#this is.....something

“You’re interrupting my alone time,” Link tells him, just barely a murmur, and Rhett’s shivering when he gets his hands in Rhett’s hair. Both of them at once, fingers dragging along his scalp. It’s supposed to feel like a scold, but it only mostly feels like a swell of pride in Rhett’s chest instead. 

This is more important, otherwise Link would have shooed him away. 

When he catches a knot with his fingers, he’s careful, easy, gentle about untangling it, and Rhett tilts his head back to rest on Link’s lap, to look up at him. From here, he looks like the molten center of the earth, magma and energy, and Rhett doesn’t touch but he wants to. 

He wants to. 

He settles for looking. 

Link tugs at his hair, just a little bit, and smiles at Rhett. Tilted down, fingers still in Rhett’s hair, holding him in place just so he can smile down at him, let him know who’s got the upper hand right now. 

Rhett’s okay. He’s okay, and he’s opening his mouth on reflex, before Link’s fingers have even made their way to his jaw. But his entire body is attuned to a singular thought right now, his brain firing half signals that all meet in the same place. 

And he wants. It’s a direct line of heat, centralized at the very tip of his tongue. 

Pressed to his teeth. 

Uncurled now, and Link’s fingers are finally at his jaw, under his chin, tilting him impossibly further so he can laugh, not cruelly, dripping with globs of heat, and what Rhett might be so bold as to think is sympathy. Rhett’s mouth closes again. 

The pad of his index finger, pressed to the meat of his lower lip. He says, “Calm down, man.” 

He lets his eyelids flutter shut. He’s floating, just a little bit, at the thinly-veiled order. He’s trying. He’s arching into the contact, paying attention to anything that isn’t his aching jaw, his aching back, his aching cock. 

Gosh, he’s hard already. 

And Link’s finger finally presses inside, just between his lips to rub at his teeth, his gums. It’s not sexy, it’s not what he wants, but he thinks that’s the point. 

“Alright,” Link murmurs, soft and sweet, and the hand under his chin slips down to his neck, feather light, so Rhett can open his mouth again. 

Instead, he just unclenches his jaw, relaxes, his teeth separating so Link can press his finger to the flat of Rhett’s tongue in his mouth. 

He doesn’t moan, but he shifts against the floor to refrain. 

It’s the pressure of it. The weight of Link’s finger on his tongue, something inescapable as he’s held in place and made to take whatever Link wants to give him. His fingers are slender and careful, tracing along the ridges of his teeth, a second one slipping between his slick lips to match the other. 

He’s full, then. His mind a little blank, his jaw a little more slack. His skin is fitting itself back in place over his bones instead of crawling. He aches a little less. 

And Link sucks in a heavy breath, asks him, “You gonna open up for me some more, pretty boy?” 

So Rhett opens his throat, waits for the inevitable. Usually, Link curls his fingers now, pushing further back, resting the tips along the curve of his tongue, as far back as he can, and Rhett-- 

Gosh, he wants. 

He wants and he wants and he wants. 

But Link slips his fingers back out of Rhett’s mouth instead, and he can’t help the way he whines, now, how he lets the first bit of real noise leave his lungs for the first time since Link had him sit on this godawful floor like this. 

He’s shushed again, a bit harsher this time, but he’s not in the mind to care about it right now. Singular thoughts, singular goal, and he’s tilting his head back and back some more, furrowing his brow, unable to fully see what Link’s thinking. 

It’s only about a second before Link’s other hand is pushing his head forward, the one with slick fingers at his chin again. He opens, hopeful, and is met with two fingers at once this time, the middle and ring, long and perfect and curling and curling and pressing back and back, his other hand on the back of Rhett’s head, guiding him forward all at the same time. 

He gags with it, but Link doesn’t pull away, just shushes him some more, or maybe that’s the just sound of Rhett’s pulse in his skull. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to care right now, not when everything is just starting to shift right out of their sockets again, only this time they’re realigning themselves even better than before. 

