Work Text:
It starts something like this:
Link’s on the couch, horizontal and with his healthy arm thrown over his face. It provides some shade from the ceiling light, and that’s what he needs right now. No stimulation. Just nothingness and the slight ambiance of the Mythical office slowly coming to life. He’s early, asked Christy to bring him in as soon as she woke up, because he simply couldn’t take it anymore; the fussing, the breaks in his routines, the constant reminders of his fuck-up.
It’s bad enough when it’s in his mind alone. The constant, unavoidable physical reminder of the sling makes it a hundred times worse.
He’s still trying to find some sort of foothold in reality when the door opens and the familiar cadence of Rhett’s footsteps enter the room.
“Hey man,” he greets, as he walks in and puts his bag on his chair, trying not to make too much noise. “Tough mornin’?”
Link lifts his arm to look at him. Rhett is leaning against his desk with this hybrid of smug and something softer on his face that makes Link bristle a little. "Whaddya think?"
"Ain't thinkin’ nothin'. Christy called, told me to go easy on ya. So I figured it was bad." Rhett shrugs, but the smile stays intact.
A part of him wants to say it’s nothing. But it’d be a lie that Rhett would see through right away. So Link just shrugs his left shoulder. “What can I say? It’s frustrating.”
On instinct, Link moves his right arm, aiming to brush that one stubborn piece of hair away. The one’s been bothering him all freaking morning. As if on cue, the pain hits him like a blow to the head; he might just faint.
"Hey, you alright? Need help with that?"
Rhett's eyes are immediately on him, warm and steady. And it's somehow infuriating.
Link takes a deep breath and the black edges of his vision retreats. "I'm good. Just moved a lil too quick."
He gets the strand of hair with his left hand before Rhett can help him out. It makes the fire settle for a moment at least.
It still simmers though. All through the morning and a short meeting, the odd, slightly off vibe sits in his chest. Link doesn't think too much about it–he's used to all his emotions swirling around in a sort of opaque, indiscriminate soup–but he is aware that he hasn't really felt this way before.
Something that kinda makes it worse.
And it all comes to a head when they're about to go on set, and that same strand of hair refuses to stay in place. No matter how he tries, he can’t fix it with his left hand. Not even with the help of the mirror.
“You heard Stevie, chop chop.”
“Lemme just–” Link says, left hand in an awkward angle that makes his shoulder strain. He’d planned for this, that it’d take some extra time, and yet, they’re running late.
“Here, lemme help,”
Without waiting for a reply, Rhett suddenly takes Link’s wrist in hand and moves it out of the way and gets to work. Using two hands, Rhett’s got more control and is so focused on getting that stray lock into place, that he doesn’t notice that Link goes stiff. In typical Rhett fashion, he just continues to prove he can do it better, and that is simply too much right now. The embers ignite as if they’ve been doused in gasoline.
Link swats at Rhett’s hand, suddenly furious.
“Hey–”
“Let me go,” Link snaps at him, wrenching his wrist back.
“You're obviously strugglin’–
“–gonna be stuck in this fuckin’ thing ‘til January; I can’t go around askin’ for help for every menial thing.”
“It’s no–”
“Ain’t what it’s about. I’ll be right out. Just go,” Link snaps, voice curt, as he leans his whole weight against the vanity. Had it not been bolted to the wall, it would’ve tipped; the cherry on top of this fuck-up of a day. Small mercies, he supposes.
Rhett meets his gaze in the changing room’s mirror. It’s not often Rhett McLaughlin goes quiet just to stay quiet. It’s so rare it makes Link squirm.
“You wanna go to the house later?” Rhett then asks. Or, he frames it as a question; Link knows it’s really not. He’s got a pretty good idea what he’s walking into; about what is going to happen once they get there. Of course Link can say no, but that’d be counterproductive and Christy would have to handle his misplaced anger. Which really isn’t fair when it’s Rhett he’s mad at.
“Sure,” he says.
Rhett nods, then disappears out of frame and into the studio.
Link tries to get the hair into place one last time. In the end, he leaves it be, puts on his persona and follows suit.
