#nathan bateman

FAQ

Does it matter if we have spoken or interacted before? Not at all. Please tag me if an oscar isaac character is involved.

Does it matter what the genre is? Nope. (If, on the off chance, there's something that I am not comfortable reading, I will not read/stop reading and not bother you.)

Does it matter if it's x reader/ocs? Not at all, give me x reader, ocs, character study, only characters from the media, etc. it's all good to me.

It's in 1st/2nd/3rd person, is that okay? I'm super happy with all tenses.

Does it have to be romantic/platonic? No, I am happy with fanfic in all forms <3

The fic is old, is it okay to tag/recommend? YES PLEASE. Time means nothing to me.

I would like to recommend someone else's fic; is that okay? That is more than okay! <3

You reach, pour, breathe steam.

Honey clings to the spoon, melts into the swirl. The shirt slides when you lift your arm. You tug it down without a thought and take that first testing sip that’s always a little too hot. Your mouth softens around it. You make a small sound in your throat and smile at your own impatience.

Down the hall, the office is dark and humming. Monitors wake themselves, green boxes tracing your shape. Nathan looks up and stops typing. His chair creaks as he leans back, the blue-white grids of you stacking across his wall: kitchen feed, the reflective flash off the oven door, a sliver of your calf in corridor camera two.

He breathes in once, slow, like he’s setting a metronome inside himself. Then he fails to pretend he isn’t watching.

“Stop,” he tells himself, not moving.

His gaze is already there.

You set the tea down and open the fridge. Thin light slides over your legs when you bend. The shirt pulls tight over your breasts, the cotton climbing a few inches and showing the almond curve of your ass in the soft hug of your panties.

You take out last night’s leftovers, peel the lid, and pop the bowl into the microwave. Your hip finds the counter. Your finger taps the same button you always press. The machine hums. You watch the numbers count down and lift your mug for another sip, lips parted, steam ghosting your face.

Nathan’s breath catches.

It’s stupid, he thinks. This is nothing, this is domestic, this is not a scene, not negotiated, not named.

But his body is indifferent to vocabulary.

Heat collects low in his belly and spreads through his thighs. His cock stirs against the front of his joggers, thickening, pushing. He adjusts, trying to flatten it away, and the small pressure just makes it harder.

He shifts, one knee opening, eyes still pinned to you. A flick of his fingers sends a camera closer: tighter frame, tighter again, the grain of your shirt, the hollow at the base of your throat.

He swallows.

He tells himself he won’t touch.

He lasts for three breaths.

Your tablet wakes with a brush of your thumb. You scroll an essay, body leaning, sleeves falling back from your wrists. The microwave beeps. You laugh out loud at a line on the screen, your mouth curving wide, eyes creasing into something unguarded and warm.

Nathan’s hand is on himself now, palm pressing through the fabric, measuring the weight of it. He hesitates because he knows the rules you both made, and because he likes that you made them with him. Affection slips under the door of his chest like heat into a cold room. It softens him even as it makes him ache more. 

He slides his waistband under his cock and lets it spring free, heavy and hot against his belly. The air kisses the head. A drop of precum slips from the slit and stripes his skin. He watches you lift the bowl from the microwave, wrists careful, forearms tensing, and he wraps his fingers around himself. Slowly, like a confession. The first pull drags a muted sound out of him. He bites it back, jaw set, eyes bright.

You eat at the counter, fork tapping the rim. Between bites, you tilt the tablet toward the light and read. You lick a thumb clean without looking. You do a little shoulder-shimmy when the food’s too hot and you’re too hungry to care. Steam fogs the lens for a second and clears. You hum an absent tune you must’ve gotten from nowhere.

Nathan strokes, long and deliberate, knuckles grazing his lower belly on each upstroke, base to tip and back, the grip tight enough to make his eyelids flutter. He drags his fist over the sensitive ridge under the head and his hips rise an inch, his body betraying every thought he’d like to have.

Precum slicks his fingers. He twists and it turns the motion into something wet and obscene. He keeps his other hand on the mouse, wheel ticking, zooming closer to your mouth, your laugh, the way your throat works when you swallow.

“Stop it,” he mutters to himself, breath shivering. “Stop.”

But the thing inside him doesn’t care that you’re just being human in a kitchen and that he’s not supposed to want this. Not like this. The wanting isn’t cruel this time. It’s tender and inconvenient. That tenderness feels like danger in his body, like a slope he can’t arrest.

You read something that lands perfectly. Your face opens. It’s not a performance, no camera-aware craft, no deliberate coyness. Just a smile that happens because you are pleased.

