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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?!
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Hii! Can you do patrick bateman à reader who is a secretary? Love your works ⥠^^
heyyy!
i wrote something similar already, maybe youâd like to check it out here :)
in any case, if you wish to read other head-canons of patrick and secretary!reader, iâm here for you <3
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I freaking adore your Patrick Bateman headcannons!! I wanted to know your thoughts on how Patrick would deal with an s/o that wasnât 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 isnât used to being denied. not in restaurants, not in bed, not in the smallest gestures of daily control. heâs not necessarily sentimental about affection â his physical touch tends to be performative, part of a rhythm of dominance, a checklist â but itâs 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 â just confusion. then a bruised sort of insult.
âis thisâŚdeliberate?â he might ask one evening, with a half-laugh that isnât actually amused.
he says it like heâs joking. but he isnât.
heâs watching you like youâre a rubikâs cube someone solved wrong on purpose. and he hates not understanding.
he becomes uncomfortably fixated.
heâll pretend not to care. âeveryone has preferences,â he says casually. âsome people donât like oysters, some people donât like to be⌠touched.â
he shrugs like he means it. then spends two hours lying awake staring at the ceiling and wondering if itâs because you donât 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? heâll create elaborate internal theories and rewrite them hourly.
and because he has no healthy concept of boundaries, heâll test you on purpose â 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 â because he gets better at pretending.
when he realizes this isnât something youâll âget over,â he adapts â but with that hollow, sociopathic efficiency that always masks a darker intent.
he becomes gentlemanly. tactful. unnervingly patient.
âno touching today either? alright. can i at least walk you home?â
he doesnât raise his voice. he doesnât 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 â he doesnât 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 wonât let him touch you, heâll 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 â a hand to the chest, a kiss to the temple â his body goes still. for a second, his entire world freezes into that gesture.
he wonât show it. wonât 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 didnât demand.
and now heâs 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. youâre not cold, he tells himself â youâre sacred.
you donât give out pieces of yourself to just anyone. and that means what he gets from you â even just a slight lean against his side during a movie â is worth more than everything heâs taken from everyone else.
and this makes him territorial. disturbingly so.
the idea that anyone else could touch you â emotionally, sexually, even accidentally â starts to feel violating to him.
âthey donât even know what theyâre handling,â he mutters once, eyes dark. âyouâre rare. theyâd ruin you.â
but the longing doesnât go away â it warps.
he doesnât stop wanting you physically. he just learns how to suffer it.
he kisses your hair when youâre asleep. runs his fingers along your arm when youâre not paying attention. leaves notes instead of touching your back.
every gesture is quiet, controlled â until one day it wonât be.
because patrick bateman is not patient by nature.
and eventually, the mask always cracks.
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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 writingËÍâĄËÍ
sure! ><


PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.
head-canons:
when you first tell him you want to wait before having sex, he assumes he misheard.
âsorry pat, but iâd like to wait before having sex.â 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 â no one â has ever said it as plainly and calmly as you do.
at first, it doesnât even register as rejection â it reads more like a scheduling delay. he blinks once, and says, âof course,â with the same tone heâd use if his stockbroker needed an extra week. he plays it cool. but beneath the tailored exterior, something twitchy begins to spark. not rage â yetâ 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 doesnât call. doesnât 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 doesnât 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 doesnât flinch.
he wonders if youâre making him earn you.
and, god help him, part of him likes that.
instead of pushing, he redirects.
if youâre not ready for sex, then fine. heâll seduce you psychologically. heâll become indispensable in every other way. youâll wake up to espresso machines heâs had delivered to your doorstep. heâll mail you obscure first-edition books he heard you mention once. heâll take you to art galleries and stand behind you, too close, while you describe the colors. if you canât be his physically, youâll 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. heâd apply the cologne you go crazy for, and he would strategically undo his belt after heâs 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 â something foreign. patience. or something like it. it frightens him, because it means youâre not like the others. and if youâre not like them, then maybe â maybe â he has to be someone else with you. someone better. or worse.
what he doesnât say (and doesnât know how to) is that the longer you make him wait, the more he wants you to ruin him.
not just physically â though, yes, that too â but metaphysically. he imagines what it will mean, what it will feel like, if heâs allowed to touch you. if youâll 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 doesnât say a word. but his eyes stay open far longer than yours. watching. waiting. (ok patrick, thatâs creepy).
when you fall asleep beside him, warm and untouched, he finally starts to understand sex.
thereâs 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 thereâs still something to reach for. he notices with fear that he still wants you âeven tho he never had sex with you â 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.
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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 youâre on your period, he freezes â not out of disgust, but out of calculation.
his expression doesnât change. no visible recoil. but behind the stillness, you can feel something mechanical shifting, like heâs rearranging data.
periodâŚshe has period.
his relationship with bodily functions â especially other peopleâs â is complicated. he compartmentalizes. categorizes. if it canât be toned, trained, or numbed with an imported cleanser, it unnerves him.
but then thereâs you.
and if itâs you, it must be manageable.
he nods once, crisp and short, like youâve 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 â one disposable, one ergonomic and bluetooth-powered.
you didnât even ask.
he watches you like heâs studying symptoms, not behavior.
the shift in your mood. the way you curl tighter into the couch. the tone in your voice when youâre short with him.
to someone else, it might register as empathy, but to patrick, itâs about control through observation.
he doesnât like things he canât fix.
and if pain is something you just endure, he feels equal parts offended and fascinated by the biology of it â and deeply, deeply irritated that itâs something you have to go through without any useful solution.
heâll murmur things like, âyouâre not drinking enough water today.â or âyou havenât moved in three hours, thatâs not going to help your circulation.â
not out of care, but compulsion. still â itâs care in the only way he knows how.
in private, he treats it like something sacred.
thereâs something primitive in the idea that your body bleeds and survives. it unearths something strange and reverent in him.
he doesnât like the mess â of course he doesnât â but if he ever walks in on you changing, or resting with a faint stain on your pajama shorts, he doesnât comment.
his jaw tightens. but not from revulsion. from restraint.
like it sparks something territorial and ceremonial in him.
