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Link is kissing down her neck, and Zelda is… distracted.

It’s late evening and they’ve taken themselves to bed, the air in the loft grown heavy and hot and bodies pressed close in a tangle of limbs. It’s wonderfully familiar by now, this almost-routine of kissing and undressing and touching, their nights together often dissolving into a haze of heat and skin. Sometimes slow and gentle, or rough and fast when she wants it, but Zelda is too preoccupied to think that far ahead tonight, so she gives up the fight to stay in the moment and says, “Link, wait.”

Link, to whom wait means stop, immediately ceases his journey down her torso and moves out from between her legs. Sitting back, still a little too flustered for speech, he signs, What’s wrong?

Zelda hesitates a moment, then blows out a sigh and shifts to the edge of the mattress. “I found this today,” she says, reaching under the bed, and Link’s eyes go wide with panic before she even pulls out the box.

It’s a nice box, Zelda thinks. Simply but skillfully carved, made of dark, polished wood with a gold clasp and a hinged lid. Elegant, but understated. The kind of box you might use for storing silverware, or handkerchiefs, or jewellery. The kind of box you probably wouldn’t keep under a bed, which was why Zelda had been unable to contain her curiosity when she discovered it this morning—and proceeded to agonize over the contents for the rest of the day.

Link keeps his eyes fixed on the box as she sets it down between them. He looks like he might be sick, like he’s about to put his clothes back on and run for the door, but even as his breath audibly hitches as she reaches for the clasp, he sits and stands his ground. 

Zelda lifts the lid carefully and reaches inside, drawing out an object wrapped in silk. She allows it to unroll smoothly, easily, into her open palm. It’s made of an odd material she hasn’t seen before; firm, but still slightly malleable. It’s solid black and… distinctly phallic in shape. 

She weighs it in her hand for a moment, contemplative. When Link doesn’t make any move to speak or sign, she asks, “Where did you get this?”

After a long pause, Link signs, a little meekly, Gerudo Town.

Zelda allows herself a small smile. “Of course.” She rolls it between her hands, observing its smoothness and rigidity, before looking up at him again. “Why do you have it?”

Link exhales deeply. He’s flushing from his chest to the tips of his ears when he signs, For when I’m alone.

Link had told her once—awkwardly, haltingly, with many hand gestures in lieu of speech or actual sign—about his encounters with men. He wasn’t ashamed, he said, but it was important to him that she be aware of this side of him, and that she understood that his attraction to multiple genders had no bearing on his affection and commitment to her. She didn’t doubt him, and wasted no time in telling him so—but she had failed to consider his bodily desires, the possibility that there might be something he wanted that she just couldn’t give, and Zelda nods now, trying not to frown, trying not to let it show on her face that her heart is sinking.

The thought that he felt the need to hide this from her is almost painful, but she chooses her words carefully. “Are you… dissatisfied, in some way?”

Link looks at her incredulously. He signs, What?

“With me,” Zelda says. “Are you unsatisfied with what we do?”

He looks horrified, then, his response immediate and unexpectedly verbal: “Zelda, no—

He reaches out and takes both her wrists in his hands. He’s shaking his head, clearly fighting to get the words out; he prefers to sign when the topic is difficult for him, but he’ll say it aloud if he thinks it’s important for her to hear. “Don’t ever think that,” he says, quiet but earnest. “It isn’t you—it’s…” he trails off, frowning a little, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, then releases her wrists so he can sign again. I only need it when you’re gone. Sometimes my hands aren’t enough.

Zelda nods slowly, studying his face, only taking her eyes from his when she reaches into the box again. She searches through the silks, eventually drawing out what appears to be a harness, of sorts. It’s made from soft brown leather with small gold buckles, and though she hadn’t looked too closely last time, knowing now that it’s Gerudo-made, she can take a pretty good guess at what it’s for. “So, this…?”

Link clears his throat. He signs something to the effect of, Free with purchase.