You breathe out through your nose, and your shoulders drop, and for a second you look fully, stupidly content.

Nathan’s hand tightens reflexively.

He strokes faster, wrist working now, the wet click of it loud in his headphones, the muscles in his forearm standing out. His chest rises, falls, rises higher. He rolls his hips into his grip. The office smells like clean cotton and his own salt. He half-looks away, then can’t. The need crests so quickly it startles him. He bites his lip and rides it.

You set the fork down and chase a grain of rice with your fingertip. You put your finger in your mouth and close your lips around it, a quick, thoughtless little act, and that’s the place his restraint snaps.

He groans, the sound quiet but torn from the center of him. His cock pulses against his palm. Heat gathers, tightens, breaks.

He comes hard, thick ropes striping his stomach and fist, spilling over his knuckles and the waistband of his joggers. The first spurt shocks him, the second drags a tremor through his thighs. He keeps his eyes on your face, on the way your mouth softens when you swallow tea, on the brightness in your eyes.

He strokes through it, milking every last throb until it’s too much, until he has to let go and breathe like he’s been underwater.

You wipe the counter with a folded towel. You rinse the bowl. You scroll to the last paragraph and smile again, smaller this time, private. He reaches out with trembling fingers and taps the key that freezes the feed.

Everything stops.

Steam frozen mid-curl.

Sleeve caught mid-fall.

Your smile, paused in a frame that cannot possibly hold what it’s trying to keep.

Nathan sits very still with his breathing, his hand resting sticky and open on his thigh, the other on the mouse, his pulse stepping down one rung at a time from impossible to ordinary.

He wipes his stomach with a practiced, efficient swipe of a tissue from the drawer, the motions careful, reluctant, like he’s cleaning up something more than mess. He leans back again, the leather sighing under him. Affection sits next to the spent ache, warm and unbearable.

On the wall, your paused face looks back. Content, unbothered, perfectly yourself. He lets the room go quiet around it. He does not press play.

The triangle icon hovers at your mouth like a secret he can’t ever ask you to tell.

Thank you for reading! ♡

Nathan Bateman Masterlist | AO3 | Inbox

Too hot. Far too hot. But just the right temperature to indicate the beginning of a heat. 

“I’m not fucking due,” Nathan hissed under his breath, as he typed hastily on his keyboard, hitting the keys a fraction too forcefully, “for seven fucking months and eleven fucking days.” 

The computer screen flashed up with his cycle rhythm, a structured calendar lay out of dates, showing that, yes, he was correct in theory. He shouldn’t be entering a heat for seven fucking months and eleven fucking days. 

He pulled out the bracelet-style blood monitor from where he had haphazardly thrown it in his desk drawer before he put it on. It beeped once and there was a tiny pinch as it took a minute drop of blood to measure. 

Impatietently, he tapped his foot, timing the three and a half seconds like it was hours. Another beep. 

Nathan swore, the sound coming out like a hiss. 

Why? Why now? It make no fucking sense. 

He took in a deep breath through his nose, muttering absentmindedly as he typed a strong worded email to his doctor. Then deleted it and rewrote it. It wasn’t her fault that this was happening, and being polite, at least at first, tended to yield better results than going in guns blazing. Besides, she had been Nathan’s doctor for a long time because she was a good one. He didn’t want to metaphophically shoot himself in the foot by being more of an ass than he usually was. 

He didn’t take suppressants. Had tried them once, years ago and hated it. They made his mind hazy and slow, especially for a week or so when a heat would have been due, and that was far too much of a pain in the balls to deal with. Not that he looked down on anyone that did, hell, if the drugs had agreed with him he’d be swallowing them everyday. 

In any case, he’d developed his own method over time. A quicker, more efficient one. Two days off just before the heat was due, build a nest, spray a load of that imported alpha pheromone spray on a pillow and burry his face in it to trick his hormone filled mind while an android fucked his brains out. Less than forty eight hours later the heat would be over because his body would think everything had been done and dusted. Easy.

The first time he’d tried it he hadn’t built a robot to forfill his needs and had had to settle with one of those fake knotting alpha dildos succioned to the laminate floor. That had worked too, but not quite as quickly. 

Still, despite his frustration with the situation, there wasn’t much to do to get around it, other than get on with it. It was annoying that he wasn’t home-home right now, would prefer to be in the middle of nowhere rather than the highrise apartment in the city. But it would do, it was still his home too, and he always kept things he would need for his heat in every place he stayed, just to be on the safe side. 

