accommodating smile. He's stumbled across it a few times throughout the course of the evening; it hasn't failed to ignite his blood yet. The expression is a vast cry from the one she'd worn the first time she'd ever caught sight of the Master Sword across his back.

Link accepts the hand that she offers to escort her down the altar steps, careful to maintain a respectful distance behind the King. Murmured conversations ripple through the congregation behind them as they pass, and as soon as they've disappeared through the heavy doors at the back of the hall, Zelda quickly darts down one of the intersecting hallways. Her father moves in the opposite direction, entrenched in an entourage of his own. The royal family separates without any parting words.

"Thank the Gods that's over," Link hears the Princess mumble. The elegant mask that she displays so convincingly shatters at her feet to release a visibly potent irritation, tension cimbing its way up her body to settle aggressively in her shoulders.

"Seemed simple enough," Link comments. "I'm sure you'd be able to recite that prayer in your sleep."

"I might as well have," she points out sharply, withering with exasperation. "Did you hear how my father spoke? So utterly careless. He ought to have just let me do it."

Link presumes to know why the King hasn't permitted her to participate in more than her standard obligations, in spite of the birthright that seems to imply that her offering might hold more significance than her father's; her burden is still the topic of hushed discussions. Link is well aware that those around them are losing faith, their bleak sentiments only exacerbated by the damp, depressive days of winter. Even still, in spite of the whispers that insist she is to inherit a kingdom of ashes, Link clings tightly to optimism.

"I'm sure you would have been lovely," he remarks, half under his breath in a voice that's tinged with a pining that nearly betrays him, though it isn't entirely apparent that she's heard the statement. It's better– safer– that way, Link reminds himself, a tightened breath hitched firmly in his throat.

"Have you sought an exemption for the festival?" The inquiry pulls Link from his thoughts as they swap out the dark masonry of the cathedral for that of the castle.

"I believe I have commitments here," Link responds dutifully.

Visibility in the stairwell dampens as the last cadences of the day retract into nocturnal repose. With copious amounts of fabric tangling between each long stride, it won't be safe for her to attempt to climb the staircase on her own; he'll need to linger close to her as she moves--just in case, of course. Link bends to assist with the train of her gown as she begins her ascent.

"Surely you might still be able to find coverage. I'm sure a few knights will suffice for the next couple of hours." she reasons, eyeing him as he rises with emerald cloth draped across a white-gloved hand. "You really should go and enjoy the evening. Dancing and drinking and…and there will be many beautiful maidens, I'm sure. After all, you don't have the summer's ball to look forward to this year."

Exquisite fabric slips through reluctant fingers when they reach the top of the staircase. "You misjudge me. I don't need a ball--I'm more than satisfied here." Link admits through thinly pressed lips. When the princess turns to meet her knight's glance, heart leapt up to seek refuge squarely in her throat, he notices the flickering hint of a prestigious flush across her cheeks.

They bid one another good night shortly after, the space between them seemingly heavy with words left unspoken.

Link hears every one of them in the dreams that soon follow.

It only takes another week for a new obligation to fumble its way onto Zelda's lap, cauterizing the promising swell of spring with just two words.

"Oratory training?"

Link poses the question from one of the small, plush chairs stationed in her study as he brings a cup of tea to his lips, his brows knit together in confusion. "For what purpose? It seems…wasteful. With all due respect, of course."

Zelda paces the room tediously as late morning light streams through her open window to bathe scattered textbooks and potted plants in a golden glow. Her lower lip pulled in, her right canine plunges into the skin in vigorous thought.

"Because one can never have too many tasks, I suppose." she grumbles as she melts defeatedly into a chair of her own. "I don't know what he can possibly be thinking."

"I've heard you speak publicly many times," Link's assertion rattles a sardonic chuckle from her.

"Of course you have! I've been speaking publicly for years now…it's utter nonsense. There is a Calamity on the horizon. That is where I must focus my concentration-not on some silly exercises." Link nods silently in understanding, avoiding the fact that his own concentration now slackens so frequently in her presence--a nasty habit that he really ought to remedy.

"I admit, I take a bit of offense…does he really have such little faith in me that he'd rather have me engage in activities for a….a child than let me try to contribute in some meaningful way? I’m sure I might be able to assist Impa with the relics..." Zelda gives a weighty sigh, lifting a ceramic cup of her own from the small table between them with tense fingers. She drums nails against her teacup in plaintive thought. "But I suppose it's already been decided. Father won't hear anything more about it."

