Don’t call me that

The vast, sapphire expanse of the outer solar system was usually a quiet place, a realm of frozen giants and lonely moons. But today, the silence was broken by the rhythmic, playful pestering of Neptune. He was drifting in his usual erratic orbit, circling his slightly larger neighbor with a mischievous glint in his storm-tossed eyes.

Neptune had always been the more energetic of the two. While Uranus preferred to tilt on his side, lost in the artistic swirls of his own atmosphere and the delicate rings that framed him like a masterpiece, Neptune lived for the reaction. He enjoyed being the smaller, louder presence in the cold dark.

"Hey, cousin! Look at this!" Neptune chirped, spinning in a tight circle that sent a flurry of icy dust toward Uranus’s rings. "I bet you can't tilt any further than that without falling over, cousin!"

Uranus let out a low, vibrating sigh that rippled through his gas layers. He was busy trying to align his moons in a specific aesthetic pattern, and the constant interruptions were grating on his nerves. He didn't mind Neptune’s company usually, but there was one thing that had been bothering him for eons.

"Stop calling me that," Uranus huffed, his voice deep and resonant. He didn't turn to face Neptune, keeping his gaze fixed on the distant shimmer of the sun.

Neptune stopped his spinning, drifting closer until he was hovering just a few thousand miles away—a mere hair’s breadth in astronomical terms. "Stop calling you what? Cousin? But we’re the Ice Giant duo! The blue twins! We’re practically family, cousin."

Uranus finally turned, his pale cyan face clouded with genuine irritation. He was broader than Neptune, his presence more imposing despite his casual, tilted demeanor. "We aren't related, Neptune. We were formed in the same neighborhood, nothing more. The title is annoying. It’s patronizing. Drop it."

Neptune’s grin only widened. He loved it when he managed to get a rise out of the stoic artist. He floated upside down, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't know, cousin. It fits you. You’re like the grumpy older relative who sits in the corner at the solar flares. Isn't that right, cousin?"

"I’m warning you," Uranus growled, his gravity wells tightening. "I’m not in the mood for your games today. Call me by my name or don't speak to me at all."

Neptune let out a high-pitched, bubbly laugh. He drifted even closer, poking at the edge of Uranus’s gravity. "Or what? You’re going to tilt at me? You’re going to paint a mean picture of me? Make me, cousin."

The air—or what passed for it in the vacuum of their shared space—seemed to freeze. The teasing had crossed a line that Uranus had drawn long ago. He wasn't the type for physical outbursts, usually preferring the quiet dignity of his own thoughts, but the repetition of that word, paired with Neptune’s smug, smaller stature, snapped something inside his core.

Before Neptune could blink, Uranus moved. For a planet that spent most of his time lounging on his side, he was shockingly fast when provoked. He lunged forward, his massive gravitational pull dragging Neptune toward him with a force that made the smaller planet gasp.

"Hey! Watch the rings!" Neptune yelped, but the playfulness died in his throat as Uranus grabbed him.

Uranus didn't lead him back to a stable orbit. Instead, he forced Neptune toward a solidified obsidian-like structure—an asteroid-belt table they often used to observe the inner planets. With a grunt of effort, Uranus slammed Neptune down against the cold, hard surface.

"I told you to stop," Uranus hissed, his face inches from Neptune’s. The artistic, casual facade was gone, replaced by a dark, looming intensity.

Neptune struggled, his smaller frame pinned easily under Uranus’s weight. "Whoa, okay! You’re strong, I get it! Chill out, cou—"

The word was cut off as Uranus reached down, his hands trembling with a mixture of rage and a sudden, dark impulse. He didn't want an apology anymore; he wanted to silence the defiance. He grabbed the fabric of Neptune’s atmospheric layers, pulling the smaller planet's pants down just enough to expose the pale, shivering moon-roundness of his hole.

Neptune’s eyes widened, the blue of his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "Uranus? What are you—wait, stop! This isn't funny!"

"You wanted me to make you," Uranus muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly tone.

There was no hesitation. Uranus unzipped his own layers, revealing the massive, throbbing weight of his cock. It was a testament to his larger size, thick and imposing, pulsing with the heat of a planetary core. Neptune tried to scramble away, his hands clawing at the smooth stone of the table, but Uranus’s grip was like iron.

Without a word of comfort or a moment of preparation, Uranus shoved himself forward. He drove his cock into Neptune’s tight, unprepared heat in one brutal motion.