The moment the cameras stop rolling, Link is just done. He hustles off set, ignoring the questions called out to him from Stevie’s station as well as those from Chase. Feeling the on-air personality slough off his shoulders gives a modicum of satisfaction, but Link can still feel that thing, that seething unpleasant mass, roiling in his gut.
Link says nothing while he changes, feeding off Rhett’s now nervous and guarded energy as he can see the man glance at him again and again in the mirror. He will not give his partner the satisfaction of a misstep or wrong word, feeding Rhett’s vast cache of ammunition against him.
Can’t string a sentence together, can’t throw a dart, can’t handle knives, not as business savvy, not as quick-witted. And now he gets to add damaged, crippled, uncoordinated to the mix. It’s honestly any wonder Rhett, or anyone for that matter, even still associates with him.
His mind continues to spiral, coming up with a strange mix of memories and hypotheticals, perfectly catered to the anger simmering inside him. Of Rhett interrupting him to say the exact same thing in a meeting and Stevie agreeing to something she had, moments ago, taken issue with. The constant jabs at how often Link is the one that interrupts. At least I don’t take credit for your stuff, Rhett.
But then he probably does. For all he knows that idea was actually Rhett’s and Link was butchering it so the smarter of the two had to take over before Stevie put the kibosh on the whole thing.
“Ready to go, Bucko?” Rhett asks, putting his coat on and sliding out the office door, leaving Link no room to argue. At this point, the lump in Link’s throat is so big that he’s not even sure he’d be able to say anything if he tried.
It’s funny, or something, that Link has been in therapy enough to notice, without question, that he is spiraling but not long enough to have a surefire way to make it stop.
He wants Rhett to stop the car right now so he can get out and run to the side of the road and scream at the top of his lungs until he’s hoarse.
He also wants to punch Rhett in his perfect, apple-cheeked, face. The smug look is finally gone from Rhett’s face, replaced by a look of almost abject terror every time he glances over, but Link is still stuck on the sheer superiority that had glistened in his voice earlier. Here, lemme help, like Link was some invalid incapable of helping himself.
Nevermind that Rhett’d said he wouldn’t help just a few weeks ago. Sure, it was on air, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a grain of truth in there. Enough of a truth to make Link refrain from asking.
He breathes in through his mouth and out through his nose a few times, to calm himself. The only way it helps is to remind him how much Rhett hates the sound, which feels like some sort of twisted vindication. A small recourse for the thousand cuts he’s endured over the past weeks.
Rhett doesn’t slow down to take the turn into the driveway of the creative house, thus Link gets thrown sideways and then forward when the car stops short a foot from the garage. He knows this is a sign of what’s to come, and his body shivers in subconscious anticipation even though his brain is still too mad to care. When he finally rights himself and looks up, Rhett is already out of the car and stalking into the house.
Stepping through the open front door, Link is met with the picture of aggravation standing on the far side of their couch. Rhett’s shoulders heave with the breath he’s trying to calm, both hands on his hips under the flannel he’d put on at the end of the day.
In another context, Link might compliment him. Walk up and wrap his hands around Rhett’s waist and tell him exactly how much he wants to strip that shirt off his bare chest.
Instead, Link looks down at himself, in an old hoodie and unbuttoned jeans, because he just couldn’t be bothered to do anything that might require two hands. The anger bubbles inside him all over again. He’s about ready to scream when Rhett turns around and takes two long strides toward him.
“What?” Link snaps at him, mollified when Rhett pulls up short.
“I don’t understand why you refuse to ask me for help when you clearly need it.” There’s fire behind Rhett’s words, and Link readies himself for a battle.
“I did ask!”
“When?”
“Last week, on the podcast." He bites his lip, to keep its quiver to himself. "I asked if you’d help me fix my hair and you said no.”
“Yes, as a bit. And what stops you from askin’ again when you’re in the middle of a struggle. I’m right there. You can just ask.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’d love that huh? Here’s Link, who was already inept, needing his big strong partner to fix his hair and button his shirts because he’s in-freaking-capable!”
