ginnysgraffiti

[ginnysgraffiti]

my new phone cover y’all :>

[ginnysgraffiti]

CAPTAIN JACK SPARROW x yn.

jack sparrow type of boyfriend headcanons:

mercurial affection.

jack would swing wildly between being the most attentive, clingy partner imaginable and vanishing for days on end without warning. he’ll drape himself over you on deck, ramble nonsense just to keep your attention, and look wounded if you ignore him. but then — gone. off bartering with smugglers or chasing an obscure legend. when he returns, it’s as if no time has passed, and he expects you to melt right back into his orbit.

romance as trickery.

jack doesn’t woo in conventional ways. he’ll steal something shiny — a coin, a ring, even a governor’s necklace — and slip it into your pocket without you noticing, just to grin later when you find it. his version of a “love letter” might be carved cryptically into driftwood or written on a rum-stained scrap of map. he wants you to puzzle through it, to be as entertained by the chase as he is.

jealous in the oddest ways.

he doesn’t get jealous in straightforward “stay away from them” fashion. instead, he’ll get pettily competitive. if someone compliments your dress, jack will swagger in and brag about the fabric being “utterly inferior to the one i’ve seen her in when she— well, never mind that.” he’ll mutter nonsense, play up his own importance, exaggerate his tales until he feels he’s reclaimed your attention.

intimacy cloaked in humor.

jack masks genuine vulnerability with jokes. if he touches your face gently after a kiss, he’ll immediately undercut it with something absurd like, “don’t go falling for me now, luv. dangerous habit.” but his eyes linger a fraction too long, betraying more than his mouth ever will. his rare sincerity arrives in stolen midnight moments, whispered when you’re half-asleep and he thinks you won’t remember.

chaotic protector.

jack is not the boyfriend who wins a duel honorably for you. he’s the one who’ll throw sand in an opponent’s eyes, set off a powder keg, or trick an entire crew into chasing a decoy ship while you slip away safe. his protection is never straightforward, but it’s clever, cunning, and bizarrely reliable. if you’re his, he will keep you breathing, even if he has to set the entire caribbean aflame to do it.

obsessive storytelling.

when drunk (which is often), jack talks about you constantly. to gibbs, to random tavern-goers, to people who weren’t even listening. it’s never simple — he’ll exaggerate wildly, retelling mundane moments as if they were legendary epics. “and then, you see, she gave me a look — the kind of look you’d cross the seven seas for, savvy?” people roll their eyes, but jack is oblivious.

ritualistic superstition about you.

jack would keep odd little tokens of you — a ribbon, a dropped button, a seashell you once picked up — and treat them as charms. he’ll rub them before a gamble, press them against his lips before a storm, mutter about how you’re his “lucky star, his talisman.” he’ll never admit outright how much he depends on them (and you), but it seeps through his every gesture.

affection is physical, but erratic.

he’s all hands — pulling you into his lap without warning, tangling fingers in your hair, wrapping himself around you like an octopus when drunk. sometimes, though, he’ll recoil, disappear below deck, unable to face how much he craves closeness. later, he’ll come back, acting as if nothing happened, maybe tossing a sarcastic “miss me?”

love as freedom, not chains.

jack would never say “i own you” or try to tie you down. in fact, the idea terrifies him. his love manifests as wanting you to choose him, every time, out of your own free will. he won’t keep you locked up; instead, he’ll hand you a compass and grin, asking, “where to, darling?” he believes the real proof of your bond is that despite all options, you still come back to him.

jack sparrow: long-term / domestic boyfriend headcanons

sharing a cabin is chaos.

living with jack means never knowing where anything is. his clothes are scattered between your things, half his trinkets are hidden in your drawers, and the bed smells faintly of salt, rum, and cloves. he has no sense of order, but he somehow knows exactly where every “important” item is (his compass, your necklace, a pouch of coins he swears multiplies when left alone). he gets genuinely irritated if you “tidy up” and disrupt his strange system.

morning rituals.

jack is not a morning person. expect him to sprawl across the bed, arms and legs wrapped around you like you’re his anchor, grumbling whenever you try to get up. he’ll mumble half-asleep nonsense — sometimes pirate strategy, sometimes slurred sweet nothings. he only stirs once the ship really wakes, and even then he prefers if you bring him a drink before he faces daylight.

arguments are theatrical.

jack doesn’t argue quietly. he waves his hands, paces, throws in words like “preposterous” and “utterly unreasonable.” he’ll rant dramatically about being misunderstood, then suddenly crack a joke in the middle of it to disarm you. he hates the idea of you being angry with him for long, so he’ll circle back after a blow-up, calmer, with some roundabout apology like, “what i meant, luv, was that you’re always right, except when you’re not, which is rare, and that’s why i keep you, savvy?”

intimacy quirks.

jack is tactile to an almost annoying degree. when sober, he’ll stroke your hair absentmindedly while plotting maps, or run his thumb over your knuckles mid-conversation. when drunk, he gets clingier — head on your lap, arms slung around you in public, lazy kisses on your neck. he doesn’t say “i love you” outright often, but his touches say it for him.

unexpected competence.

beneath the chaos, jack can actually be incredibly capable in small domestic ways. he knows how to patch sails, mend clothing with rough stitches, cook something edible from near-nothing. sometimes he’ll surprise you by doing something thoughtful — leaving a plate of food by your side, or repairing a trinket of yours without telling you, only for you to stumble across it later.

