So, oneshot! XD Love one-shots. I'm trying to write lots of them without taking too much time, and it is DIFFICULT, peoples!

This is my shortest but possibly cutest one-shot ever. I'm excited.

It's a LinkXSheik by the way, though the gender-swapping, I'm guessing, is very predictable to readers that know my stuff.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Wiht much love,

S.S.

Kitten

In almost every single way, she's like a cat. She's a riddle of contradictions, a series of impossibilities wrapped in sleekness and glamour. You either love her or hate her. Or you're intimidated because you have allergies to that kind of personality.

For one, you don't own her. She owns you. She'll look at a space and say, "Right, this is mine," in that satisfied tone and then she'd look at the smelly, lumpy couch and add, "You can have that," with an almost distasteful twitch of her wrist, like a long sinuous tail.

And it's my lounge, too.

She's curious. I guess that's part of the owning you bit. She pokes her nose into desks and drawers and cupboards and pantries and she won't stop remarking on what's inside. She would say, upon finding a stray photo, ooh, what's this? Oh my gosh she would add, Link you look so cute! And Ilia that's a gorgeous shirt you're wearing, where was this taken?

And then Ilia would go on an embarrassing reminiscing tirade that makes me, her big brother, look like an idiot.

She's companionable. If you want to hang out she'd invite others to JI even without asking. With her, every movie is a party; every trip to the ice-cream parlour's a memorable event. She always has that smug lilt of her lips when she does this, as if she's stroking some invisible whiskers, thinking, yes, everything is going according to plan.

And I get no alone time with my girlfriend. Ever.

She's hideously playful. Simple things amuse her. A light that flickers, or one of those tiny super-rubber-balls that bounce impossibly high, or poking me in the stomach and making me complain at her to stop it, geeze, anything. Her eyes would light up and she would mewl and pursue the little pass time until I storm off and leave her in the dust giggling with glee, or I start tickling her until she squeals and laughs and she promises to stop, she swears, Link, please, just, s-stop, giggle, giggle, giggle.

And I'm always defeated.

She's high-maintenance. Or more like lazy. Despite being able to run faster and longer than anybody in the year (except me. She can run faster but I indefinitely last longer) in the day her favourite pass time is to lie around in the sun, and at night to stretch luxuriously over my carpet, sighing at the central heating under the floorboards. When she's feeling explicitly queenly, she laps up some organic yoghurt with a fresh slice of fruit or a tall glass of lemonade, complete with mint, straw, and ice-cubes.

And I'm the one usually catering to her.

She has pride. You'll never find a day when she doesn't slack off on work she enjoys, or a project she has interest in, despite her laziness. Her words have claws when she protects herself, her work, her personality, her everything. You ruffle her up, you get scratched, and nine lives wouldn't be enough to survive the curses that you evoke off her.

And I'm left to defend myself when somebody attacks me.

She's aloof. When there's a cat fight at school (and there's plenty) between the girls, she would raise her hands, shake her head with a smile and step back. She'd sit in the dark corner, still and silent, watching the arguments flit back and forth round the common-room, nose twitching for a scent of truth, or a blatant lie.

And I end up being the one forced to ask her to stop the fights.

She's loyal, in a subtle way. If a friend got hurt from tripping over or something, she'd place a box of band-aids in the friend's bag. If a friend got hassled, they'd find a mug of hot-chocolate coming at them, marshmallow included, and a few days later a particularly frightened group of bullies apologising profusely as they watch her stalk away round the corner of a doorway.

And yet she tends to shun me.

I snap my pencil, irritated. I feel sorry for the pencil as soon as I do it, but really, I couldn't help it. She was rubbing against my nerves lately, what with exams and college applications and testimonials and graduation and…

Is there another pencil to snap?

I stand from the desk, which is strewn with my study-notes. I can't find anything or concentrate in this mess; I need a caffeine hit. I walk to the kitchen, grab the milk carton and check the time. I wince. It's early morning now, if you wanted to get into technicalities. Damn it, I should get to bed, since there is no doubt in my mind that Ilia has, and she's the insomniac of us two.

Then a pleading yowl slinks up the corridor. "Link…"

I frown. That was my sister. Weird, I'd thought she'd gone to…

Then it hits me. She'd had a project. And someone had come to help her out.

"Oh shit," I curse, as I bundle round the corner to meet Ilia's green eyes that contrasted heavily with her helper's gaze, "You were still here?"

"We were nearly done," she shrugs with a languid smile, complete with purple bags under her eyes, "And now that we are, I'll go home."