âthis is a cycle,â he tells himself. âa natural, necessary process. come on patrick, you know what period is.â
heâll pour you tea like itâs a ritual. bring you ice cream and painkillers, place them silently on the nightstand, and sit beside you with a book he wonât really read.
he becomes possessive in strange, quiet ways.
when youâre curled up, aching and exhausted, youâre more pliant â softer in your movement, slower in your responses.
patrick notices.
he doesnât exploit it, but he leans into it.
heâll 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.
youâll ask if he minds. heâll say, âof course not. your stomach needs to be kept warm.â
and itâs the rare moment he means it â not for show, not for sex, not for power.
just to be there and be the comfort youâre looking for.
he would most likely fall asleep with his big veiny hand tracing shooting circles on your belly to make sure itâs warm enough.
and yes â he still wants you. weird, right?
heâs vain enough to find the hormonal flush on your cheeks attractive.
and though he wonât say it outright, heâsâŚcurious.
about what it would feel like to be close to you like that when youâre most vulnerable, and your bodyâs more reactive, more sensitive.
heâll test boundaries.
âyouâre sure it hurts too much?â heâll murmur one night, voice low in the dark. âyou just looked like you needed a distraction.â
if you say no, he wonât press.
if you say yes â even tentatively â heâll be careful. unnervingly so.
heâll still want control, but in a way that prioritizes your comfort first.
because this version of you â flushed, tired, trusting â is something sacred to him.
and he treats it accordingly.
how patrick reacts to not being able to have sex â at first, he sees it as a personal offense.
not in a cruel or loud way â but in the exact, cold manner of someone whoâs so entitled to you, so used to receiving what he wants, that denial feels like insult.
heâll retreat into silence for a beat. maybe two.
his hands will still â 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 canât open a present yet.
âi see,â he says â quietly, but clearly annoyed.
he doesnât ask if youâre okay. he asks how long itâs going to last.
âis itâŚso bad this time?â
but once the mood shifts and he collects himself, he doesnât argue.
heâs too image-conscious, too disciplined, to force anything.
instead, heâll refocus all of that repressed energy into exercise, grooming, or being aggressively helpful â not because he wants to serve, but because if he canât touch you sexually, he needs to dominate the situation some other way. (he will of course jerk off when youâre not there).
eventually, he finds a way to make the restriction feel intimate â and under his control.
patrick doesnât cope well with being told ânot nowâ but once he accepts that this is recurring â that it will happen again, and again â he reframes it.
if he canât have sex, then fine.
heâll act as if heâs 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: âyou need rest. not me. iâll take care of everything else.â
and then heâll draw a bath, heat a towel, clean the sheets. not because he cares â not in the normal, empathetic sense, but because when he canât have you, he needs to own your environment.
heâll make you tea while dressed in a thousand-dollar robe. heâll fold your laundry in gloves, turn down your bed like itâs a hotel. he wonât 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 yesâknowing what it means to him, knowing how physically driven he is, how intolerant of delay or denial he can beâand 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 doesnât lunge. doesnât strip you down or devour you the way he normally might.
because youâve changed something.
youâve turned this into a gift. a choice. and it disorients him.
ââŚare you sure?â
itâs barely audible. not out of concern for you, reallyâmore like heâs double-checking the universe. like he canât quite believe this offer is real, and heâs terrified to handle it the wrong way and have it taken back.
if you confirm, if you say âyes. i want to,â or âyes, for you,â then you watch something fracture in him, behind the eyes. not violentlyâalmost reverently.
he exhales through his nose, long and slow, and thereâs a flicker of something in his posture: the businessman still, but reduced, like youâve just peeled him out of the immaculate shell and whatâs left underneath isâŚsofter. needier.
heâll touch you very gently at first. reverent. worshipful, even. not out of romance, but out of greed.
because youâre not supposed to say yes right now.
youâre supposed to be off-limits. fragile. in pain.
and yet here you areâgiving yourself to him anyway, despite the discomfort, despite the inconvenience. heâll murmur under his breath as he undresses you: âyou always do this to meâŚâ
âyou donât even know what that does to meâŚâ
âyouâre still in time to back off.â
and for once, itâs not purely about power or ego. itâs about you choosing him when you donât have to. and that? that wrecks him.
heâll be intenseâbut careful. restrained in a way that feels obsessive. hyper-aware of your breath, your flinches, your painâbut not because he wants to stop, because he wants to consume around it. like heâs 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 wonât say thank youâhe doesnât know how.
but heâll hold your hips like heâs anchoring himself, and heâll mutter again under his breath, over and over: âmine. mine. mine.â
because you gave yourself to him when you didnât have to.
and in batemanâs warped little psyche, thatâs 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 â especially at an upscale restaurant â he spirals internally if you begin to cramp.
you excuse yourself halfway through the wine list, your fingers pressing against your lower abdomen â and he watches you go, pupils dilating, lip twitching like heâs trying not to scowl.
not at you â 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 jawâs tense. he asks in a voice thatâs both concerned and irritated: âdo you want to leave?â
he hopes you say yes.
he doesnât want you seen like this â uncomfortable, unfocused, not the luminous, pristine version of you that reflects well on him.
if you do want to leave, heâll cover the bill immediately, take your coat himself, walk you out with a palm on the small of your back like heâs shielding you from onlookers.
but if you insist on staying, he will compensate.
heâll 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 wasnât poured fast enough.
because if he canât fix you, heâll fix everything else in the room.
if you say âiâm sorry for ruining your reservation. i know how much effort it took, you booked it three months in advanceâ?
you watch him go still, his expression unreadable in that terrifyingly blank patrick bateman way, like heâs been momentarily rebooted.
for a moment, thereâs 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 isnât kindness. itâs possession.
âyou think thatâs what i care about right now?â
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.
âwhatâs the point of the reservation if youâre sitting there in pain?â
âyou looked like you were about to pass out on the way back from the restroom.â
heâll look down at your handâor maybe your abdomenâlike heâs memorizing the way you curl into yourself. like heâs cataloguing it. not with pity, but a strange kind of dark protectiveness.
and then: âi can make another reservation, i canât make another you.â
he says it stiffly, like the words taste foreign in his mouthâbut real, nonetheless. because if thereâs one thing patrick bateman doesnât tolerate, itâs losing his things. and tonight, youâve 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 wordâbut 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 bathroomâŚand returns with water, medicine, and the silkiest robe he owns.
he doesnât comment on the ruined evening again.
but later, when youâre half-asleep under the covers, you feel his fingers ghost over your arm.