“Yes! I would love that! I would love to help you when you need it!”
“I don’t need your help! I can…” Link can feel the lump forming again, closing off his airway, cutting the expression of his anger at the world off at the knees. He yells “I can do it myself!” but has to swallow three times, throat clicking, to get the lump back down.
“I know you can, bo,” Rhett says, calmly, almost whispering. The fire in his eyes has extinguished as fast as it flashed and he meets Link’s eyes with the pleading look of a man at the end of his rope.
Welcome to the club, Rhett.
Raking a hand through his hair, Link doesn’t bow down. “Then why won’t you let me?”
“‘Cause you’ll hurt yourself doin’ it.”
“That's my freakin' choice!”
For a second, Rhett looks torn. Then something seems to shift in his eyes. “No,” he says, voice steady and the timbre is just different enough that Link knows it’s gonna be one of those nights. One of those times when Rhett just… takes the reins.
Link isn’t so sure he’ll let it happen though.
“It ain’t my choice? Give me a break, man.” The words are barely out of his mouth when Rhett’s hand wraps around his wrist.
“It isn’t your choice to hurt yourself. I won’t allow it, because it hurts me just as much to watch you struggle. So now you’ll take your punishment ‘til you remember to ask for help. Unless you wanna ask for it now.”
The unspoken out hangs in the air. Link sees it clearly, the white flag is his to grab, but the words don’t come. And then, just when he thinks he’s made it over the hurdle, Rhett sighs.
“Have it your way, then. Jeans off. Boxers too.”
“What–”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Rhett’s voice leaves no room for retaliation. Snapping his mouth shut, Link unzips his fly and shoves his jeans and boxers down. It’s a hassle with only one hand, but he does manage it. When it’s all halfway down his thighs, Rhett stops him. Then, quicker than Link has a chance to react, he finds himself across Rhett’s lap with Rhett’s hand resting on the small of his back.
“Color?”
Link swallows. A part of him knows he’ll feel better for it; all the endorphins and the intimacy. It always helps. But a part of him doesn’t want to. That part doesn’t want to give in, and accept that other fact for the truth that it is. And it’s so tiring: the perpetual fight.
An internal battle only a few things can abate.
“Green,” Link says.
Rhett’s hand disappears. “Good. You’ll take thirty. No sounds.”
The first blow is always a shock to the system; Link has to bite his lip not to shout. Rhett never starts off easy, and if the first five stings, it’s gonna be bad . The thought has barely formed when Rhett starts hitting him in earnest, alternating left to right as he works downwards, halfway to Link’s knees before starting at the top again. The pressure stays the same long enough for Link to start to drift, the rhythm of it making it easy, and that's when Rhett runs his knuckles down the cleft of his ass and Link goes from some semblance of relaxed to turned on so fast he nearly chokes.
Rhett just hums and repeats the motion until Link cannot stay still any longer. Each hit is slow and deliberate, more stinging than painful, and his cock jerks with nearly every one. His knees, trapped as they are by his jeans, involuntarily slide further and further apart without him realizing it until Rhett’s hand comes down hard on the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh, too close to his balls. The blow is right on the edge of too much, and an involuntary noise, some hybrid between a whimper and a groan, slips out. His ass and the backs of his thighs are on fire, but that little noise seems to be enough for the hits to stop.
Rhett’s palm passes over the surely angry red areas, before settling on the small of Link’s back as a steady, soothing pressure.
“That’s thirty. Now what? What do you need?”
It’s still a struggle. It shouldn’t be, not really, as he has no issue with asking for what he wants , but it’s different when it’s not an order or demand, but a need . Especially one that highlights how useless he feels with this damn sling; he can’t even fix his own hair. However, it also shines light on a realization he’s years late arriving at. One that became almost fully clear when he asked Christy for that hug, and it was provided, no delay, no questions asked, and he didn’t feel like a burden; the realization that asking not for what he wants but what he needs is no longer a choice but a necessity.
Rhett’s hand hasn’t moved.
Link swallows. “I need you to… y’know…”
“I don’t know. Say it.”
