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nathandrakeisabottom · 3 months

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Imprisoned, Impressioned: Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: As a Panamanian prison guard, you signed on the dotted line that you'd never take bribes, never bring prisoners off grounds, and never beat on/off inmates. But for one, you just might make an exception. So long as he stays in his cage. Notes: Explicit. Gender neutral reader. B0ndage, fem/male-dom, r*mming. Cause that's his bussy, folks, don't get it twisted. (Get it plunged.)

“God, you’re such a fucking brat.”

Nate snorts in a wavering smirk in reaction, stabilizing a cocky grin as best he possibly can.

But his best seems to be quickly deteriorating in quality.

“I distinctly remember telling you we’d only keep this up if you stayed out of trouble.” Your busy tongue shapes words around a threatening tone, fingers drifting mindlessly where you spread him open, but Nate’s quick to wiggle his hips— cute, and fucking irresistible— to coax you back in.

“Really? Because what you actually do kinda seems to imply the opposite.”

And he’s right.

You rove and search memory, only to find no occurrence where he wasn’t sporting a newly-earned bruise, a flinching face from a black eye, blood still speckled where his lip had been split from a particularly well-aimed punch. And he’s right. you only gave him this when he misbehaved.

Punishment, you convince yourself.

Comfort, your better mind argues.

Like a band-aid you administer, a kiss where it hurts. Maybe you only offered such a thing in the aftermath of cruelty. Defend from the bullies when he claims he needs no defense.

Even though he does.

“Do you mind taking these off? Wrists starting to ache a bit—”

And he sounds so earnest when he says it that you almost move, relinquish to give him what he asks for. But you’re no idiot. He may be cute— you won’t lie and say you don’t feel some sort of affection for him, no matter how tart and mistrustful— but you’re grounded enough in your conviction to know he always has an ulterior motive.

“Good. It’ll build some strength. You’ll want this position again. you can tell.”

You learned quickly not to play coy with Nathan. He liked blunt. He liked vulgar. He liked when you told him to shut up after a quip and called him ‘pretty boy’ with a sharp, teasing tone and forced him as deep as his legs could possibly go, ignoring when he’d grunt discomfortedly. He liked it when you called him out on his bullshit. He liked it when you knew what he wanted before he did.

And just like you expected it would, his cock jumps with an excited, anticipatory twitch. Of course he’ll want this again. He likes being held open. He likes being held down.

But before he can hop in with some sort of pathetic, half-hearted joke, you pry his legs wide and delve back inside. Tongue lapping pink and untethered between his thighs, where his hole puckers sweet, wet, and where he has no choice but to sigh in pleasure. you kiss him there like you’re kissing him— because we’ve never kissed before and frankly have no reason to— and this is a lovely consolation prize. He tastes tangy, stings of soap after-tasting between your lips because he always keeps himself nice and clean for you. You could only be so lucky to one day watch for yourself as he props one foot up on the shower bar, examines himself in the fogging mirror, razor in hand, and fantasizes about what you’d prefer, what you’d desire, what you’d want best against your tongue. What would make you bring him back sooner next time.

Maybe one day you can convince the Lieutenant to transfer your post to the male showers so you can watch for yourself.

“So good…” His groan rumbles deep and dark down his belly, breath desperate, gasping uneven at a pleasure soaked in only on barren grasses on the outer perimeter, where they forget to water it because no one ever, ever goes out that far. Your passion exists in secret, exists only in handcuffs and lies you hold better than any truth when you tell the other guards you’re only planning to rough him up a bit. When you feel like treating yourself, pushing past the boundaries of where your waning shyness crumbles, you allow your palm to brush past denim— old bloodstains aged to a grainy brown— to squeeze his naked chest between your claws. He’s fit, he’s young, he’s nimble, he’s beautiful. And whatever he’ll let you hold, whatever he’ll let you touch, you will.

