a savage ache
pairing: tp! link/f (reader)
rating: m
summary: It turns out the kind of help he needs isn't the one any of the village healers can provide. It's a good thing he has you, isn't it?
notes: mostly pwp. link is implied to be in heat, but it's never really explicitly mentioned. hope i did this right
It isn’t rare for him to get into trouble; months of traveling with him have taught you that much, but it’s rare for him to need help, especially yours. Not that he’d said it out loud; he’s always been a bit more prideful than he’s willing to admit, unwilling to share a burden despite how much it hurts him in the end. But it doesn’t seem as though he’s got a choice on this one. You’ve been relaxing at the inn that night, nursing aa glass of beer when the innkeeper walks over to you, her eyebrows furrowed in worry.
“Your friend,” she says, shifting her weight from side to side as she struggles to find the right words. “I think he needs some help.”
You stare at her for a long moment, blinking a few times. “Why do you think that?” you ask, voice soft, quiet. The last time you’d seen each other, which was earlier this morning, he’d been okay, seemingly still like his normal self. You’ve never caught a glimpse of him after that, though in your defense, you’d been wandering outside of town, hunting down monsters in exchange for meager pay and had only arrived back at the inn just recently.
The innkeeper shrugs, looking at you almost helplessly. She bites her lip, as if hesitating for a second, before leaning in, whispering conspiratorially. “He didn’t look good when he arrived back here,” she says, voice a quiet whisper. She looks around her, as if trying to see whether or not someone else is listening in before turning her attention to you, voice growing quieter. “He stormed off toward his room without another word and hasn’t come out since, not even for lunch.”
You frown, eyebrows furrowing in thought. Now that’s odd. He’s not the type to miss out on lunch – or even any kinds of meals for that matter; months of traveling with him had led you to that observation. He’s got an appetite that could rival a savage wolf’s, able to eat for two on a normal day, and more after an exhaustive battle, and you’ve got to admit that this bit of revelation stirs a worry in you that wasn’t quite there before.
“Is he injured?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him all that much when he arrived,” the innkeeper admits, giving you another helpless shrug.
You nod your head, leave the conversation at that. There’s no much information the innkeeper has left to offer; you’ve been staying here in this inn for at least two weeks now, memorized practically everything you needed to around here. You know where Link’s room is – on the second floor just beside yours, away from where everyone’s rooms are. A special privilege, says the innkeeper, after the two of you had offered to slay the monsters hanging just outside town, stealing supplies from the inn and the neighboring shops and stores.
With a quiet sigh, you walk up toward the stairs, stopping in front of a familiar room. You raise your hand, knocking on the door a few times, tentative. There’s no response. You wait, count the seconds in your head, before knocking once more, this time louder. There’s still no response. Your eyebrows furrow, more in confusion than in worry. For a second, you’re tempted to just kick the door down and see the problem once and for all, though you stop, knowing you can’t afford to make a mess. That, and you don’t really want the innkeeper to be mad at you, especially since she’s the only one you could almost call a close friend in this town.
“Link?” you call, pressing your head against the door. There’s nothing to greet you but silence. Still, you keep trying, careful to keep your voice relatively quiet. “Are you here?”
There’s no response at first. But then the door opens, just a crack, a familiar face peering at you from the other side.
“Hi,” you say, smiling awkwardly.
Link frowns, tries to shut the door on your face, but you’re quick to react, reflexes kicking in before you even have the chance to think about what you’re doing. Quickly, you shove your foot against the crack, forcing him to open the door just a little wider. You slide yourself in, moving at lightning speed, stepping inside the room just before he can cast you out, push you away.
And now that you’re here, you can see exactly how different he seems at this moment. He looks pale as a sheet, his skin matted with sweat. Even his hair sticks to his skin, and his cheeks seem aglow with a crimson flush. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice quiet, raspy. There’s an impatience to his voice that you’re not quite used to, a kind of annoyance that seems unfamiliar, mostly because you’ve never heard it directed at you.
You stare at him, taking in his disheveled state. Then, you clear your throat, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”
He scowls. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. You give him a curious look, eyeing him from head to toe. “The innkeeper says you don’t look very good.”
He scoffs, grumbles almost to himself. “And what would she know about it?”
You frown, crossing your arms over your chest as you give him a scolding glare. “Well, she’s right,” you shoot back, voice growing defensive. “You don’t look very good. And you’re not acting like your usual self.”
He opens his mouth to protest, though before the words are out of his lips, he stops, keels over. He clutches at his stomach, and he looks almost as though in pain. Quickly, you step forward, ready to help him, but he shuts you out with a scathing glare, shaking his head. “Don’t.”
He closes his eyes, exhales a shaky breath, tries to calm himself. He looks a little different now, worse than he’d been before: paler, weaker. His skin glistens with sweat, soaking his tunic all throughout. You bite your lip, hesitating before you slowly make your over to him, slow and careful, trying not to startle him too much. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t try to stop you; with the way he’s too focused on his breathing, you doubt he could even notice you.