Link grits his teeth. “Tell me what to do.”
Behind him, he can physically feel Rhett relaxing. “Will do,” Rhett then says, running a hand through Link’s hair. “I want you to kneel.”
Together, they get Link’s boxer briefs up and his body off the couch and down on the floor. He’s slightly off-balance due to his temporary one-handedness, but with Rhett’s hand on his shoulder, he manages to kneel between his legs. The cotton of his boxers separates his raw ass from the rough denim of his jeans as he kneels, but it still stings. Thankfully his shins and knees feel supported by the plush carpet, and the mix of comfort and discomfort is oddly soothing, especially when Rhett’s starts combing his fingers through Link’s hair.
That he’s undoing the styling that started this whole mess, Link couldn’t give less than a damn about.
Instead, he tries to relax into the kneel, stretching his shins out even as his ass hurts. Rhett’s hand keeps up its motion.
“There’s a good boy,” Rhett says, all casual as if it’s just in passing.
It’s such a simple phrase, and still it never fails to make Link shiver. Leaning his temple against the inside of Rhett’s thigh, he swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes closed against the intensity of Rhett’s gaze.
A moment passes. When he opens them, he’s met with Rhett smiling down at him.
“I know you are, bo. But y’know what I learned in therapy; actions speak louder than words. So I think you need to show me by blowin’ me,” Rhett says, eyes crinkling with his smile as he nods towards his fly.
It’s such a Rhett thing to say, Link can’t do anything else but roll his eyes. Rhett tries to flick his ear in retaliation, but Link dodges it with ease and levels Rhett with a hard stare. At that, Rhett does back off, and lets Link try to open the buttons alone. He struggles on for a bit, determined as always to fix it on his own. By the third button, however, his hair is falling in his eyes and he’s starting to get seriously frustrated and is about to get up and leave, when he remembers what the punishment was all for.
Swallowing his pride, Link lets his poor and over-strained left hand drop to his thigh.
“I can’t–I can’t do it, okay?”
“What was that?”
Link rolls his eyes. “I can’t open your damn fly with this fuckin’ thing on!”
“I know."
"You know? Why're you settin' me up to fail?"
"I'm not, Link. Ask me for help."
"Open your fly alone, I can't do it. There. Happy?"
Rhett doesn't rise to the bait. "Ask properly, and I’ll help you.”
“Ask prop–fine. Can you help me, please?”
“‘Course, darlin’,” Rhett says, voice fond, and without any trace of his trademark smugness. Instead, and filled with such reverence that Link isn’t too surprised when he then leans down, takes Link’s face between his big, warm palms, smooths the pads of his thumbs along his cheekbones and kisses him.
If he hadn’t already been kneeling, Link’s sure his knees would’ve buckled under the intensity of the kiss. Because Rhett doesn’t just let their lips meet. He puts his whole soul into it; he licks the seam of Link’s lips open and then claims his mouth without any question that it is his for taking. And in the past, that notion might’ve made Link unsure about the implications, but now it’s nothing but a confirmation of his worth.
Rhett wants him, because Link is his. And there’s nothing Link’d rather be.
“So glad you asked for help, darlin’,” Rhett whispers when he pulls back, planting one last kiss on Link’s forehead. Then he opens his fly and eases himself out of his underwear. “Now, left hand behind your back. Take me as deep as you can. Look at me when you’re there. Then keep a gentle pressure with your tongue. I’ll tell you when ta let up.”
The crystal clear orders without any sort of unspoken rules are like a balm to Link’s flaring nervous system, and he sighs a breath of relief before he does as told. Licks his lips before he opens his mouth and takes Rhett’s hardness into his mouth. There’s a guiding hand on the back of his head, urging him forward without forcing. And Link can admit to himself that he needs it. It’s been a minute since he took Rhett this far, and he has to stop quite early on when his throat closes up in protest. He dares a look at Rhett, who runs his fingers through his hair.
“Hmm. Think you can do a lil better. Deep breath, through your nose, and try again.”