jealous habits at home.

even in private, jack gets competitive if you seem too enchanted by someone else’s story, even if it’s just in a book. he’ll interrupt with “ah, but did i ever tell you about the time i escaped the cannibals with only a spoon and a coconut?” until you laugh and look at him again. attention is his addiction, and you are his favorite supplier.

his idea of comfort.

jack doesn’t really “do” traditional comfort — he’ll never sit down and give a tidy pep talk. instead, he’ll pour you a drink, pull you into his side, and ramble on about something utterly irrelevant until you’re laughing. his way of making you feel safe is distraction, humor, and pulling you into his world of chaos so you don’t feel weighed down by your own.

nighttime closeness.

jack sleeps like he lives: erratic. sometimes sprawled face-down, hogging all the sheets. sometimes curled around you so tightly it’s impossible to move. sometimes wandering the deck at 3am only to sneak back in, smelling like sea wind and muttering a story as he drifts back off. but without fail, if he wakes up and you’re not beside him, he’ll get up and find you — restless until you’re back within reach.

loyalty beneath the chaos.

for all his vices, jack doesn’t cheat when he’s truly attached, even drunk. he might flirt, because it’s in his blood, but when you call him out he’ll grin and say, “ah, but notice, darling, how i never follow through. only one person gets the full performance.” and he means it. if you’re his, you’re stitched into his story, his compass needle points back to you no matter how often it spins. “you’re prettier anyway, the prettiest the seven seas ever had.”

the future, in his terms.

jack avoids talking about “settling down” in the traditional sense. he won’t ever say he wants to build a house or stay in one port. instead, his future with you looks like freedom: always having you at his side on deck, new ports, new stories, your laughter echoing louder than the sea. to him, that’s the most permanent, devoted kind of love — one that moves, survives, and sails forward.

[ginnysgraffiti]

my baby

[ginnysgraffiti]

i loooove arthur so much i had to write smth!

(gif from the fantastic @dilfgifs)

ARTHUR x yn.

relationship with arthur head-canons:

daily life.

- arthur treats your relationship with the same precision he brings to dreamscapes: he notices patterns, your habits, the way you like your coffee, the time you usually get tired — and quietly adjusts to accommodate you without making a show of it.

- never late. if he’s supposed to meet you at 7, he’s there at 6:55, hair perfectly in place, tie adjusted, like you’re the most important meeting of his day.

attention to detail.

- remembers the little things no one else does: the author you mentioned once in passing, the exact phrasing you used to describe your favorite childhood place, the way you pause before answering when you’re nervous.

- buys you practical gifts disguised as luxuries — a silk scarf because you’re always cold, a montblanc pen because your old one kept running out, noise-canceling headphones for long flights.

in public.

- arthur isn’t flashy. he doesn’t need to show you off because he respects you, but his protective streak is subtle and constant: a guiding hand at the small of your back, stepping between you and a crowded subway door, scanning the room the way only he can.

- never the jealous type — he has an unshakeable confidence in both himself and you. but if someone crosses a line, his smile turns razor-sharp, his tone cool, and suddenly the offender wants to be anywhere but in arthur’s gaze.

intimacy.

- with arthur, intimacy isn’t rushed. he’s careful, deliberate, attentive — more interested in making sure you feel secure and wanted than in proving himself.

- he loves kissing: slow, grounding, with his hand resting lightly on your jaw as if you might vanish if he doesn’t anchor you.

- pillow talk with arthur is calm and grounding: him tracing patterns on your arm, asking about your day in that low, steady voice, listening more than he talks.

softness.

- he has a dry wit, and when you get him to laugh, really laugh, it feels like unlocking a secret. he doesn’t do it often, but around you, it slips more easily.

- arthur isn’t dramatic with words, but when he does say “I love you,” it’s in a quiet, steady tone that makes it sound unshakably true.

when he lets his guard down.

- at night, when he finally pulls off his tie and jacket, he’s softer than anyone expects. you’ll find him stretched across the bed with his hair mussed, scrolling through notes on his phone with his glasses slightly crooked, looking human in a way the sharp-dressed arthur rarely shows the world.

- he doesn’t fall asleep easily, but when he does, it’s usually with his arm draped over you, body curled in as though you’re the only thing that keeps him grounded.

[ginnysgraffiti]

MOVIE CHARACTERS (in general) masterlist

( >ᴗ<) inbox : open ┊ requests : open .ᐟ.ᐟ

CHALLENGERS . art

personal coach

postponed match

coach knows better

THE BIKERIDERS . danny

professional pretext

type of bf: imagine

THE BIKERIDERS . benny

kisses

GLADIATOR II . emperor caracalla

kisses

INCEPTION . arthur

relationship

[ginnysgraffiti]

Very well, now let's see Paul Allen's headcanons.

that’s what i’m talking aboutttt

PAUL ALLEN x yn.

paul allen type of boyfriend head-canons:

social presence.

- takes you out to the trendiest restaurants and clubs, not because he wants you to enjoy them, but because he wants people to see him with you — you’re an accessory to his image. he orders three bottles of champagne, not because anyone asked, but because it looks good on the table.

