ginnysgraffiti

[ginnysgraffiti]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I WAS DRAWING PATRICK BATEMAN AND MY DAD WALKED INTO THE LIVING ROOM SINGING POWER OF LOVE BY LEWIS AND THE NEWS?!

[ginnysgraffiti]

Hii! Can you do patrick bateman × reader who is a secretary? Love your works ♡ ^^

heyyy!

i wrote something similar already, maybe you’d like to check it out here :)

in any case, if you wish to read other head-canons of patrick and secretary!reader, i’m here for you <3

[ginnysgraffiti]

I freaking adore your Patrick Bateman headcannons!! I wanted to know your thoughts on how Patrick would deal with an s/o that wasn’t very physically affectionate/touch-adverse? Thank you for your time!

sureee! thank you for using your time to leave a request <3

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

his ego cracks at the silence.

patrick isn’t used to being denied. not in restaurants, not in bed, not in the smallest gestures of daily control. he’s not necessarily sentimental about affection — his physical touch tends to be performative, part of a rhythm of dominance, a checklist — but it’s supposed to be expected. when he leans in to kiss your cheek and you turn slightly away, or flinch (even slightly) from a hand on your waist, something in him stalls. not rage, not immediately — just confusion. then a bruised sort of insult.

“is this…deliberate?” he might ask one evening, with a half-laugh that isn’t actually amused.

he says it like he’s joking. but he isn’t.

he’s watching you like you’re a rubik’s cube someone solved wrong on purpose. and he hates not understanding.

he becomes uncomfortably fixated.

he’ll pretend not to care. “everyone has preferences,” he says casually. “some people don’t like oysters, some people don’t like to be… touched.”

he shrugs like he means it. then spends two hours lying awake staring at the ceiling and wondering if it’s because you don’t like him.

he starts cataloguing when you withdraw, tracking it like data. at what time of day? during which moods? did he say something before it happened? he’ll create elaborate internal theories and rewrite them hourly.

and because he has no healthy concept of boundaries, he’ll test you on purpose — just to see. a kiss on the shoulder. brushing too close while passing.

if you stiffen, his mind spins: what the fuck is wrong with me?

but eventually, it gets worse — because he gets better at pretending.

when he realizes this isn’t something you’ll “get over,” he adapts — but with that hollow, sociopathic efficiency that always masks a darker intent.

he becomes gentlemanly. tactful. unnervingly patient.

“no touching today either? alright. can i at least walk you home?”

he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t push. instead, he becomes the perfect partner.

he buys you gloves in winter so he has an excuse to hand them to you, fingers brushing.

he picks up books about neurodivergence, emotional processing, body trauma — he doesn’t read them all the way, but he flips to sections he thinks are relevant.

to anyone else, he looks like a partner trying to be sensitive.

but to patrick? this is sick manipulative strategy.

if you won’t let him touch you, he’ll make sure you still need him. emotionally. financially. existentially. in any other way.

when you do initiate, even gently, he spirals.

the first time you touch him, of your own volition — a hand to the chest, a kiss to the temple — his body goes still. for a second, his entire world freezes into that gesture.

he won’t show it. won’t breathe wrong.

but when you leave the room, he sits down on the edge of his bed and stares at his reflection like something irreversible just happened.

because it did. you gave him the one thing he didn’t demand.

and now he’s addicted.

he starts seeing your resistance as purity.

in the most twisted part of his mind, he begins to associate your touch-aversion with something higher. you’re not cold, he tells himself — you’re sacred.

you don’t give out pieces of yourself to just anyone. and that means what he gets from you — even just a slight lean against his side during a movie — is worth more than everything he’s taken from everyone else.

and this makes him territorial. disturbingly so.

the idea that anyone else could touch you — emotionally, sexually, even accidentally — starts to feel violating to him.

“they don’t even know what they’re handling,” he mutters once, eyes dark. “you’re rare. they’d ruin you.”

but the longing doesn’t go away — it warps.

he doesn’t stop wanting you physically. he just learns how to suffer it.

he kisses your hair when you’re asleep. runs his fingers along your arm when you’re not paying attention. leaves notes instead of touching your back.

every gesture is quiet, controlled — until one day it won’t be.

because patrick bateman is not patient by nature.

and eventually, the mask always cracks.

[ginnysgraffiti]

Heyyy, can you pls write a fic where you tell Patrick that you want to wait with having sex and how he would react? Btw I loveeee your writing˃͈◡˂͈

sure! ><

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

when you first tell him you want to wait before having sex, he assumes he misheard.

“sorry pat, but i’d like to wait before having sex.” you tell him one night, just before he could unhook your night bra lingerie.

no one ever says that to patrick bateman. not really. people imply it, maybe, in desperate gestures of power-play or performance modesty, but no one — no one — has ever said it as plainly and calmly as you do.

at first, it doesn’t even register as rejection — it reads more like a scheduling delay. he blinks once, and says, “of course,” with the same tone he’d use if his stockbroker needed an extra week. he plays it cool. but beneath the tailored exterior, something twitchy begins to spark. not rage — yet— but something sharper, more wounded, something close to confusion. why would you choose not to want him? do you not see him? do you not understand?

later that night.

he doesn’t call. doesn’t text. he sits in the dark of his apartment, the city skyline glowing cold through the glass, his reflection twitching faintly in the window as the beatles play faintly on vinyl. his tie is still on. his shoes, still polished. he doesn’t move.

for a full ten minutes he contemplates the idea of jerking off on the couch, or call sabrina for simple meaningless relief, but he does not act on his thoughts.

his mind wanders in doubt, insult, perversion, obsession. he wants to dissect you. emotionally, intellectually. physically? maybe. what are you hiding behind that refusal? is it fear? a tactic? principle?

he grips his wine glass so hard it cracks. the stain on his shirt is immediate, and he doesn’t flinch.

he wonders if you’re making him earn you.

and, god help him, part of him likes that.

instead of pushing, he redirects.

if you’re not ready for sex, then fine. he’ll seduce you psychologically. he’ll become indispensable in every other way. you’ll wake up to espresso machines he’s had delivered to your doorstep. he’ll mail you obscure first-edition books he heard you mention once. he’ll take you to art galleries and stand behind you, too close, while you describe the colors. if you can’t be his physically, you’ll still be his object. he would come over to your place to spend time with you, making sure to take off his valentino jacket in the most seductive way possible. he’d apply the cologne you go crazy for, and he would strategically undo his belt after he’s finished the dinner you cooked just to see your reaction.

during the nights you agree on sleeping at his place, he would enter the bedroom unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his toned abs to you, his veins visible enough to mark significantly his biceps and hands, and yes, he even skipped work hours to hit the gym extra hours just for you to see the results.

and more than that, he starts to notice a twisted craving in himself — something foreign. patience. or something like it. it frightens him, because it means you’re not like the others. and if you’re not like them, then maybe — maybe — he has to be someone else with you. someone better. or worse.

what he doesn’t say (and doesn’t know how to) is that the longer you make him wait, the more he wants you to ruin him.

not just physically — though, yes, that too — but metaphysically. he imagines what it will mean, what it will feel like, if he’s allowed to touch you. if you’ll only let him. he dreams about it in fragments. your voice. your hands. your breath hitching because of him, not fear, not obligation, but desire. and it makes something hurt.

not just in his body, but in that vestigial place in him that rarely moves.

when he falls asleep beside you after a night of no touching, he doesn’t say a word. but his eyes stay open far longer than yours. watching. waiting. (ok patrick, that’s creepy).

when you fall asleep beside him, warm and untouched, he finally starts to understand sex.

there’s something almost too good in being allowed near you without taking anything. without being permitted to devour. he finds a kind of power in restraint. a perverse ecstasy in not having.

because it means there’s still something to reach for. he notices with fear that he still wants you —even tho he never had sex with you — he still appreciates your presence more than anything else. so what is sex then, if he already feels comfortable around you? that could only mean that sex is a way to get even closer to you, to your soul, to everything you are, bare and vulnerable, and not just skin to abuse.

[ginnysgraffiti]

Patrick with a yn during the period is crazy

uhhh this is a tricky one!!

