Through Hebra’s sideways snow and ice-slick cliffs, Link seeks a trader for Tarrey Town. In Rito Village, one sharp-eyed merchant weighs a new market… and more.
Link left the peninsula at dawn with the paraglider already unfurled. The updraft off Lake Akkala caught the cloth and lifted him cleanly into the cold morning air. He rode the current north along the ridge, the Master Sword’s purple hilt rising steadily above one shoulder, the Sheikah Slate knocking gently against his hip with every subtle shift of weight. Below him the red-and-gold hills of Akkala fell away in long, rolling waves; ahead the mountains of Hebra waited under a sky the color of old iron.
He was just seventeen in body—slender, barely five feet two, fifty-five kilograms of soft-peach skin stretched over a frame that looked more dancer than warrior. Light dirty-blonde hair, cut in a layered shoulder-length bob, streamed behind him in the wind, side-swept bangs whipping across large almond-shaped cobalt eyes. The small half-ponytail clipped high with a turquoise ornament bounced with every bank of the paraglider. The sky-blue Champion’s tunic, fitted and embroidered with white geometric motifs, clung to his narrow waist and flared over the wide hips and plump, inverted heart-shaped ass that the short hem barely covered. Cold air pressed the fabric tight against the soft curves of his body and the modest swell of his feminine breasts beneath the light-cream high-collared undershirt.
The weather turned over Hebra without warning. Snow came sideways, hard and fine as ground glass, stinging any exposed skin. The paraglider bucked violently in the sudden gusts. Link fought the cloth for every yard of height, the dark leather harness and silver buckles across his chest shifting with the strain, the tan wrapping on his left forearm and the dark fingerless glove growing stiff with frost. A sharp downdraft slammed him onto a narrow ledge. He rolled with the impact, the knee-high brown leather boots with their narrow three-inch heels skidding on ice, and scrambled into a shallow cave that smelled of old smoke and damp stone.
A small fire pit still held a few blackened sticks. He coaxed a thin flame from them with a scrap of flint and sat with his back to the cold rock while the storm howled outside. The decorative brown straps just above his knees and the folded cuffs of his boots were already crusted white. A thin red fox appeared at the mouth of the cave, fur matted with ice crystals. It watched him with bright, wary eyes until he tossed it one of the baked apples from his pouch. The fox snatched the fruit and retreated to the far corner, chewing in silence. Link shared the shelter until the wind dropped to a low, exhausted moan and the snow thinned enough to see the path again.
The remaining climb was slower than flying. He crossed a frozen river on careful steps, the narrow heels of his boots finding precarious purchase on the black ice, the short hem of the Champion’s tunic lifting with every cautious stride to reveal the soft, peach-skinned backs of his thighs. Two Ice Lizalfos rose from the drifts near the far bank, frosted shields raised. Link met the first with a fire arrow that shattered the ice and sent the creature reeling; the second he drove back with the edge of his own shield until it slipped, and the Master Sword finished the fight in a single clean arc. Higher still, a sheer cliff face offered only ice-slick handholds. The wind tried to peel him off the rock with every upward pull. The teal drop earrings in his long pointed ears swung with the effort; the turquoise hairclip flashed each time he turned his head. The short hem of the tunic rode high over the soft curves of his rear, cold air biting the bare skin and the sensitive undersides of his small breasts. By the time the spiral platforms of Rito Village came into view through the thinning flurries, his fingers were numb and the sky-blue fabric was crusted with frost.
Rito Village rose on its great pillar of stone, bridges and ladders and banners snapping sharply in the thin, cold air. Link found Fyson not in the general store but on a lower platform, at a stall half-covered by a heavy tarp that snapped and strained against its ropes. The Rito was sorting crates of arrows and jars of salt while the wind tried to steal the pages of his open ledger. He was thirty-one, tall and blue-gray feathered, with a sharp yellow beak, keen amber eyes, and a scarf dyed the deep crimson and white of traditional Rito banners. A leather satchel crossed his chest; the small ledger stayed tucked securely under one wing. Those amber eyes lifted at the sound of boots on the wooden planks, traveled slowly over the frost-crusted tunic, the soft swell of hips, the delicate face framed by layered hair, and settled there with open, calculating appreciation.
“You’re not from here,” Fyson said. His voice was quick, energetic, the tone of a trader who measured every word against possible profit. “Nobody buys arrows in this weather unless they absolutely need them. So—what do you actually need?”