- introduces you to people incorrectly at least twice, calling you “honey,” “darling,” or even the wrong name, but never missing the opportunity to brag about your looks.

attention span.

- paul has the attention span of a drunk golden retriever. mid-conversation, he’ll check his rolex, flirt with the waitress, and then suddenly kiss your cheek like nothing happened.

- often forgets dates, anniversaries, or promises, but makes up for it with obscene, expensive gifts that scream guilt more than romance.

the apartment.

- his place is a mess — half-empty bottles of chivas on the counter, armani ties slung over chairs, the faint smell of cigars. he’ll act like it’s “lived-in charm,” but in reality, he just doesn’t care.

- you might find women’s earrings under the bed that aren’t yours. if you confront him, he’ll laugh it off, pour you another drink, and distract you with talk of going to the bahamas next weekend.

intimacy.

- sex with paul is indulgent, sloppy, like he’s trying to impress himself more than you. he’s enthusiastic, but not particularly attentive — unless he’s drunk, in which case he becomes clingy, petting your hair and mumbling about how you’re “the only one who gets him.”

- his pillow talk is absurd: half bragging about deals, half nonsense about moving to paris, which you know he’ll forget by morning.

possessiveness.

- paul isn’t strategic like patrick — his jealousy is loud and sloppy. if another man looks at you, paul doesn’t brood; he announces himself, throwing an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in, slurring “mine” with a smirk.

- but he’s inconsistent: the next night, he’ll leave you at the bar for twenty minutes because he “ran into an old friend” (a model whose name he won’t remember).

romantic gestures.

- buys you jewelry, not because he knows your taste, but because it’s the most expensive thing in the window. he never bothers removing the tags.

- books trips impulsively — ibiza, st. barth’s, tahoe — but forgets to plan details. you end up stranded at a hotel lobby while he argues with the concierge about his platinum card.

emotional side.

- underneath the arrogance, paul has a streak of melancholy that slips out when he’s very drunk. in those moments, he clings to you like a child, admitting he feels like everyone is laughing at him, like he’s not as sharp as patrick or timothy. he buries his face in your shoulder and falls asleep there, vulnerable in a way he’d never admit sober.

- the next morning, he’ll act like it never happened.

[ginnysgraffiti]

patrick and pregnant reader headcanons

sureee :)

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

you’re pregnant.

- the moment you tell him, he doesn’t react the way most people would.

there’s no instant cry, no hug that lifts you off the floor — instead, his first instinct is control.

he stands perfectly still, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on you like you’ve just told him a stock price has spiked.

you can almost hear the way his mind shifts into logistics: nutrition, scheduling, image, optics.

- he spends the next hour subtly interrogating you — not about if you’re happy, but about exactly what vitamins you’re taking, how much water you drink, if your OB-GYN is “the best in the city” (and if not, he’s already on the phone making an appointment with someone who is).

- he will not say it outright, but the thought of your body changing unsettles him — not because he finds it unattractive, but because he can’t control how it will happen.

he starts leaving design magazines and expensive maternity catalogs on the coffee table like a silent directive: you will look perfect through all of this.

at night, however, it changes.

his hand finds its way to your stomach in his sleep, even before there’s a visible bump.

he will never admit it, but there’s something addictive to him about the idea of ownership — that you’re carrying something that’s both his and yours.

- at work, you become a status symbol without you even realizing it.

pierce & pierce’s quiet halls have heard him casually say “my wife’s pregnant” with the same tone as someone announcing they’ve purchased a new ferrari.

he won’t admit it, but it feeds his ego in a way nothing else quite has.

- he tries to “curate” your pregnancy diet like it’s an art gallery — every morning there’s a perfectly arranged plate of berries, greek yogurt, vitamin supplements, and coffee switched for herbal tea (a swap you did not approve).

when you try to sneak a donut or fries, he’ll just stare, eyes narrowing like you’ve committed a federal crime.

- his darker, obsessive traits start showing through.

he becomes hyper-aware of anyone who bumps into you, looks at you too long, or even makes a passing comment about pregnancy.

the idea of anyone hurting you — even accidentally — makes his jaw tick in that very particular way you’ve learned to recognize.

- and then there are the oddly soft moments, the ones that feel almost like a glitch in his personality:

you wake up to find him lying beside you, talking to your stomach in a voice that’s calm, low, and strangely sincere.

you never let on that you’re awake — you’re not sure he’d do it again if he knew you were listening.

during pregnancy, patrick could also get very insecure of what your friends may think about your pregnancy and him being the dad, causing him to eavesdrop your conversations any given chance.

patrick bateman — pregnancy insecurity and paranoia

- he notices you laughing on the phone with a friend about your latest craving or a weird doctor appointment. nothing unusual — except the way your friend says, “so, how’s the father handling it?”

he freezes mid-step, fork halfway to his mouth, heart rate ticking up. it’s a single line, but in patrick’s mind, it might as well be a declaration of war.

- after that, he starts…listening more closely.

not in a polite, curious way. overhearing becomes a ritual.

he’s not trying to eavesdrop; his brain just can’t stop registering the word “father,” “dad,” or any variation in tone, context, or even a passing glance you give someone while mentioning the pregnancy.

every conversation becomes a covert investigation.

