Just Wanted to See - Nathan Bateman x assistant!reader
Warnings: pure fucking smut that was part of something I was working on but as these things usually go stopped fitting, fingering, vaginal, the barest dubcon that ever did dubcon (both ways if you can imagine, we are in their heads but they are not in each others, no explicit verbal consent is exchanged for the main sex act), showering together, armpit frigging, squirting, breeding kink, oral
Words: 3.4k
Rating: E
Summary: Ever since your boss Nathan Bateman pulled the stitches in his stab wounds eating you out in his hospital bed, you haven’t been able to keep your thoughts off of fucking him.
I was severely horny guys sorry will happen again
Enjoy the filth leave a heart, non freaks shoo! Shoo! Ew. What are you doing here
This has been sitting a draft for over a year
This is the same AU you can think of if like a tiny spinoff I just wrote some of the stuff I explore better here into something more condensed but it diverges from the events of the rest, this isn’t how it happened
AO3 Link
This was fucked.
But ever since your boss, ‘Nathan’ Nathanael Bateman, pulled the stitches in his stab wounds eating you out in his hospital bed, you haven’t been able to keep your thoughts off of fucking him.
Maybe it was something about nearly losing him. Maybe it was the years of flirting you had thought you both assured remained purely unserious. Maybe because actually getting with him wasn’t ever on the table, but now that bridge had been breached, he was clearly in love with you—
No. You couldn’t cross it. Past unprofessional, as if anything between you was, there was nothing ethical about it, and it was about time that sort of thing was bedded. Even if this vein was considerably less existential, it was for you.
It was dangerous. He controlled your salary, nevermind you had the passwords to all his accounts. He could fuck you over hard, your entire world. You had dirt on him, sure, but you could easily lose your whole life even trying to attempt to take him on, and he wouldn’t even feel it. Not physically, at least.
You had to roll things back.
Even if he’d had his tongue buried in your cunt without regard for his own well being.
That night, dinner, a few weeks after he was discharged, the house was quiet, and Nathan was still in his head about what you couldn’t be sure.
His own mortality, having to completely scrap all of what he’d put so many years into, his practical immunity to the lasting implications. You had ended it, not him, a branch in not just invention but possible human achievement and definition of consciousness, life.
The truth was he wasn’t grappling with it.
It was stewing his oxygen deprivation damaged brain, rethinking everything and getting truly nowhere, who he was, what he was supposed to do, what he definitely wasn’t supposed to do.
He was bothering you by not bothering you, holding his tongue against the roof of his mouth like he had nothing to say. You just didn’t know what you could do about it, about him, about the two of you.
You weren’t rolling it back. Things were staying firmly as they’d been that day and then some, only missing him. You couldn’t get a reaction, couldn’t get that abandon he had back. Maybe it was only temporary, something about acclimating to being back, acceptance, finding normal. A push to feel how far it went, but if that was true he was the other direction, and had to bounce back a little too far sooner or later.
That was tonight, and more than a little.
You snap right in front of his eyes, getting him to look up.
Right. You. Something he definitely wasn’t supposed to do.
He acknowledges you just enough to get you out of his face, which is surprisingly kinder than usual. You sit back down.
A joke about fucking the mood out of him, you’ve said it a hundred times since he’s known you, a brush too close when you pass him to grab the soy sauce, and something changes. He gets his first boner since Heidi Klum when he was twelve that he isn’t conscious of immediately. Just as confusing. Just as brand new.
Yeah, you turned him on, but he wasn’t turned on right now, was he? He was in control of that, he had been since forever.
The opposite of a bombshell, picking your teeth with your thumbnail because you don’t think your shitty line worked or did any better than the twenty previous. You have worn nothing but pajamas for days and he doesn’t think you’ve washed your hair twice since you’ve gotten back. And he doesn’t care. No one could pay him enough to, and evidently, no one could pay you enough to either.
In one smooth movement he grips your arm tight, stands, breathes in and knocks your heads together so hard you bruise, mouth latching to yours, hand squeezing the back of your neck.
His tongue was in your mouth, so fast you couldn’t think, much less react except to groan your assent. Yes, something. Finally.
“You better have fucking meant that.” He gets out and gasps. The air between and in you has no oxygen left, and that sensation is overwhelming.