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

the first time you mention you’re on your period, he freezes — not out of disgust, but out of calculation.

his expression doesn’t change. no visible recoil. but behind the stillness, you can feel something mechanical shifting, like he’s rearranging data.

period…she has period.

his relationship with bodily functions — especially other people’s — is complicated. he compartmentalizes. categorizes. if it can’t be toned, trained, or numbed with an imported cleanser, it unnerves him.

but then there’s you.

and if it’s you, it must be manageable.

he nods once, crisp and short, like you’ve given him a new variable to solve for.

within hours, his medicine cabinet suddenly contains an array of tampons, pads, painkillers, supplements, and two different kinds of heating pads — one disposable, one ergonomic and bluetooth-powered.

you didn’t even ask.

he watches you like he’s studying symptoms, not behavior.

the shift in your mood. the way you curl tighter into the couch. the tone in your voice when you’re short with him.

to someone else, it might register as empathy, but to patrick, it’s about control through observation.

he doesn’t like things he can’t fix.

and if pain is something you just endure, he feels equal parts offended and fascinated by the biology of it — and deeply, deeply irritated that it’s something you have to go through without any useful solution.

he’ll murmur things like, “you’re not drinking enough water today.” or “you haven’t moved in three hours, that’s not going to help your circulation.”

not out of care, but compulsion. still — it’s care in the only way he knows how.

in private, he treats it like something sacred.

there’s something primitive in the idea that your body bleeds and survives. it unearths something strange and reverent in him.

he doesn’t like the mess — of course he doesn’t — but if he ever walks in on you changing, or resting with a faint stain on your pajama shorts, he doesn’t comment.

his jaw tightens. but not from revulsion. from restraint.

like it sparks something territorial and ceremonial in him.

“this is a cycle,” he tells himself. “a natural, necessary process. come on patrick, you know what period is.”

he’ll pour you tea like it’s a ritual. bring you ice cream and painkillers, place them silently on the nightstand, and sit beside you with a book he won’t really read.

he becomes possessive in strange, quiet ways.

when you’re curled up, aching and exhausted, you’re more pliant — softer in your movement, slower in your responses.

patrick notices.

he doesn’t exploit it, but he leans into it.

he’ll slip into bed behind you without being asked.

rest a hand on your lower stomach, palm flat, and press the heat of his body against your spine.

you’ll ask if he minds. he’ll say, “of course not. your stomach needs to be kept warm.”

and it’s the rare moment he means it — not for show, not for sex, not for power.

just to be there and be the comfort you’re looking for.

he would most likely fall asleep with his big veiny hand tracing shooting circles on your belly to make sure it’s warm enough.

and yes — he still wants you. weird, right?

he’s vain enough to find the hormonal flush on your cheeks attractive.

and though he won’t say it outright, he’s…curious.

about what it would feel like to be close to you like that when you’re most vulnerable, and your body’s more reactive, more sensitive.

he’ll test boundaries.

“you’re sure it hurts too much?” he’ll murmur one night, voice low in the dark. “you just looked like you needed a distraction.”

if you say no, he won’t press.

if you say yes — even tentatively — he’ll be careful. unnervingly so.

he’ll still want control, but in a way that prioritizes your comfort first.

because this version of you — flushed, tired, trusting — is something sacred to him.

and he treats it accordingly.

how patrick reacts to not being able to have sex — at first, he sees it as a personal offense.

not in a cruel or loud way — but in the exact, cold manner of someone who’s so entitled to you, so used to receiving what he wants, that denial feels like insult.

he’ll retreat into silence for a beat. maybe two.

his hands will still — one resting on your thigh, or curled around your wrist. his mouth will press into a flat line, almost like a boy being told he can’t open a present yet.

“i see,” he says — quietly, but clearly annoyed.

he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he asks how long it’s going to last.

“is it…so bad this time?”

but once the mood shifts and he collects himself, he doesn’t argue.

he’s too image-conscious, too disciplined, to force anything.

instead, he’ll refocus all of that repressed energy into exercise, grooming, or being aggressively helpful — not because he wants to serve, but because if he can’t touch you sexually, he needs to dominate the situation some other way. (he will of course jerk off when you’re not there).

eventually, he finds a way to make the restriction feel intimate — and under his control.

patrick doesn’t cope well with being told “not now” but once he accepts that this is recurring — that it will happen again, and again — he reframes it.

if he can’t have sex, then fine.

he’ll act as if he’s the one choosing not to, which helps restore the illusion of power in his mind.

he might lean over you with a glint in his eye, voice low, and say something like: “you need rest. not me. i’ll take care of everything else.”

and then he’ll draw a bath, heat a towel, clean the sheets. not because he cares — not in the normal, empathetic sense, but because when he can’t have you, he needs to own your environment.

he’ll make you tea while dressed in a thousand-dollar robe. he’ll fold your laundry in gloves, turn down your bed like it’s a hotel. he won’t stop hovering.

to patrick, sex might be off the table, but dominance never is.

what if you realize how needy he is and, knowing how much he usually craves sex, you decide to tell him yes anyway?

if you say yes—knowing what it means to him, knowing how physically driven he is, how intolerant of delay or denial he can be—and you offer yourself up anyway, cramps and all, voice soft with guilt or affection or something between the two?

patrick goes very still.

not with disbelief, exactly. but with a kind of dark, internal stillness. like a man suddenly aware of how easily the world gives to him when he wants something badly enough.

he doesn’t lunge. doesn’t strip you down or devour you the way he normally might.

because you’ve changed something.

you’ve turned this into a gift. a choice. and it disorients him.

“…are you sure?”

it’s barely audible. not out of concern for you, really—more like he’s double-checking the universe. like he can’t quite believe this offer is real, and he’s terrified to handle it the wrong way and have it taken back.

if you confirm, if you say “yes. i want to,” or “yes, for you,” then you watch something fracture in him, behind the eyes. not violently—almost reverently.

he exhales through his nose, long and slow, and there’s a flicker of something in his posture: the businessman still, but reduced, like you’ve just peeled him out of the immaculate shell and what’s left underneath is…softer. needier.

he’ll touch you very gently at first. reverent. worshipful, even. not out of romance, but out of greed.

because you’re not supposed to say yes right now.

you’re supposed to be off-limits. fragile. in pain.

and yet here you are—giving yourself to him anyway, despite the discomfort, despite the inconvenience. he’ll murmur under his breath as he undresses you: “you always do this to me…”

“you don’t even know what that does to me…”

“you’re still in time to back off.”

and for once, it’s not purely about power or ego. it’s about you choosing him when you don’t have to. and that? that wrecks him.

he’ll be intense—but careful. restrained in a way that feels obsessive. hyper-aware of your breath, your flinches, your pain—but not because he wants to stop, because he wants to consume around it. like he’s trying to claim you without breaking you.

afterwards, he stays closer than he normally does. he cleans you immediately, wipes you down with a cloth warmed in the bathroom sink. places his head against your stomach like some beautiful, terrible thing trying to tether himself to your body just a bit longer.

he won’t say thank you—he doesn’t know how.

but he’ll hold your hips like he’s anchoring himself, and he’ll mutter again under his breath, over and over: “mine. mine. mine.”

because you gave yourself to him when you didn’t have to.

and in bateman’s warped little psyche, that’s more sacred than any expensive dinner, any tailored suit, any perfect night.

you said yes when you were supposed to say no.

and to him, that makes you the only thing on earth worth ruining for.

out in public — especially at an upscale restaurant — he spirals internally if you begin to cramp.

you excuse yourself halfway through the wine list, your fingers pressing against your lower abdomen — and he watches you go, pupils dilating, lip twitching like he’s trying not to scowl.

not at you — but at the sheer lack of control.

he hates the idea that something biological could pull your attention away from him.

when you return, his jaw’s tense. he asks in a voice that’s both concerned and irritated: “do you want to leave?”

he hopes you say yes.

he doesn’t want you seen like this — uncomfortable, unfocused, not the luminous, pristine version of you that reflects well on him.

if you do want to leave, he’ll cover the bill immediately, take your coat himself, walk you out with a palm on the small of your back like he’s shielding you from onlookers.

but if you insist on staying, he will compensate.

he’ll flag down the sommelier, demand a different wine pairing, change the music volume, quietly scold the waiter if the lighting seems too dim or the water wasn’t poured fast enough.

because if he can’t fix you, he’ll fix everything else in the room.

if you say “i’m sorry for ruining your reservation. i know how much effort it took, you booked it three months in advance”?

you watch him go still, his expression unreadable in that terrifyingly blank patrick bateman way, like he’s been momentarily rebooted.

for a moment, there’s that flicker behind his eyes. ego. resentment. the innate bateman response to imperfection, especially public imperfection, especially if it reflects on him.

but then he exhales, slowly. something shifts. it isn’t kindness. it’s possession.

“you think that’s what i care about right now?”

his voice is cold, low, with that weirdly composed hostility that somehow never raises in volume, and yet pins you in place. but he leans forward just slightly, enough to make his words feel private.

“what’s the point of the reservation if you’re sitting there in pain?”