Rhett’s voice is so soothing when they’re like this that Link can do nothing but obey. Shifting slightly, he breathes through his nose, relaxes into the pressure and discomfort and manages to take Rhett’s cock a few inches deeper down his throat. It’s difficult to breathe properly, leaves him panting through his nose, eyes tearing up, and he knows it’ll hurt come morning. But it’s all worth it when Rhett scratches his scalp and moans in the back of his throat.
“ Just like that. Fuck me, that feels so good, bo. Good boy.”
His voice is hoarse, cracking slightly on the last syllable. Something that makes Link’s whole body warm, and he closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of being good . He’s in and outside his body at once; he’s aware that every hair on his body is standing at attention, how every breath makes his lungs and ribcage expand, at the same time he’s only distantly aware that he’s so hard he is all but throbbing in the confines of his boxers and that his ass still burns from the impact of the blows.
Yet, it’s perfect. Here, kneeling at Rhett’s feet with his cock down his throat, he’s paradoxically untouchable. It’s perhaps not everything that he wants , but it is all he currently needs. Everything is intense enough to block out his surroundings, but nothing can hurt him here unless he allows it. He doesn’t get input in what happens, but the pre-established rules, the system, is so immaculate, structured and logical, it dazzles him, blotting out everything but him, Rhett and the flow of energy between them.
Swallowing carefully, Link opens his eyes again. Rhett sees it, and with a tricky smile, he reaches his foot out and pushes his heel between Link’s legs. It’s not too hard, but it’s so sudden and Link’s so hard he can’t help but moan. Most of the noise is muffled by the cock that’s down his throat, but with his usual vent for release closed, the desperate energy simply transforms into a full-body shiver so intense Link fears he might topple over.
Rhett steadies him with a hand on his shoulder and pets his hair, curving a hand around the back of his neck. “There you go, ride it out. Good boy.”
Closing his eyes, Link draws a shaky breath through his nose, leaning into the comforting touch.
A moment passes, and then Rhett’s other hand joins the first one; they create a lattice around the nape of Link’s neck. “Right. Gonna fuck your face now.,” Rhett says, voice low and raspy, and his foot has not moved from where he’s pressing it between Link’s legs. “If you don’t want it, grab my ankle, alright? You’ve got permission to move your left hand for that purpose.”
The last part is added just as Rhett takes a steady grip on the back of Link’s head. “Look at me if this is somethin’ you want.”
Link’s body is buzzing–white-noise levels of static–but he manages to pry his eyes open and look at Rhett, even though he wants nothing else than to just exist in the quiet and the static. As he looks up, Rhett’s smile is soft and so unbelievably fond, it’s enough to make Link swallow out of pure reflex. Rhett breathes out a low moan in response.
“So damn pretty,” Rhett says when he’s gathered himself enough to brush some hair off of Link’s forehead. “Now, hold on ta yerself.”
Clenching his left fist behind his back, Link braces for impact as Rhett grabs his head and starts using him for real. At first, the pace and the slide of Rhett down his throat is slow and gauging, but before long, Rhett’s got a deathgrip on the back of Link’s head, and Link simply lets him. It’s a lot–it always is just this side of uncomfortable–but he loves it; he loves it when Rhett uses him like this. Because Rhett’s issues with asking for what he needs are of a different character, and he’s not as afraid of being dependent as Link’s been.
And to be the one that can be good–the best –at making Rhett feel like this kind of pleasure, it makes something snare tight in Link’s chest.
“A lil more, just a lil more, you can take it, doin' so good, darlin',” Rhett pants, snapping his hips up one, two, three more times, before he goes quiet and then moans. It’s deep, masculine and it hits a chord deep inside of Link that puts him out of commission for long enough that he has no choice but to swallow everything Rhett shoots down his throat lest he’ll choke.
For a moment, they stay like that. Rhett leans back against the cushions of the couch, slumped down as he catches his breath, one hand still in Link’s hair. Link can hear the heaving quality of Rhett’s breaths, and tries not to sync up since he can only breathe through his nose.
Just when he’s about to tap out, vision going a little black at the edges, Rhett pulls him off.