Neptune’s scream was muffled against the stone. He arched his back, his fingers digging into the edges of the table as he was stretched to a breaking point. The sheer size of Uranus was overwhelming, filling him completely, invading his space in a way that felt like a total eclipse of his will.

"Uranus! Stop! It hurts!" Neptune sobbed, his body shuddering under the rhythmic, heavy thrusts.

Uranus didn't listen. He was driven by a primal need to dominate the voice that wouldn't respect his boundaries. He leaned over Neptune, pressing his chest against the smaller planet’s back, pinning him flat. Each shove was calculated and deep, designed to remind Neptune exactly who was bigger, who was stronger, and who held the power in this corner of the dark.

"Is this what you wanted?" Uranus whispered harshly into Neptune’s ear, his breath hot against the cold blue skin. "Are you going to keep talking now?"

Neptune’s breath came in ragged gasps. Tears of liquid methane tracked down his cheeks, freezing into small crystals before falling onto the table. His body was being jolted with every strike, his internal storms raging out of control from the sheer physical trauma of the intrusion. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out, the friction of Uranus’s massive cock burning through his senses.

Despite the pain, despite the terrifying reality of being forced down by someone he thought he knew, a spark of that original, annoying defiance flickered in Neptune’s mind. It was a defense mechanism—the only thing he had left when his physical strength failed him.

He turned his head slightly, biting his lip to keep from crying out again as Uranus slammed into him once more, bottoming out against his prostate.

"You... you think this... changes anything?" Neptune gasped out, his voice trembling but laced with a bitter edge.

Uranus paused for a second, his hips locked against Neptune’s backside. "What did you say?"

Neptune let out a choked, wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. He looked back at Uranus with eyes that were clouded with pain but still held a glimmer of that unbearable mischief.

"I said... you’re still... a jerk... cousin," Neptune wheezed.

Uranus’s face contorted. The word hit him like a physical blow. He had expected submission. He had expected Neptune to beg for forgiveness, to promise never to use the title again. But there it was—the same word, thrown back at him in the middle of his most violent act of control.

"Shut up!" Uranus roared, resuming his thrusts with even more ferocity. He gripped Neptune’s hips so hard his fingers left bruises, slamming his weight into the smaller planet over and over again.

The table groaned under the pressure of two giants colliding in such a primal way. Neptune’s world narrowed down to the sensation of being filled and the sound of Uranus’s heavy breathing. He was shaking violently now, his legs barely able to support the weight being forced upon him.

But every time Uranus demanded silence, every time he tried to drive the defiance out of him, Neptune found the strength to whisper it again.

"Harder... cousin..." Neptune taunted through gritted teeth, even as his eyes rolled back from the overwhelming sensation.

Uranus was losing himself in the rhythm, the anger fueling a climax that felt like a supernova. He didn't care about the artistic swirls of his atmosphere anymore; he didn't care about the casual grace he usually tried to maintain. He was just a force of nature, a giant trying to crush a smaller star that refused to go out.

He felt the build-up in his core, the pressure reaching a breaking point. With a final, devastating shove that buried him as deep as possible into Neptune’s trembling body, Uranus let out a low, guttural groan. He slumped over Neptune, his release flooding the smaller planet, a hot, heavy weight that marked his victory—and his failure.

The silence that followed was heavy. The only sound was the jagged breathing of two broken orbits. Uranus stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against the back of Neptune’s neck. The rage was gone, replaced by a hollow, cold realization of what he had done.

He slowly withdrew, his body feeling heavy and sluggish. He zipped his layers back up, refusing to look at the mess he had made or the way Neptune was slumped against the table, his lower body shivering and raw.

Neptune didn't move for a long time. He stayed pinned against the stone, his breath hitching in his chest. He felt ruined, invaded, and small—smaller than he had ever felt in his life. But as Uranus turned to drift away, to return to his lonely, tilted orbit and pretend this had never happened, Neptune found his voice one last time.

It was weak, barely a whisper carried on the solar wind, but it stopped Uranus in his tracks.

"Hey... Uranus..."

Uranus didn't turn around. He stood still, his shoulders tense. "What?"

Neptune pushed himself up on shaky arms, his pants still pooled around his knees. He looked over his shoulder, a ghost of a smirk playing on his bruised lips despite the tears still wet on his face.

"See you... tomorrow... cousin."

Uranus didn't respond. He simply drifted faster into the dark, leaving the smaller giant behind in the cold, blue shadows of the outer rim. The title remained, a jagged anchor in their shared history, proving that some orbits, no matter how violent the collision, could never truly be changed.