With a small huff of frustration, Nathan sent out a blanket email to ‘important’ staff that he would be offline for the next two days or so. It pissed him off that he wouldn’t be able to go into the office physically like he intended to tomorrow, but it wasn’t the end of the world. 

He tried to coax himself into a slightly better mood and not throw the mini tantrum that threatened just below the surface of his skin. An annoying extra side effect of the impending heat, every emotion always felt too big, vast and endless. Difficult to control in the way it moved. Nathan shook his head. 

His ‘nest’, even he would admit it was pitiful to call it that, was a few haphazard pillows and extra blankets thrown on the bed. 

He opens the end locked wardrobe with his thumb print, switching on the waiting android inside. He doesn’t look at it, preferring not to. This one was basic, built for one need with little else programming wise. He’d toyed with the idea of remodeling it a few times, maybe naming it, giving it a face. But he could never bring himself to, and decided long ago to not dwell on why. 

Nathan sighs a little, annoyance still bubbling along his skin with a feather touch, as he strips and throws the extra absorbent blanket onto the bed. He wasn’t leaking yet, thank fuck, but he would be. 

The andriod buzzes as it powers on, stepping forward. Nathan ignores it and digs in his drawer for the alpha pheromone spray, before climbing onto the bed and spreading the blanket out a little. He gets comfortable, on his knees and elbows as he pulls a pillow close to his face and sprays the fabric twice. 

He turns his head to glance over his shoulder. “Come on then.” 

The android moves onto the bed behind him, taking hold of his hips and Nathan shivers. The sensation tingling up his spine. But it’s cold, unsettingly almost. He shakes his head. Maybe he was just a little early in trying to get this out of the way. That was all. 

He throws his face back down into the pillow, practically burying himself in the satin before he breathes in deeply, trying to get his lungs as full as physically possible. 

But instead of instant relief, arousal, there’s a spike of sharpness, a sudden and undeniable pain in his throat like he’s inhaled smoke. 

He coughs, splutters, pulling away, but that smell catches on his tongue like broken glass. The android’s grip squeezes his hips, dragging him back at the exact same moment and pushing its fake cock into him. 

Agony cracks up his spine, like someone was carving him open. But it’s not from being taken too quickly; he knows what that feels like and besides, the android’s member is self lubricating to avoid such issues. No, this, this is different. This is full body. Like his soul was trying to escape his flesh all at once. Everything is wrong. Every nerve flayed bare and bleeding, and that fucking disgusting smell. 

“Stop, stop.” 

The android does immediately, moving back onto its legs, waiting for the next instruction as Nathan scrabbles forward and then off the bed. Anything to be away from that smell, that touch… Maybe the spray had gone off. That must be it. That had to be it. 

Nathan pulls on his dressing gown, ignoring his shaking hands as he takes the bottle to the lab. He’d run a sample. Figure this out. This was just a setback. A fucking annoying one. But that was all. 

He’s cold, despite the heat that is slowly burning within, as he waits for the results, tapping his bare foot on the cool floor. 

His phone vibrates on the table and he scowls. A fucking don’t disturb email meant don’t fucking disturb. He picks it up, a few choice words already in mind, but then he sees your name on the screen. 

He answers without thinking, his voice soft, “Hello?” 

“Hi Nathan, did you get the blueprints through?” You sound chipper, you always did, it’s calming, warming to hear your tone. There are other sounds in the background, you’re on the train, he remembers, coming back from the meeting with Blackthrown. 

“Did you get my email?” He asks, but there’s no annoyance in his words. Weirdly, it’s kind of a relief that you called now. Almost like you could tell he was distressed.

“Email? No, I… Fuck.” He hears you pull the phone away from your ear as you scroll through your message. “I’m so sorry, I missed it-”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” 

You pause. This was very unlike the Nathan you knew. “You okay?” 

“Hmm,” he hums and nods, the cool shaking in his limbs subsiding. 

“You sure?... Are you high?” 

He laughs, “No, I’m not high. I wouldn’t answer the phone at all if I was.” 

“Okay…” You say playfully, but still not quite believing him. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your do not disturb days. Sorry again.” 

“Don’t be.” 

“Okay… bye Nathan.” 

“Bye.” 

You hang up and he misses your voice the instant you do. Maybe he could call you back, maybe-

The computer chimes as the results come back on the spray. Nathan’s frown returns. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. 

“What the fuck…” He hisses and stands, about to look at the chemical breakdown in more detail; he’d need to get an expert to look at this. Ten of them maybe, a hundred, he-

The seat sticks to him a little as he moves, his dressing gown soaked with slick. 

“For fuck’s sake.” 

Thank you for reading!

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