Your head felt so light. He kissed you. He actually kissed you.
You drop the empty meal container you had intended to toss in the trash, gripping his head hard in both hands.
He winces when you brush the thick, flat, staple indented scar in his chest. They are nearly completely healed, but the skin is still raw, the weakened muscle around it tender and hypersensitive.
His hands are on your ass, you’re around his waist, grinding into him.
He hasn’t been inside a flesh and blood woman’s pussy in over a decade, probably longer. There’s some difference and it’s there in the fact you’re not really riding his thigh, palming him like you’ve only just remembered where his dick is at. He doesn’t even know where to even begin to criticize you, any of it. You’re all talk. Last time you got laid was fuck never. Sex with you would suck. He wants it.
He tugs your shirt up off your tits, his sweats under his junk, your underwear down, and hooks his hand under your knee, pulling you right up close and pushing his cock between your slippery folds, bumping your clit.
You sway, nothing to brace against but him, and him you, like one of those partnered yoga poses where you have to balance.
Shit, he’s right there. It’s so fucking close and you both want this so badly and there really is no magical force stopping you.
He’s human. You’re human. It’s only sex. It had been too fucking long.
You’re both breathing so hard, not looking at each other.
The words were nothing. Empty catalysts. Barely conveying the depth of things.
You weren’t going to say anything. Here, maybe he needed you to.
He set your leg back down.
Your shirt falls back over your chest.
“You’re my fucking assistant,” he breathes, feeling his forehead.
The moment’s over.
He pulls back up to his full height, trying to compose himself.
“I’m gonna go get a shower. Haven’t had a good fuckin’ shower since I got back.”
It’s forced, casual, he hasn’t been in there at all except for you to help him wash his scars, the one he can’t reach.
“You gonna go jack off in there?” You’re trying to sound suave.
“Yeah. Yes I am going to jack off in there.” There wasn’t anything to be gained by lying about it.
“I—”
“That’s fine,” he cuts you off. “You got… you got stuff to take care of.”
He pats your bicep once and leaves, calmly walks down the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom with his dick still out.
The steam did the opposite of clear his head.
He couldn’t jack off, it was doing literally nothing. Well he could, maybe, but he would be thinking about you and it would be worse after than when he started.
It’s like no time at all before you knock on the bathroom door.
“You almost done in there?” You call. “I need to use it! Y’know I’ve been lookin’ to get in there all day.”
He blows air out his mouth and pulls back the frosted glass, padding over and opening the door so he doesn’t have to shout over the water.
“You have your pick of options for bathrooms.” He says.
The door’s wide open. He’s still hard. It’s gone up and down but it hasn’t gone away. You’re getting a good look at it. He’s still hot as fuck.
“You’re in the good one.” You say.
“It’s my house.”
“You haven’t tried to pull that one in a long time.” You chuckle.
“I shouldn’t have done that. At the table.”
Is that an apology?
“You shouldn’t have eaten me out either.”
Is he gonna take that back too?
He couldn’t, he could try, and that alone would be entertaining, but there was no playing that off now.
Eye contact isn’t happening. He can’t think about what you taste like right now. He practically can taste you with how close you’re standing.
“You know you smell like shit, right?” He diverges, or tries to.
“I’m aware. I’ll skip it, shower tomorrow.”
He wants you to go, you’ll go, but you don’t think he wants you to.
He grabs your wrist and pulls it up, sticking his face in your pit, inhaling through his nose. Your face goes hot.
“It’s bad.”
“You– you absolutely did not have to do that.” You say as he straightens, still holding your hand.
“Get in the shower.” He says, dropping your arm.
He rubs plain bar soap into a big swirl in his palm, careful not to get it anymore wet under the stream while you strip your shirt off over your head and step in, back to front.
He scrubs it up into your armpit, which is fine, it lathers a little in the water there. Then it becomes sticky. He moves to his fingers, and presses, stroking back and forth, deep in the recess there.
“What the fuck,”
“Lot of nerves there.” He says.
He rubs faster, pressure just shy of painful, and you double over, pressed against him and his hard on, thighs squeezed tight. It’s ticklish and carnal and gross all at once.