“you looked like you were about to pass out on the way back from the restroom.”

he’ll look down at your hand—or maybe your abdomen—like he’s memorizing the way you curl into yourself. like he’s cataloguing it. not with pity, but a strange kind of dark protectiveness.

and then: “i can make another reservation, i can’t make another you.”

he says it stiffly, like the words taste foreign in his mouth—but real, nonetheless. because if there’s one thing patrick bateman doesn’t tolerate, it’s losing his things. and tonight, you’ve just reminded him how human you are.

and in some twisted corner of his psyche, that only makes him grip tighter.

he pays the bill with a cutting glare at the sommelier, takes your coat himself, and helps you into the car without a word—but all through the ride, his hand rests over yours like an anchor.

when you get home, he silently tucks you into bed, disappears into the bathroom…and returns with water, medicine, and the silkiest robe he owns.

he doesn’t comment on the ruined evening again.

but later, when you’re half-asleep under the covers, you feel his fingers ghost over your arm.

“no, don’t say that again. i knew you were about to.” quiet. commanding. “you didn’t ruin anything.”

because as much as he cares about status, exclusivity, and perfection—he cares more about the ownership of the one person who makes him feel something beyond the hollow.

and that, to him, is worth rescheduling dorsia.

later, he asks too many questions — most of them clinical. he’s genuinely curious.

“how long does this last for you, usually?”

“is it heavier at night? are the mood swings worse in the afternoon?”

“what does your doctor say about the cramping? do you chart your cycle?”

he sounds like a spreadsheet come to life. but this is how he deals — he turns emotion into data.

and once he knows what to expect, he builds rituals around it.

your preferred brand of pads is now stocked in the guest bathroom.

your painkillers are sorted by potency and expiration date in the medicine drawer.

he keeps your “softest” clothes folded in a drawer in his closet, just for those days.

he’d never admit it, but he also programs reminders into his calendar — “check-in. day 3. extra irritable?”

because when he knows, he feels in control. and when he feels in control, he can care.

[ginnysgraffiti]

What if Patrick and Paul had romantic interest in the same person :3

HELLOOOO THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUTTTTT! WHOEVER LEFT THIS REQUEST, I WORSHIP YOU hihi ><

CRAZY TO SAY I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE

PATRICK BATEMAN & PAUL ALLEN x yn.

head-canons:

how it begins.

you are magnetic — sharp, observant, capable of wounding them with the right look. and worse, you don’t seem impressed by patrick, nor paul.

paul notices you first, in that lazy, flirty way he wears like a cheap tie. he throws out lines that would normally make someone giggle and blush, carrying himself with his usual light and almost cheerful mood, but you raise an eyebrow and ask if he’s trying to get out of a sexual harassment lawsuit. he’s enamored.

patrick, on the other hand, is watching. not participating, not yet. he sees paul circling you like a wolf with a martini and feels a tight, irrational annoyance crawl up his spine.

but it’s not jealousy yet. it’s something subtler, like hearing a song he thought only he loved being played in someone else’s car. he tells himself it would be humiliating to fall so low and have feelings for a random girl that paul allen likes.

the thought alone makes him puke, but with time, things get only worse, and attraction sticks to him like expired glue.

who figures it out first? patrick. and he does not take it well.

paul, in his usual obliviousness, doesn’t notice the shift. he’s always with his head in the clouds and his carefree attitude does not go that far. he thinks he’s being clever when he leans over patrick at lunch at harry’s and says, “hey, you know that intern? cute. think i’m gonna make a move.”

patrick freezes. his smile goes glassy. his grip on the fork tightens just enough to white out his knuckles. a move?

he finishes the lunch silently, but that night he lays awake imagining all the different ways paul could be removed from the equation — physically, socially, permanently.

but for now, he doesn’t act. not directly.

instead, he starts inserting himself into every interaction you have with paul.

asks you to schedule his meetings. compliments your outfit in the elevator. starts calling you “sweetheart” in that flat, terrifying voice he uses when he wants people to think he’s calm.

you notice. and, god help you, you enjoy it.

what happens when paul finds out?

he walks in on you and patrick laughing over some inside joke, some shared sarcasm, black humor, and it hits him like a punch to the chest.

not because he’s in love. but because patrick got something he didn’t have yet. again. (well, except the tanning bed in his apartment).

and worse — you look at patrick like he matters. like he’s real.

paul is possessive in that frat-boy, entitled way. he corners you by the water cooler and asks,

“what’s going on with you and bateman? you like guys who moisturize more than you do?”

patrick is behind him before he even finishes the sentence.

his voice is smooth as glass, his eyes dead and black like he just chopped someone’s liver.

“i think what they like, allen, is someone who doesn’t smell like overpriced gin and desperation.”

you smirk. and paul knows — he lost. but he doesn’t give up.

it escalates — of course it does.

paul tries harder. sends flowers. makes bold suggestions over dinner. tries to impress you with money, with reservations, with his status.

patrick counters with quiet precision. he memorizes your preferences, matches your moods, starts sharing music recommendations with near religious reverence. you don’t know whether his efforts are genuine or just superficial, but it makes you feel seen.

he watches you when you aren’t looking. when paul talks to you, he watches how your body shifts. how your smile falters.

and when you finally end up in his apartment — not paul’s — patrick doesn’t act victorious.

he acts starved.

he peels your clothes off like they’re beneath you. he kisses you like he’s trying to erase every memory of paul’s touch you might have.

he murmurs, “he doesn’t deserve you. you know that, don’t you?”

and holy mary, you say yes.

how it ends: that depends on what kind of ending you want.

a) clean ending — paul backs off. resentful, yes, but unwilling to go toe to toe with patrick in a game he’s already lost.

he throws one last petty dig, then moves on to some new intern with half your wit and none of your fire.

you and patrick fall into something obsessive and sharp — something laced with soft kisses and controlling undertones.

he never tells you how close he came to killing paul, but you can feel it in the way he grips your hip when the subject comes up.

b) dark ending (probably the most likely to occur) — paul keeps pushing. keeps flirting.

and one night, after a party, he disappears. you never ask. patrick never tells.

but two days later, he takes you to dinner and says: “you know i’d do anything for you, right?”

and something in his eyes makes your stomach twist. but you still nod.

OMG, IMAGINE PATRICK AND PAUL DATING YOU AT THE SAME TIME WITHOUT THEM KNOWING— WAITTTTT

[ginnysgraffiti]

(ok this is sent from my main that i barely use anymore BUT it comes from @cinnamongrl2006 😝) I AM SOOO OBSESSED W UR BRUCE WAYNE N PATRICK BATEMAN FICS UGHHH UR SUCH A GOOD WRITERRR!!

hey thereeeeee!! thank you so much for taking the time to leave this comment, it means the world to meeee! <333

i’m so glad you’ve been enjoying my christian bale works so far hehe, i’ll do my best to improve 🤍

have a good good dayyyy

[ginnysgraffiti]

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

how would patrick propose? head-canons:

he rehearses the entire thing obsessively: not just the speech, but your exact reactions.

in the weeks leading up to it, he’s completely possessed by the idea. he cycles through hundreds of variations: what to wear (brioni or isaia?), where to do it (something “intimate” — meaning polished and symmetrical), how to word the question (not too emotional, not too sterile).

he watches engagement scenes in films on repeat, pausing to analyze posture and ring placement. even if he mocks them aloud, his eyes linger.

he doesn’t want it to look desperate. he wants it to feel inevitable. as if it was always meant to happen — like everything else he obsesses over.

and still, underneath all of that control is a core of frantic, unshakable need. a primal fear that you might just laugh. or worse, say no.

he gets the ring custom made — not because he wants it unique, but because he wants it flawless.

nothing off-the-shelf. no tiffany cliché.

he meets with a private jeweler, sketches a rough version himself (likely based on something he saw in vanity gair six years ago and never forgot), and insists on “precision above sentiment.”

the stone is enormous, yes. but it’s also geometrically cold, near-flawless, and almost impersonal — like an art object.

and yet, you’ll notice it matches the faint curve of your fingers. the band is weighted perfectly.

because of course he noticed your hand measurements. of course he measured you in your sleep.

he makes it a dinner. it’s a curated, orchestrated event designed for aesthetic permanence.

he books the best table at dorsia a full month in advance (or bribes the staff).

he micromanages the flower arrangement (white orchids — “roses are too obvious”), instructs the pianist to play subtle renditions of the power of love (he’d never admit that part), and dresses to match your outfit color palette — which he strategically hinted you should wear earlier that week.

you’ll sense something is off — he’s smiling too politely, his suit is too crisp, and he keeps tapping the pocket where he’s stashed the ring like he’s afraid it’ll vanish.

but when the moment arrives? he lowers his voice. stills his hands.

and just says: “you already know how I feel about you. there’s no one else. there hasn’t been, and there won’t be. so — marry me.”