“Such a good boy. Absolutely perfect, bo,” Rhett mumbles as he pets Link’s hair and cleans up some of the saliva and tears that have mixed on his cheeks with a tissue from the side table. “Wanna stop? Any pain?”
Link can only shake his head. Rhett tilts his head at that, laughing a little. “You’re pretty out of it, huh?”
It’s phrased as a statement more than a question, so Link doesn’t bother to answer. It’s Rhett’s responsibility to take care of him now, anyhow. And it’s a layer Rhett’s had thirty-nine years to perfect.
The fingers in his hair return. “You wanna stay under for a bit?
Again, Link nods.
“Alright. Then, stay here, just like you are. I’ll be right back.”
Rhett places Link’s head on the warmed up seat cushions of the couch, then gets up. Distantly, Link can hear him moving cables and his laptop around, but before long, Rhett’s footsteps return and he sits down again. There’s some rustling and the familiar sound of a laptop being opened before Rhett places Link’s head back on his lap.
“Gonna do some work. Lean your head against my thigh, left hand behind your back. Lean back on your haunches, there you go. Just don’t put any pressure on the right arm.”
Time passes and also doesn’t. The only thing Link can hang up the passage of time on, are the times when he’s about to fall asleep or something similar, and like on cue, Rhett’s foot moves to brush between his legs; deliberately awakening his flagging erection to make sure he stays hard and just barely above the surface of consciousness.
From somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, Link registers how Rhett puts two fingers under his chin to tilt his head up. “Eyes on me. Hey there. Reply with words, Link.”
Link swallows the saliva gathering under his tongue. “Hi.”
“You’ve been shiftin’ a lot down there. Get off your knees and straddle my lap. There you go.”
It probably ain’t pretty, but with Rhett’s help he manages to get himself up off the floor. Link leans his weight against Rhett, still feeling slightly like goo. He doesn’t protest when one of the legs of his jeans and underwear are rucked down and all the way off. Rhett’s hands are soothing as they run up and down his sides and ribs.
“Gonna fuck you now, because you’ve been so good. Do you want that?”
Rhett’s still got his jeans fully on, and the fabric is rough against Link’s bare skin. It’s a nice kind of roughness though, one that amplifies the pleasure in a way that few things do, and so he nods. His lower body is buzzing, akin to a limb that’s fallen asleep and when Rhett’s palms go over his sore ass and the fingers lightly go in between, Link can’t wait for it. He shivers a little in anticipation, and nods against Rhett’s shoulder. It makes Rhett laugh low in his throat.
“Someone’s eager. If it gets too much, pinch me, alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Good boy. Now hold still.”
Hooking his chin over Rhett’s shoulder, Link simply listens as Rhett grabs something out of the side table’s drawer. A moment later, warm, slick fingers come back, ghosting over his hole a few times before pushing inside. Rhett’s other hand is kneading Link’s sore, flat ass with a steady grip, leaving him suspended like a marionette between pleasure and discomfort bordering on pain.
He knows he’s panting. Wet breaths against the fabric of Rhett’s shirt as Rhett fingers him open, one finger at a time. Then they disappear and between one breath and the next, Rhett’s easing him down, gently spearing him open on his cock. Link can only pant and dig his left hand’s fingers into the fabric covering Rhett’s back; it’s really fucking intense.
“All the way down, there you go, good boy,” Rhett says, whisper-quiet into Link’s ear, reaffirming that this is just something for them. No one else. “Feel so good, y’know?”
Sitting like this, astride Rhett’s thighs with his sore ass rubbing against the rough denim, but with Rhett deep inside of him as well, Link doesn’t know which one of them feels better. Because Link feels like he’s floating, skating on the razor’s edge of pleasure and pain where the pain only makes the pleasure more intense. He wants it to get better, and yet he doesn’t want it to end. He digs his finger into the fabric of Rhett’s shirt and just breathes. And just as he’s adjusted to the cock inside of him, Rhett ups the ante. Surreptitiously, he slips his fingers down again, and starts feeling around where he’s inside Link with his still lube slick fingers.