Link’s murmuring something to him, something about being good, about being open, about how tight and hot he feels, and--

And his palm is resting open and warm and slick with Rhett’s own spit on his chin, curled around the lower part of his face as he fucks-- really, honestly fucks-- into Rhett’s mouth with fingers. Like, like he’s fingering him open. Curling them up and pressing like he’s looking for something. 

He feels-- 

Fuck. 

Fuck, he doesn’t know how he feels anymore. Weightless. Like his head is full of cotton, like his veins and cells and atoms have all stopped in tandem to watch him tremble to pieces. 

Vaguely, he’s aware of his fingers digging dents into Link’s calves from behind him, searching desperately for something to ground himself with, but he doesn’t seem concerned, so Rhett isn’t either. 

He can hear the wet sounds of Link’s fingers in his throat, has to bite back another gag. 

He hears Link tell him, “Good boy, Rhett. You’re being so good.” 

And Rhett tries to say thank you. He tries to blink through the bleariness and get a better picture of him, but realizes there are tears in the way, a steady stream of them making a mess down his face now. He’s wet all over, from his eyes to the bottom of his chin. 

It’s obscene, and he feel so used. He’s being wrung dry, Link’s fingers rough and unforgiving in his throat, pulling out for just a moment, a beat, to let Rhett drag in unsteady breaths. 

He’s floating. 

He’s being held up by Link’s middle fingers on his right hand, curled deep in the back of his throat. When he tries to swallow, it’s just a pitiful, fluttering thing that has Link chuckling softly, saying, “Oh, try one more time, yeah?” 

So Rhett does, and it’s even harder this time for some reason, and Link presses back at the same time, and Rhett’s gagging. It’s harsh and it starts in his spine. 

He feels split open, flayed, raw, the corners of his mouth sealing themselves around the bulky knuckles of Link’s fist. He isn’t weeping, but he’s crying, he knows it. He can taste the salt of his tears on his tongue. 

But god, he’s floating. 

And by the time Link is pulling his fingers out, telling him, “Touch yourself,” Rhett’s just about somewhere else entirely. 

Fumbling with his zipper is too hard, so he just settles for cupping his hands over himself, rocking his hips into the pressure there. It’s easier, like this, to focus on Link’s fingers sliding through the stringy mess of spit again, pressing back and back and back and curling up and up and up. 

He’s ruthless. 

His mouth lands on Rhett’s forehead as he tells him, “There you go. You gonna make yourself come, pretty boy?” as he thrusts his fingers into Rhett’s throat. 

There’s a plea that he can’t quite form, right on the tip of Rhett’s tongue. Pressed to the meaty part of Link’s fingers. 

And when he comes, it’s because Link flutters his fingers, wiggles them inside Rhett’s throat, has him jerking into the feeling of it, another gag harshing its way out of his body. 

And he comes and he comes, his own hands pressed to his cock through his pants like he’s still learning how to jerk off, too desperate to take off his pants, to even dip his hand inside. Too invested in the feeling of Link’s skin on his tongue, the taste of his own desperation creeping up the inside of his esophagus. 

Link’s fingers still, just resting on his tongue, and he pets through Rhett’s hair with the other hand, cradling instead of jerking him forward into the movement. 

He falls back against Link, limp and tired and fuzzy. 

Link slips his fingers free from Rhett’s wet mouth, pauses for a minute and shifts before he’s wiping at Rhett’s face with something. It’s soft and careful, cleaning him free of spit and tears and whatever else. 

He leans forward, the shadow startling for all of a second, presses warm lips to Rhett’s forehead again. 

“Better?” he asks, 

And Rhett doesn’t trust his voice. He doesn’t know how he’s going to talk without the fluttering of Link’s fingers inside of him. So he nods instead. 

He swallows, and swears he can feel indentions where Link’s fingers were, where his throat has made place for them. 

Where he’s made place for him.