Chapter Text
Link woke up on his stomach covered in the softest vicuña sheets. The space beside him was empty—his master had already gone.
A dull pain throbbed through his body, his legs ached and his hole stung.
It was pleasant in its own cruel way, the kind of pain that reminded him whom he belonged to….
He lazily slipped a finger between his bare cheeks, gliding it along his still soaked pucker. He flinched- it hurt! His king had been extremely agitated yesterday day- not at Link but his ass paid the price all the same.
The lewd memories of getting stretched caused his cock to slightly twitch.
There was no kiss, no tenderness. They didn’t even reach the bed before Ganondorf seized him by the waist and lifted him easily, gripping him like a sack of flour.
Link sighed. He spent every night with his master—something he was grateful for. Yet lately, Ganon’s attention had drifted elsewhere, and that absence stung.
Link had grown used to being kept close beside him—displayed, flaunted, a living symbol of the King’s power.
And now he longed for that attention again, whether it came as praise or punishment.
But make no mistake he understood.
Ganon had duties: armies to command and lands to rule. His master could not linger in bed when Hyrule demanded his strength.
The thought made Link proud, yet a quiet heaviness pressed in his chest.
As he passed the grand mirror, Link paused. He hadn’t realized how long his hair had grown.
For just a moment, he remembered his fellow knights teasing him, joking that only his cropped locks had spared him from being mistaken for a girl.
Another brief pang crossed his chest, thinking of them… and of his master, who had slaughtered them. But he pushed that memory to the back of his head immediately. Ganondorf had done what was best for Hyrule, and he had no right to question it.
He washed with goat milk soap, letting the king’s sweetest oils smooth over his skin. The memory of laughter and loss lingering faintly in his mind.
When he finally stepped into the corridor he was clean and relaxed.
The halls were quiet except for the sound of his footsteps on stone. A few lizard guards stood at their posts, motionless except for the flick of their tongues.
They watched him pass but said nothing as Link made his way toward the throne room.
Then he heard it—Ganon’s voice, sharp and commanding.
“Do not fight in my throne room! Take your quarrel elsewhere!”
Laughter followed—women’s laughter.
“We only wanted to show you our new skills!” one called, voice bright and defiant.
“Luana’s gotten weaker, hasn’t she?”
“Shut your mouth, pig! How many times have I crushed you in battle?” another snapped.
More laughter rang out, bright and cruel.
“You haven’t grown weaker,” one giggled, “though your stomach has definitely gotten bigger.”
The second rounded on her.
“Say that again and I’ll snap your wrist so you never lift a sword again!”
“Oh? Try it,” a soft, witchy voice purred. “I’ll see you burn.”
Link frowned. The voices came from beyond the great doors—women laughing wih his master, freely and without fear. He stood there, uncertain whether to enter or turn back.
Their laughter rolled through the air, sharp and alive.
“I welcome your claws,” Ganon’s deep voice rumbled, “but remember—this is my hall, not your battlefield. Do not test my patience.”
Link hesitated at the doors, then shook his head defiantly and pushed them open.
The throne room was alive with noise and light—warm sunlight peeking through the gloomy clouds and falling across the stone floor, the sound of armored feet and teasing voices echoing through the chamber.
A group of young, beautiful Gerudo women stood before Ganon’s throne, tall and striking, their armor set with jewels that shimmered like fire. Their beauty was sharp and effortless—the kind that demanded attention. Link’s hands clenched slightly at his sides, and he shifted uneasily.
And there, towering above them, sat Ganondorf, clothed in his immaculate robe —Calm and Commanding. The faintest curve of a smile played on his lips as he watched them.
Link stepped inside, and the laughter dimmed only briefly. His shoulders stiffened, though he tried not to show it.
The way the young women leaned toward Ganon, their easy confidence and playful smiles, tugged at something in him. He hated how much he noticed, how the flutter of their closeness sent a tight, uneasy pang curling through his chest.
He met Ganon’s eyes—those familiar, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through him—and something twisted inside.
His steps were quiet but deliberate, a taut tension threading through his body as he intentionally ignored his master’s guests.
“Link,” Ganondorf greeted, his voice low, almost amused.