Link purchased a bundle of arrows and a small pouch of Rito tea, the transactions brief and efficient. Then he told Fyson about Tarrey Town—the rocky peninsula jutting into Lake Akkala, the foundation already laid, the people already there. A mason who understood stone the way others understood wood. A seamstress who could make banners that would hold against any wind. A carpenter who measured twice and cut once. Fyson listened with his head tilted, one wing resting lightly on the open ledger, amber eyes never quite leaving Link’s face.
“A town with no store,” Fyson said when Link finished. He tapped the ledger with a feathered finger. “No arrows, no salt, no tea. No competition.” A quick, bright laugh escaped him. “I’ve been thinking about expanding for months. Rito Village has three traders and one road. A town on a lake between Akkala and the rest of Hyrule—that’s a crossing. That’s a market waiting to happen.”
He closed the ledger and tucked it back under his wing, but he did not immediately agree. Instead those sharp trader’s eyes traveled slowly over Link’s soft, feminine silhouette again—the way the short tunic clung to the narrow waist, the way the frost had made the fabric even tighter across the swell of hips and the modest curve of what looked like budding breasts.
“I’ll come,” Fyson said at last, voice dropping into something more intimate. “But a new shop needs more than crates and a counter facing the door. It needs… local goodwill. A personal demonstration that the partnership is worth the flight and the risk.” His tone made the meaning unmistakable.
Link’s cheeks warmed beneath the lingering cold. He had been through this particular form of negotiation enough times to recognize the shift. “I’m not—”
“Not what?” Fyson’s laugh was bright and quick, edged with genuine curiosity. “Not interested? You’ve been letting me look since you walked onto my platform. And I’ve been looking hard.” One wing brushed a side-swept bang away from Link’s face with surprising gentleness. “I’ve never seen a Hylian girl quite like you. Soft everywhere a trader might want soft. Makes a body wonder what the rest of you feels like under all that leather and cloth.”
“I’m a boy,” Link said quietly. The words came out clear despite the heat rising in his face. “Not a girl.”
Fyson’s amber eyes narrowed. He studied Link’s face again—the delicate features, the full pink lips, the long pointed ears with their teal drops—then let his gaze drop deliberately over the fitted tunic and the soft swell of hips. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You look like a girl, you move like a girl, and you tell me you’re a boy?” Fyson’s voice carried a thread of disbelief edged with something sharper and far more interested. “What is this—some game to get out of what we both know you came here for?”
Link shook his head. The layered dirty-blonde hair moved with the motion; the turquoise clip caught the thin mountain light. “I’m not lying. And I’m not trying to stop. I just… needed you to know.”
Fyson was quiet for a long moment. The wind snapped the tarp above them. Then the Rito’s expression shifted—curiosity sharpening into open heat. “A boy,” he repeated, almost to himself. “With a face like that and a body that looks made for a nest. Interesting.” His wing brushed Link’s waist, then lower, testing the soft curve of hip through the thin fabric. “Too interesting to walk away from. All right, little Hylian. You want me to leave my stall and my village for a town that doesn’t exist yet? Then give me a better reason than pretty words and a promise of first pick of the crates.”
Link’s pulse fluttered in his throat. The secret heat that lived low in his belly stirred and woke. He nodded once, small and quiet.
Fyson’s beak curved in something close to a smile. He gestured toward the deeper shadow behind the half-packed tarp, away from the wind and any passing Rito. “Gear off, then. I want to see what I’m getting before I decide the flight is worth it.”
Link’s fingers moved to the silver buckles of the chest harness. One by one the clasps released; the dark leather straps fell away. He shrugged out of the complex system and let it drop onto the wooden platform. Next went the waist belt. He unclipped the Sheikah Slate and set it carefully aside, then reached back and unstrapped the Master Sword, leaning the purple-hilted blade against a nearby crate. The dark fingerless glove came off last. He stood in the sky-blue Champion’s tunic, the light-cream undershirt still clinging beneath it, the skimpy thongs, the tan wrappings on forearm and thigh, the decorative straps above the knees, and the knee-high boots with their narrow heels.
Fyson’s amber eyes never left him. “The rest. Tunic. I want that little body bare when you get on your knees.”