âno, donât say that again. i knew you were about to.â quiet. commanding. âyou didnât ruin anything.â
because as much as he cares about status, exclusivity, and perfectionâhe 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 â most of them clinical. heâs genuinely curious.
âhow long does this last for you, usually?â
âis it heavier at night? are the mood swings worse in the afternoon?â
âwhat does your doctor say about the cramping? do you chart your cycle?â
he sounds like a spreadsheet come to life. but this is how he deals â 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 âsoftestâ clothes folded in a drawer in his closet, just for those days.
heâd never admit it, but he also programs reminders into his calendar â âcheck-in. day 3. extra irritable?â
because when he knows, he feels in control. and when he feels in control, he can care.
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What if Patrick and Paul had romantic interest in the same person :3
HELLOOOO THIS IS WHAT IâM TALKING ABOUTTTTT! WHOEVER LEFT THIS REQUEST, I WORSHIP YOU hihi ><
CRAZY TO SAY IâVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE


PATRICK BATEMAN & PAUL ALLEN x yn.
head-canons:
how it begins.
you are magnetic â sharp, observant, capable of wounding them with the right look. and worse, you donât 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 heâs trying to get out of a sexual harassment lawsuit. heâs 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 itâs not jealousy yet. itâs something subtler, like hearing a song he thought only he loved being played in someone elseâs 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, doesnât notice the shift. heâs always with his head in the clouds and his carefree attitude does not go that far. he thinks heâs being clever when he leans over patrick at lunch at harryâs and says, âhey, you know that intern? cute. think iâm gonna make a move.â
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 â physically, socially, permanently.
but for now, he doesnât 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 âsweetheartâ in that flat, terrifying voice he uses when he wants people to think heâs 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 heâs in love. but because patrick got something he didnât have yet. again. (well, except the tanning bed in his apartment).
and worse â you look at patrick like he matters. like heâs real.
paul is possessive in that frat-boy, entitled way. he corners you by the water cooler and asks,
âwhatâs going on with you and bateman? you like guys who moisturize more than you do?â
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 someoneâs liver.
âi think what they like, allen, is someone who doesnât smell like overpriced gin and desperation.â
you smirk. and paul knows â he lost. but he doesnât give up.
it escalates â 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 donât know whether his efforts are genuine or just superficial, but it makes you feel seen.
he watches you when you arenât 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 â not paulâs â patrick doesnât act victorious.
he acts starved.
he peels your clothes off like theyâre beneath you. he kisses you like heâs trying to erase every memory of paulâs touch you might have.
he murmurs, âhe doesnât deserve you. you know that, donât you?â
and holy mary, you say yes.
how it ends: that depends on what kind of ending you want.
a) clean ending â paul backs off. resentful, yes, but unwilling to go toe to toe with patrick in a game heâs 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 â 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) â 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: âyou know iâd do anything for you, right?â
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 KNOWINGâ WAITTTTT
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(ok this is sent from my main that i barely use anymore BUT it comes from @cinnamongrl2006 đ) 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
iâm so glad youâve been enjoying my christian bale works so far hehe, iâll do my best to improve đ¤
have a good good dayyyy
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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, heâs completely possessed by the idea. he cycles through hundreds of variations: what to wear (brioni or isaia?), where to do it (something âintimateâ â 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 doesnât want it to look desperate. he wants it to feel inevitable. as if it was always meant to happen â 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 â not because he wants it unique, but because he wants it flawless.
nothing off-the-shelf. no tiffany clichĂŠ.
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 âprecision above sentiment.â
the stone is enormous, yes. but itâs also geometrically cold, near-flawless, and almost impersonal â like an art object.
and yet, youâll 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. itâs 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 â âroses are too obviousâ), instructs the pianist to play subtle renditions of the power of love (heâd never admit that part), and dresses to match your outfit color palette â which he strategically hinted you should wear earlier that week.
youâll sense something is off â heâs smiling too politely, his suit is too crisp, and he keeps tapping the pocket where heâs stashed the ring like heâs afraid itâll vanish.
but when the moment arrives? he lowers his voice. stills his hands.
and just says: âyou already know how I feel about you. thereâs no one else. there hasnât been, and there wonât be. so â marry me.â
itâs not flowery. not romantic in the traditional sense.
but his eyes flicker, just once, like heâs terrified of your answer.
his reaction to your âyesâ is unsettlingly composed, until youâre alone.
in public, he smiles tightly. nods. kisses your hand like a practiced gesture from a black-and-white film.
but once youâre home, and the door shuts behind you? he grips your face. kisses you deep, hungry, like a man whoâs been holding back for years.
he murmurs, âmine now. really mine.â
you accepted a vow from a man who canât always distinguish love from obsession â 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, heâs 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 âchildrenâ once. casually. but the way he studies your reaction makes it clear it wasnât random.
and as you pour coffee into a mug you left on the counter the night before, he watches you like youâre already wearing white. like youâre already his.
and in his mind â youâve been, since the beginning.
marriage does change him, but not in the way people might expect.
the vows donât make him tender. they make him territorial. he doesnât 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 â 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 â heâs terrified.
youâve given him everything. and that kind of vulnerability makes him unpredictable, but he does want to feel loved.
the sex gets worse â and also more intense.
marriage doesnât calm his appetite. it amplifies it. because now he doesnât just want you â he has you. he has the right to have you.
itâs less about seduction now and more about ritual. every night is claimed. every encounter rehearsed.
he whispers âmy wifeâ against your skin like itâs both holy and violent. like heâs reminding you â or maybe himself.
he asks you to wear the things he buys you. tells you how to move, how to look at him.
youâre not just his lover anymore â youâre part of his aesthetic. and that makes your body a piece of his collection.
but sometimes, in the quiet aftermath, heâll stare at the ring on your finger. he wonât say anything.
just press his mouth to it like itâs the only part of you heâll ever allow himself to worship.
he starts curating you like youâre 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. heâll quietly upgrade your closet, replace your toothbrush, reorder your morning supplements without asking.