Link swallows a sip of the earthy blend. He isn't as enamored with the flavor as she, but he'll consume it by the gallons if it grants him more time with her sacred, innermost thoughts. As he catches sight of the impeccably lovely sorrow that wrestles her face, he finds that it spurns him, almost as though the King has maligned him personally. He swallows the ache down, squashes it between abdominal muscles to shower her in cool, collected tones that he utilizes so adroitly.

"I'm positive that he doesn't feel that way. You will be perfectly fine. Don't worry."

Once upon a time, she had deemed such equilibrium as far too nonchalant--as blatantly ignorant of her tremendous plight. But today, just as they have been in the last few weeks, his words are as soothing as the spring breeze that kisses Hyrule Field. She seems to take solace beneath them, all signs of strain soon evanescing from her expression. Link doesn't attempt to quiet the triumphant swell that batters away behind his sternum.

She's quiet for a moment, calculating her next thought with diplomatic precision.

"You are too good to me, Sir Link," Zelda finally intones with a wistful smile, her voice growing softer in a most curious way.

Shining eyes meet over raised teacups.

The first of Zelda's sessions approaches the following week, haunting her as though it were an apocalypse of its own until the day it arrives as a summons at her bedroom door. She mutters half to herself as she serpentines through the castle to a room set aside specifically for the occasion, Link silently trailing three steps behind as he always does. She makes several remarks under her breath that have him suppressing laughter, unsure as to whether or not her disgust with the idea is wholly authentic.

He loves to see her like this; she's no longer an archetype shrouded in a divine mist. No longer just a mysterious force that fate continues to test in the cruelest of ways. Though cursed with such a destiny, she's still just a girl, slightly younger than he, voraciously intelligent and by far the most beautiful girl in all of Hyrule. She whispers her secrets and he repays her with his own–they're veritably cut from the same cloth. In a peculiar way, he's grown to love the complaints that remind him that she is, in fact, more than just a vessel to be used by her kingdom.

Though there are other ways that she ought to be used: the absolutely disastrous thought flashes across his cognition without warning.

He castigates himself with a face set ablaze.

Zelda has been draped in a charming, pale blue gown that softens the edges of her regality. The delicately spun gold that inlays the front of it shimmers beneath sunlight that spills through stained glass windows. Compared to other styles she's been secured into time after time, this particular garment is far less intimidating. It's akin to the dresses that the women of the town might wear to their own celebrations, though its stitching is far more intricate than anything one would find beyond the castle walls. But, Link is quick to note, the dress affords her a freedom that her other fashions typically do not permit. As she moves ahead of him, he admires the way the fabric hugs at her waist, considers how the skirt might flare out around her in a way other regalia might not. How, if she were to turn to him, the neckline would sit just low enough for him to consider her womanhood even further.

And when she eventually does turn to ask him for his thoughts, that is precisely what happens. Quickly and wholly unintentional--but it happens all the same.

And, unfortunately for him, the observation does not go unnoticed.

Whatever Zelda's next thought might be is tossed aside, locked away in her throat to never resurface. Viridian eyes glance him up and down in sharp analysis, head retracted slightly in surprise and her brow furrowed in confusion. Link's throat constricts against him and he swallows hard beneath such a deliberate gaze.

"M-my apologies," he barely manages to choke out. He's quickly left wondering if feigning ignorance would have produced a more desirable result.

Link knows very well how danger tastes on his tongue as it materializes around him. He can recreate the thundering pound of adrenaline through his veins as fangs and claws and hooves assail him, knows how to counter each thrust of a weapon as though clairvoyant; but it's when Zelda's expression melts into something far more demure, far more cunning, that Link is suddenly aswoon, thrust off his axis in a way that feels far more perilous than any chance encounter with a monster horde.

Zelda incites a foreign panic within him when she turns back around with a sharp inhalation. She takes another step. Hesitates. A step. A pause. Then, quietly, she tosses five words across her shoulder that cause a flame to lick hard at his neck.

"I don't mind, you know."

Zelda's sessions are to be held in a long neglected room that's been excavated for the occasion. They enter to find that the air is stale, teeming with years of underutilization, with much of the furniture still draped beneath heavy canvas sheets. It's a rather large room, one that Zelda says once hosted the musical soirees of her youth; the desire for music has worn thin in recent years. Old tapestries adorn the walls, and tall, expansive windows usher in sunlight that seem to only highlight spots of dust that housekeeping has glossed over.

Her instructor, Sir Barto, is a peculiar old acquaintence of the royal family and a musician of the court, and they stumble upon him nervously fluttering around a piano as they enter the room. He pokes a note out at the keyboard that rings out exceedingly flat of the intended pitch.