Link pulled the frost-crusted sky-blue fabric up and over his head in a single motion. The soft cream undershirt followed. He stood there in the thin mountain air, fair peach skin flushed from the cold and the sudden exposure, the small perky handfuls of his feminine breasts rising and falling with each breath, pink nipples already tight. The skimpy thongs still covered the modest bulge between his legs, but little else.
Fyson’s voice dropped to a low, energetic murmur. “On your knees now.”
Link sank down onto the wooden platform. The planks were cold and rough against his bare knees, the chill seeping straight into his skin. He settled between the spread of Fyson’s feathered legs. The long, tapered length of the Rito’s cock was sliding free of its soft blue-gray sheath under Link’s eyes, rising until it stood sleek and elegant in the thin mountain air.
It was about seven and a half inches hard, of moderate thickness—roughly five inches around at the base and narrowing in a graceful forward taper that followed the clean lines of a bird’s body. The shaft curved slightly. The head was neat and slightly pointed, with a smooth, defined corona. The exposed flesh itself was pink, smooth and hot, with fine, almost downy sensitivity near the tip. Sparse soft feathers framed the base where it emerged from the warm, feather-soft sheath. Below, Fyson’s balls were compact and high, nestled in a tight, feather-edged sac, each about the size of a large egg, firm and responsive. The smell that rose was clean feathers, open mountain air, and a light, sharp musk with a faint herbal note.
Link’s soft pink lips parted on a quiet breath. He wrapped both small hands around the curved shaft; his fine-boned fingers met easily around the moderate girth. The texture was smooth and hot, almost silky under the thin layer of natural moisture. He stroked slowly from the feathered base to the neat head, feeling the elegant taper and the way the flesh yielded just enough under the pressure of his palms. The weight of it was lighter than the heavy Goron cock he had taken, yet still substantial enough to make his pulse quicken. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the pointed tip. The skin was warm against his mouth. He licked, slow and deliberate, tasting the slightly salty flavor with its delicate avian musk. His tongue traced the defined corona, then down the underside of the gracefully curved shaft, following the subtle ridge. Both hands continued their steady stroke while he opened his mouth wider and took the tapered head between his soft pink lips.
The fit was easier than the massive lengths he had struggled with before, yet still substantial enough to stretch his mouth in a pleasant, insistent way. He pushed farther, eyes half-lidded, and took more of the smooth pink shaft until the neat head pressed against the soft back of his throat. He gagged lightly, a wet sound escaping around the intrusion, but the taper allowed him to recover and slide deeper without the same brutal resistance. Saliva began to gather at the corners of his lips. Fyson’s wing settled on the back of Link’s head and shoulder, the strong feathers guiding him without true force, holding him firmly in place so there was nowhere to retreat.
“That’s it, pretty thing,” Fyson murmured, voice still quick and energetic even as pleasure roughened the edges. “Look at that little mouth stretched around a proper cock. Soft lips, soft everything. You’re taking it better than I expected for such a delicate-looking Hylian. Keep going. I want to feel those soft cheeks hollow around me.”
Link pulled back with a wet sound, a thin string of saliva connecting his swollen mouth to the neat tip. Humiliation and heat twisted together low in his belly. He spat lightly onto the shaft, then used both hands to stroke the moisture along every curved inch until the pink length gleamed in the thin light. He took the head again, cheeks hollowing, tongue working against the smooth underside. He pushed deeper this time, the taper sliding more easily past the resistance of his throat. Saliva ran down the shaft and over the feathered base in thin ropes. Every time he forced himself farther the stretch in his jaw burned mildly, yet the secret, shameful heat only tightened. He moaned softly around the elegant girth while Fyson’s wing held him steady and the Rito kept up a low stream of crude trader’s praise—about the pretty little mouth, about the way the tiny cock tented the skimpy thongs, about how a warrior with a face like this looked even better on his knees.
At last Fyson drew him off with a wet pop. A long string of spit connected Link’s kiss-swollen lips to the glistening head. The Rito’s cock stood fully hard, curved and gleaming, the neat tip flushed darker.
“Enough of that,” Fyson said, amber eyes bright with heat. “I want the rest of you.” He reached down, feathered fingers hooking into the waist of the skimpy thongs, and dragged them down Link’s long, shapely legs in one smooth motion. The small cock sprang free—cute, flushed, barely three inches even hard, the tight balls drawn up snug against his body. Fyson’s eyes lingered on it with open amusement and hunger mixed.