Link stopped beside him, bowing his head slightly. He leaned in, pressing a quiet kiss to his master’s cheek—soft, quick, deliberate—then, with sudden boldness, slipped into the king’s lap, tucking himself close as though daring anyone else to come between them.
A burst of laughter broke out among the women.
“Well, look at that,” one of them said, smirking. “Father’s pet we’ve heard so much about is a temptress.”
Link froze. Father?
Ganondorf chuckled, resting an arm lazily along the side of his throne. “Watch your tongue, child,” he said without heat. “You forget you’re speaking before your sisters.”
The air shifted. Sisters?
Link blinked, his eyes widening slightly. He looked at the women again—saw the golden eyes, the crimson undertones in their hair, the proud, fearless posture. The resemblance was unmistakable.
Ganon’s grin widened at the look on his face. “My youngest daughters,” he said simply. “They insist on flaunting their skills whenever I grant them audience.”
The women laughed once more, but Link’s stomach was in a knot. A dull heat crept up his neck—part embarrassment, part something heavier.
Of course Ganon had daughters—of course he did. But hearing it from the King himself, and seeing that faint pride soften his expression, stirred something unexpectedly bitter in Link.
Ganon’s amusement deepened as he studied Link.
“You did not know?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Did you truly think a king of my power would not spread his seed?”
Link lowered his head slightly. No.
One leaned toward a companion, whispering something that made them both laugh quietly. Link averted his eyes, their laughter digging at him, sharp and knowing.
Ganon’s gaze flicked down, a slow, knowing smirk crossing his face.
The women circled closer, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. Link sat straight but tense under their gaze.
“He’s well-built for a Hylian,” one remarked. “Look at him—slim, but strong.”
“Father, where did you find such a beautiful pet?” Another chimed in
Link’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward her. The word pet made him upset, but he didn’t move.
Ganon leaned back, clearly entertained. “I captured him,” he said, his tone rich and casual. “And decided to keep him.”
Their laughter rippled through the room again—sharp, mocking.
“Oh, we’re sure you did,” one of the sisters teased. “It’s not every day father brings someone to his bed and keeps them alive afterward.”
Link’s eyes jerked toward her—quick, cutting—but she only smiled wider.
The air grew heavy, filled with their laughter and the low rumble of Ganon’s voice.
“He’s loyal,” Ganon said finally, his gaze steady on Link. “And that’s rare. Even among my own kind.”
The sisters exchanged glances, smiles deepening. “Loyalty, is it?” one questioned. “That’s what you call it now?”
Ganon’s grin returned—slow, dangerous. “Mind your tone.”
They fell silent, though amusement still shimmered in their eyes.
“My daughters,” he said, pride threading through the iron of his voice. “This man is no mere servant. He is the Hero of Hyrule—born with a spirit stronger than most men could fathom.” His grin widened, dark satisfaction in every syllable. “And yet, he belongs to me. Body, spirit, will—all mine.”
The women erupted, their laughter loud and sharp, as if some great joke had been told. Ganondorf’s deep, rumbling laugh rose to join theirs.
A chill ran through Link. There was something about the way they laughed together—so cruel, so condescending—that it unsettled him.
“Then let us borrow him, Father,” one urged.
“We’ll paint his face and braid his hair until he looks like the doll he so resembles.”
“Yes,” another cooed, already stepping closer. “We’ll make him beautiful—our little pet knight.”
A third bared her teeth in a grin. “Let us try our new tricks on him. Just a taste.”
Their voices overlapped, playful yet edged with menace.
Ganon’s deep chuckle silenced them once more. He leaned forward, and though his smile lingered, the weight of his authority pressed into the air.
“Do as you wish,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “Make him pretty, make him yours for a time. But mark me—” His eyes burned toward them, a warning cloaked in velvet. “Do not harm him.”
The sisters exchanged wicked grins and squealed with glee, moving toward Link like wolves disguised in laughter.
Link’s eyes widened, and he instinctively looked to the warlord. His hands rose slightly, not in defiance but in a quiet attempt to keep space between himself and the advancing witches.
Then, in a cruel twist, Ganon shifted, his long arms sweeping Link from his lap with unexpected force. He barely had time to react before he was practically tossed into the waiting arms of the witchy daughters.
They caught him with ease, laughter spilling from their lips. Link’s body stiffened, caught between shock and the strange thrill of being surrounded.