âyou looked better in black. i scheduled a fitting. wear the suit.â
heâs not cruel â but heâs exacting. in his mind, youâre no longer two separate people.
youâre a brand and heâs its only designer.
but he does love you â 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 heâll reference it in passing five years later, just to see if you remember, too.
heâll call you pumpkin in bed after a particularly intense night, say it like a mistake, then double down and say it again.
because now youâre his wife, and that still shocks him.
that someone said yes to him.
and the scariest part is: he takes it seriously.
he doesnât cheat.
because this isnât just a woman he sleeps with.
youâre the one thing in his life he canât afford to ruin. youâre 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 â and dead.
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BRUCE WAYNE x yn.
bruce wayne with breeding kinks head-canons:
he doesnât mean to fixate â 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.
heâll glance at you curled up on the couch, flipping through a book or brushing your hair back with one hand â 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 â because he wants it.
he talks to alfred about it in the most bruce-wayne way possible: indirectly, but unmistakably suggestive.
one morning, heâs sipping black coffee in the kitchen while youâre still asleep upstairs, and he says, âyou ever think this place is too quiet?â
alfred lifts an eyebrow. âyou mean âquietâ as in peaceful, or âquietâ as in missing the sound of little feet running about and breaking priceless antiques?â
bruce wonât admit anything at first â heâll just smirk and say something vague like, âhypothetically.â
but by the third conversation, alfredâs already chuckling behind his tea.
âif you want my opinion, master wayne, youâre not fooling anyone. not with the way you look at them when theyâre holding that neighborâs baby.â
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.
heâll catch himself researching security upgrades with childproofing in mind, all under the excuse of ârenovation.â
alfred notices immediately. âare we preparing for a miniature vigilante, or is there something youâd like to confess, sir?â
and bruce just grunts. but the corner of his mouth lifts â just slightly.
his desire for legacy isnât about ego, itâs about rewriting something broken, something he misses.
heâs 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 isnât with the cape, or the gadgets, or the weight of the cowl.
itâs a version of him thatâs real in the morning â sleep-ruffled, quiet, watching you and a small version of you both tangled up on the sofa, alive, safe.
he doesnât 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 isnât just a dream.
heâll try to play it cool when he finally brings it up to you, but his voice gives him away.
heâll say something like, âhave you ever thought about having kids? not now, obviously. just⌠one day.â
and when you say yes â when you say youâve maybe thought about it too â heâs quiet for a long time.
but that night, he sleeps with one arm around your waist, pulling you just slightly closer than usual, like heâs holding something priceless.
heâs already naming the future in his head. already imagining what it would feel like to hand them the world â just a little better than the one he inherited.
his desire starts bleeding into your intimacy.
bruce isnât reckless. not usually. but lately, the thought of you â the possibility of leaving something inside you, of creating something permanent â lives just beneath his skin.
he kisses slower now. touches you with a careful sort of ownership, like heâs memorizing you before he changes you forever.
heâll bury his face in your neck during those longer, quieter nights and whisper âyouâd look beautiful pregnant.â
soft, almost bashful â not dirty, but devotional. like youâre something holy and heâs already praying.
his movements get slower â 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 heâs not using protection, but he doesnât correct the situation either.
itâs intentional. quiet. calculated.
he never says the words, but thereâs something about how still he gets when you look up at him and say âare you sure?â
and heâll reply â breathless, firm â âyeah. i want all of it.â
he might not say heâs thinking about putting a child in you, but you can feel the weight of that want in every motion.
he doesnât 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 heâs come down from patrols, bruised, raw, with gothamâs filth still on him â youâre the one softness he allows himself.
and yet, even then, thereâs this primal weight behind every kiss, every thrust.
âyouâd carry it well,â he mutters into your skin one night, almost too low for you to hear.
he doesnât elaborate. he doesnât have to. and god, as nights pass, he canât help but come inside each time, throwing his head back in ecstasy.
and unfortunately for alfred, wayne manorâs 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, bruceâs voice, low and straine: âfuck- no, oh god- no, please move faster.â
a beat of silence. a breathless laugh from you.
alfred sighs deeply, sets the tray down quietly, and mutters, âwell. that explains the increased grocery bill.â
he never jokes about it, but the intimacy turns gentle post-coital â almost boyish.
after, bruce doesnât pull away like he used to. heâs quiet. holding you close. hand pressed low on your belly, like heâs willing something into being.
heâll ask, in a soft, speculative tone, âdo you ever wonder what theyâd look like? if we had one? a mini you? a mini me?â
his voice is full of restraint â 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 wasnât just fantasizing during sex. he was fantasizing about forever.
alfred starts knocking a little louder in the mornings â and a little more frequently.
the first time he hears it, he tries to politely pretend itâs the pipes.
the second time, he knocks on the bedroom door just a bit harder than necessary and says, âcoffeeâs ready â if you two areâŚfinished rewriting the family line.â
bruce opens the door shirtless, sweaty, hair damp, that lazy post-coital calm still resting behind his eyes.
he doesnât respond. alfred mutters, âwell, i suppose thatâs a âyes.ââ
alfred starts putting prenatal vitamins in the cabinet âjust in caseâ
you gently ask him one morning, âalfred, why are there likeâŚmaternity teas in the pantry?â
he barely looks up from his crossword. âoh, no reason. just thought the house ought to be prepared, considering the late-night symphonies iâve been treated to.â
youâre mid-sip of tea. you nearly choke.
in the distance, bruceâs heavy footsteps creak across the upper hall.
âand speak of the devil,â alfred adds flatly, âour maestro descends.â
alfred sometimes tells bruce to be quieter, and bruce absolutely pretends he doesnât understand.
âsir, iâm not one to interfere in your personal endeavors, but the acoustics in this house are far too generous.â
bruce looks up from the security feed, sipping black coffee like a sinner after confession. âiâll look into soundproofing the bedroom.â
âyes, or perhaps consider pacing yourself before someone files a noise complaint.â
bruce smirks. doesnât deny it. he knows alfred is being sarcastic â but the comment secretly delights him.
heâs 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-âincident,â he acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
youâre wrapped in one of bruceâs robes. your hairâs still mussed. bruce has a faint mark on his collarbone.