Your tongue dips deeper, pushes past pucker with little resistance— you always wonder if he preps himself for you first, skin stinging freezing cold against the steel toilet bowl and leg hiked high over the toilet paper rack, how many cigarettes must he trade for olive oil, lotion, vaseline, fucking anything— and he croons sounds just as impassioned as his daily fist fights.

Fights you sometimes let go just a hair too long to enjoy the sounds he makes: pained and giving pain near identical. Though the pained ones have always been a personal favorite.

Again— he likes being held down.

And the wispy laugh that bubbles past his lips when the fight is finally broken up never suggests anything different.

This can never go on long enough for you— suspicion is born quickly in the likes of a Panamanian jail— so you always need to draw things to a close far, far sooner than you’d like. Your fingers reluctantly reach up to grasp his cock between them, stroke him just how you know he likes, be quick about it because he always either comes way too fast or takes just a little too long, and you always have to split the difference.

He groans delicious at your mercy, nails digging contradictorily merciless into the skin you long to taste, but never have the time to. One day you’ll leave him hard from foreplay and nothing else, abandon him aching and more desperate for next time. And next time, maybe you’ll make him eat you out. The image of his sweet, strikingly blue eyes gazing up at you from between your legs imprints in your weak-willed mind and steers the rhythm of your fist faster. How fucking adorable he is, how scrappy, how witty, how bratty, how you love the sounds he makes, how you love his skin pinching pink between your fingers, how the thought of one day marking him even deeper drives you wild.

Your tongue points, swallows, and savors for one final taste, before skating further along to foreign territories. And you distract him with quicker speeds, tightened grip, because you’re the same:

You always have an ulterior motive.

“Fuck—” His moans transcend into higher octaves, just like they do when he’s close, and his feet scramble for purchase, legs bending and stretching and flailing until you have to force them back up into position. Be good, babyboy. Stay where you want you. A gasp suddenly squeezes from his overworked lungs, a product likely of his precarious positioning, and there’s one second where you almost fear you’ll drop him. But your chest is quick to push forward and prop him back upright, keep him vertical, give him support until he comes in your arms. He breaks out into a wistful wisp of moan at the movement.

Yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely gonna want this position again.

And when he finally does come, you squeeze his thighs between your arms just before he can tip over— even though the sick satisfaction of a ruined orgasm, the sight of him falling hard and fast and unfair into the dirt below, always sounds like a fun idea on paper. Your own brand of cruelty is usually more playful than sadistic. But eh, watching him come uninterrupted isn’t so bad, either.

You drive your pace fast and consistent, and don’t stop even when you feel him coast languidly down your wrist. He always keeps bucking into your fist— hedonistic and somewhat masochistic— even when it must start to edge on the side of pain. Nate chases his pleasure because it’ll run out far too soon, it’s always far too soon, and something tells you he wants to impress. Prove to you a stamina that prolongs, even when you always deny his request to let him inside. Or maybe even a volume, to prove just how much he’s willing to give, how much his body will supply for your tongue to swallow up later— salty and warm and satisfactory because you earned it fair and square.

He comes a lot— but maybe he’s just trying to beat a personal record.

His final wail gives way to heaving pants, stomach tightening and relenting and tensing and back again, and his pleasure is so thorough that he drops limp in your hands. Little death, indeed. Nate dies in your arms as you gift him one last kiss there in a sweet finality, remind him of what he’ll receive in a couple days if you’re feeling nice, a couple weeks, a couple months if you’re feeling cruel. Taste him again because you love the thought of being inside him-– and the feeling of him around your tongue will be enough masturbation fodder to last you the better part of a week. Until next time. Until he gives you something even better to imagine.

“Woof…” Nate smiles doey-eyed and serene, and you can’t help the cocky, self-satisfied smirk that eases itself across your face. He looks fucking adorable— all blissed-out and rosy red and still slightly throbbing between your fingers with an overeager abandon.

Yeah… maybe you’ll be nicer this time around. Because you already know how violently you’re going to miss the sight of him like this.

“Crap, that felt so fucking good.”