it’s not flowery. not romantic in the traditional sense.

but his eyes flicker, just once, like he’s terrified of your answer.

his reaction to your “yes” is unsettlingly composed, until you’re alone.

in public, he smiles tightly. nods. kisses your hand like a practiced gesture from a black-and-white film.

but once you’re home, and the door shuts behind you? he grips your face. kisses you deep, hungry, like a man who’s been holding back for years.

he murmurs, “mine now. really mine.”

you accepted a vow from a man who can’t always distinguish love from obsession — and that excites him more than anything else ever has.

he starts planning your future together that same night: manically, down to the napkins.

by the time you wake up the next morning, he’s already gone through six magazines, made three seating charts, and chosen a short list of honeymoon destinations based on their cuisine-to-sex-ratio.

he mentions “children” once. casually. but the way he studies your reaction makes it clear it wasn’t random.

and as you pour coffee into a mug you left on the counter the night before, he watches you like you’re already wearing white. like you’re already his.

and in his mind — you’ve been, since the beginning.

marriage does change him, but not in the way people might expect.

the vows don’t make him tender. they make him territorial. he doesn’t become emotionally available, or soft, or healed. instead, he grows more exact, more structured, more possessive.

he controls every logistical element of married life with vicious precision — where you both live, what brand of soap is kept in the guest bathroom, what kind of holiday cards are sent out (and which fonts are tacky).

but somewhere beneath the polished surface, again — he’s terrified.

you’ve given him everything. and that kind of vulnerability makes him unpredictable, but he does want to feel loved.

the sex gets worse — and also more intense.

marriage doesn’t calm his appetite. it amplifies it. because now he doesn’t just want you — he has you. he has the right to have you.

it’s less about seduction now and more about ritual. every night is claimed. every encounter rehearsed.

he whispers “my wife” against your skin like it’s both holy and violent. like he’s reminding you — or maybe himself.

he asks you to wear the things he buys you. tells you how to move, how to look at him.

you’re not just his lover anymore — you’re part of his aesthetic. and that makes your body a piece of his collection.

but sometimes, in the quiet aftermath, he’ll stare at the ring on your finger. he won’t say anything.

just press his mouth to it like it’s the only part of you he’ll ever allow himself to worship.

he starts curating you like you’re an extension of himself.

marriage makes him feel entitled to everything about you: your habits, your ambitions, your image.

he wants your wardrobe to coordinate with his. wants your skincare routine to mirror his own. he’ll quietly upgrade your closet, replace your toothbrush, reorder your morning supplements without asking.

“you looked better in black. i scheduled a fitting. wear the suit.”

he’s not cruel — but he’s exacting. in his mind, you’re no longer two separate people.

you’re a brand and he’s its only designer.

but he does love you — in his way.

not with words. not with warmth. but with investment. with obsession.

he keeps a file of your handwriting samples. he notes your expressions in different types of light. he buys your favorite candle before you even run out of the current one.

he remembers the first outfit you wore in his apartment, and he’ll reference it in passing five years later, just to see if you remember, too.

he’ll call you pumpkin in bed after a particularly intense night, say it like a mistake, then double down and say it again.

because now you’re his wife, and that still shocks him.

that someone said yes to him.

and the scariest part is: he takes it seriously.

he doesn’t cheat.

because this isn’t just a woman he sleeps with.

you’re the one thing in his life he can’t afford to ruin. you’re his final project. his masterpiece.

and he will not let you leave. because in his eyes, there is no after you.

only with. or without — and dead.

[ginnysgraffiti]

BRUCE WAYNE x yn.

bruce wayne with breeding kinks head-canons:

he doesn’t mean to fixate — but he does, almost daily, in the quiet in-between moments.

bruce will be reading reports, monitoring security feeds, running a silent operation across the city… and then his mind just drifts.

he’ll glance at you curled up on the couch, flipping through a book or brushing your hair back with one hand — and some invisible trigger pulls.

a thought forms: what would you look like, full of him, with your belly round like the moon and his little heir inside you?

oh god.

he can picture it too clearly: your face softer, fuller with a glow; his hand resting over your stomach like it belongs there.

and for a man who prides himself on control, that kind of fantasy scares the hell out of him — because he wants it.

he talks to alfred about it in the most bruce-wayne way possible: indirectly, but unmistakably suggestive.

one morning, he’s sipping black coffee in the kitchen while you’re still asleep upstairs, and he says, “you ever think this place is too quiet?”

alfred lifts an eyebrow. “you mean ‘quiet’ as in peaceful, or ‘quiet’ as in missing the sound of little feet running about and breaking priceless antiques?”

bruce won’t admit anything at first — he’ll just smirk and say something vague like, “hypothetically.”

but by the third conversation, alfred’s already chuckling behind his tea.

“if you want my opinion, master wayne, you’re not fooling anyone. not with the way you look at them when they’re holding that neighbor’s baby.”

he starts quietly adjusting things around the manor, like the idea has become less of a fantasy and more of a pending plan.

without even realizing it, he begins noting the safest rooms in the house, noise levels, stair railings.

he’ll catch himself researching security upgrades with childproofing in mind, all under the excuse of “renovation.”

alfred notices immediately. “are we preparing for a miniature vigilante, or is there something you’d like to confess, sir?”

and bruce just grunts. but the corner of his mouth lifts — just slightly.

his desire for legacy isn’t about ego, it’s about rewriting something broken, something he misses.

he’s painfully aware of what was taken from him. a family. a sense of innocence.

and if he ever lets himself imagine being a father, it isn’t with the cape, or the gadgets, or the weight of the cowl.

it’s a version of him that’s real in the morning — sleep-ruffled, quiet, watching you and a small version of you both tangled up on the sofa, alive, safe.

he doesn’t just want a child. he wants a future that feels untouched by crime scenes and vengeance.

but most of all, he wants to believe that you loving him enough to start that kind of life with him isn’t just a dream.

he’ll try to play it cool when he finally brings it up to you, but his voice gives him away.

he’ll say something like, “have you ever thought about having kids? not now, obviously. just… one day.”

and when you say yes — when you say you’ve maybe thought about it too — he’s quiet for a long time.

but that night, he sleeps with one arm around your waist, pulling you just slightly closer than usual, like he’s holding something priceless.

he’s already naming the future in his head. already imagining what it would feel like to hand them the world — just a little better than the one he inherited.

his desire starts bleeding into your intimacy.

bruce isn’t reckless. not usually. but lately, the thought of you — the possibility of leaving something inside you, of creating something permanent — lives just beneath his skin.

he kisses slower now. touches you with a careful sort of ownership, like he’s memorizing you before he changes you forever.

he’ll bury his face in your neck during those longer, quieter nights and whisper “you’d look beautiful pregnant.”

soft, almost bashful — not dirty, but devotional. like you’re something holy and he’s already praying.

his movements get slower — not to rush toward release, but to press the idea of it into you. his thrusts deeper, more relaxed, more painful almost, while his groans get guttural and his moans lower.

he never says he’s not using protection, but he doesn’t correct the situation either.

it’s intentional. quiet. calculated.

he never says the words, but there’s something about how still he gets when you look up at him and say “are you sure?”

and he’ll reply — breathless, firm — “yeah. i want all of it.”

he might not say he’s thinking about putting a child in you, but you can feel the weight of that want in every motion.

he doesn’t treat your body like a playground. he treats it like a legacy in motion.

sex.

he becomes hungrier in bed, not just with desire but with intention.

after he’s come down from patrols, bruised, raw, with gotham’s filth still on him — you’re the one softness he allows himself.

and yet, even then, there’s this primal weight behind every kiss, every thrust.

“you’d carry it well,” he mutters into your skin one night, almost too low for you to hear.

he doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t have to. and god, as nights pass, he can’t help but come inside each time, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

and unfortunately for alfred, wayne manor’s walls are too damn thin.

it starts with a closed door. but the soft noises grow louder. not vulgar, but intimate.

a creak of the mattress. two, three, now he can hear the springs begging for mercy. low groans. his voice, raspy and bitten off mid-syllable.

alfred walks by with a tray one night and pauses.

from behind the door, bruce’s voice, low and straine: “fuck- no, oh god- no, please move faster.”

a beat of silence. a breathless laugh from you.

alfred sighs deeply, sets the tray down quietly, and mutters, “well. that explains the increased grocery bill.”

he never jokes about it, but the intimacy turns gentle post-coital — almost boyish.

after, bruce doesn’t pull away like he used to. he’s quiet. holding you close. hand pressed low on your belly, like he’s willing something into being.

he’ll ask, in a soft, speculative tone, “do you ever wonder what they’d look like? if we had one? a mini you? a mini me?”

his voice is full of restraint — but underneath it, that hope is unmistakable. not romantic. animal. he presses his sweaty forehead against yours.

if you say yes, he relaxes. and you realize.

he wasn’t just fantasizing during sex. he was fantasizing about forever.

alfred starts knocking a little louder in the mornings — and a little more frequently.

the first time he hears it, he tries to politely pretend it’s the pipes.

the second time, he knocks on the bedroom door just a bit harder than necessary and says, “coffee’s ready — if you two are…finished rewriting the family line.”

bruce opens the door shirtless, sweaty, hair damp, that lazy post-coital calm still resting behind his eyes.

he doesn’t respond. alfred mutters, “well, i suppose that’s a ‘yes.’”

alfred starts putting prenatal vitamins in the cabinet “just in case”

you gently ask him one morning, “alfred, why are there like…maternity teas in the pantry?”

he barely looks up from his crossword. “oh, no reason. just thought the house ought to be prepared, considering the late-night symphonies i’ve been treated to.”

you’re mid-sip of tea. you nearly choke.

in the distance, bruce’s heavy footsteps creak across the upper hall.