��eggs?â alfred offers neutrally.
ââŚyes please,â you murmur, half-embarrassed.
he serves them perfectly, of course. but just before leaving the room, he mutters dryly:
âif i may suggest a night off from the opera, master wayne. the house staff are beginning to speculate.â
bruce hums into his coffee, eyes fixed on you.
âiâll take it under consideration.â
and when you do eventually get pregnant â alfred has absolutely earned the right to be smug about it.
âknew it,â he says under his breath when you confirm it. bruce raises an eyebrow.
âoh please, sir. a deaf man couldâve heard you two plotting this.â
but beneath the teasing â thereâs fondness. thereâs 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?
âperhaps leave her room to breathe, sir,â alfred says. âafter all, sheâs carrying the future wayne empire â not an armed nuclear device.â
âyeahâŚo-of course i know that alfred. tsk.â
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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 âunsure, maybe shy, maybe joking and saying that you needed advice for university courses you were takingâ and he takes it with mechanical politeness, fully expecting mediocrity.
most people who say theyâre âworking on a novelâ are unbearable, and heâs read enough uninspired prose in the new york times to expect another disappointment.
but it isnât 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 âsubtly, like itâs something from an ad campaign or a record sleeve.
in the beginning, you donât notice. heâll casually drop a phrase during conversation, something you recognize in passing. when you pause, brow raised, he only blinks. âwhat? itâs good.â
by the third time, he isnât hiding it.
he reads your latest draft aloud to you in bed like itâs an excerpt from les inrockuptibles, cigar in hand, voice calm and clinical.
âthis part,â he murmurs, tracing the margin, âthis is violent. you understand violence better than most people in this city.â
and itâs not a compliment. itâs a revelation.
he begins inserting your name into conversations with unsettling ease.
patrick doesnât usually talk about people. he talks about impressions. about value. but suddenly, your name becomes something he says often.
at restaurants: âtheyâre working on something new, you know. itâs different. smarter than whatâs being published now.â
at business meetings: âyou know who could write that better?â
he gets you in rooms you didnât ask to be in.
he doesnât ask if youâre ready.
he just decides.
you are something good, and like all things he deems worth preserving, he wants to own it â or at the very least, orchestrate its rise.
he offers to âhelpâ edit, but his version of feedback is bizarrely intense.
he doesnât 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 ânot cruel enough.â
he hands you books from his library that donât match your style, but then explains why your work is what they were trying to do â but failed to.
he says, almost offhandedly one night, âi think your sentences could kill someone if you wanted them to.â
and he means it.
he reads your writing the way other people read sacred texts. not because he understands everything â but because it makes him feel like he could.
he doesnât love easily, or well. but he obsesses in ways that mimic it.
and you? youâve given him something no one else in his world can offer: language that isnât about money, or sex, or image.
your voice â your mind â 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 havenât even finished the last chapter.
he keeps it in his briefcase like itâs a weapon.
like youâre his weapon.
and when you finally ask why heâs helping you so much, he says â too softly to be calculated â âbecause youâre the first thing iâve read that made me feel like i wasnât in control.â
thereâs a pause. he swallows.
then he ruins it by following it with: âand because i donât want anyone else to find you before iâm done.â
you stare. he doesnât flinch.
he thinks itâs a compliment. and, somehow, it is.
his obsession isnât subtle: heâs constantly angling to insert you into the right circles, the elite literary salons, the private readings, the offices of influential publishers heâs cultivated relationships with.
patrickâs used to playing a game of appearances and leverage, and now heâs using every tool in his arsenal for you.
heâll call contacts under the guise of business, then casually drop your name, speak about you as if youâre already a published author, an inevitability â and because itâs patrick, his confidence convinces them to listen.
he doesnât care that youâre still working on your thesis or that you havenât quite perfected your narrative voice. he will get you published, no matter what it takes.
thereâs a sharp edge beneath his patronage â heâs determined the literary world will see you the way he does: worthy.
patrickâs precise nature bleeds into how he treats your writing process, almost to the point of compulsive control.
he schedules âwork sessionsâ where you read your drafts aloud to him, under his watchful eye.
heâs the ruthless editor who will cut what he deems âsuperfluousâ â but only because heâs obsessed with perfection. his feedback is exacting, sometimes cruel, but always laced with the knowledge that you can do better.
he doesnât tolerate excuses or hesitation. âthis is your career â your legacy. treat it like itâs the only thing that matters.â
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, thereâs a strange kind of affection â rare, muted, and fiercely guarded.
patrick doesnât do softness. he doesnât do vulnerability easily. but when he watches you struggle with rejection emails or harsh professor critiques, heâs quietly furious on your behalf.
heâll bring you coffee at dawn, a rare warmth in his voice when he says, âdonât let them break you. theyâre terrified because youâre better.â
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, heâll sit beside you, pretending to read, but really just watching you breathe.
youâre still young, still growing â but patrick knows heâs already irrevocably tangled in the story of your life.
and the tension between admiration and possession is a constant undertone â he canât help but feel territorial over your talent, your time, your energy.
he hates the idea of distractions pulling you away â friends who donât âget it,â classmates who underestimate you, editors who dismiss your voice as âimmature.â
he becomes a gatekeeper in the most subtle way, encouraging you to cut ties with influences that donât serve your future, pushing you harder when he senses complacency.