"We ought to get that fixed!" Barto exclaims. He must be drawing close to middle age, with a head of thinning black hair and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that sit upon an aquiline nose. With hardly another word, he's soon ushering an unyielding Link back out into the hallway with a gusto that Zelda finds undeniably amusing.

In spite of such hyperkinetic energy, Barto manages to prevail; the knight will remain in the vacant hallway for the next hour. Barto claims that it's a vulnerable act, training one's natural instrument, and Zelda must be left in her new instructor's tender care to experiment with it.

When he finds himself tasting solitude, Link cranes his neck to assess the scene beyond the heavy oaken door. As the minutes languish on, he occasionally hears a voice, Barto's instructions, followed by Zelda's familiar tones in response. She's soon speaking aloud, offering nonsensical sentences that surely must promise some sort of technical advancement. Soon, the speech is replaced with sounds, bizarre sounds that seem neither pleasant nor enjoyable to produce. He leans in further, wheat colored eyebrows strewn together in perplexion, but he soothes when he detects the ardent ring of her laughter.

The Princess doesn't laugh. Zelda, however, has the most wonderful one he's ever had the pleasure to wallow in. Awash in her sound, Link catches himself wilting against the door with a tiny smile toying at his lips.

"I don't mind, you know. "

His stomach gives a sudden, treacherous lurch; what else might she be inclined to not mind?

Link spends his time straining with dulled awareness while a sensational heat simmers low within him. He tries, in vain, to wrestle the taunting look that she's granted him from his mind. It encapsulates him with an iron-clad grip, threatens to conjure itself repeatedly in the coming days with hot insistence. Fatigue knocks at him after half of an hour, and, most unfortunately for him, it's the moment when his mind really begins to wander–a dangerous thing for a young man his age to engage in when he finds himself bundled in the thrilling sweetness of spring.

Without even meaning to, Link crafts her silhouette in his mind, nerves coordinating to shed her of the soft color of her dress and create the illusion of her hands against the architecture of his own body. His eyes flutter shut to taste her, to let her taste him, to consider how the firm bow of her lip might feel against the silk of the organ that throbs in the empty hallway. He redresses her, recalls her as she is at this very moment, but considers how, if she wanted to, she'd only need to tug slightly at fabric to display her breasts entirely, knowing very well that there would be no action he could take in response. He's realized recently that she has a coy side, that Princess of his–and now that she knows of his furtive glances, there is no telling what sort of torture she may enact.

Oh Hylia, she knows.

She's rattled his peace, corroded his foundation and shaken every conception he's held of her to leave him receding into a sea of unhinged avarice.

When Zelda eventually emerges from the room another half of an hour later, absorbed in what looks like a haze of surprise, Link is practically perspiring through his uniform, unholy thoughts pounding away in his head.

The days bleed into one another, threading the weeks so that the time spent in Zelda's vicinity begins to feel like a long dream. Link tiptoes around her, swathed in a combination of cautious optimism for her new undertaking and binding apprehension at what has transpired between them. Much to the knight's relief, the Princess has yet to address his small indiscretion. Every so often, he thinks it's slipped her mind entirely, the sudden influx of all of her other tasks ridding everything else from her senses; but then she gives him that knowing smile– the one that sears itself onto his mind, causes him to simmer until the small hours of the morning and demands that he apply pressure to the front of his trousers, and the onset of frenetic energy hums to life once more.

Link’s managed to avoid one of those disarming glances the last couple of days–he may finally manage a restful sleep this evening.

There is yet another change in the wind when the kingdom releases an official statement that triggers some sort of tectonic shift in Zelda's wake: Hyrule Castle has decided to welcome the summer's arrival with a ball after all. It had previously been agreed upon, in the penumbral abeyance of winter, that a celebration would only serve as a mockery to the Kingdom's tribulations.

“Seems that the Council has had a change of heart.”

On the day that the event is publicly reinstated into the master calendar, the Princess and her knight make their way towards the castle library. Zelda is reeling from the new development- ‘in celebration of a prosperous spring’, the official proclamation reads. She reads words that exist in the blank spaces of the notice, realizes that the pressure thrust upon her has been dialed up to the highest degree yet; that anything less than a ‘prosperous’ achievement will not suffice in her kingdom’s eyes.

"The council has decided that a morale boost is necessary, and Father has asked me to take care of it. He wants me to say a few words and perhaps show that we're making progress in our cause...." Zelda postulates, her incredulous voice reverberating against the stone of the halls. There is no need to speak the words aloud--a truly prosperous spring will bring about her ever elusive power.

"Still, I'd rather he just speak to me frankly instead of dancing around with all of this." She gestures around ambiguously. "One surprise after another..."

