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Mood of the day

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Amanda and Eric - Saw 3

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herbert west playing yugioh if you even care 🙄

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Herbert and Egon 👅👅

Forgot I made this in a dazed state last night and got jump scared by it in my drafts

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If you saw this on Instagram. Hi.

I fixed some stuff. It's still very imperfect. I'll live with it.

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which one do you like best? :o

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Amanda and Eric - Saw 3

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YOOOOO!! i’ve been thinking about this for days now and i think it would be so much fun to create like a ‘vacation with patrick bateman’ headcanons/fanfics series!!

what do y’all think?? ofc requests would always be open for the series to give new ideas ^^

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

patrick bateman on vacation with you head-canons — maldives edition :

settings.

- he doesn’t say “vacation.” he says getaway, like you’re escaping something together.

spoiler: you’re not. only he is.

- the resort is impossible to pronounce and even harder to book. timothy tried to get an answer out of patrick for a week before you two departed, but patrick would just shut him up with a typical insult and change subject. private overwater villa, infinity pool, glass-bottom bathtub, concierge so discreet you wonder if they were hand-picked by his lawyer.

- he doesn’t ask if you want to go. he tells you your flight is booked and that he’s already notified your office.

“you’ve been tense lately. we need this. pack white.”

arrival.

- you land to a staff of five greeting you by name. he doesn’t smile, but nods in approval.

- you step into the villa and the temperature is already adjusted to his preference. chilled wine poured. the air smells like sandalwood and money. you wonder how long was the list of instructions patrick gave to the staff or worse, how he managed to get them to do all of those things.

- he takes a picture of you standing on the deck. doesn’t say why. doesn’t show it to you.

- leaves his sunglasses on indoors. for the “aesthetic.” actually wants the entire village to look at him at any time.

daily routine.

- wakes up at 6:03 a.m. on the dot. drinks lemon water and does 1,000 sit-ups facing the sunrise while you’re still asleep.

- you wake to the sound of classical music playing through hidden speakers and the scent of bergamot.

- he brings you coffee on a silver tray. says “it’s important to maintain routine, even here.”

- critiques the villa’s espresso machine, calls the designer “a fraud in chrome.”

- reads the financial times shirtless on the deck. looks like a sculpture. corrects your pronunciation of “bali.”

- insists on matching swimsuits. white, minimal, expensive. if you protest, he says “it’s for the aesthetic.” it’s not. it’s about control.

gym. always.

- the moment you arrive, he asks the concierge where the gym is.

not if there’s a gym. where. it’s not optional.

- every morning after his lemon water and skincare, he goes.

doesn’t tell you. just leaves a folded note on the nightstand:

“training. 47 mins. back soon.”

- the gym is 200 meters away. he times the walk. wears designer sneakers like they’re sacred.

- if they don’t have the right machine, he files a complaint. to corporate.

- if someone else is in the gym, he stares at them until they leave. he calls this “maintaining psychological real estate.”

beach + water.

- walks you down to the beach with his hand on the small of your back like you’re his possession.

- corrects your posture. adjusts your sunglasses for you. takes pictures of you “for memory,” then deletes any where you blink.

- applies your sunscreen himself. slowly. clinically. nothing sensual — like he’s preserving his favorite object.

- when you swim, he stays close. not because he’s worried. because he doesn’t like when you’re out of reach.

- sometimes watches you from the shore, arms crossed, sunglasses still on. you can’t tell if he’s admiring you, waiting for a shark to attack you or evaluating your symmetry.

you propose going on a boat day.

- he blinks once. sips his smoothie. says nothing for six full seconds.

then: “fine. but not one of those mass-market death traps. it has to be something clean. pre-war teak. low engine noise.”

- you’re charmed. he’s not. he books a yacht bigger than the resort. you board barefoot. he boards in loafers and linen.

- refuses to let anyone else pilot it. tells the captain he’s “just a body for insurance purposes.”

- makes you wear a life vest. you refuse. he mutters about “reckless beauty” and sulks the first 30 minutes.

- finally, he softens. you stretch out on the sun-warmed deck, and he lies beside you, too close, one hand on your thigh like an anchor.

- when you laugh, he stares. then a small, almost invisible smile appears.

“you look like an ad campaign. keep doing that.”

he hopes you would keep doing that.

jealousy. silent. cold. calculated.

- if a resort staff member flirts with you, he doesn’t react. not then.

hours later, that staff member is reassigned. then gone. no explanation.

- when you ask if he had something to do with it, he looks at you and says,

“i just think people should know their place.”

meals.

- breakfast is served on floating trays in the pool. you’re not hungry. he still watches you eat.

- corrects your table manners. reminds you not to slouch.

- calls the resort chef “adequate.” sends back the truffle risotto twice.

- lets you pick dessert, but orders something different. compares the two. declares his was better.

“your taste is improving, though. slowly.”

shower “incidents.”

- insists you both rinse off after the beach. not optional.

- follows you into the outdoor shower.

doesn’t ask. doesn’t wait.

- he’s behind you, hands already moving to your waist before the water’s even warm.

mouth on your shoulder, voice low: “you don’t know what you do to me” while he tries to press his body against your back.