âthe world isnât going to hand this to you. you have to take it â and iâm here to make sure you do.â
thereâs 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 â a mask of calm, but every detail obsessively curated.
heâs chosen the venue himself â a sleek, minimalist gallery downtown, just the right mix of exclusivity and buzz. the guest list is a whoâs 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 â 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: âtheyâre going to eat you alive. but youâre stronger than they think. devour them.â
beneath that calm exterior, heâs buzzing with a complicated cocktail of pride, possession, and an unspoken fear that someone might try to steal what heâs 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 âconstructiveâ 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 â charming and lethal â to âclarify misunderstandings.â
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, heâs 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, âinteresting conversation, but be careful who you trust. some people only want your name for their own gain.â
heâs 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
heâs fascinated by the physical book itself â the weight, the texture, the smell of ink on paper. heâll trace the letters of your name on the cover with deliberate fingers, like itâs an artifact.
he keeps a signed first edition on his nightstand, next to his meticulously organized skincare products â a symbol of the world youâre conquering together.
he may even whisper to you late at night, âyouâre not just a writer now. youâre a force.â
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
:,(
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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 itâs irrelevant â 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 doesnât mean anything â not in finance, not in status, not in biology.
but youâre older, and that bothers him. not because he feels younger, but because you speak to him with a tone thatâsâŚestablished. like youâve 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. âiâm not a client, patrick. you donât have to pitch at me.â
and suddenly heâs pitching harder.
you treat his tantrums like something endearing, not threatening â and he doesnât know how to deal with that.
heâs 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:
- âare you really sulking over the reservation?â
- âokay, baby tantrum. iâll call dorsia and pretend itâs urgent.â
youâre not mocking â that would be easier. youâre fond. and thatâs somehow worse.
because patrick doesnât want to be âprecious.â he wants to be unshakeable. and yet â when you gently cup his cheek and call him âsweet boyâ for calming down, something in himâŚmelts.
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 â even when youâre 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, âlet me finish, sweetheart.â
the word burns. not because itâs soft â but because itâs true. and everyone at the table hears it.
and he says nothing.
when heâs 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 â again.
itâs 3.7 years. he knows that.
but he redoes the math, as if hoping itâll close the gap. he glares at his reflection mid-skincare routine and mutters, âiâm not younger. iâm better.â
it doesnât help. because youâve never once flaunted the difference.
itâs his insecurity. his wound. and he starts wondering if you can see it â if thatâs why you touch him so gently sometimes. like youâre handling glass.
and yet, when you praise him â when you really look at him and say, âyouâre doing so well,â he almost forgets everything.
you say it during casual things: when heâs focused on a recipe youâre trying, or actually listens without interrupting, or manages to sleep through the night.
itâs not condescending. itâs intimate. you press your lips to the top of his head, like calming a storm. he leans in. he doesnât mean to.
but he does.
and maybe heâs not the one in charge, but he feels safe. and somehow, thatâs worth more.
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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 â and it short-circuits him.
- heâs brushing his hair. you walk past and murmur âthanks, honâ as he gives you the brush.
- not dramatic. not intentional. just warm and normal. but he freezes.
- âhon.â it hangs in the air like a glitch in a perfect program. heâs not used to affection that isnât performative, calculated, or condescending.
- you didnât say it to manipulate him. you just said it because you like him. and that confuses him.
he starts saying little things back â awkwardly, then addictively.
- âalright, pumpkin.â it sounds foreign in his own mouth. like heâs 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.
- âsweetheart.â âangel.â âdoll.â âhoney.â heâs cataloguing reactions. assigning emotional values. ââbabeâ produced a neutral smile. âdarlingâ caused a head tilt and eye crinkle. noted.â
he tells himself itâs about control â but itâs 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 âsweetheartâ before kissing you goodbye.
- he says âangelâ while passing you your coffee.
- he says âbabyâ when you curl into his side during a movie. and it feelsâŚgood. disturbingly, honestly good.
he begins using it in public â but only with you.
- not in front of friends. never at work.
- but if youâre alone at a restaurant?
- âanother drink, sweetheart?â
- âis your steak okay, pumpkin?â
- he says it quietly, with a sort of stiff elegance, like heâs learning to speak french â and doesnât trust his tongue not to ruin it.
internally, heâs both horrified and fascinated by the effect.
- he journals about it. âused âhoneyâ twice today. she responded with prolonged eye contact and a smile. almostâŚtrust? or vulnerability.â
- he starts associating nicknames with positive physiological responses.
- âpupils dilate. voice softens. posture relaxes. this affects someone in a positive manner.â
- âthis affects me.â that last sentence stays underlined. twice.
if you stop calling him nicknames, he notices. immediately.
- you go one day without calling him âdarlingâ or âhonâ? he doesnât say anything, but he becomes⌠sharper. colder.
- puts on a suit that makes him look deliberately unapproachable. wears cologne you donât like. not out of spite. out of testing.
- later, when you casually call him âbabyâ again, his shoulders relax. he missed it. and that makes him uncomfortable. but he files it under âacceptable emotional anomalies.â
- maybe evenâŚnecessary ones.
eventually, it just becomes part of the script â but not out of habit. out of trust.
- âyouâre late, pumpkin.â
- âforgot your scarf, sweetheart.â he still says it crisply, almost too perfectly enunciated. like heâs keeping it from getting too real.
- but the intention is there. always. and if anyone else calls you those names, he corrects them â instantly.
- those are his.
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I SWEAR I DID NOT WRITE THIS JUST BC I HAVE A THING FOR PAUL (âŚ)


PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.
how would patrick react if he discovered you cheated on him with paul on christmasâ eve?
head-canons:
the moment you walk into the penthouse, he already knows somethingâs wrong.
- not because youâre acting strange â youâre trying not to. you smile. hang your coat. say youâre cold. but patrick notices your earrings donât match. and your scent is different. not different perfume â watered down. rinsed. re-applied.
- youâve showered, but of course not there.
you peel off your dress and he sees it.
- the bra you wore that morning â delicate, white, expensive â is now clasped backwards. he doesnât 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. doesnât respond. heâs tracing the straps of that bra in his mind. remembering.
- he tied it for you this morning. you said you were in a rush. couldnât reach. leaned back against him, laughing, as he hooked the clasp himself. he remembers.
- and nowâŚitâs reversed.
when he speaks, he sounds calm. but itâs not calm. itâs cold.
- âyou said you couldnât reach it. this morning.â you freeze. at first you donât under. then you laugh, maybe. try to lie. âoh â i guess i flipped it when i changed, i donât rememberââ
- he tilts his head. like heâs admiring an artwork he finds deeply offensive. âyou didnât change. you wore that out. i remember.â
- he walks around you like a gallery piece. not touching. not blinking. âyou wore that dress. and that bra. i zipped it up for you. and now itâs inside out.â
he doesnât accuse. he observes. until you fall apart.
- thereâs 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.
- âpaul allenâs apartment is six blocks from the oyster bar.â he swirls the glass. sips. doesnât look at you.