Your teeth clamp teasingly into his thigh, flirty in a way you almost never allow, and he giggles. He fucking giggles. And you want to slap yourself for how quick your heart squeezes around such a delicious sound. you want to hold it longer. Wring it out of him faster. And against all reasoning, you want more of it.

But there’s no time. There’s no trust. You can never let on such a feeling.

This can only last so long as you keep control, so long as you keep distance.

But as soon as you lay his legs back to rest— he grunts when his body makes such an abrupt transfer of weight— Nate presses out into the unknown, and asks the only thing that would bridge the distance before you can push it back apart. Just as you finish lifting his slacks back up around his hips, zipping him closed (a common courtesy that may even be too tender by your standards), he sighs relieved and sweet before you can grapple him back to standing:

“...What? Not even a goodbye kiss?”

Oh god.

The freedom awarded by ecstasy has made him dumb. He has no idea what he’s even asking for. And for the fifteen additional seconds of bravery he has left, before his orgasm leaves him in a cold sweat and he begs you to not take him back, he’ll convince himself that this is a good idea.

He’ll convince himself that his joke is hilarious and he’s a better actor than he actually is. Because, even if you actively tried to ignore it, his wavering breath sticks out like a sore thumb. He can’t make the words sound natural, casual, suave in the way he must want them to. There’s something overzealous about it. And your stomach clenches at how your initial reaction to this isn’t repulsion.

But also, in the now ten seconds of bravery he has left, he’ll convince himself that a kiss will only make the sex better. That it won’t ruin it and he won’t mind the taste of himself on your tongue and the idea of adding feelings to the mix will be a good idea. Because, yes, oh my god, Nate, how fucking brilliant of you, yes, let’s add feelings to the mix. You know, I always thought prison bathrooms were so romantic. What a lovely getaway. Why not retire and raise kids in the handicapped stall while we’re at it?!

But his lips look so soft. Unbearably so. One corner is slightly chapped, skin peeling from a still-healing cut, and the instinct to kiss it better overwhelms, dizzy and sickening in just how badly you want to pursue it into reality. The idea of wanting him nauseates, terrifies. But the desire to give in, to taste for yourself the tantalizing beauty that always hovers just a little too far out of reach, is stronger.

When you two meet, it’s terrible and you hate it.

Because it’s fucking electric.

…

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

You break away before you can dwell on it, praying you’ve satisfied him enough to never ask again, but the residue stings clear across your lips.

It was good. It was a good kiss.

Nate’s eyes flutter back open just a second too late— and his lungs die on an inhale he must’ve thought he wouldn’t be privy to so soon. But the reaction is evident, etched along his face. It was a good kiss.

And he fucking noticed.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

His lips curl with a dazed sort of satisfaction, just in the way you feared they would. But his eyebrows jump, too, confusion just as much as pleasure, eyes reading you for something more. Clearly something has to be said, and you pray you're the one to say it first. ‘Okay, up and at ‘em.’ ‘Nice try, but never again.’ ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ‘You’re a rat and you hate you, asswipe.’ ‘This can never, ever, ever happen again. And fuck you for even trying, Nathan Drake, if that even is your real name—’

But you’re too slow, and Nate’s chest rises in an abrupt inhale that signals he’s beat you to the punch.

Oh god. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.

But he does. Of course, he does. Even with a sock in his mouth, rope, tape, palm, he’ll find some way to talk (and trust, every single one— and then some— has already been tried).

“...One more?”

You just didn’t think that was going to be his answer.

There is one moment of absolute terror. The split second of doubt on the deep end diving board. He must know this is a terrible idea. He has to know. There’s no way his orgasm was so good that he completely lost touch with reality. The silence stretches endless and icey. And you can tell the feeling is mutual.

But then, all of a sudden, his fallen face splits, smiles uplifting into something familiar. Cheeky. Safe.

“I’m just messing with you.”

And a laugh escapes before you can even register exactly what you’re feeling.

The feeling is relief.