“and speak of the devil,” alfred adds flatly, “our maestro descends.”

alfred sometimes tells bruce to be quieter, and bruce absolutely pretends he doesn’t understand.

“sir, i’m not one to interfere in your personal endeavors, but the acoustics in this house are far too generous.”

bruce looks up from the security feed, sipping black coffee like a sinner after confession. “i’ll look into soundproofing the bedroom.”

“yes, or perhaps consider pacing yourself before someone files a noise complaint.”

bruce smirks. doesn’t deny it. he knows alfred is being sarcastic — but the comment secretly delights him.

he’s loud because he wants it to be known. because for once in his cold, compartmentalized existence, something real is blooming.

when alfred finally catches you both at breakfast, post-‘incident,’ he acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

you’re wrapped in one of bruce’s robes. your hair’s still mussed. bruce has a faint mark on his collarbone.

“eggs?” alfred offers neutrally.

“…yes please,” you murmur, half-embarrassed.

he serves them perfectly, of course. but just before leaving the room, he mutters dryly:

“if i may suggest a night off from the opera, master wayne. the house staff are beginning to speculate.”

bruce hums into his coffee, eyes fixed on you.

“i’ll take it under consideration.”

and when you do eventually get pregnant — alfred has absolutely earned the right to be smug about it.

“knew it,” he says under his breath when you confirm it. bruce raises an eyebrow.

“oh please, sir. a deaf man could’ve heard you two plotting this.”

but beneath the teasing — there’s fondness. there’s care.

he places the vitamins on the table a little more pointedly now. makes sure the orange juice is fresh.

and when bruce starts accompanying you everywhere like your own personal bodyguard with a billion-dollar bank account?

“perhaps leave her room to breathe, sir,” alfred says. “after all, she’s carrying the future wayne empire — not an armed nuclear device.”

“yeah…o-of course i know that alfred. tsk.”

[ginnysgraffiti]

you're devouring these patrick bateman asks and i love it so i have to put in a bit

could we get smth w maybe a younger reader (like finishing a degree ish mbe??) whos an aspiring writer and patrick sees their writing as something actually good enough to obsess over and admire like he does with music yk and he kinda takes it upon himself to try to help boost their career and all that

also mbe a little gn idk if you do that on ur acc i forgot to checkkk it's ok if not there's just not much patrick that isn't fem

i tired to make it longer than usual, i hope you enjoy it TT

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

it starts as quiet curiosity. then, as always with patrick, it becomes consumption.

you hand him your writing one night —unsure, maybe shy, maybe joking and saying that you needed advice for university courses you were taking— and he takes it with mechanical politeness, fully expecting mediocrity.

most people who say they’re “working on a novel” are unbearable, and he’s read enough uninspired prose in the new york times to expect another disappointment.

but it isn’t that.

you write like you see too much. like you notice things other people miss. the rhythm of your sentences has intentionality. the metaphors are sharp, cold in places, and disturbingly exact. and he feels something rare while reading it: a flicker of actual feeling.

not envy. not admiration. something closer to awe. he rereads the same three pages four times that night.

then he prints a copy. just in case.

he starts quoting your own writing back to you —subtly, like it’s something from an ad campaign or a record sleeve.

in the beginning, you don’t notice. he’ll casually drop a phrase during conversation, something you recognize in passing. when you pause, brow raised, he only blinks. “what? it’s good.”

by the third time, he isn’t hiding it.

he reads your latest draft aloud to you in bed like it’s an excerpt from les inrockuptibles, cigar in hand, voice calm and clinical.

“this part,” he murmurs, tracing the margin, “this is violent. you understand violence better than most people in this city.”

and it’s not a compliment. it’s a revelation.

he begins inserting your name into conversations with unsettling ease.

patrick doesn’t usually talk about people. he talks about impressions. about value. but suddenly, your name becomes something he says often.

at restaurants: “they’re working on something new, you know. it’s different. smarter than what’s being published now.”

at business meetings: “you know who could write that better?”

he gets you in rooms you didn’t ask to be in.

he doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

he just decides.

you are something good, and like all things he deems worth preserving, he wants to own it — or at the very least, orchestrate its rise.

he offers to “help” edit, but his version of feedback is bizarrely intense.

he doesn’t care about grammar or structure. he cares about the precision of your metaphors, the weight of your last line, whether or not the reader should be punished by the ending.

he circles whole paragraphs and writes “not cruel enough.”

he hands you books from his library that don’t match your style, but then explains why your work is what they were trying to do — but failed to.

he says, almost offhandedly one night, “i think your sentences could kill someone if you wanted them to.”

and he means it.

he reads your writing the way other people read sacred texts. not because he understands everything — but because it makes him feel like he could.

he doesn’t love easily, or well. but he obsesses in ways that mimic it.

and you? you’ve given him something no one else in his world can offer: language that isn’t about money, or sex, or image.

your voice — your mind — exists outside the cages he built for himself.

so he tries to bind it anyway.

he commissions a custom leather-bound print of your manuscript. you haven’t even finished the last chapter.

he keeps it in his briefcase like it’s a weapon.

like you’re his weapon.

and when you finally ask why he’s helping you so much, he says — too softly to be calculated — “because you’re the first thing i’ve read that made me feel like i wasn’t in control.”

there’s a pause. he swallows.

then he ruins it by following it with: “and because i don’t want anyone else to find you before i’m done.”

you stare. he doesn’t flinch.

he thinks it’s a compliment. and, somehow, it is.

his obsession isn’t subtle: he’s constantly angling to insert you into the right circles, the elite literary salons, the private readings, the offices of influential publishers he’s cultivated relationships with.

patrick’s used to playing a game of appearances and leverage, and now he’s using every tool in his arsenal for you.

he’ll call contacts under the guise of business, then casually drop your name, speak about you as if you’re already a published author, an inevitability — and because it’s patrick, his confidence convinces them to listen.

he doesn’t care that you’re still working on your thesis or that you haven’t quite perfected your narrative voice. he will get you published, no matter what it takes.

there’s a sharp edge beneath his patronage — he’s determined the literary world will see you the way he does: worthy.

patrick’s precise nature bleeds into how he treats your writing process, almost to the point of compulsive control.

he schedules “work sessions” where you read your drafts aloud to him, under his watchful eye.

he’s the ruthless editor who will cut what he deems “superfluous” — but only because he’s obsessed with perfection. his feedback is exacting, sometimes cruel, but always laced with the knowledge that you can do better.

he doesn’t tolerate excuses or hesitation. “this is your career — your legacy. treat it like it’s the only thing that matters.”

and you start to realize that for patrick, your success is his validation.

because if you fail, what does that say about the one who invested everything?

beneath the relentless drive, there’s a strange kind of affection — rare, muted, and fiercely guarded.

patrick doesn’t do softness. he doesn’t do vulnerability easily. but when he watches you struggle with rejection emails or harsh professor critiques, he’s quietly furious on your behalf.

he’ll bring you coffee at dawn, a rare warmth in his voice when he says, “don’t let them break you. they’re terrified because you’re better.”

he believes in you with a conviction that feels almost like obsession.

and every night, when the city is silent and your pages are strewn across the apartment, he’ll sit beside you, pretending to read, but really just watching you breathe.

you’re still young, still growing — but patrick knows he’s already irrevocably tangled in the story of your life.

and the tension between admiration and possession is a constant undertone — he can’t help but feel territorial over your talent, your time, your energy.

he hates the idea of distractions pulling you away — friends who don’t “get it,” classmates who underestimate you, editors who dismiss your voice as “immature.”

he becomes a gatekeeper in the most subtle way, encouraging you to cut ties with influences that don’t serve your future, pushing you harder when he senses complacency.