- âhe was at dorsia tonight. i saw his name on the reservation. two guests. 7:30.â another sip.
heâs 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.
-youâre fucking dead.
- âwhy did you even- no, let me guess. you cheated because he handles the fischer account. that lucky bastardâŚâ
he asks you to sit to interrogate you.
- the questions are short. relentless.
âfor how long?â
âwas it good sex?â
âdid he come inside?â
âdid he use a condom?â
âwhy today? why him? why in general?â
- when you say you donât know, he corrects you: âyou do. say it.â he isnât jealous in the romantic sense. heâs insulted. humiliated. outmaneuvered.
itâs not âhow could you?â itâs âhow dare you think heâs better than me.â
he does not cry. he becomes clinical.
- starts asking questions as if youâre no longer his partner â but a case study. âwhat did he say to convince you? is his dick that bigger? no i believe it sucks.â
âdid you initiate it?â
âdid he touch you first?â
- he writes something down on a notepad without explanation. checks his rolex. excuses himself. not angrily, justâŚdone with the scene.
âi need to go to the cleaners. your dress smells like seafood.â he walks out. calmly.
- you donât know where heâs going. but you do know paul allen is not answering his phone.
later that night, you wake up and find your bra â folded. pressed. left neatly on the pillow.
- your phone is gone. your keys are in a different place. thereâs music playing: âhip to be squareâ â looping. quietly from the living room.
- and beside the bra is a note, handwritten, in that tidy, sharp-cornered lettering: âif youâre going to lie, at least learn to fasten it the same way twice. i hope you said your goodbye to paul before coming home.â
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Omgg more Patrick dad headcanons (Your such a good writerđ)
here we goooooo


PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.
head-canons:
he treats fatherhood like a competitive sport.
- the moment he finds out heâs going to be a father, patrick begins acting like it was his idea â as if he architected the entire situation through sheer force of will.
- âof course iâll be a good father. have you seen me?â
- he immediately starts buying parenting books (which he only half reads) and critiques other parents for things he doesnât actually understand.
- he also begins comparing his unborn child to others. âsheâll be taller. more refined. she wonât scream in public, thatâs for sure honey.â
he is very good with infantsâŚin a weird, eerie way (should you be worried?)
- he doesnât coo. he doesnât baby talk. he holds them upright like a rare art piece and murmurs things like: âyouâre perfectly symmetrical. thatâs rare. you should be grateful.â
- heâs rigidly gentle â never drops her, never forgets to support her neck â but he does check the bottleâs temperature with a laser thermometer.
- he gets furious if someone else asks to touch her or hold her. and he doesnât let anyone else carry her for long. âyouâre holding her wrong. give her back.â
heâs 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.
- âif it looks like it belongs in times square, itâs not entering the house.â
- he hand-picks her toys and makes sure theyâre educational, beautifully designed, and bpa-free. he is deeply offended by plastic.
he is surprisingly effective at calming her down.
- his voice â cold, low, calm â is oddly soothing to babies. he never raises it, never gets flustered.
- when she cries, he doesnât panic â he studies. observes. measures the intensity and pattern like a stock analyst. âitâs the diaper. or she hates the lewis and the news. babe, try with robert palmer.â
- and 85% of the timeâŚheâs right. okay, thatâs 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 â not angry, justâŚprocessing.âsheâs not messy. sheâs expressing a spatial curiosity.â
- he doesnât say âi love youâ often. but heâll correct anyone who underestimates her. brutally. âsheâs not âcute.â sheâs intelligent. say what you mean.â
he will not tolerate poor parenting from others.
- if someone at the park is scrolling their phone while their child cries, patrickâs jaw tightens like heâs going to commit a felony.
- he doesnât intervene, but he judges. aggressively.
- if someone tries to give his child candy or touch her without asking, he steps between them and says, âdo i know you?â the tone? borderline homicidal.
heâs deeply afraid of doing something wrong â so he overcorrects.
- when she falls and scrapes her knee, he freezes. his instinct isnât to soothe. itâs to fix. to control.
- âweâre buying knee pads. sheâs never going outside without them again.â
âbut honey-â
âyou heard me.â
- if she tells him sheâs 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 doesnât understand that being there matters more than solving everything. but heâs trying. in his own, sharp-edged way.
but there are moments â quiet, unscripted ones â where he surprises you.
- she falls asleep on his chest while heâs 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 â classical piano pieces, old showtunes, sometimes prince.
- one night, she calls him âdaddyâ in a way thatâs clearly unrehearsed â not prompted, not imitated. just genuine.
- he doesnât say anything about it. but he doesnât look at you the same for days. like you built a person who changed him. and he canât undo it.
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How do you think Patrick would react if his lover killed someone? âż
WAIT WAIT HEAR ME OUT I LOVE THIS âż


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.
- thereâs a discoloration on your coat.
-your gait is off.
- you cut him off mid-sentence â a thing you never do. âwhatâs wrong with you?â he asks, voice level. he doesnât mean emotionally. he means what did you do wrong.
- itâs not suspicion. itâs 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 donât stop turning â not even for a second.
-heâs taking notes, not judging.
his first reaction isnât panic. itâs jealousy.
- not because he disapproves â but because he didnât get to do it. if it was someone he hated? heâs annoyed.
- âdamn, i had plans for them already.â
- then he asks how you did it â tone dry, but eyes alert. and if your method was messy, impulsive, emotional?
heâs horrified. not morally â aesthetically.
âa lamp? jesus christ. whatâs wrong with you?â
and then, five minutes later:
ââŚwas it heavy? did he suffer?â
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 â and now suddenly, heâs not the only one.
- âyou should have told me. you should haveâfuck, i couldâve helped you. what did you even do with the body?â
- heâs pacing now. not out of panic â but out of jealousy.
he goes into cleanup mode. not for you â for himself.
- patrickâs world is image first, evidence last. heâs not concerned with morality, only exposure.
- first question: âdid anyone see you?â
- second: âdid you touch anything?â
- third: âtell me exactly what you did. word for word. no dramatics.â
- he doesnât call the police. he doesnât scream. he sits on his white couch and crosses his legs.
- he starts mentally scrubbing the scene. you might be shaking. heâs 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 â 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 wasnât⌠he still believes you. and he likes you more for it.