Yeah, that’s it. Relief trickles in and cools your blood back down to sanity. Fucking asshole gave you a goddamn heart attack. You deliver him a curt punch to the shoulder to release the remaining tension, but he laughs it off as soon as it lands. And how sweet his laughter is only makes you want to punch him harder.

Little brat is much cuter with his mouth closed. And far, far away from yours.

You grab hold onto his handcuffs and wrestle him back to standing— a motion he leans into far more reluctantly than usual— his throat still fluttering with an excess giggle.

“Come on, champ, let’s get you back home. Nobody’s gonna be missing me, but they sure as hell are gonna be missing you.”

“Aww, don’t say that…”

His facetiously tender tone dribbles like slow caramel down your back as he twists his neck to face you, and he drops a bomb that almost makes you die at his feet.

“I know I will.”

…Fucking brat.

Yeah, you’ll make sure to bring him back sooner this time. Fucking definitely. Give him a spank or two for good measure. Let him kiss you again— and this time bite his lip til’ it bleeds. Give him a wound of your own. A mark of your own.

But then again, none of that would really be punishment for either of you, would it?

And just before you can shove him back into the courtyard, he tilts down to whisper in your ear:

“Please don’t make me wait so long next time… ma’am.”

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, Nathan.

…

I won’t.

⭑⭑⭑

The metallic walls sting matte and clouded with a heavy steam, lungs thick and breath difficult. Lust and peace lie reclined in humidity. After a startlingly quick release down the shower drain, a simple purpose rather than a prolonged pleasure— he tries not to think too hard about why he always curses himself for finishing so soon, or what reasons he has to prefer saving such a deeper pleasure for later— Nate points his focus back to the basics. He never bothered with anything fancy. The money Sully wired them was only ever used for band-aids, Tylenol, and whatever shitty coffee the commissary kept stocked (“None of these rats are ever gonna catch me sleeping,” Sam would say with a suspicious side-eye), which meant nice shampoo was off the table. But suddenly Nate was rethinking it.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he started making sure he smelled good. Looked good, too.

…But for who?

A pestering question he always ignored the answer to.

He scrubs up his chest generously, barely even notices when he catches the tail end of a peeling scab, absent-minded and letting his thoughts run to nothing and nowhere. This was his only time of peace and solitude— why waste it with thinking? Why waste it when the next black eye, cut knee, broken rib was probably already outside waiting for him?

But as his hands drift downward, reaching to clean between his legs, he abruptly flinches.

…Huh.

That’s weird.

Now, Nate was no stranger to violent wounds he didn’t notice till later on— he could almost consider them a friendly confidant, a toxic sort of lover— but this one was especially disconcerting. A dull, tingling pain on his inner thigh. A strange place to not notice getting wounded.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore it— maybe he had just scratched himself during a particularly vivid nightmare— but when his palm moves low, he winces even harder.

…What the fuck?

It’s bigger than he thought. A lot bigger. And the ache is sharp enough to make him completely drop his soap when he touches it.

Okay, seriously, what the fuck?!

Nate abandons all motivation, turns tail out of the stall, and leaves his bar of soap to linger lonely on the shower floor. He has to know what’s going on. Allergic reaction? A sneak attack while he slept? Fucking STDS?

But when he reaches the bathroom mirror, levees his leg up to catch the culprit, his stomach drops.

And his cock twitches in unexpected interest.

Because there, stained across the inner side of his left thigh— drawn across his skin in lovingly littered hickies— is the unmistakable, pink-purple bruised shape of the first letter of your name. A brand. A claim.

A mark of your own.

“ ...Shit.”

⭑⭑⭑

#uncharted #nathan drake #nathan drake x reader #uncharted x reader #uncharted 4: a thief's end #Shea's B-Sides (HOLY SHIT is my 2 year old writing so different from my current)#(this is a year and a half old btw oops)#(im really excited for yall to one day see the new stuff <3)#shea speaks #original work #my stuff #anyway i love him your honor <3 but also i would smack the crap out of young nate #thus a fic was born!!#happy shea is posting again eve!!#have to censor tags now bc im scared

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