- he analyzes your friends’ words with surgical precision.

did they sound impressed? judgmental? were they insinuating something? was the way they said “father” condescending or mocking?

patrick stores it all. mental notes, color-coded anxiety, silent calculations about how to respond without losing face — because of course, nothing in his world can remain uncontested.

- when you leave the room, he might replay the conversation silently in his office.

- “did she just…laugh at me?”

- “did they imply i’m not…capable?”

he’ll pace, muttering under his breath, running scenarios where he interjects just to assert control.

- this paranoia bleeds into other areas of life.

he scrutinizes every text you send with the computer, every email about prenatal appointments, every casual mention of “the baby” in conversation.

even harmless jokes — like “daddy better start practicing diaper duty” — trigger a sharp, unreasoned spike of anxiety.

- yet, despite this hyper-control, he’s also obsessively tender.

he checks your meals, insists on attending every ultrasound, and hovers like a hawk over every interaction.

he’s insecure about his place, but he channels it into perfectionism — perfect care, perfect planning, perfect optics.

- his internal monologue is exhausting:

if she’s laughing at someone else’s comment about me, am i failing as a father? are they laughing at my flaws? she’s mine — she’ll know i’m the father, the only father — why isn’t everyone acknowledging that?

- eventually, he doesn’t even try to hide it.

he asks pointed questions mid-conversation: “who said that?” “what exactly did they mean by that?”

he frames it like concern, but the tension in his jaw and the precision of his tone leave no doubt: it’s insecurity disguised as authority.

[ginnysgraffiti]

i fear this is me every time someone mentions american psycho

[ginnysgraffiti]

hi i js wanted too drop in to say I adoree your writing so much <33 thank you for creating ur blog & fics!!

heyyyyyy!! thank you sooooo much for your kindness and your support!! i’m so so glad that my stuff entertains you and that you enjoy it, it means the world to me <333

i’ll post as much as i can, have a wonderful dayyyy

[ginnysgraffiti]

i can no longer go on without admitting this…

nicola tesla is so so hear me out.

[ginnysgraffiti]

spaworker!reader, sex, 18+

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

you’re new at the spa. not just new — the best. the kind of masseuse whose name circulates in hushed, impressed tones through the upper echelon of regular clients. the spa is pure luxury: chrome fixtures, white marble floors, rooms scented with bergamot and sandalwood. the kind of place where silence itself feels expensive. patrick bateman has been a client for years. the staff know his routines, his preferred treatments, the exact temperature he likes his towels heated to. but when you arrive, he drops every other therapist and books exclusively with you.

the first session, he barely talks. he lies there, face down, eyes open, watching the polished floor through the cradle. cataloguing. your technique, the way you press your thumbs into muscle, how your hands linger at his shoulders. he corrects you in clipped, precise commands: “firmer, no, slower there,” — as though he’s directing a transaction rather than receiving care. when you adjust pressure exactly as he asks, he exhales a low, satisfied sound, almost a groan, but contained.

the second time he books, he upgrades immediately. requests the “executive oil treatment,” the most expensive one on the list, voice sharp as though testing if you’ll falter. you don’t. you warm the oil, glide it across his back, your palms skating over hard muscle. you feel his whole body tense when you work into his lower spine. his breathing changes, heavier, sharper.

“that’s good,” he mutters. “don’t stop there.”

the way he says it — flat, commanding — makes it clear he isn’t just talking about the massage.

by the third session, the atmosphere shifts. patrick doesn’t close his eyes anymore. he stares into the mirror mounted across the room, watching you as though the massage is a performance for his benefit. when your hands press into his thighs, he spreads his legs, deliberate, calculated — not obscene, but enough to corner you into brushing higher.

“higher,” he instructs. “higher. yes, right there.”

his voice is calm, almost casual, but it pins you in place. when you hesitate, he lifts his head, meets your gaze in the mirror, and smirks.

then he tests you — dirty talk disguised as interrogation.

“do you massage everyone like this?” he asks, tone controlled. “or just me?”

when you don’t answer, his smirk widens, sharp and cruel. “i can pay extra. i always pay extra.”

and when you give in — when you slide your hands higher and touch him where he’s been waiting for you to — the dam breaks. he flips onto his back without warning, his cock already hard, very hard, glistening from where oil dripped down.

“jerk me off properly,” he says, grabbing your wrist, forcing you into a rhythm on his cock. his voice is tight, hungry, yet still clipped, as though even now he can’t allow himself to lose control. “tighter. faster. no—slower. match my pace.”

his dirty talk sharpens with every stroke. “your hands are perfect. softer than i expected. you think anyone else here can make me come like this? absolutely not.”

but then it changes again. he drags you onto the table, oil slicking your clothes and skin, pushing you onto your back against the damp sheets.

he’s relentless, crawling over you, his body shimmering with sweat and bergamot oil. you’re already naked by the time he spreads you against the bed.

he pounds into you with mechanical precision, every thrust timed, every movement as calculated as a gym routine. your body is another extension of his obsession with control — but there’s heat in it too, the kind that’s addictive, consuming.

then, he makes it worse. he pulls out, grips your wrist, forces you up onto his lap.