“Look at that tiny thing. Soft little cock on a body that looks like it was made to be bent over a crate. You’re something else, boy. A warrior with a girl’s face and a hole that’s about to learn what a proper trader’s cock feels like.”
He pulled Link up with easy strength, spun him, and bent him face-down over a stack of arrow crates. Link’s small hands braced on the rough wood; his back arched, presenting the thick, inverted heart-shaped swell of his ass to the cold mountain air. Fyson’s strong hands settled on the soft cheeks first, kneading the pliant flesh like warm dough, squeezing and releasing, watching it yield and spring back. He spread them wide with feathered thumbs, exposing the tight pink ring nestled between. Then he guided the sleek, tapered head to the entrance and pushed.
The first thrust was sharp and deep. Link cried out as the curved length stretched him open, the neat head sliding inward with surprising ease. Although quite big, the slippery, tapered avian cock was one of the most comfortable he had ever taken; the gradual widening and the natural slickness let it sink deep without the brutal tearing pain of thicker, blunter shapes. Still the stretch burned in the best way, filling him completely, the elegant curve pressing against places that made his knees weaken. Fyson gripped the soft hips and began to move, feathers brushing Link’s bare back with every thrust. The cold wind occasionally slipped under the tarp, raising goosebumps across Link’s flushed skin and making every internal stroke feel sharper. Open-handed spanks landed between thrusts—sharp, stinging cracks that made the plump cheeks jiggle and glow pink under the Rito’s palms.
“That’s it,” Fyson growled, voice still carrying that energetic trader’s edge even as it roughened with pleasure. “Take it. Look at you, moaning like a girl while I stretch this tight little hole. You’re made for this, aren’t you? Pretty boy with a tiny cock and an ass that swallows a real one so nicely. Feel how easy you take me.”
Link could only answer with broken, high moans. The curved shaft dragged across his prostate with every deep stroke; the feathers against his back and the occasional cold gust only heightened every sensation. Fyson’s pace increased. The wet slap of hips against soft ass filled the space behind the tarp. Link’s small cock hung hard and dripping beneath him, untouched, the focused stimulation already building toward the edge. He pushed back into each thrust despite the stretch, chasing the fullness, the humiliation of loving it only making the heat worse.
Fyson pulled out suddenly. He flipped Link onto his back on the same crate with easy strength, folded the slender legs high and wide against his chest, and drove the tapered cock back in with one smooth, deep thrust. The new angle let the neat head drag directly and relentlessly across Link’s prostate. Link’s soft body jolted; his small cock bounced untouched between them, already leaking steadily. Fyson watched the soft breasts bounce with every impact, watched the tear-streaked pretty face twist with overwhelming sensation. The deep, focused pressure built until Link could hold it no longer. His small cock jerked hard; thick ropes of cum spurted across his own soft stomach as his hole clenched and spasmed around the curved shaft. The orgasm tore through him in waves, leaving him shaking, crying out with every thrust that forced the pleasure higher even as the stretch continued to burn.
“That’s it—come for me,” Fyson murmured, still moving through the clenching heat. “Pretty little warrior coming on a trader’s cock like he was made for it.”
Fyson fucked him through it, savoring the way the tight passage milked and fluttered around him. Without pulling out, he gathered Link up—strong wings lifting the lighter body until Link’s arms and legs wrapped tightly around the Rito’s feathered torso. Powerful wings beat once, twice, and they lifted off the platform into the cold air above Rito Village.
Link clung hard, face buried against the warm feathers of Fyson’s neck, while the tapered cock continued to thrust deep inside him with every powerful wingbeat. The thrill of open sky, the rush of cold wind over bare skin, and the relentless internal pounding turned the flight into pure, dizzying sensation. The curve of the shaft pressed perfectly against his prostate with each surge of the wings. Link moaned helplessly into the feathers, legs locked around Fyson’s waist, arms tight around his shoulders, the entire world reduced to wind and heat and the elegant cock sliding in and out of his stretched hole. The cold air whipped across his flushed skin and the soft peaks of his breasts; every wingbeat drove the tapered length deeper, the sensation almost too much.
Fyson’s breath grew ragged against Link’s ear. “Still so tight… even up here. You feel that? Every beat of my wings pushing me deeper into that pretty hole.”
The thick pulses of his climax hit mid-air; hot seed flooded Link’s passage in heavy spurts, the sheer volume forcing some to spill out around the base and whip away instantly in the cold wind. Link kept clenching around him, milking every drop even as the overstimulation made him tremble and moan into the feathers.