It’s too much; Link’s gotta come now.
His left hand moves almost automatically, going for his cock. He’s so hard, has been for so long it’s starting to get uncomfortable. But he’s barely moved, before Rhett grabs his wrist in a gentle but stern grip and moves it out of the way.
“Nope. Didn’t say you could do that, darlin’.”
The noise that leaves him is halfway between a whimper and a snort. He’s so desperate, and Rhett is just grinding into him at a slow, leisurely pace that is so unsatisfactory that Link's on the verge of tears. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time, and without meaning to, he readjusts his hips to change the angle and get away from at least the fingers.
He’s barely moved, when they disappear. But only so that Rhett’s now free hand can take hold of his hips and shift them back into place; the position where Rhett’s just grinding against his prostate at every turn.
“Nuh-uh. Stay here.”
Link sips for air. Oxygen suddenly seems scarce.
“Lean into it. Feel it. There’s no rush. Doesn’t it feel good?” Rhett says, sounding sincere even as he’s smirking in that way that makes Link want to smack him. But he can’t, and he doesn’t want to, not really.
“Wanna come,” is all he manages to say, sounding petulant and breathless even to his own ears. Rhett pets his hair.
“I know. I do too. But you can do this, I’ve seen it before.”
Rhett’s hips snap into him and Link accidentally drags his cock against the fabric of Rhett’s shirt. It feels like heaven. But it’s not enough. It’s not going to be enough, no matter how good it feels. So, for the umpteenth time today, he swallows his pride and with his lips against Rhett’s ear, panting and shivering from the near-overstimulation he asks.
“I can’t–”
“Can’t what?”
“Come. Need your hand. Please–”
“Can’t say no when you ask so sweetly,” Rhett says after kissing him. “Gotta put your hips into it if I’ma do it though, okay?”
Despite his thighs already shivering with the effort, Link manages to nod. Then he makes good on his promise and grinds back against Rhett, making sure it’s in the right spot every time. Rhett looks at him with full adoration as he then closes his hand around Link’s erection for the first time this afternoon and strokes him in sync with Link’s own thrusts.
“Oh, God.”
“C’mon, darlin’, almost there, you got this.”
Those words are just out of Rhett’s mouth when Link’s t-boned by his own climax. It hits him like a semi-truck and he barely has time to gasp before he’s coming and coming and coming and coming all over himself and Rhett’s fist and shirt and the couch. It feels like it lasts forever before he manages to retrieve his breath and open his eyes.
Rhett’s looking up at him, eyes hooded and face a blotchy red as he reaches up to cup one half of Link's face in his hand.
“Feels good?”
Leaning into the palm of Rhett’s hand, Link nods. If he were to describe the feeling, he’d settle on having been blown apart and then carefully and reverently stitched back together; he’s himself, but seen and more. It’s not a new sensation, but he only ever gets it after they do something like this.
Rhett’s fingers move into his hair again. “I know it’s difficult. I’ve felt that too. But you do people a favor when you let ‘em help you, bo. And you’ll repay it in due time.”
It’s just barely above a whisper, but it’s still enough to make Link have to swallow around another kind of lump in his throat. He doesn’t answer, just buries his face against Rhett’s neck and breathes. And he doesn’t have to say anything for Rhett to tug him into a tight hug. It never fails to make Link feel like he’s safe.
Which is probably what allows him to realize how indispensable these sessions with Rhett are.
“I’m gonna need to talk to my therapist again.”
Under him, Rhett stiffens slightly. “Why? Did I do something?”
“Only that you’ve made me realize that this is one of the only things that will always get me out of my brain.”
“Ain’t that a good thing?”
“I mean, yeah, but also… Rhett I need coping mechanisms!” Link laughs, and it feels as light as it ever has even though it causes that now familiar ache in his shoulder. “I can’t be goading you into this all the time when I’m feelin’ helpless.”
“I mean,” Rhett shrugs and shifts himself so Links leaning further into him. “I’m not complaining. But you sound like you have more stuff to figure out.”
“Clearly. But today I’ll just let you have the win.”