“Too much?” He asks, and you shake your head.
“You’re weird as fuck.” You laugh out.
“Really, me?” He says. “You’re the one that doesn’t get in there.”
He moves to the other side, doing the same, nails scraping up soap through your body hair, he rinses his hand before pulling and directing the water over you, warming your muscles and getting the soap off.
He squeezes down to the full of your breast, starts to move his hand lower, then stops. You’re pits are clean, he’s done. You can take care of the rest.
He steps out, pulls down a towel, and dries himself, heading for the sink, having to dig to find what he’s looking for.
You’re not much longer in the shower, you hear him working and hurry it up.
He finishes shaving his head, shutting the clippers off. He rubs over the silver ellipse right on top, the streak. He’s smaller, lost some muscle definition. A lot of muscle definition. You can see it, can’t you? You’ve seen it. Him at his absolute lowest. Possibly the only constant.
What was wrong with him, really? What was wrong with you that you were still here?
He could just make you out behind him in the mirror. You’ve seen each other naked and almost naked so many times. Your shape, peeing after he felt you up. You’re scratching your scalp, probably because you’ve been watching him buzz his hair off.
He almost wants to ask if you think he looked better with short, blunt waves. If you were into it. He doesn’t. He just sets his glasses back on, neatens up his neck, packs the thing away and waits for you to finish so he can walk you back to your room. No goodnight, just assurance you weren’t following him back to his. He shuts your door, starting back to his room.
He stops in his tracks. It’s so soft, under the crack, but it’s unmistakable.
Your vibrator.
The handle doesn’t turn fast enough.
It’s exactly what it sounds like.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He says.
You click it off.
“I thought you were some kind of genius—”
“No, fucking stop this. Whatever this is, just stop.”
Your room is a mess. Food containers, you’ve been clearing out the freezer, clothes, bandages. Doesn’t smell any worse than you did, at least.
“Okay.” You put your hands up and lay flat on your back, then fold them over your stomach.
He starts to close your door, then stops.
“You’re gonna use it.” He says. He feels out of it. It’s so obvious.
“Waiting for you to get to your room.”
Stalemate.
He leaves, you get off on your own. He stays, you fuck and he can’t take that the fuck back.
“Why do you need this so bad?” He says. “I know I ate you out good but you can get yourself off, why do you need me?”
You sit up. “You came into my room. My vibrator. Why do you think this is about you?”
“You’re thinking about me while you mash that thing against your bean! You want me to hear it. You need me so fuckin’ bad you won’t leave me alone.”
You smile, big and wide. Him being even half as frustrated as you is so satisfying.
“I don’t need you, Nathan; I want you.”
That’s what you’ve been about, all evening.
He doesn’t shut the door behind him, there’s no need to, it is literally only you two in the entire world right here, right now.
No one, real, mechanical, artificial, can hear, see, anything.
He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.
He pulls his shirt off, then his pants, leaving them right where they land and walking up to you.
He gets on his knees astride your hips on your bed, pressing you back by the shoulders, maneuvering you, up, you don’t even have to move, he puts you right into position, one leg out, over his hip, then the other.
You can’t keep your hands off him, his freshly shaved head, his back, he brings his mouth to your throat and sucks down your collar as you wrap a leg around his ass.
He looks you in the eye as he notches his cock to the whitish mucus smeared lips of your opening, rubbing his head through it before he catches, bumps past the slight resistance, then slides deep into you.
It was a stretch, a fit, manageable, especially since you had toys up there recently, but it’s still tight. Really tight. You groan through it.
Not thinking, because you want to be lost in this, in him, inside you.
You gasp, because as soon as he bottoms out and pulls back, he is— and there is no other word for it— pounding into you. Shoving your whole body upwards again and again, making sparks of pleasure and your slick explode from your sopping cunt with each thrust, rendering you open mouthed and completely speechless, not even breathing, just holding on for dear life, clinging to him, shoulder and waist, between your grip and his girth.
Your hand flies up and hits the headboard and he didn’t let up, the sound of bare wet skin colliding, splattering, the bed legs scraping, his hips punching harsh breaths out of your chest.
You were only breathing with his thrusts, and it was driving you wild that he’s so easily reduced you to this, unable to move, talk, breathe, just clench and grip and press your shoulders back to raise your hips as much as you can.
