#angel!link

😈 Devil!Rhett & Angel!Link 😇

It hurts to touch him. 

His skin sizzles like butter on a hot pan and Rhett gasps, not from the pain, although that too is sudden and intense, but from the soft smoothness of the angel’s skin. Rhett snatches his hand away, watching in horror as a scarlet afterimage of his fingers rises onto the milky white skin of Link’s arm.

An apology. Hushed one, with pleading eyes and the thud-thud-thudding of Rhett’s heart that Link can hear as clearly as his words. Link shakes his head, the golden leaves of his laurels making a faint tinkling sound that always follows him around. He steps closer, his gaze determined, reaching for the demon in front of him. 

Rhett takes a step back, now pleading with his words. He doesn’t want to hurt Link. Never wants to cause him pain. Never wants to see those sweet eyes flash with agony. Link huffs, his wings fluttering in annoyance. He can decide for himself. He’s old enough, nearly a millenia old, no longer a babe in the heavens. He’s seen the earth. He’s seen the humans. He’s seen the need and where it leads. To entangled bodies and lush moans and ecstasy so potent it has the ability to create life.

Rhett’s blood surges in his veins, rushing into his head, making him dizzy; rushing elsewhere and making him feel light and heavy all at the same time. He watches Link talk about the debauchery of the souls below them. Watches Link’s plump lips move. Rhett wants to bite them. Gnaw and chew and taste. Wants to nibble and suck and lick until he’s breathless and Link is whimpering in his arms.

His arms. Rhett pauses. Closes his eyes, the only way to stop himself from staring at the creature in front of him. Unlike Link’s, Rhett’s arms are rough—gnarled and wrinkled, covered in old scars and fresh scabbed-over wounds. His arms are molten. They’re not a place for a being as pure as Link. The devil’s arms are meant for hurting, not loving.

Rhett’s eyes fly open. His face is on fire. He’d scream, but his breath has been stolen by the icy-blue eyes peering at him. So close. Too close. Link’s hands cradle Rhett’s face, skin to skin, palm to cheek. They burn together. Rhett can smell it. A hint of sulfuric ash mixed with the scent of summer rain turning into a thunderstorm. 

Rhett tries to back away, tries to save Link from himself, from this twisted thing they have been dancing around for centuries. But he can’t. He can’t, because Link’s lips are closing in and Rhett can do nothing else but surrender to their heat. Just once, he thinks. One time and then no more. A taste. It’s all he needs. All he deserves.

A mosaic of groans and whines. Pain and pleasure. Good and evil entwining, burning, destroying, creating, thriving. Rhett can’t breathe. He only knows need and love and desire. He devours Link’s mouth, tasting the divine within him. The air crackles between them, angry and awed. The wind whips around them, horrified and delighted. 

A gap forms between their aching lips. Link pants, begs for more, begs for more skin, more kisses, more debauchery. The devil has never before blushed. Everything in Rhett spins and tilts and twirls. He aches for Link. Aches for something that can’t happen. 

“We can’t. It hurts to touch you,” he finally whispers, with a sob so heart-wrenching the world breaks below them.

Link looks at him and smiles with a sad tilt of his lips.

It was easy for Link to believe in miracles. He was one of a few that made them happen after all.