“the world isn’t going to hand this to you. you have to take it — and i’m here to make sure you do.”

there’s a dangerous intensity in the way he says it, like love and control are braided into one.

the night of your book launch, patrick is impeccably poised — a mask of calm, but every detail obsessively curated.

he’s chosen the venue himself — a sleek, minimalist gallery downtown, just the right mix of exclusivity and buzz. the guest list is a who’s who of literary elites and socialites, and patrick has personally made sure your face is the only one on every invitation.

he stands beside you, perfectly tailored, but his eyes never stop scanning the room — calculating who admires you, who might try to undermine your ascent, who might be worthy of your attention.

he offers you a glass of champagne with the precision of a surgeon, his voice low and steady: “they’re going to eat you alive. but you’re stronger than they think. devour them.”

beneath that calm exterior, he’s buzzing with a complicated cocktail of pride, possession, and an unspoken fear that someone might try to steal what he’s helped build.

patrick obsesses over every review, every mention, every whisper of your name in the press.

he compulsively collects clippings, screenshots, and emails, filing them away in a binder that looks more like evidence than praise.

he reads the critiques with a clinical eye, discarding the “constructive” ones as irrelevant or malicious, but treasuring the rare glowing words as if they were personal victories.

if a review is harsh, he calls your publisher or editor — charming and lethal — to “clarify misunderstandings.”

for patrick, your success is a reflection of his own power and influence, and he will not tolerate anyone questioning it.

he becomes a paradoxical mix of protector and competitor.

while he wants you to shine brighter than anyone else, he’s also deeply territorial.

at parties and readings, he watches your interactions with other admirers or writers with a simmering jealousy that he masks behind polite nods and dry remarks.

he might comment, “interesting conversation, but be careful who you trust. some people only want your name for their own gain.”

he’s the silent shadow behind your spotlight, making sure no one forgets that he was the one who engineered your rise.

in private, his admiration turns into something almost reverent

he’s fascinated by the physical book itself — the weight, the texture, the smell of ink on paper. he’ll trace the letters of your name on the cover with deliberate fingers, like it’s an artifact.

he keeps a signed first edition on his nightstand, next to his meticulously organized skincare products — a symbol of the world you’re conquering together.

he may even whisper to you late at night, “you’re not just a writer now. you’re a force.”

and in that moment, the usual coldness melts into something fiercely protective and strangely tender.

GOD NOW I WANT A PATRICK BATEMAN TO HELP ME PERSUE MY WRITING PASSION UGH

:,(

[ginnysgraffiti]

Patrick with slightly older reader!!!! Giving like reader sees him as a child while obviously he wants more than that… GREAT WRITING BTW

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

he tells himself it’s irrelevant — that a few years are negligible. statistically meaningless.

patrick, of course, recites the logic first: age difference is only significant in adolescence, not adulthood. two or three years doesn’t mean anything — not in finance, not in status, not in biology.

but you’re older, and that bothers him. not because he feels younger, but because you speak to him with a tone that’s…established. like you’ve seen enough to stop being impressed.

you listen to him talk about business and respond with a soft hum instead of wide eyes. you tap his wrist lightly when he tries to one-up you in conversation. “i’m not a client, patrick. you don’t have to pitch at me.”

and suddenly he’s pitching harder.

you treat his tantrums like something endearing, not threatening — and he doesn’t know how to deal with that.

he’s used to girls freezing when his tone sharpens. it makes him feel powerful.

but with you? you just arch an eyebrow and say things like:

- “are you really sulking over the reservation?”

- “okay, baby tantrum. i’ll call dorsia and pretend it’s urgent.”

you’re not mocking — that would be easier. you’re fond. and that’s somehow worse.

because patrick doesn’t want to be “precious.” he wants to be unshakeable. and yet — when you gently cup his cheek and call him “sweet boy” for calming down, something in him…melts.

and that disgusts him. and he craves it.

he tries, with increasing desperation, to dominate the narrative.

he takes you to the most exclusive restaurants. he buys you rare perfume from obscure french designers. he corrects your pronunciation in french — even when you’re right.

he talks over you in group settings, not out of malice, but to reclaim the image of being older, louder, smarter. you let him. for a while. but eventually you just place a hand on his thigh mid-sentence and murmur, “let me finish, sweetheart.”

the word burns. not because it’s soft — but because it’s true. and everyone at the table hears it.

and he says nothing.

when he’s alone, he obsesses over it. the age gap. the tone. the way you seem slightly amused when he spirals.

he flips through his planner, cross-checks your birthday, calculates the difference — again.

it’s 3.7 years. he knows that.

but he redoes the math, as if hoping it’ll close the gap. he glares at his reflection mid-skincare routine and mutters, “i’m not younger. i’m better.”

it doesn’t help. because you’ve never once flaunted the difference.

it’s his insecurity. his wound. and he starts wondering if you can see it — if that’s why you touch him so gently sometimes. like you’re handling glass.

and yet, when you praise him — when you really look at him and say, “you’re doing so well,” he almost forgets everything.

you say it during casual things: when he’s focused on a recipe you’re trying, or actually listens without interrupting, or manages to sleep through the night.

it’s not condescending. it’s intimate. you press your lips to the top of his head, like calming a storm. he leans in. he doesn’t mean to.

but he does.

and maybe he’s not the one in charge, but he feels safe. and somehow, that’s worth more.

[ginnysgraffiti]

may i please get some hc's with patrick bateman realizing that he genuinely likes calling his partner those little nicknames (pumpkin, sweetheart, etc) when THEY call him a minor name? like he'll just kinda go; "..this affects someone in a positive manner."

ofc!! <3

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

it starts accidentally. you call him something harmless — and it short-circuits him.

- he’s brushing his hair. you walk past and murmur “thanks, hon” as he gives you the brush.

- not dramatic. not intentional. just warm and normal. but he freezes.

- “hon.” it hangs in the air like a glitch in a perfect program. he’s not used to affection that isn’t performative, calculated, or condescending.

- you didn’t say it to manipulate him. you just said it because you like him. and that confuses him.

he starts saying little things back — awkwardly, then addictively.

- “alright, pumpkin.” it sounds foreign in his own mouth. like he’s mimicking someone on TV.

- but you light up. like you actually like it. so he says it again. then a third time. then begins testing new words.

- “sweetheart.” “angel.” “doll.” “honey.” he’s cataloguing reactions. assigning emotional values. “‘babe’ produced a neutral smile. ‘darling’ caused a head tilt and eye crinkle. noted.”

he tells himself it’s about control — but it’s not. not really.

- at first, he frames it as power: you soften, therefore he wins.but the more he says it, the more he starts to soften.

- he says “sweetheart” before kissing you goodbye.

- he says “angel” while passing you your coffee.

- he says “baby” when you curl into his side during a movie. and it feels…good. disturbingly, honestly good.

he begins using it in public — but only with you.

- not in front of friends. never at work.

- but if you’re alone at a restaurant?

- “another drink, sweetheart?”

- “is your steak okay, pumpkin?”

- he says it quietly, with a sort of stiff elegance, like he’s learning to speak french — and doesn’t trust his tongue not to ruin it.

internally, he’s both horrified and fascinated by the effect.

- he journals about it. “used ‘honey’ twice today. she responded with prolonged eye contact and a smile. almost…trust? or vulnerability.”

- he starts associating nicknames with positive physiological responses.

- “pupils dilate. voice softens. posture relaxes. this affects someone in a positive manner.”

- “this affects me.” that last sentence stays underlined. twice.

if you stop calling him nicknames, he notices. immediately.

- you go one day without calling him “darling” or “hon”? he doesn’t say anything, but he becomes… sharper. colder.

- puts on a suit that makes him look deliberately unapproachable. wears cologne you don’t like. not out of spite. out of testing.

- later, when you casually call him “baby” again, his shoulders relax. he missed it. and that makes him uncomfortable. but he files it under “acceptable emotional anomalies.”

- maybe even…necessary ones.

eventually, it just becomes part of the script — but not out of habit. out of trust.

- “you’re late, pumpkin.”

- “forgot your scarf, sweetheart.” he still says it crisply, almost too perfectly enunciated. like he’s keeping it from getting too real.

- but the intention is there. always. and if anyone else calls you those names, he corrects them — instantly.

- those are his.

[ginnysgraffiti]

I SWEAR I DID NOT WRITE THIS JUST BC I HAVE A THING FOR PAUL (…)

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

how would patrick react if he discovered you cheated on him with paul on christmas’ eve?

head-canons:

the moment you walk into the penthouse, he already knows something’s wrong.