Zelda can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her, and Link cracks a smile too despite himself. It’s so endearing, seeing him all pink and bashful, so she leans forward and kisses him, right on the slightly upturned corner of his mouth. Link slides one hand into her hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, sighing against her lips as the tension in his body melts away. It quickly turns into something deeper, Zelda humming contentedly as their tongues softly brush… but she’s still thinking about the box.

They break apart, breathing slightly laboured, their foreheads pressed together. It takes her a moment to remember that they’re still completely nude, and even though there’s a foot and a half of space and a wooden box between them, Zelda can see Link growing aroused again, nearly as rigid as the artificial equivalent in her hand. It makes this decision very easy.

She looks down at the prosthetic, turning it over, examining the slight bumps and ridges. It’s remarkably realistic. “So, you like this.”

It takes him a moment, but eventually Link says, “Yes.”

“Penetration,” she clarifies, quietly. “With this.”

He swallows and nods. She can almost feel the heat from his face.

Zelda pauses to take a breath, steeling herself. Then she says, “Perhaps I could do it for you?”

Link chokes on a word that might be her name, trying to find his voice and failing.

“I don’t want you to feel that you have to hide it from me,” Zelda says. She turns the harness over in one hand. “And we have this, so…”

Link regards her carefully for a long time, tension back in his shoulders. He signs, You’d really do that for me?

“Of course I would.” Zelda touches her forehead to his again. “I want you to feel good,” she murmurs. “I want to make you feel good.”

Another pause, then he signs one word: Now?

Her heart goes to her throat. “If you’d like.”

Link breathes a slow exhale. She feels his forehead move against hers as he nods, feels the brush of his lips as he whispers, “I would.”

They don’t move for a moment. Then Zelda gets out of bed and puts the box on the floor.

A little awkwardly, they figure out the harness together, adjusting the leather and buckles to Zelda’s proportions and fastening the prosthetic into place. She feels a little silly, standing there with nothing on besides the extra appendage strapped to her pelvis, but her marginal discomfort is entirely justified by the way Link looks at her—a long, sweeping glance up her body, his face warm and wonderfully flushed, dragging his hand over his mouth as he takes in the sight, and then he reaches for the nightstand.

Zelda rejoins him on the bed, and they face each other again. There’s a small bottle of oil clasped in Link’s hand—for lubrication, Zelda realises. He looks a little afraid now, tense as he signs to her, You’re sure?

Zelda nods. “I’m sure.”  

Link regards her hesitantly for a moment before he coats his fingers, his hands shaking as he reseals the bottle and sets it down beside them. 

Then he spreads his legs.

Just a little. Not a lot, not so much that it’s deliberately pornographic, but enough that Zelda can see. He swallows thickly as he gives himself a brief, almost placating stroke, and his hand still trembles as he reaches down, fingers slick with oil. Zelda shifts forward, resting a reassuring hand on his ankle, and Link looks up at her then, his eyes soft, expression open and vulnerable.

“You don’t—” his voice breaks, but his hands are occupied, so he tries again. “You don’t have to watch.”

“I know,” Zelda says. “But I’d like to.”

Link seems frozen on the spot, but he takes a steadying breath. Then, without breaking her gaze, toes curling and jaw going slack, he slowly sinks two fingers inside.

He stills on an exhale, breathing through the slight stretch, making a soft noise in the back of his throat as he shifts a little on the bed. His chin tilts up as he opens his legs wider, thighs shaking and shoulders drawn, and for a moment he just looks at her, watching her as she watches him—and then his eyes close and his head tips forward as he starts to rock against his hand.

He does it slowly, working himself open with short, careful movements of his body and wrist, quivering with arousal and nerves. He lays his free hand flat on the mattress, pushes himself onto his fingers again and again, and Zelda inches closer, fascinated and breathless to watch him. “Is it good?” she whispers.

Link nods hastily, lips parted and breath shallow—but Zelda can see the line of tension in his neck and shoulders, the way his arm is twisted uncomfortably beneath him and how his forehead is creased from the effort, so she releases his ankle and reaches for the oil instead.

It smells sweet and familiar as she wets her fingers. She remembers the scent from the beginning stages of their intimacy, taking things slowly because Link had been anxious and afraid of causing her pain. She’ll never forget that night—the light perfume of the oil, the headiness of anticipation and heat between their bodies, Link’s soft gasp in her ear the first time they joined.