They glided in a wide, slow circle above the village before Fyson angled back toward the platform. He landed carefully behind the tarp, still buried deep, Link still locked around him. For a long moment they simply breathed together, the cold air sharp in their lungs, the distant snap of banners the only sound.
Eventually Fyson eased out. Cum spilled freely from Link’s stretched hole, running down the insides of his thighs in thick, glossy streaks. Link’s legs were unsteady when they touched the wooden planks again. He stood trembling, hole fluttering weakly, the memory of open-air thrusts still vivid in every nerve—the stretch, the cold wind, the elegant curve that had filled him so completely, and the shameful, eager way he had clung to it all the way through the sky.
Fyson preened a few ruffled feathers with quick, practiced motions, settling the blue-gray plumage back into sleek order. Then he began packing the stall with the efficient speed of a trader who had done this a hundred times—arrows stacked neatly, jars of salt wrapped against breakage, pouches of Rito tea secured, a few bolts of cloth rolled tight, and the small brass scale tucked carefully into the leather satchel. All the while Link dressed more slowly.
The lingering stretch in his hole made every movement a quiet, private reminder of the curved cock that had filled him so completely. Seed still slipped free in thin, warm trickles whenever he shifted his weight. He pulled the full-sleeved undershirt back on first, the soft fabric brushing the sensitive peaks of his small breasts and sending a low shiver through him. The sky-blue Champion’s tunic followed; the short hem settled over the still-tender swell of his ass, and every brush of the embroidered cloth against the sensitive skin sent another pulse of heat low in his belly. The skimpy thongs were damp in places. By the time he had refastened the dark leather harness, settled the Master Sword across his back, and clipped the Sheikah Slate at his hip, the ache had settled into a deep, constant throb that made each step a vivid memory of open air and wingbeats.
Fyson glanced over once, amber eyes bright with residual heat and the sharp satisfaction of a deal well closed. “You walk like you can still feel me,” he said, voice quick and almost amused. “Good. Means the demonstration stuck. Come on—wind’s turning in our favor if we leave now.”
The flight back to Akkala was easier with the wind at their backs. Link launched first on the paraglider, the cloth catching the strong current and lifting him cleanly into the cold air. Fyson followed under his own power, powerful wings cutting steady arcs while the crates stayed lashed securely against his body. He complained the whole way, energetic voice carrying easily across the short distance between them—about the cold seeping into his feathers, about the awkward weight of the crates, about how a proper shop would need better shelving than anything Hudson was likely to build on the first try. Every so often he banked closer, a wing-tip brushing Link’s waist or the small of his back in a casual, proprietary touch that kept the memory of mid-air thrusts vivid even as they glided south.
When they landed on the peninsula the half-built frames of the town stood quiet against the water, silvered by the late light. The air smelled of fresh-cut timber, cold lake water, and the faint residual heat of the cook fire. Fyson walked the empty streets with the sharp, assessing eye of a trader measuring potential profit in every corner and sightline. He paused near the bridge, tilted his head, then chose a corner lot that would catch both the morning sun and the traffic of anyone crossing onto the peninsula. Before Hudson had even finished planing the last board of what would become the counter, Fyson had set his brass scale on a sturdy barrel, unrolled a length of cloth as a makeshift awning, and begun arranging jars and arrow bundles with brisk, precise movements.
Hudson looked up from his work, pink hard hat tilted back, and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect you back with company this soon.”
“Market waits for no one,” Fyson answered cheerfully, already stacking salt jars. “And this corner has better foot traffic than anything in Rito Village. You’ll thank me when the first caravan stops.”
Link stood at the edge of the unfinished street and watched the Rito arrange his wares, the Master Sword once more a familiar weight against his back, the Sheikah Slate quiet at his hip. The short hem of the Champion’s tunic brushed the sensitive skin of his ass with every small shift, a private echo of everything that had happened behind the tarp and in the open sky. The wind off the lake carried the clean scent of pine and cold water. Somewhere a hammer rose and fell in measured strokes. Somewhere the first true walls of the town continued to rise, block by careful block. And the peninsula, still more foundation than home, waited in the gathering dusk for the people who would one day fill it—walls and roofs and the quiet, stubborn promise of a place where no one asked what you had been before.
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