“on top,” he orders. “bounce on it. i want to see you work for it.”

he grips your hips, sets the rhythm himself until you’re moving the way he wants. his face tilts back, his jaw slackening only slightly as his eyes rake over you. “fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice breaking only once when you squeeze tighter around him. “harder. come on. ride me properly.”

he groans when you grind down, low and guttural, surprising even him with how much control he lets slip. “fuck—yes. like that. keep going. don’t stop until i say.”

you do, and he keeps you there, fucking him until his breath turns ragged and he spills inside you, fingers bruising your waist.

patrick doesn’t stop. his hips slam up harder, faster, forcing a choked cry from your throat. he puts his last effort and thrusts faster just to make you bounce more, so that your breasts are bouncing right in front of his face.

and when you cum, bouncing, grinding down on him, the sound of your moans fills the room. patrick’s own release is violent, precise, and almost proud. he leans back, letting your body collapse against his chest.

afterwards, he doesn’t soften. he never softens. he wipes himself clean with the spa towel, adjusts his tie in the mirror like nothing happened.

“same time next week,” he says, buttoning his shirt. then, turning, with the smallest, cruelest smirk:

“and don’t book anyone else in this room after me. i don’t like sharing.”

[ginnysgraffiti]

TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET masterlist

(timothée’s characters)

( >ᴗ<) inbox : open ┊ requests : open .ᐟ.ᐟ

LEE (BONES AND ALL)

first time: imagine

period cramps: imagine

type of bf: imagine

staple the tongue

kisses

shower condensation

breeding kink

hound sense of smell

maple syrup

pick-up sunrise

the streetlight stalker

motel discovery

angel pink

BONES AND ALL THEORY

see post

LITTLE WOMEN

to be loved

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME

bed time

WONKA

first time: imagine

DUNE

in my visions

losing my religion

seeking for relief

slumber

THE KING (HENRY V)

queen duties

[ginnysgraffiti]

but like, genuine question, are we all ignoring the fact that patrick committed cannibalism four times? likeee??

[ginnysgraffiti]

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day.

reposting <33

[ginnysgraffiti]

hello!! I just read your latest post (love your hcs btw), and 47 asks??? That's a lot. Now, I might not be in the position to say this, but maybe you need to hear this. I don't know. If it's too much for you, take your time. Nobody's rushing you to complete all of them as fast as possible. And it's better to write stuff your content with than to try and rush it and possibly get burnt out or writers block. And if it doesn't bother you, then that's fine too, good for you.

Punctuation and grammar without auto correct are my worst two enemies, but I tried because i thnk in this case sometihng like this wouldnt be fiting. I hope this doesn't sound too serious tho. Anyway you're honestly carrying the american psycho x reader fandom in my opinion. Have a good day! :)

heyyyyyy!! i’m so so touched by your words, i’m honestly crying :(

i ABSOLUTELY needed to hear this, and it made my day, if not my whole month!

the only time i get to be active on tumblr is when i’m free from studies, courses and sport, so that means that i receive three requests a day but i have no time to post anything during the year if not during summer or winter breaks.

i’m always stressing out so much because i have way too many inboxes and sometimes the new ones are easier to write, and i don’t want people who left one weeks before to think that i forgot about them or that i don’t care, and i also don’t want them to forget that they left a request :(

i’ve been leaving some inboxes there for mothssss and i feel so so badddd :(

i’m just so worried all the time, but even the smallest gestures like seeing users leaving good comments or reposting my work is the biggest reward ever! likeee, what do you mean someone out there spends their precious time reading the stuff i write?!? whatttt???

that’s the best thing ever, and i’d just like to tell everyone who left a request to know that i’m currently trying to work on all of them and post as much as possible :< i love you all so soooooo much and i want to answer to everyone i swearrr.

thank youuu again for your words, it’s absolutely not granted to see that someone actually cares about it and leaves such a message. humans are beautiful oh myyyy :,)

thank you thank you thank you i hope you have a wonderful dayyyyyy and that, with my silly little writing, i can sometimes make your day too and make you happy!

[ginnysgraffiti]

hey!! i absolutely love your dad patrick headcanons, you write him so perfectly! i was thinking about what he would be like if he brought his daughter to work for a day (bc lets be honest he mostly listens to music & watches jeopardy in his office)

i especially love your headcanon about baby bateman biting patrick’s business cards and calling them rectangle snacks, and i was thinking what if she started sounding out his name on the card and started calling him patrick 😭

i also imagine patrick teaching her that she MUST use a coaster for all her juice boxes 🧃

anyway if you want to write any of these pls do i just wanted you to know that your writing sparked these cute ideas in my brain bc im not normal about dad patrick 🥹

yoooo heyyy!! i’m so sorry for answering just now, i have 47 inbox and i’m tryna be as productive as i can :,)

i’m soooooo soooo happyyyy that you enjoy my work and that it inspired you to come up with the MOST ORIGINAL HEADCANONS i’ve ever read aaaaa! i’m soooo in love help

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

pat brings your daughter to work day (after you argued about it for about three weeks).

- she’s tiny, maybe four or five, dressed in a ridiculously coordinated outfit that patrick 100% picked himself — pastel cashmere cardigan, patent mary janes, hair ribbon perfectly centered. he refuses to let her go in “childish” prints that clash with his aesthetic.

- patrick doesn’t really work when she’s there. but then again, patrick doesn’t really work when she’s not there — the only difference is that instead of leaning back in his chair, sipping an evian, and listening to huey lewis, he’s now sitting on the carpet with his tie loosened, watching her color with expensive monogrammed pencils he’ll later throw away because she touched them with sticky fingers.