- not because you’re acting strange — you’re trying not to. you smile. hang your coat. say you’re cold. but patrick notices your earrings don’t match. and your scent is different. not different perfume — watered down. rinsed. re-applied.

- you’ve showered, but of course not there.

you peel off your dress and he sees it.

- the bra you wore that morning — delicate, white, expensive — is now clasped backwards. he doesn’t say anything right away. he just watches.

- you continue undressing, maybe even talking. something banal: the dinner, the snow, the holiday crowd on fifth for the cinnamon rolls.

- he listens. nods. doesn’t respond. he’s tracing the straps of that bra in his mind. remembering.

- he tied it for you this morning. you said you were in a rush. couldn’t reach. leaned back against him, laughing, as he hooked the clasp himself. he remembers.

- and now…it’s reversed.

when he speaks, he sounds calm. but it’s not calm. it’s cold.

- “you said you couldn’t reach it. this morning.” you freeze. at first you don’t under. then you laugh, maybe. try to lie. “oh — i guess i flipped it when i changed, i don’t remember—”

- he tilts his head. like he’s admiring an artwork he finds deeply offensive. “you didn’t change. you wore that out. i remember.”

- he walks around you like a gallery piece. not touching. not blinking. “you wore that dress. and that bra. i zipped it up for you. and now it’s inside out.”

he doesn’t accuse. he observes. until you fall apart.

- there’s no yelling. no violence. not yet.

- just creepy precision and calm.

- he walks to the bar. pours himself something, slowly. that silence and his calm presence is even scarier than if he were to grab a kitchen knife.

- “paul allen’s apartment is six blocks from the oyster bar.” he swirls the glass. sips. doesn’t look at you.

- “he was at dorsia tonight. i saw his name on the reservation. two guests. 7:30.” another sip.

he’s putting the pieces together out loud, not for clarity, but for control. for the performance of catching you in a lie. every sentence lands with the weight of an iron glove. restrained. exact.

-you’re fucking dead.

- “why did you even- no, let me guess. you cheated because he handles the fischer account. that lucky bastard…”

he asks you to sit to interrogate you.

- the questions are short. relentless.

“for how long?”

“was it good sex?”

“did he come inside?”

“did he use a condom?”

“why today? why him? why in general?”

- when you say you don’t know, he corrects you: “you do. say it.” he isn’t jealous in the romantic sense. he’s insulted. humiliated. outmaneuvered.

it’s not “how could you?” it’s “how dare you think he’s better than me.”

he does not cry. he becomes clinical.

- starts asking questions as if you’re no longer his partner — but a case study. “what did he say to convince you? is his dick that bigger? no i believe it sucks.”

“did you initiate it?”

“did he touch you first?”

- he writes something down on a notepad without explanation. checks his rolex. excuses himself. not angrily, just…done with the scene.

“i need to go to the cleaners. your dress smells like seafood.” he walks out. calmly.

- you don’t know where he’s going. but you do know paul allen is not answering his phone.

later that night, you wake up and find your bra — folded. pressed. left neatly on the pillow.

- your phone is gone. your keys are in a different place. there’s music playing: “hip to be square” — looping. quietly from the living room.

- and beside the bra is a note, handwritten, in that tidy, sharp-cornered lettering: “if you’re going to lie, at least learn to fasten it the same way twice. i hope you said your goodbye to paul before coming home.”

[ginnysgraffiti]

Omgg more Patrick dad headcanons (Your such a good writer💝)

here we goooooo

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

he treats fatherhood like a competitive sport.

- the moment he finds out he’s going to be a father, patrick begins acting like it was his idea — as if he architected the entire situation through sheer force of will.

- “of course i’ll be a good father. have you seen me?”

- he immediately starts buying parenting books (which he only half reads) and critiques other parents for things he doesn’t actually understand.

- he also begins comparing his unborn child to others. “she’ll be taller. more refined. she won’t scream in public, that’s for sure honey.”

he is very good with infants…in a weird, eerie way (should you be worried?)

- he doesn’t coo. he doesn’t baby talk. he holds them upright like a rare art piece and murmurs things like: “you’re perfectly symmetrical. that’s rare. you should be grateful.”

- he’s rigidly gentle — never drops her, never forgets to support her neck — but he does check the bottle’s temperature with a laser thermometer.

- he gets furious if someone else asks to touch her or hold her. and he doesn’t let anyone else carry her for long. “you’re holding her wrong. give her back.”

he’s overly invested in baby aesthetics.

- patrick refuses to let his child wear anything with cartoon characters.

- her onesies are from niche european designers. her nursery looks like a high-end spa with vaguely scandinavian decor.

- “if it looks like it belongs in times square, it’s not entering the house.”

- he hand-picks her toys and makes sure they’re educational, beautifully designed, and bpa-free. he is deeply offended by plastic.

he is surprisingly effective at calming her down.

- his voice — cold, low, calm — is oddly soothing to babies. he never raises it, never gets flustered.

- when she cries, he doesn’t panic — he studies. observes. measures the intensity and pattern like a stock analyst. “it’s the diaper. or she hates the lewis and the news. babe, try with robert palmer.”

- and 85% of the time…he’s right. okay, that’s weird.

as she grows, he becomes quietly, obsessively attached.

- he starts adjusting his routine around her nap times. cancels dinner reservations he once considered untouchable.

if she draws on the wall with a crayon, he stares at it for a long time — not angry, just…processing.“she’s not messy. she’s expressing a spatial curiosity.”

- he doesn’t say “i love you” often. but he’ll correct anyone who underestimates her. brutally. “she’s not ‘cute.’ she’s intelligent. say what you mean.”

he will not tolerate poor parenting from others.

- if someone at the park is scrolling their phone while their child cries, patrick’s jaw tightens like he’s going to commit a felony.

- he doesn’t intervene, but he judges. aggressively.

- if someone tries to give his child candy or touch her without asking, he steps between them and says, “do i know you?” the tone? borderline homicidal.

he’s deeply afraid of doing something wrong — so he overcorrects.

- when she falls and scrapes her knee, he freezes. his instinct isn’t to soothe. it’s to fix. to control.

- “we’re buying knee pads. she’s never going outside without them again.”

“but honey-“

“you heard me.”

- if she tells him she’s scared of the dark, he installs smart lights. $2,000 worth. they change color and respond to her voice. does that even exists in the 80s?

- he doesn’t understand that being there matters more than solving everything. but he’s trying. in his own, sharp-edged way.

but there are moments — quiet, unscripted ones — where he surprises you.

- she falls asleep on his chest while he’s still in his pressed shirt and tie, and instead of moving, he stays absolutely still for an hour.

- he begins humming when he gives her baths — classical piano pieces, old showtunes, sometimes prince.

- one night, she calls him “daddy” in a way that’s clearly unrehearsed — not prompted, not imitated. just genuine.

- he doesn’t say anything about it. but he doesn’t look at you the same for days. like you built a person who changed him. and he can’t undo it.

[ginnysgraffiti]

How do you think Patrick would react if his lover killed someone? ✿

WAIT WAIT HEAR ME OUT I LOVE THIS ✿

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

how he finds out depends on how careful you were.

- if you tried to hide it: he knows. immediately.

- there’s a discoloration on your coat.

-your gait is off.

- you cut him off mid-sentence — a thing you never do. “what’s wrong with you?” he asks, voice level. he doesn’t mean emotionally. he means what did you do wrong.

- it’s not suspicion. it’s certainty. you broke the rules. and now he has to figure out which ones.

- if you told him outright, he stares for a long time. at you, then at the space just past you. the gears don’t stop turning — not even for a second.

-he’s taking notes, not judging.

his first reaction isn’t panic. it’s jealousy.

- not because he disapproves — but because he didn’t get to do it. if it was someone he hated? he’s annoyed.

- “damn, i had plans for them already.”

- then he asks how you did it — tone dry, but eyes alert. and if your method was messy, impulsive, emotional?

he’s horrified. not morally — aesthetically.

“a lamp? jesus christ. what’s wrong with you?”

and then, five minutes later:

“…was it heavy? did he suffer?”

he feels blindsided, which enrages him.

- not because you committed violence. but because you did it without him.

- patrick bateman lives in a world where he is the most dangerous thing in the room — and now suddenly, he’s not the only one.

- “you should have told me. you should have—fuck, i could’ve helped you. what did you even do with the body?”

- he’s pacing now. not out of panic — but out of jealousy.

he goes into cleanup mode. not for you — for himself.

- patrick’s world is image first, evidence last. he’s not concerned with morality, only exposure.

- first question: “did anyone see you?”

- second: “did you touch anything?”

- third: “tell me exactly what you did. word for word. no dramatics.”

- he doesn’t call the police. he doesn’t scream. he sits on his white couch and crosses his legs.