Though he's very aware of the height of the stakes, Link can't avoid the nagging sensation that it's cruel for the King to act in such a way; his own flesh and blood is to douse her peoples' fears as the apocalypse draws near when she carries the unbearable weight of their tentative salvation upon her shoulders. Link wonders if her father is attempting to trigger her powers with a deadline, and a fresh wound carves its way into his heart at the thought.

"But your sessions are going well, yes?

Zelda thinks for a moment. "Yes, I suppose they are."

"Then he will certainly be pleased to hear about that.”

He already knows the answer before posing the question–with Link in tow, she always leaves her sessions chattering incessantly about the discussions that she and Sir Barto partake in; her eyes light up as she speaks of Hylian texts that they critique, waves her hands excitedly as she describes the comparisons drawn between said texts and ancient Gerudo scrolls. They analyze the great speeches of past Zora queens and trace the influence of Tabanthan topography on Rito verses. She sparkles all the while, without even the slightest hint that it endears her impossibly further to him.

"I feel strange. I feel like I'm being…I don't know, toyed with. He's clearly had this whole thing planned and I'm only finding out about it now--what else am I to discover in the coming weeks? A fine prospective leader," she mutters bitterly as they arrive. It pains him to see her so depleted.

Streaks of pink have already begun to stream against a hint of a wisteria sky as they enter the library, so it doesn't come as much of a surprise to find that they're greeted by an empty hall. The two-storied structure is one of the greatest assets that the grounds has to offer. Its size is perhaps dwarfed by a few other spaces, though the knowledge that it possesses garners more value than any ballroom or dining hall. Link has spent many hours of his appointment within the library's walls, craning his head to read titles off of withered spines while Zelda piles surpluses of books into his arms.

"You will make a great leader," his voice drips with confidence as the door gently moans shut behind them. "You doubt yourself far too often." He surprises himself; the knight attendant of days past would have received quite a berating for the audacity of such an intimate comment. They move further into the library to descend one of the preliminary staircases.

Link watches Zelda's head pivot in surveillance.

“Thank you for listening to me, Sir Link. I’m sorry– I’ve become a different sort of terror to you these days.” A bit of warmth percolates into her tone as she addresses him.

“It’s an honor,” he responds softly, quiet pertinacity burning beneath the surface.

Mirth dapples her expression and she releases a soft huff of a laugh.

“What?”

The corners of her lips indent upwards in a hint of a smile. “You.”

“What about me?”

"Always needing to be so overly kind to me. You don’t have to do that, you know." Her voice fills the air more comfortably.

Link slows to a halt and frowns as Zelda places a bit of distance between them. "I'm not." he says, his voice pointed and coloring oddly defiant. Why does she ring so accusatory in his ears? "I'm just…speaking my mind."

Zelda pauses in her path, hesitating for a moment before a sudden, pithy giggle bursts from her lips to bring about a tonal shift that Link is suddenly painfully cognizant of. When she turns to meet his eyes, he finds that desolation has melted away, evaporated in the change that his assertion brings to reveal a furtive look that is positively feline in nature, cunning and jocose. She traces her steps back and draws herself closer up to him, emboldened by their isolation, and the way that she sweeps up beside him causes him to tighten in apprehension.

"Do you know what I think, Sir Link?"

His stomach plummets at the way her tongue wallows in the first consonant of his name. He concedes with silence.

"I think..." she begins playfully, "that if you were truly speaking your mind these days, we'd be having a very… different conversation."

And then, so quickly that Link swears he may have misinterpreted something, Zelda's eyes flit to peer down at her own bodice before she drags her gaze across him once more. She smiles impishly at the panicked expression that springs to life on his pale face.

How had he felt such palpable pity for her only moments before?

"I'm…n-not sure what you're…referring to," he coughs out, positively stumbling his way through the sentence. She tips her head back and laughs radiantly at the sight of her Chosen Hero reduced to a stutter under her girlish gaze. She moves even closer still, raising a perfectly manicured finger to press against his chest. She lingers just long enough to kindle something potentially devastating in his groin.

"You are a terrible liar, Sir Link."

He's never heard Zelda speak with such disarming electricity before. It silences him, washes over atrophied muscles that strain in complete disbelief. Her lips begin to part, slowly and deliberately, as a deliciously tempting smile slips its way onto her lips.

A sonorous groan resounds from the top of the staircase. The intrusion hardly even registers on her expression, but it spurs her into action, and she's soon flittering away from him and towards the eastern wall of shelves. Link lingers behind with a slackened jaw and a pounding heart.

Fuck.

Chapter 2: sell me a dream ->

#fanfic #zelink #botw

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