- she finds his stack of pristine business cards in his drawer. patrick notices instantly and tenses — these are the bone-colored, silian rail lettering ones.

she bites the corner of one, chewing thoughtfully.

“rectangle snack,” she declares.

- patrick freezes. it takes everything in him not to correct her with “this is a watermark-balanced, off-white card with subtle embossing” — but he just says, “don’t eat them, honey.”

- later, he secretly replaces the entire stack.

- she starts sounding out the name on the card.

- “puh…pa-trick. p-paatrick.”

she’s never called him that before. he looks…startled. no one calls him patrick unless they have to. it sounds strange in her small voice, both disarming and faintly amusing. he thinks about calling you to tell you the news.

- “that’s right. patrick.” he repeats it, testing the sound. then: “but you call me dad.” he’s firm about it, but there’s a rare flicker of a smile that doesn’t look rehearsed.

- she tries to set her juice box on his desk, next to the B&O stereo remote. patrick’s reflexes are immediate.

- “coaster.”

- “what’s a coaster?”

- “it’s the thing between your juice and my walnut veneer desk.”

- she doesn’t understand but he makes her slide the juice box onto a leather coaster like it’s a sacred ritual. she’ll later start insisting on coasters at home, even for her dolls.

- at some point she curls up in the corner of his office couch with her coloring book while he plays jeopardy! on mute and mouths the answers faster than the contestants. she has no idea what he’s doing, but every time he gets it right, he glances at her to see if she’s impressed. she isn’t.

- when a coworker stops by and tries to make small talk, she interrupts to tell them her dad “likes rectangles more than people.” patrick chokes on his mineral water.

- when she’s finally collected and taken home, patrick lingers in his office a moment longer than usual. the desk is too neat again. the floor is too quiet. and there’s one business card with a perfect little tooth mark still in it. he doesn’t throw that one away.

patrick finally calls you from his office.

- the phone rings. you pick up, expecting a clipped, distracted “i’ll be late for dinner” or “where’s my reservation for tonight.” instead, there’s a pause — longer than usual — before his voice comes through.

- “she… called me patrick.”

he says it like it’s breaking news. like the dow just plummeted 300 points.

you ask who. you already know who.

“the baby. she read it off my business card.”

- there’s a faint, incredulous laugh in his tone, but it’s not the easy kind. more like he’s trying to figure out whether he should be amused or offended.

“i told her it’s dad. not patrick. she… didn’t care. she said it again.”

you can picture him there — leaning back in his chair, one hand on the phone, the other spinning a montblanc pen slowly between his fingers like he’s replaying the scene in his head.

he doesn’t like being called patrick casually. he’s made that clear. but this isn’t a colleague or a rival — this is her.

- “do you think that’s funny?” he asks finally. you say yes. another pause.

“hm.” he’s pretending to be unimpressed, but there’s a subtle warmth under the syllable.

- he adds — almost as an afterthought — “and she called my business cards ‘rectangle snacks.’”

now you laugh.

- “it’s not funny,” he insists, but there’s the faintest upward pull in his voice, like he’s suppressing a smile he doesn’t want you to hear.

- before hanging up, he says, “just…tell her when she gets home it’s dad. i don’t want her walking into kindergarten calling me patrick like some…guy she met on the street.”

- but you know when he gets home, he’ll let her call him patrick at least one more time, just to hear it.

what if you’re worried about what the baby might have seen or watched in his office? you call patrick immediately.

- he answers on the third ring, the faint sound of phil collins in the background. “yeah?”

crisp, impersonal, like he’s halfway through signing something and you’re interrupting.

- you ask, cautiously, if the baby saw… anything in his office she shouldn’t have.

- there’s a brief silence, then a dry, almost impatient, “what does anything mean?”

you clarify: the magazines. the tapes. the tv.

another pause — but this one feels like he’s sitting back, actually thinking about it.

- “first of all,” he says finally, “i don’t just…leave those lying around. it’s called taste, not negligence.”

his tone is defensive, but precise — like he’s clarifying his brand rather than denying guilt.

- you press again: are you sure?

a sharper inhale this time. “look. she was in here with me all the time. she ate half a granola bar on my glass desk, drooled on my phone, called my cards rectangle snacks again, and colored on my fax machine with a crayon. that’s all.”

- he says it like he’s reading off an evidence log, convinced it clears him of all suspicion.

- “the tv?” you push.

“cartoons. obviously.” then, almost as an afterthought: “though she did hit the remote once and almost switched it to something…less appropriate. but i handled it.”

- you ask what “handled it” means.

- “i put on a nature documentary about whales. not exactly erotic, unless you’re into that, which i’m not.”

there’s a beat where you can hear him adjusting his tie, like the whole conversation is beneath him but mildly amusing.

- “you think i’m going to traumatize my own kid?” he asks, tone somewhere between offended and smug.

- you don’t answer.

- “please. i wouldn’t even let her see a bad tie. forget porn.”

- before hanging up, he says, almost to himself, “if she’d seen something, she would’ve mentioned it. she’s at that age where she narrates everything. believe me — i’d know.”

- click. line dead.