- he starts mentally scrubbing the scene. you might be shaking. he’s pulling gloves out of a drawer.

the more you confess, the more aroused he becomes.

- something about the blood on your knuckles, or the glass in your voice — it clicks into a dark place in him that rarely feels mirrored.

- he writes down everything you did. his bulge is already visible.

- if you say it was self-defense, he believes you. if you say it wasn’t… he still believes you. and he likes you more for it.

- “you’re capable of all of that? fuck.”

- it unsettles him. which means it obsesses him. “no, hold on, stop talking, i have to jerk off first.”

- he kills out of compulsion, dominance, a need to feel real. but you? you did it outside his orbit. “did they deserve it?” “were you thinking about me?” “do you wanna do it again?”

he needs the details. all of them.

- he demands the timeline. the method. the why.

- not out of concern for consequences — but because he needs to understand. and if you’re vague or unwilling, it frustrates him deeply.

“don’t be coy with me. you can’t drop that on me and then pretend it’s nothing. it means something. it means something to me.”

the next morning, he’s normal. too normal.

- breakfast is on the table. coffee is poured. his business card is resting beside your plate. perfectly centered. he’s dressed immaculately, humming something soft under his breath.

- “i put your coat in the trash chute. We’ll shop for a new one after lunch.” he doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. he assumes you’ll figure it out.

eventually, it becomes a shared secret. a bond.

- he doesn’t talk about it often. not in words.

- but every so often, he looks at you — mid-party, across a dinner table — and there’s a gleam in his eye like: “you’re mine. and only i know what you’re capable of.”

- when you fight, he’ll sometimes murmur: “don’t forget i helped you cover up a murder, sweetheart.” like he’s saying i love you, but darker. more layered.

- and if you ever so much as flinch at someone raising their voice at you — he tilts his head and says, too casually: “want me to take care of it? or would you prefer to do it yourself and have me watching?”

he’ll rewrite the narrative to suit his ego.

- eventually, he convinces himself that this act is proof: that you’re meant for him.

- “you get it. you understand how weak people are. you’ve seen behind the curtain now, haven’t you?” and in a sick, spiraling way, your kill becomes a bond.

- he starts referring to it like it was something you did together. even if you didn’t. even if maybe you regret it. he rewires it.

he starts watching you differently.

- not just protectively — possessively.

- now you’re dangerous. unpredictable. capable of ruining everything, or making it all better.

- he studies you for signs. dreams of you covered in blood. not from fear. from longing.

- “you’re not soft like the others. you’re…better. worse. i haven’t decided yet. fuck, i have to jerk off again.”

- he kisses you harder. holds you longer. locks the door more often.

[ginnysgraffiti]

I love your writing so much ˃͈◡˂͈ I'm so obsessed and I need more Patrick Bateman fluff╥﹏╥

SUREEEEEE!

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

how would patrick react if you asked for cuddles? head-canons:

his first reaction is confusion — not disgust.

- “cuddle?” he repeats it like it’s a foreign word. like it might be illegal in manhattan.

- not because he’s repulsed by the idea, but because physical contact — when not sexually performative or socially strategic — is almost useless to him.

- in the world he built, intimacy is carefully compartmentalized: sex is power, conversation is leverage, and stillness is a waste of time. so you asking him to just be with you — still, soft, nontransactional — short-circuits that entire model.

he asks logistical questions instead of saying yes or no.

- “what do you mean, like—now? for how long? which side of the bed? are you cold? how does it work?”

- he’s stalling, but it’s not rejection. it’s disorientation. he’s trying to fit this request into a format he understands: rules, conditions, timeframe.

- deep down, he’s already considering it. already moving toward you. (he will later deny that he hesitated.)

once he agrees, it’s mechanical. at first.

- he positions himself with surgical precision: arm behind your neck, body facing outward, as if he’s prepping for a still-life painting.

- his jaw is tight. he asks you twice if you’re comfortable, but doesn’t blink while doing it. his hand rests on your arm like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.

then — the thaw. slowly. quietly.

- he relaxes in increments. a muscle here. a breath there. your warmth starts to override his performance anxiety. his heartbeat evens out.

- and when you shift slightly to tuck into his chest, he lets out a sound — barely audible — like he’s startled by the comfort.

- he doesn’t say anything, but his hand begins to trace patterns on your back. absent-minded. subconscious.

the obsessive spiral begins.

- he doesn’t know what to do with how good this feels. it unsettles him.

- he starts overanalyzing:

“do normal people do this every night?”

“why didn’t i do this with anyone else?”

“does cuddling mean something? am i losing control?”

- you think he’s asleep. he’s staring at the ceiling, cataloging every second like a new chemical formula.

he doesn’t want to move. not at all.

- after exactly 30 minutes, he’ll mumble something like, “that’s probably long enough,” but makes no effort to get up.

- if you shift to stretch or sit up, he reflexively tightens his hold on you.

- “where are you going?” flat, sharp, not quite accusing — more like: i didn’t say it could be over yet.

- and that’s when you realize: for all his detachment, he’s been clinging to you the whole time.

post-cuddle rebranding.

- the next day, he doesn’t mention it. but the bed is freshly made. your pillow’s on his side now.

- and when you lie down beside him again that night, he turns toward you without being asked — arm already lifted, waiting. yes, he’s expecting cuddles.

hihi

[ginnysgraffiti]

JOHN PRESTON x yn.

how would john react if he were to fall for you? head-canons:

he notices it like a glitch in the matrix. catastrophic.

- love doesn’t come to preston like a blooming thing. it arrives like a rupture. like a misfired round. like the tremor before a building falls.

- it’s subtle, at first — the way his hand lingers too long beside yours, the way he watches you when you aren’t looking, not for suspicion — for confirmation.

- and then it hits him: he cares. you, specifically. singularly.

- and caring is dangerous. caring is treason. he’s fucked and he know it.

he isolates immediately.

he pulls away. not out of cruelty — but preservation. not yours — his. because you represent something uncontainable. not a distraction — a total ideological dismantling.

- he stops speaking as much. turns his face slightly when you enter a room. yet, he doesn’t ignite himself in the morning anymore.

- and you think he’s grown cold — but inside, his equilibrium has shattered. he’s terrified he’ll look at you and give everything away.

he logs it like a threat.

- in his mind, you become a file. a surveillance feed. a classified variable.

he runs mental risk analyses. plays out scenarios:

what if someone else notices he looks at you too long?

what if your records are pulled for questioning?

what if he’s forced to choose between you and the system?

- his body goes cold with the math of it.

proximity betrays him.

- one morning, your fingers graze his glove as you hand him something, and he stills. not dramatically — just frozen, like the system inside him glitches for half a second.

- and he looks at your face, really looks, and he feels it again. warmth. like a fever he never allowed himself to notice before.

- you smile gently, and he forgets what he was supposed to say.

he tries to eliminate the possibility.

- he avoids you, methodically. reassigns you to distant posts. uses clinical excuses. keeps you off joint missions.

- and when that doesn’t work, he files internal reports on himself — coded and anonymized — to see if there are patterns being flagged.

- when the database shows nothing, he doesn’t relax. it only makes him more paranoid.

- because it means he’s hiding it too well. and that means the feeling is growing.

he tests himself cruelly.

- he exposes himself to others in distress: people begging, crying, pleading — to see if he reacts.

when he feels nothing for them, but still thinks about you…he knows.

- this isn’t just a chemical imbalance. you are the catalyst.

- and he is failing the system.

he prepares a contingency.

- a hidden space where you could run. an identity forged. records scrubbed.

- he never tells you. never plans to use it. but it exists. in case someone else finds out. in case he has to choose between handing you over or betraying the government.

- and he knows what he’ll do. he’ll do it for you.

you become his anchor and his test.

- he trains harder. shoots more precisely. moves with almost robotic discipline — all in the name of regaining control.

but the thoughts creep in: what would your voice sound like if you whispered just to him? would your breath hitch if he touched your cheek? would you smile if he said your name softly?

- he meditates. fasts. anything to erase the image. it doesn’t work. your presence follows him like a pulse.

when he confesses, it’s not romantic. it’s reverent.

- it’s not a declaration. it’s a submission. the words feel foreign in his mouth: “i care for you.”

they don’t sound right. they’re not enough.

- his voice is flat, but his hands shake. his shoulders twitch — a man trying to hold back centuries of indoctrination. “you are… the first thing that feels real.”

after that — you are sacred. untouchable.

- he doesn’t flaunt it. doesn’t press. he just protects. instinctively. he stands between you and any threat, without words, without glory.

- he listens more. touches less. studies your smallest reactions like they’re scripture.

- he doesn’t say “i love you.” he shows it when he places his gun between you and danger, without blinking.