She supposes that this is a first time, too.

“Link,” she murmurs, and touches his knee to stop him. When he opens his eyes, he looks impossibly drunk and it makes her feel dizzy. “Here. Let me.”

His gaze doesn’t leave her face as she reaches down between them, even as he shakes when he withdraws. Zelda lets her fingertips trail idly along his inner thigh for a moment, admiring the fair, downy hairs decorating unmarked skin, until Link’s breath hitches and she looks up. He’s almost panting, eyes pleading and desperate and hungry, and then his hand is on hers and he’s guiding her down, until she’s pressed warmly against his most private of places and he yields to her with a soft whine.

Zelda decides that she likes him like this; fallen back on his elbows with his hands in the sheets, pulsing with heat and tight around her knuckles as she slowly presses inside him. She coaxes him open, carefully rocking forward and back until it’s an easy slide, until Link is shuddering and gasping and pushing for more.

“I’ve read—” Zelda whispers, curling her fingers, searching, “I’ve heard that there’s a spot—”

It’s almost immediate when Link cries out, jerking up and clenching so tight that Zelda can’t help but gasp. She steadies his hips with her free hand, keeps her fingers curled and pressed even as he moves, and just the feeling of him flexing and and writhing makes her grow slick and hot all on her own. Her gaze follows the line of his body when his head falls back, drawing her to where he’s flushed and neglected and straining—so she leans down and delicately takes him into her mouth, feeling the vibrations of his moan at the back of her throat and the weight of him warm on her tongue.

Zelda,” Link breathes, curling his hand around the nape of her neck and drawing her up to stop her. He kisses her desperately, a little clumsy and more than a little filthy, and when she touches that spot inside him again he makes a noise halfway to a sob.  

“Ready?” Zelda whispers, his breath hot against her lips.

Link’s nod is something close to frantic. He groans quietly at the loss when she withdraws her fingers but quickly takes up the oil again, dripping a liberal amount into his palm before reaching out to the protrusion between her legs. His slicks it up until it’s glistening, working quickly as if she might change her mind if he takes too long, hands shaking on every stroke until Zelda reaches out to calm him.

“How would you like it?” Zelda asks quietly, and Link goes very still. He licks his lips, eyes flickering up to her face, and for a moment he just looks at her, barely drawing breath—and then he sits back and turns around.

Then he’s face-down, bracing himself on his forearms and knees in the middle of the bed, and Zelda is also having trouble breathing. She can see the tremors in his body as she moves in behind him, doesn’t miss the way he flinches at her touch when she leans down to kiss the ridge of vertebra along his spine, and as she straightens up to guide the prosthetic into place he trembles even harder, an edge of desperation to his voice when he says, “Please—please just—”

As she sinks into him, slowly, he moans in relief.

Zelda stills once her hips are flush against skin, and then she lowers herself down. She folds her body over his until her breasts graze his back, kisses him all the way down to the edge of his jaw and the shell of his ear and whispers, “Is this okay?”

Link breathes a shuddering gasp, dropping his forehead against the mattress. “Yes.”

She kisses his neck again. “Do you want me to start moving?”

He chokes, “Please.”

Zelda goes slow, rocking shallowly in tiny shifting movements of her hips, and Link is already breathing hard and clutching the sheets. It doesn’t feel quite natural, a little halting and strange, but when she finds some leverage to pull out further, push in deeper, Link’s entire body moves with it, legs spreading wider and rolling back against her with a whine.

He looks back at her then—shyly, through his eyelashes, his cheek still pressed to the bed—and the sheer adoration on his face as he lies prostrate on his knees before her makes something possessive and primal take root in her head. She curls one hand over his shoulder and pulls his hips up with the other, putting her full weight behind the force of her thrusts, moving into him steadily until his arms give out. He’s almost mewling, rutting helplessly against the sheets, so Zelda drives into him hard, pinning him to the mattress, and the sound he makes reverberates all the way from her pelvis to her throat.