- you’re left half-convinced…and half-wondering what exactly almost played on that tv.

and what if the baby girl accidentally walks into pat’s office and sees on tv an inappropriate videotape of yours patrick made you film? the baby walks in while patrick’s having a call. timothy was supposed to look after her but apparently she managed to ran away.

patrick had the tape in the vcr behind his desk, half-hidden under some pristine copies of gq and a pierce & pierce quarterly report.

he’d put it on during lunch, volume low, because he “needed the motivation” for his afternoon meetings.

- the door clicks open, tiny footsteps, and suddenly there’s a three-year-old in the doorway holding her juice box.

- patrick’s first thought isn’t oh god, it’s: how the hell did she figure out the latch?

- second thought: she’s too short to see the screen properly. maybe she won’t—

“is that…mommy?”

the question hits like a car crash.

- patrick freezes, remote in hand, heart rate slightly elevated — but his face stays unreadable.

- “yes,” he says evenly, walking over to block the tv with his body. “that’s mommy…doing yoga.”

- “but she’s not wearing yoga pants.”

- “advanced yoga,” he corrects, tone crisp, as if that explains everything.

she tilts her head. squints at the screen past him.

- “why are you on top of her?”

- patrick presses stop on the vcr so hard it almost snaps. screen goes black.

- “balance exercise. you wouldn’t understand.”

in a flash, the tape is ejected, slid into a manila envelope, and locked in his briefcase.

- “you didn’t see anything,” he says, not in a threatening way, but in that oddly persuasive corporate tone he uses to close deals.

- “i saw mommy!” she giggles, already distracted by his business card holder.

by the time you call to check in, he’s composed.

- “everything’s fine. she’s coloring. no, she didn’t see anything inappropriate. why would she? i’m not reckless.”

his voice is smooth, but he’s already decided that from now on, the tape stays at home, in a locked drawer — accessible only after dark, with a drink in hand.

later, he’ll casually tell you over dinner: “we may need to start teaching her about…discretion. just in case.”

- you’ll know something happened. he’ll never admit exactly what.

however, the baby lets it slip.

- it’s a thursday afternoon. patrick’s at pierce & pierce, probably leaning back in his chair with his headphones on, pretending to work while he listens to huey lewis.

you’re home with her, folding laundry in the living room. she’s on the rug with crayons, coloring in a catalog he left out.

out of nowhere — like she’s just recalling a funny thing she saw — she says: “i saw you and daddy doing yoga at his work!”

- you stop mid-fold. look up. “yoga?”

- “yeah. you didn’t have clothes. daddy was on top so you wouldn’t fall.”

you’re frozen for a full five seconds.

she keeps talking, entirely innocent: “and the tv was really loud and you were making funny sounds. daddy said it’s balance exercise.”

- you feel your stomach drop into your knees. the phone’s in your hand before you’ve even decided to call.

- he picks up on the second ring, voice calm, detached: “bateman here, pierce&pierce. what can i do for you?”

- “patrick. she…saw. the tape. in your office.”

- silence. just a faint sound of his breath through the line.

“she said you told her it was yoga,” you add, incredulous.

his tone stays smooth: “it’s called controlling the narrative. she believed it, didn’t she?”

- you can practically hear the smirk.

“patrick, she’s four—”

- “exactly. her memory retention is minimal, her vocabulary is limited, and frankly, she’ll forget it by monday. you, on the other hand, need to relax.”

you swear you hear him shuffle papers — like he’s multitasking while you panic.

“so you’re not…concerned?”

“concerned? no. irritated? yes — that you’re making this a thing. i’ve already handled it. you’re welcome.”

- before you can argue, he ends the call with: “i’ll be home at six. wear the black slip.”

later that night, when he walks in, he acts like nothing happened. but you catch him shooting the baby a look — that mix of amusement and warning only he can pull off.

- she just waves at him and says: “hi daddy,” like it’s a normal day.

[ginnysgraffiti]

I am absolutely begging you for a piece or headcanon about Patrick stealing readers panties- 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

OMG YESSSS @scaledandspicy

use of dirty language, strong actions (not really), 18+

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

patrick bateman stealing your panties.

- it doesn’t happen in some sloppy, juvenile way — he’s deliberate. surgical. he’s in your shared apartment, but you’re in the shower, or in the other room on the phone. he’s opening your dresser drawer like it’s a specimen case. he doesn’t rummage — he selects. one pair. maybe two. obviously the cream colored one with the ribbon and the pink one have to be included.

- he doesn’t take the newest. he takes the one you wore recently, the fabric still holding the faintest trace of your perfume and skin. he folds it in half, smooth, then slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket like it’s nothing more than a business card.

- he keeps a perfectly composed face when you walk in. he’ll even ask you some neutral question — “do you want to eat out tonight?” — knowing that his pulse is just slightly quicker, not from guilt, but from the control of keeping it hidden.

- you don’t notice right away. it’s days later, maybe when you’re dressing for work, that you realize something’s off. you go through the drawer twice. you’re not sure if you misplaced it, or if laundry is missing. it’s the uncertainty that eats at you.

- when you finally bring it up casually — “i think some of my underwear’s missing” — he looks up from whatever he’s doing with the exact right amount of surprise. it’s not overplayed. he even frowns like he’s genuinely thinking. “probably stuck in the dryer at the cleaner’s,” he says, turning a page in his wall street journal.