Your whole body feels irradiated, red hot, lightheaded, your g-spot like his new button of yours he wants to press till it breaks. Till you pop. His fingers rub up your folds till he finds your clit and with mind numbing contrast gives it slow, deep flicks.
Harmonizing, physically and vocally, he works fast and smooth into your with scary precision.
It comes on heavier with every second until you fizzle, abdominal muscles spasming, and your sex goes from tightening in bursts to clenching hard.
You squirt, trembling, soaking his thighs and the sheets, pulsing around him, viced. Your fingers definitely dig in too hard.
He grunts, pace wavering just a little before slowing, pushing up on his hands and knees, savoring you sucking him in, teetering on the edge of climax.
The ebb heats your extremities, along every muscle, a heavy molten metal spread through you like a cast, completely full.
“N-Nathan?” You rasp, finally able to get something rational out of your head.
“Yeah?” He grunts back, laser focused.
“I’m not on the pill.”
Five words cut deeper than any kitchen knife ever could.
He slams into you, hard, letting out a strangled cry through his teeth, grinding the base of his cock against your pelvic bone, twitching with the release of years and years of pent up tensions, glances and jokes and little gestures and escalations that stayed in his head, in all of him, culminating in one simple statement. Fuck.
He traces his hand from your hood out your lip, up the back of your thigh to your kneepit and calf and finally to your ankle, which he presses to his jaw, up on his knees with his other hand on your hip to deepen this because he doesn’t think it could ever be enough.
He stutters breathless shouts, like he’s begging, you hear a slurred something somewhere in strings and strings and spend seeping out around the seal of his dick.
He felt all of it and swore it was the hardest he ever came in his life, he could barely hold it, he was falling back like you were hot the moment the last rope left him.
He collapses beside you panting, still throbbing. You can feel him leaking down your ass.
He adjusts his glasses, somehow still on his face, pulling himself up onto his elbows.
“You’re not on birth control?” He says, far too evenly for how much of a desperate, primally driven mess he had just been.
His system is flooded, all the best hormones, so the sex didn’t suck.
He shakes his head from side to side, hand up, spread. “Since when?”
He knew everything you ate and bought and before Ava, he would see you get ready over the cameras daily. It had to have been since he got back.
“I forgot.” It was a formality. Deniability, as if it existed here. You had forgotten, at the hospital, but you were back home now, has access to it, and you had just barebacked your boss in your own bed.
Did he seduce you? Since the hospital, through all of this. You never would have gotten this far if you were both in your right heads, he was sure of it. There was a trust, there, always, that anything like this was too far.
This was really fucked.
“I stopped after you came back.” You say. “Wanted to know how I would feel. What you would do.”
You stopped taking it because of him. His heart pumps faster.
“What I would do?” You had been doing.
You shrug. “Just wanted to see.”
He can’t stop thinking about it. Knowing your hormones have been changing and your body has been what? Becoming fertile? For how long? A week, two weeks, since he was discharged? He hasn’t been present, it could have been this whole time he was twiddling his thumbs, brooding when he could have been fucking breeding you senseless.
You were different, your mood. It was like you were brighter, smoother, the highs and lows weren’t as blended flat or spikes. They were a wave. You were bolder, too. Physically. You’d say anything to him but now you’ll push him, really push him. It’s been driving him nuts, now he knows why. The closest thing humans had to pheromones. He loves it like nobody’s fucking business.
Before you can ask what he’s doing he has grabbed your legs and is swiping his tongue up your crack and deep into your cunt, closing his lips over it and sucking, eating his and your come out of you. His beard drags through your slit with each work of his jaw, and you bite back a whimper, swollen and sensitive, sore from how thoroughly he’s fucked you.
He stares at your gaped pussy, your legs spread completely limp, wide, at the smear of his come he can’t see but knows is there too deep for him to reach. He plunges two of his fingers in to feel it, still so warm.
“I think I have a new project I want to start with you.” He says, a smile you haven’t seen in months brightening his features.
It looks so good on him.
“Yeah?” You ask.
He pulls his fingers from you, and sticks them in his mouth.
“What… what’d you have in mind?”
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