"Oh no," I scowl, and so does Ilia, "No. No, no, no. You're staying the night. It's Friday. Or Saturday. Anyway you have no excuse not to."

She gives an exasperated moan as she stretches and yawns. "Blondie, I don't have my toiletries or my PJs. Seriously, I'll be fine driving."

"Hell no." Ilia hissed, "You're taking bro's bed, and that's final. I bought a new toothbrush, and you're using my spare pyjamas."

"And we're all blonde here," I scowl at her deeper, "So you have no right to say anything."

"Whatevs," she shrugs, and it's obvious that she's trying hard to keep her eyes open. "Alright, I'll stay, just… yeah…" It is so obvious that she forgot what she was about to say, "Whatevs. I'll stay."

We nod. "Good."

I drain the milk, and it's a silent agreement that we all go to sleep. As the girls get changed, I rummage whatever I need out of my room before returning to the lounge and dump it all at the foot of the couch. I sigh at my girlfriend's idiocy. Are cats stupid? Probably not. But this one definitely is.

I strip to my boxers and wear sweatpants as the lights are flicked and night takes over. I don't have official pjs anyway.

I open my sleeping bag, wishing I could get to sleep feeling a little… happier. Secure. Sometimes I wonder whether Sheik truly sees me as her boyfriend instead of a disposable slave.

I curl into the thick material of the bag, getting myself snug as a bug in a rug, but then I realise I can't because I forgot my stupid pillow. I can't sleep without that thing, hell if I know exactly why. Believe me, I've tried sleeping without it, but it just doesn't work.

Cursing, I kick out of my cocoon and crawl through the dark to my room. I sneak in, my eyes getting used to the dark, and then, when I look at my bed, where Sheik's fallen asleep, I groan because she's not even under the sheets. She's out cold, in all manners of the word.

I sigh, trying to shift the blankets without waking her up. She's such a light sleeper too, a cat-napper. I can't help but laugh when I think that, because she has on numerous occasions stolen kittens off the streets to beg class-mates to take them in. She sometimes visits them in the domestic animal sanctuary.

A hand wraps around my wrist as I tuck her in. She stares at me, and I realise why I even started comparing her to a cat. Her eyes are feline, wide, and the most extraordinary hue of red that seems to glow even in the dark.

She reaches up, patting my face as if to makes sure I was really there, that I was real, and even if I'm completely and utterly irritated with her, I can't help but forgive her annoying habits.

Because, I have to admit that she can be such a frightened kitten on the inside. And she can be stubborn, curling her tail round herself, tightening herself up into a ball of nerves, refusing anybody to get close when she's afraid, refusing to let anyone deal with her problems for her.

And only I can calm her down.

When she's angry, or when she feels like that her weakness is under threat, she blusters and makes her self bigger, look stronger and meaner with her hair on end, when really, she's so skinny and small and vulnerable.

And only I can get through to her.

She was the one that asked me out, a few moths ago. And—according to a green-eyed source (of dubious accuracy) that is genetically related to me—she worries that sometimes she pushes me away with her personality. I sometimes think, why doesn't she be more careful then? But I love her for the way she is, even if I do get down trodden sometimes.

Because I know she's only curious because it's about me, companionable because I asked her out, playful because she can be herself, full of pride because I accepted her, aloof because she has nothing to fear, loyal because she would never accept a drink from any guy but me. And I'm the one she hugs and holds hands with. Me.

Yeah, the perks are way, way worth it.

I smile, lean down, kiss her forehead. "Hey kittie,"

"Oh gods," she moans, screwing her eyes shut, "Did you really just call me that?"

"Yep. I kinda thought you're like a cat, so…"

She pouts petulantly. "Meow."

"You should get in the covers, Sheik," I tug at it insistently now that she's awake, "You'll catch cold."

"I wouldn't if you're with me."

I roll my eyes. "Do me a favour and don't tempt me."

"You tempted me first," she chuckled, and goose-bumps flare up my arms as she slides her hand down my bare chest, "And I've fallen."

I should've seen it coming, but as the local idiot that fell for the hottest girl around… well, things don't go according to plan.

Not that I didn't like this alternative.

Her arms curl round my waist. I kiss her and she licks back. Her sinuous leg lifts to tangle with mine. I drag the mattress around us both. Her whiskery hair smells impossibly good.

"I'm not letting you go."

"I can handle that,"

I feel her smile on my skin, and her breath as she whispers, "Purr."

So... what did you think?