- in reality, that pair is hidden in a place you’ll never look — tucked in a shoe box at the back of his closet, inside an expensive leather folio he doesn’t use. he doesn’t take them out often. he doesn’t have to. the knowledge of owning something so intimate, without your permission, is the point.

- if you do catch him — maybe you open that box while searching for something — he doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t blush. he just looks at you with a faint, unreadable smile, like you’ve discovered some secret currency between you. “you weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, in a tone that makes it impossible to tell if he’s joking.

- you realize, in that moment, he’s not embarrassed. he’s enjoying that you know. that now, when you get dressed, you’ll remember his hands were there before yours.

if you ask patrick why.

- he doesn’t answer right away. he sets down whatever’s in his hands — maybe a crystal glass, maybe a copy of the Times. he looks at you like you just asked the most fascinatingly naïve question.

- “why?” he repeats, as if tasting the word. his tone is soft, almost amused. “because they’re yours.” no elaboration. no apology. he says it like it’s the most airtight logic in the world.

- he tilts his head, studying your reaction the way someone would watch a painting change in the light. if you look unsettled, his smile sharpens; if you look curious, it softens.

- “do you need a better reason than that?” he asks, but it’s rhetorical — he’s already decided the answer is no.

if you ask what he did with them.

- his eyes don’t flicker. his voice stays level, almost gentle. “kept them,” he says simply, as though anything else would be absurd.

- if you press — “what for?” — his lips twitch into something between a smirk and genuine interest. “to have something of you that you didn’t give me.”

- he doesn’t talk about scent, or intimacy, or fetish. he lets the implication hang, knowing your mind will fill in more than he could say.

- if you keep staring, he’ll lean forward just slightly, lowering his voice: “you’d be surprised what I can keep without you noticing.” it’s not even about the panties anymore — it’s about control.

- he doesn’t return them. he doesn’t promise to stop. in fact, after this conversation, you find another pair missing within the week.

if you really ask him what he did with them.

- he doesn’t get flustered. patrick bateman doesn’t do flustered. instead, he studies you in that unnervingly still way, eyes sharp but his posture loose, like a cat that’s decided you’re worth stalking.

- “you really want to know?” he asks, and it’s not a courtesy. it’s a warning.

- when you nod, his smile appears slow, deliberate. the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

- “i used them,” he says plainly. there’s no pornographic detail, no attempt to soften it with a joke. he wants the weight of the word to sit in your head.

- he leans back slightly, almost casual now. “not in a way you’d understand unless you were there.” his voice is lower, coaxing, like he’s describing a wine you’ll never taste.

- he watches your face for every flicker — discomfort, curiosity, shock — and catalogues them like he’s taking mental notes for later use.

- “don’t look so scandalized,” he adds, feigning mildness. “you left them behind. i was just… repurposing.”

- if you ask again, pushing for the exact act, he tilts his head. “are you asking because you’re disgusted, or because you want to hear it?” either answer feeds him.

you press him.

- he doesn’t hesitate. no coy smile, no fake innocence — just that sharp, surgical delivery he uses when he’s laying out financial projections.

- “i jerked off with them, a lot” he says flatly, like he’s telling you the time of day. “right there on my sofa. you know the one. the cream one with the ribbon.”

- you don’t answer, and he fills the silence himself, voice low but clipped, every word deliberate. “had them in my fist. pressed them to my face the whole time. inhaled until i could barely breathe. came all over them. hard.”

- he tips his head slightly, watching your reaction. “got some on the coffee table too, but i wiped it off. wouldn’t want a stain.”

- then, almost like an afterthought: “i wore them once. under my trousers. at lunch with timothy bryce. thought about you the whole meal.” his tone makes it sound like this is the part you should be most disturbed by.

- he leans forward, eyes scanning your face like a lie detector. “that’s what you wanted to hear, right? details.”

- you can’t tell if he’s more amused or aroused by your silence — but the way his mouth twitches suggests he’s already thinking about taking another pair, just to see if you’ll ask again.

- before you can walk away to throw up in the bathroom, he adds “oh and…i think i may have not cleaned one, but i videotaped it, don’t worry.”

…he what?

he offers to show you the proof.

- he goes to your bedroom without asking, opens your lingerie drawer, takes a pair like he already knew which ones he’d pick.

- sits on the mattress in front of you, panties in one hand, loosening his tie with the other.

“watch closely.” (alfred borden mention hehe)

- presses the crotch of the panties to his face, inhales, eyes closing like he’s high on it. his other hand unbuckles his belt, pulls his cock out, already half-hard and precum visible and — dragging your panties there — he starts stroking, slow and deliberate. efficient precision of a man who’s done this before and likes it ritualized.

- “this is where you start regretting asking,” he says, and his tone is pure threat disguised as civility. you watch as he gets himself off exactly as he told you — no edits, no modesty — until the fabric is stained soaked and the air in the room smells different.

- he talks while doing it. “this is exactly how it happened. my fist tight around them. nose buried in your scent. thinking about you spread open for me.”

- his pace builds, his breathing sharper. “i came hard. fast. ruined them completely. couldn’t stop smelling them even when they were wet.”

- and then it happens, just like he said — hot, thick, all over the fabric. he rubs it in with his palm, still breathing hard, then tosses them into your lap. “return policy” he says without a trace of irony. in reality, he still has one dirty pair in his drawer, the one he’ll never give back.