She holds him there, unmoving, held down by her hips, long enough that he begins to whimper in protest, and then she starts to withdraw. Link keens softly at the loss and glances over his shoulder—signing why? because his voice is gone, and Zelda smiles and bends to kiss his flank, smoothing her palm down his spine.

“Turn over,” she says. “I want to watch you.”

She’s familiar with the sight of Link on his back, but she’s never seen him looking quite so defenceless. He’s flushed pink, toes curling in anticipation as she positions herself between his spread legs, sighing softly when she runs her hand up his chest. She can feel the arousal coming off of him in waves and it makes her hot, makes her ache, makes her yearn for something more solid than just the leather between her legs, but it’s all worth it when she moves into him again and gets to see the look on his face.

She rocks into him steadily, getting used to the new angle with every roll of her hips, shuddering when Link’s moan rises out of his throat and crawls its way down the back of her neck. He isn’t even trying to push back anymore, knees drawn up to his chest as he just lays there and takes it, his erection flushed and leaking against his stomach and twitching every time she moves.

Zelda strokes his hipbone with her thumb. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“No,” Link chokes, hands grasping the sheets above his head. “Please, like this—just like this—”

Her next thrust pulls a strangled sob from his throat, so Zelda just grips him tight and keeps on thrusting.

Again and again, harder and deeper, his moans growing more anguished as she moves. She re-angles her hips, pushing up into that spot, and the noise Link makes is so broken, so needy, Zelda thinks she could climax without even needing his touch. She can’t take her eyes off his face; Link, who prefers to make love by candlelight and kisses her eyelids to stir her from sleep—he spreads his legs and moans for her now, helpless to the rhythm she lays into his body and pinned down by the weight of her hips. He’s clutching the sheets, mindless whispers spilling out amongst the whimpers and keens, head thrown back and body gone tight as he pleads Gods and yes and fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

Zelda feels the pulse of his body and the arch of his spine, and when his voice breaks on his orgasm, there’s no sound in the room. She holds his hips along with her breath, pressing in as he surges up to chase it, and then he’s trembling and jerking in a desperate grind, riding out the ebb of his climax with an agonised cry as he comes in rivulets over his belly.

He collapses onto the bed once he’s finished, one forearm thrown over his eyes. He doesn’t move or speak, just lays there trembling and heaving with what Zelda suspects might be sobs, and though she’s careful as she withdraws from him, his hips cant up, like he isn’t ready to let her go.

“Are you all right?” she asks gently, and Link moans in apparent bliss, signing yes with his free hand, and Zelda laughs, leaning down to kiss his flank again before slipping out of bed.

She wets a washcloth and leaves the prosthetic in the basin, hyper-aware of the insistent heat between her thighs. Her legs are sore and trembling from exertion as she gingerly pads up the stairs, but Link gives her this soft, exultant smile as she reaches the landing, and that’s more than worth the ache. 

Link reaches out as she climbs into bed, immediately pulling her into his lap. His hands rest on her hips, still smiling warmly as she cleans the mess on his belly and chest, and as soon as she’s finished he plucks the washcloth from her fingers and sits up to capture her lips. He kisses her deeply, hands roaming enticingly over her sides as he pulls her down against him, until he makes a soft, inquisitive noise and draws away with a frown.

Link’s palm slides up her leg; there’s a slight imprint there, a pink stripe of flesh across the top of her thigh where the harness cut in. He runs his thumb over it, remorseful, signing, Sorry.

Zelda shakes her head, smiling as she straightens up. “It’s okay. I’ll be better prepared next time.”

His face lights up, signing quickly, Next time?

She smiles wider, feeling the blush warm her cheeks. “I think I’d like to see you ride me.”

For a moment Link just looks at her, staring up at her with something like wonder, then he gently takes her hips and pulls her forward, shifting down the bed until her knees straddle his neck. He kisses the pink mark on her leg, keeps kissing all the way up to the apex of her thighs, and then his lips brush over where she’s hot and aching and Zelda’s eyes flutter closed with a sigh.

When he says I love you he says it aloud, and draws her down to meet his mouth.