- âyouâre capable of all of that? fuck.â
- it unsettles him. which means it obsesses him. âno, hold on, stop talking, i have to jerk off first.â
- he kills out of compulsion, dominance, a need to feel real. but you? you did it outside his orbit. âdid they deserve it?â âwere you thinking about me?â âdo you wanna do it again?â
he needs the details. all of them.
- he demands the timeline. the method. the why.
- not out of concern for consequences â but because he needs to understand. and if youâre vague or unwilling, it frustrates him deeply.
âdonât be coy with me. you canât drop that on me and then pretend itâs nothing. it means something. it means something to me.â
the next morning, heâs normal. too normal.
- breakfast is on the table. coffee is poured. his business card is resting beside your plate. perfectly centered. heâs dressed immaculately, humming something soft under his breath.
- âi put your coat in the trash chute. Weâll shop for a new one after lunch.â he doesnât ask how youâre feeling. he assumes youâll figure it out.
eventually, it becomes a shared secret. a bond.
- he doesnât talk about it often. not in words.
- but every so often, he looks at you â mid-party, across a dinner table â and thereâs a gleam in his eye like: âyouâre mine. and only i know what youâre capable of.â
- when you fight, heâll sometimes murmur: âdonât forget i helped you cover up a murder, sweetheart.â like heâs saying i love you, but darker. more layered.
- and if you ever so much as flinch at someone raising their voice at you â he tilts his head and says, too casually: âwant me to take care of it? or would you prefer to do it yourself and have me watching?â
heâll rewrite the narrative to suit his ego.
- eventually, he convinces himself that this act is proof: that youâre meant for him.
- âyou get it. you understand how weak people are. youâve seen behind the curtain now, havenât you?â 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 didnât. even if maybe you regret it. he rewires it.
he starts watching you differently.
- not just protectively â possessively.
- now youâre 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.
- âyouâre not soft like the others. youâreâŚbetter. worse. i havenât decided yet. fuck, i have to jerk off again.â
- he kisses you harder. holds you longer. locks the door more often.
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I love your writing so much ËÍâĄËÍ I'm so obsessed and I need more Patrick Bateman fluffâĽďšâĽ
SUREEEEEE!


PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.
how would patrick react if you asked for cuddles? head-canons:
his first reaction is confusion â not disgust.
- âcuddle?â he repeats it like itâs a foreign word. like it might be illegal in manhattan.
- not because heâs repulsed by the idea, but because physical contact â when not sexually performative or socially strategic â 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 â still, soft, nontransactional â short-circuits that entire model.
he asks logistical questions instead of saying yes or no.
- âwhat do you mean, likeânow? for how long? which side of the bed? are you cold? how does it work?â
- heâs stalling, but itâs not rejection. itâs disorientation. heâs trying to fit this request into a format he understands: rules, conditions, timeframe.
- deep down, heâs already considering it. already moving toward you. (he will later deny that he hesitated.)
once he agrees, itâs mechanical. at first.
- he positions himself with surgical precision: arm behind your neck, body facing outward, as if heâs prepping for a still-life painting.
- his jaw is tight. he asks you twice if youâre comfortable, but doesnât blink while doing it. his hand rests on your arm like heâs afraid of doing it wrong.
then â 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 â barely audible â like heâs startled by the comfort.
- he doesnât say anything, but his hand begins to trace patterns on your back. absent-minded. subconscious.
the obsessive spiral begins.
- he doesnât know what to do with how good this feels. it unsettles him.
- he starts overanalyzing:
âdo normal people do this every night?â
âwhy didnât i do this with anyone else?â
âdoes cuddling mean something? am i losing control?â
- you think heâs asleep. heâs staring at the ceiling, cataloging every second like a new chemical formula.
he doesnât want to move. not at all.
- after exactly 30 minutes, heâll mumble something like, âthatâs probably long enough,â but makes no effort to get up.
- if you shift to stretch or sit up, he reflexively tightens his hold on you.
- âwhere are you going?â flat, sharp, not quite accusing â more like: i didnât say it could be over yet.
- and thatâs when you realize: for all his detachment, heâs been clinging to you the whole time.
post-cuddle rebranding.
- the next day, he doesnât mention it. but the bed is freshly made. your pillowâs on his side now.
- and when you lie down beside him again that night, he turns toward you without being asked â arm already lifted, waiting. yes, heâs expecting cuddles.
hihi
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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 doesnât come to preston like a blooming thing. it arrives like a rupture. like a misfired round. like the tremor before a building falls.
- itâs subtle, at first â the way his hand lingers too long beside yours, the way he watches you when you arenât looking, not for suspicion â for confirmation.
- and then it hits him: he cares. you, specifically. singularly.
- and caring is dangerous. caring is treason. heâs fucked and he know it.
he isolates immediately.
he pulls away. not out of cruelty â but preservation. not yours â his. because you represent something uncontainable. not a distraction â a total ideological dismantling.
- he stops speaking as much. turns his face slightly when you enter a room. yet, he doesnât ignite himself in the morning anymore.
- and you think heâs grown cold â but inside, his equilibrium has shattered. heâs terrified heâll 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 heâs 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 â 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 doesnât work, he files internal reports on himself â coded and anonymized â to see if there are patterns being flagged.
- when the database shows nothing, he doesnât relax. it only makes him more paranoid.
- because it means heâs 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 â to see if he reacts.
when he feels nothing for them, but still thinks about youâŚhe knows.
- this isnât 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 heâll do. heâll do it for you.
you become his anchor and his test.
- he trains harder. shoots more precisely. moves with almost robotic discipline â 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 doesnât work. your presence follows him like a pulse.
when he confesses, itâs not romantic. itâs reverent.
- itâs not a declaration. itâs a submission. the words feel foreign in his mouth: âi care for you.â
they donât sound right. theyâre not enough.
- his voice is flat, but his hands shake. his shoulders twitch â a man trying to hold back centuries of indoctrination. âyou are⌠the first thing that feels real.â
after that â you are sacred. untouchable.
- he doesnât flaunt it. doesnât 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 theyâre scripture.
- he doesnât say âi love you.â he shows it when he places his gun between you and danger, without blinking.
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