You stop, stand in front of him, crouching down and placing a hand on his arm comfortingly. He opens his eyes, stares at you, his gaze slightly hazy. Like he doesn’t quite recognize you.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, quiet.
He shakes his head, his words coming out in a breathless rasp. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
You’re quiet for a moment, hesitating once. “I can help you if you like?”
He exhales another breath, his nostrils flaring. He opens his eyes, stares at you for a long moment, blue eyes searching your face for answers. He looks away after a second, shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I wouldn’t know if you won’t tell me,” you say hotly, glaring at him in annoyance. Worriedly, you place your hand against his forehead; his skin is hot against your palm, almost feverishly so. You purse your lips together, staring at him for a long moment before you begin to stand up, decisive. “If you need a village healer, we can call for one.”
His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly. “No,” he says, his voice oddly scratchy. Slowly, he sits up, swallows thickly as if every word is a struggle to get out of his throat. “No healers.”
“But you’re feverish—” you begin to protest, though the words quickly taper off into a painful whimper as his fingers grip your wrist a little too tightly to keep you from moving.
“Not feverish,” he rasps out, his voice weak as a whisper. He exhales another shaky breath, more sweat dripping down his skin. You’ve half the heart to tuck the loose hair behind his ear, just to see his face more clearly. “The healers… they won’t know what to do with this.”
You blink, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice. “It’s happened to you before?”
He nods, offers no response outside of that.
“Then I can help you!” you exclaim, eyebrows furrowing in determination. You try to yank your hand free from his grip, though despite his fever, his grip remains firm, unyielding, refusing to let you go just yet. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”
He shakes his head, lets out a low laugh. Cold, bitter. Disbelieving. Like he’s not entirely sure you can do it or that he can trust you to do it, though you’re not sure which is which. “What makes you think you can help me?”
You glare at him, hating how easily he brushes off your concern. “I’m serious!”
“Are you?” His voice drops lower, grows colder, more serious. Something in his tone sends a shiver through you, though you’re quick to mask it, swallowing thickly, eyes flickering restlessly to avoid staring directly into his eyes. He laughs, and the sound is deeper, hollow, mocking. It should irritate you, this obvious condescension he shows toward you, but all it does is make you feel tingly all over, a different kind of warmth pooling in the pits of your stomach.
Still, you try to keep yourself firm, unwavering. This isn’t about you, regardless of your growing feelings for the matter. “You’re my friend,” trying to affect as much seriousness as you can into your voice, ignoring the urge to squirm under the weight of his gaze. There’s a part of you that wants to look away, duck your head and avoid it entirely, but something in it keeps you from looking away, pinned helplessly like a prey caught between the jaws of a hungry wolf. Is it the blue of it, that savage depths behind it, threatening to swallow you whole if you so much show an ounce of weakness?
“Friend,” he repeats, spitting the word out almost disgustedly. Like he doesn’t approve of it – of your usage of it. “You’d help your friend with this?”
“Wouldn’t you?” you ask, voice growing quiet, softer. There’s a vulnerability in your voice that wasn’t quite there before, too late to take back. “If that were me in your position, wouldn’t you have helped me? As a friend?”
He laughs, curses under his breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he says, snorts. There’s a moment of silence that settles between you, short and brief before he starts again, his voice softer, no longer cold. An opening. “And if I tell you the problem, you won’t run away?”
You nod your head, tongue darting out to lick the dryness of your lips. Vaguely, you see his gaze following the movement, his eyes dark, heady. He shifts closer, places a finger under your chin, tipping your head up so you can look at him. He’s closer now when he speaks once more, close enough to whisper the words directly against your lips, his breath hot as it fans against your skin. “Then you can help me with my problem.”
He doesn’t give you time to respond. He leans in, kisses you, lips crashing against yours. It’s clumsy, needy, rough and sharp that it almost hurts. It’s all teeth, all bruising. All heat and roughness between you. His teeth dig into your lower lip, sink hard enough you feel your mouth bleed. Drops of blood trickle down your tongue, your throat, the taste of iron making you feel a little heady, but he laps it up with his tongue, runs it soothingly along your lip before he sucks on it, starts everything all over again. Savagely.
Everything he does is done instinctively, done without any sort of rationality. Raw and predatory. He knocks the breath out of your lungs over and over, kisses you until your lips are bruised and numb, swollen and bleeding. And when he tires of it, he moves on to your neck, treats it with the same roughness he’s handled your mouth. This time, he leaves marks. On your throat, your shoulders. Your collarbone. Fills each part with enough bruises they become a canvas of their own, all red and purple in color.
“Mine,” he growls into your neck, his voice rough, harsh. Primal. He sounds more different than usual – more beast than man, and a single look at him is enough to confirm that. Blue irises blown wide, blazing with barely-hidden desire. It should terrify you, being under him, this wild beast that’s far different from the man you know, but all it does is turn you into a mess, pliant and yielding.
He runs his hands along your sides, touches you everywhere. Each caress sends pleasure racing down your spine, makes you feel needier than you should be. Your head feels lighter, faint. Everything you do is a mirror to his actions, a direct response to his own desires, echoing it in twofold. He sneaks a hand under your shirt, his hands warm and battle-worn, calloused. He feels you up, touches you all over, fondling your breasts a little too roughly to make you whine.
