Prompt: Write a story that begins with a character realizing that he or she has just had unprotected sex.

-Taken from Litbirdge dot com.

The narrow mattress continued to sway on the wooden legs with the dying embers of Zelda's fitful spasms. Through the partially open bedroom door she could see the weapon plaques that adorned the walls. Light from several candles seeped into the bedroom, this house was not what she expected of the Champion, but it made sense how sparse things were. Like in his life, there just hadn't been enough time for extraneous pleasures.

Until now.

Zelda raked her fingers across the underside of her leg, just below her butt. Her skin burned and reddened in the little plow-trails in of her nail's wake. One leg rose from the surface of the mattress bent at the knee and sticking up like a pale mountain shining with a sheen of fresh sweat as her other dangled off the side of the bed. Her brown tights were heaped halfway under the door, keeping it ajar. Her small clothes were goddess knows where.

A tingly chill caused her to tense the bundle of muscles that made up her pelvis floor and a drop of Link's seed leaked out. She pressed the back of her hand to her face, letting out an exasperated sigh. Gone were the euphoric waves that had laved over her body after the initial rush of tight pain subsided. Reality had set in and they were still touching, the sweat cooled and dried and caused their skin to stick together.

Link laid with his legs wrapped around her dangling one and her face is pressed to his chest. Link wasn't her betrothed, wasn't even technically her suitor (her suitor was long dead). Link was who she wanted.

Ganon's arrival had only occurred weeks ago in her eyes. How maddening had her naive obsession with duty been? It distanced her from what she actually wanted: him.

Deep inside of her most bitter, petty self she desired all of him. She wanted to mark him. To possess him. She had wanted the calloused skin of his hands on her body. That tanned, chiseled chin working against hers as their lips struggled for supremacy. Those rises of his hip bones grinding against her pelvis. (She used to steal glimpses of those when he mopped sweat from his brow with the hem of his tunic)

At seventeen, not counting the missing century, they were still kids. She too young to marry or ascend the throne—despite being the last of her bloodline left to see that she followed these rules—sex signified a change. It bridged her into adulthood.

Here was a man she had taken in his most raw form; whom she rode. Whom she writhed against on walls, a table, and a mattress. After decades staving off death the cooling runoff from their time together felt like a well deserved, selfish victory. She felt adventurous and sore and proud.

For the first time in forever Zelda wasn't doing something to save Hyrule or fulfill some nebulous duty—she was doing it for herself.