“Show us your chambers, little hero,” one said. “We wish to see where Father keeps his prized servant.”
Ganon said nothing—only watched with a faint, amused smile as Link hesitated. His silence was permission enough.
With his head hung in embarrassment, Link turned and led them from the throne room, their footsteps echoing behind him. When he reached his chamber, they slipped past him without hesitation.
“This will do,” one remarked, running her fingers along the edge of his table. “Cozy. For a pet.”
Another perched on the windowsill, kicking her legs idly. “Come, hero. Sit. We won’t bite… unless you squirm.”
Before Link could protest, one gave him a gentle shove toward the chair by the bed. He sat, wary, his hands resting stiffly in his lap.
The sisters circled him like cats around prey, their grins sharp.
With a flick of her wrist, the eldest drew something from the empty air—a beautiful, ornate brush that gleamed in the light.
A second snapped her fingers, and a pouch appeared on the table. When it opened, tiny jars of shimmering powder, eyeshadow, and blush glimmered inside.
Link gawked in surprise.
“Did you think only Father spun spells and shadow?” one of them asked, her gold eyes a mirror of her father’s.
Link nodded shamefully.
A brush moved through his hair with careful, deliberate strokes, gentle and steady. “So soft,” she said. “And this color… it’s like sunlight caught in silk. Do all Hylians shine like this, or only him?”
A third laughed. “Only him. Father’s secret wife.” She leaned close, her breath warm against his cheek.
“With the right paint, you could almost pass for a woman.”
Link stayed still, jaw tight, but a strange, unfamiliar flutter in his chest betrayed him—he couldn’t deny the odd satisfaction that came from their attention.
They worked quickly, deftly.
One braided sections of his hair, weaving in thin red ribbons that appeared between her fingers like smoke.
Another dabbed soft powder across his cheekbones, humming under her breath. A third leaned forward with a tiny pot of dark pigment, tracing the edges of his lashes until his eyes looked larger—brighter, almost otherworldly.
“There,” one said with satisfaction. “Our hero looks half divine now.”
“He already was,” another teased. “Father chose well.”
Their laughter filled the room again, low and witchy, charged with energy.
“Do you know?” the eldest asked, stepping back to appraise Link with careful precision, her eyes sweeping over his makeup.
“We’ve come from the Gerudo Kingdom at Father’s command. Those who will not bow will burn. Rivers will run red, and the land will remember his strength.”
The second sister laughed softly, brushing powder across his cheeks with practiced ease. “We will crush every army, spill every life in our path, and leave the Sheikah ground beneath our heels like vermin.”
The youngest traced a brush along his lashes, her touch deliberate. “When Father demands it, we obey without question.”
Even as they spoke of battle and carnage, they worked on him with exacting care, painting his face and braiding his hair as if preparing him for a dark ritual.
They were beautiful, terrifying, and relentless—living shadows of their father.
He watched the light catch in the strands of his hair. It felt wrong, yet he couldn’t deny that it was… pretty.
One of the witches tilted her head, pleased. “Look at him,” she said. “He’s perfect this way. Silent and beautiful.”
Link lowered his gaze slightly but said nothing.
A third snapped her fingers, and a small mirror appeared out of thin air.
“Look,” she said, holding it up before him.
He stared at his reflection—at the ribbons, the faint sparkle, the painted mouth.
For a heartbeat, he didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t him, but it wasn’t ugly either.
The witches traded quiet, knowing grins as they watched his face. “See?” one murmured. “He likes it.”
Link’s lips curved—small, uncertain, but real.
“Come,” one said, straightening with a satisfied grin.
“Let’s show Father what we’ve done.”
At that, Link froze. His stomach fluttered, the faint color on his face deepening. He shook his head.
A sister arched a brow. “What’s this? Our little hero’s shy?” she teased.
“He doesn’t want Father to see,” the second laughed. “How sweet.”
Link glanced toward the door, then back to the mirror as if searching for a way out. But the witches were already moving, circling him once more. “Oh, don’t pout,” one cooed. “You look too pretty to hide.”
Two of them took his arms, not roughly but with no room for protest. “Father’s waiting,” one said with a grin. “And he will want to see.”
Link sighed silently, a faint crease forming between his brows, but he didn’t fight them. His heart drummed fast as they led him toward the throne room once more.