A low growl spills out of his throat, a sound that would’ve terrified you out of your wits if you’re not entirely too lost on the feel of his hands on your skin. He pulls back, breathes hard. You feel his eyes wander all over you, the sharpness of his gaze settling on your face. Whatever he sees there must be enough to fuel his hunger, because a moment later and he’s leaning in once more, ripping up your shirt in a single, fast move, without a care for your sudden protest.
And then he’s touching you once more, and each protest dies on your tongue, as though they’re never there at all. He twists your nipples between his fingers, the nubs hardening beneath his touches. He leans down, runs his tongue along one of them before his teeth grazes against it, and he bites. It hurts, though the pain begins to dull when he runs his tongue soothingly around it, sucking on it gently.
“Link,” you say quietly, barely able to recognize your own voice. It sounds weak against your ears, utterly pathetic. Needy and whiny that you’d hate it if you weren’t too drunk on this sudden pleasure running up and down your bloodstream. You’re not entirely sure why you’ve called for his attention like this, not completely sure what you want from him, but he lifts his head, looks at you, his eyes dazed.
Your eyes meet. You open your mouth, try to say something, but nothing comes out except a quiet whine. Still, he seems to understand. With his hands, he tears the rest of your clothing off, leaves you wearing nothing, the breeze cold against your skin, enough to make you shiver. His clothes follow suit, his pants and tunic deposited somewhere on the floor, suddenly forgotten. He turns to focus on you after a second, looking almost hungry as he runs his gaze all over you.
A quick call of his name, and he’s quick to snap into focus, moving to work. Gently, he moves to line himself up against your entrance, pushes in. Slow. He gives pause, breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he savors the warmth of you wrapping around him for the very first time. His hips buck, just once, and with a groan, he’s fully inside you, buried all the way to the hilt.
He gives you a millisecond to adjust. He grits his teeth, sucks in a sharp breath, fingernails digging into your hips as he starts to move. He’s slow only for the first few times before the last threads of his self-control snaps. He pushes his hips back, snaps it against yours, hissing at the feeling. You close your eyes, throw your head back, unable to do much except accept whatever he’s giving you.
He speeds up, almost animalistically so. This time, he doesn’t give you respite. No time to rest. There’s no method to his movement, no rhythm, just relentless pushing and pushing until he’s deep enough inside you that you feel him everywhere. And even then, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a break. He lifts your legs, rests them on either side of his shoulder, rutting against you even more. With this angle, he hits into you deeper, much more than before.
Your skin grows hot, your head feeling suddenly light. Your limbs ache, grow heavy. You could hardly move against him even if you try, could hardly push him away even if you want to – which you don’t. Liquid heat bubbles in the pit of your stomach, grows hot enough to feel almost unbearable.
“Mine,” he says again, whispering the word against your throat, sharp teeth digging into the flesh of your skin, leaving a near-permanent mark. “Mine.”
A needy whimper escapes you, and in response, you wrap your legs around his waist, pushing him closer, deeper into you. His hips stutter against yours, movements growing animalistically fast. There’s a part of you that wants to push him back, away, too overwhelmed by the sensations he’s making you feel, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps his grip bruisingly tight around your hips, pushing into you still. He tilts his head up, kisses you once more, nipping and biting at your lip as he does so.
The knot in your stomach tightens. Something simmers inside you, a low boil that grows hot and heavy, threatens to explode. There’s no time to warn him, not when he’s still kissing you, his tongue pushing into your mouth, swallowing every noise that threatens to spill out of you. There’s nothing you could do but tremble, release washing over you like a tide. He swallows the whimper that spills out of your throat, the high-pitched whine as you finally come undone beneath him. By the time he’s pulling away from the kiss, you’re breathless and panting, dizzy and lightheaded.
But he’s still not done. He moves his hips into yours, tries to prolong that orgasm, while simultaneously chasing his own. He reaches down, places his palm against your mouth, covers your mouth to keep your from making too much of a noise. You pant against his hand, but there’s not much else to do but watch him and wait. His hair falls over his eyes, his sweat making it mat against his forehead. He bites his lip, teeth digging into the already-swollen flesh as he tries to stifle his groan.
His movements grow quicker, haphazard, and then he’s falling apart, spilling into you without warning. Your hips twitch, legs trembling from the aftershocks. Panting, Link remains on top of you, not bothering to pull out just yet. He rests his forehead against yours. His eyes are dazed as he searches your face, his breath warming your cheeks.
It takes a moment for you to find your voice. When you speak, your voice is raspy, breathless. Weak against your ears. “You’re okay now?”
He pulls back, stares at you, reaches out with one hand to rub his thumb along your lower lip, his touch surprisingly gentle, soothing. “You’re not done helping me,” he says, his voice quiet. His eyes are dark, heady with desire. He pushes his hips into yours, just once, letting you feel him as he slowly stiffens inside you once more. “Are you?”