- tries to make love right there. pressed against the tile. slips once, curses, recovers.

- doesn’t finish. doesn’t care. “that was for you. i already won.”

- later, claims you moaned “too loudly.” suggests next time you “tone it down.”

he liked it. he’s just punishing you for being momentarily in control.

intimacy.

- touches you like you’re silk. never rushed. never clumsy.

- kisses your neck while fixing your hair, like you’re a painting that needs adjusting.

- makes love to you slowly, methodically, like he’s learning your body just to own it better.

- whispers “you belong to me” against your skin. not romantic. declarative.

falling asleep during sex.

- it happened once. late evening. white wine. you on top.

he closed his eyes, lips parted — and just…drifted.

- you stopped. confused. watched him sleep like a marble statue.

jaw relaxed, hand still on your hip.

- he wakes ten minutes later, annoyed.

“i wasn’t asleep. i was meditating through pleasure.”

- refuses to discuss it. but he overcompensates the next night. candles. control. makes you beg.

- at the end, he stares at the ceiling and says:

“see? i don’t malfunction.”

evenings.

- insists on dressing for dinner, even in the villa. pressed linen shirt. watch that costs more than a car.

- pours you wine like he’s rehearsed it. says “let’s pretend we’re normal.”

- talks about mergers, blood types, and the moral failure of synthetic fabrics. you pretend to follow. he pretends to believe you.

- if you laugh at something he says, he softens — briefly. you see something almost boyish flicker behind his expression.

control. always.

- you once stepped outside barefoot. he bought you new sandals in every color.

- you expressed liking one of the spa oils. five bottles arrived the next morning with a handwritten card: “you deserve refinement.”

- your phone doesn’t work half the time. “must be the island connection,” he says, holding his own perfectly-working phone.

activities he “lets” you do.

- snorkeling, but only after he’s inspected the equipment and interrogated the instructor about the risk of stingray injuries.

- paddleboarding. he doesn’t do it. watches from shore, arms crossed, shirt unbuttoned halfway. sunglasses on. judging your balance.

- spa. he books a couple massage but critiques the masseuse’s pressure like it’s a war crime. he actually enjoyed it.

- sunset yoga. joins once. outperforms the instructor. complains of “lack of core tension in modern fitness.”

- night swimming. you beg. he follows. watches you float. only gets in once you look cold.

pulls you in. kisses you underwater. then pulls away first. control. always.

he’s not resting.

- watches you when you sleep. not because he’s romantic. because you’re still.

- keeps a mental log of your habits. files them in his head like a collector.

- stares out at the ocean late at night, glass in hand, whispering the names of every man who ever made you cry. just once. like a list he intends to shorten.

when he lets go (barely).

- you catch him laughing once. like, actually laughing. you spilled mango gelato on his foot.

he looks down. pauses. then exhales this real, soft, involuntary laugh.

- you say, “you should do that more often.”

he replies, deadpan: “i prefer scarcity. it raises the value.”

one night, you suggest dancing.

- no music. no mood. you just say: “dance with me?” he stares. long. says nothing. then gets up.

- holds you too tightly. like you’ll vanish. doesn’t speak. lets you guide.

- his eyes don’t leave yours. even when you close yours, you can feel him watching.

departure.

- packs your bag for you. everything folded to military precision.

- you find a photo in your luggage later — you, smiling in the sun, unaware.

he didn’t give it to you. he placed it. a reminder.

on the flight, when awkward silence occupied the first class, he says: “you make me forget what i am.”

you don’t ask what he means, but you know the answer. you smile softly, a smile he wouldn’t reciprocate, and hold his hand.

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𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐝 | 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

⦿ Patrick Bateman never wanted children. He was viscerally opposed to them. Children are loud. They stain expensive Italian leather. They don't understand nuance or foie gras. The idea of a small, sticky-handed creature ruining the aesthetic of his Tribeca loft made his skin crawl. But then it happened. And it was a girl. His psyche did a full, spiraling, Hitchcockian 180 the moment he held her in that sterile, sleek hospital room. He only approved the one with gray walls and unobtrusive lighting, obviously. Something snapped. Or, more accurately, something melted. A tectonic shift occurred beneath his thousand-dollar suit. She was pink, screaming, and objectively horrifying-looking, but when she blinked those tiny eyes at him? His internal monologue short-circuited for the first time in life.

"She’s perfect," he said out loud. Out loud. To another human being.

⦿ His morning routine has adjusted to accommodate the pre-K drop-off. He still does 1,000 crunches and follows his three-step skincare routine. Now, he also packs her lunch, including organic strawberries cut into hearts. He irons her socks—he's so fucking serious about it. He buys tiny white leather Mary Janes in every size "just in case" they stop making them.

She calls him "Dada," and he nearly cries every time she does.

⦿ Not that he shows it, though. He just quickly looks away and says something like, "You're going to wrinkle your dress, sweetheart." But inside, it's the emotional equivalent of being stabbed by Cupid himself. The man who once flexed in the mirror while committing murder now gets a little breathless when she gives him a glittery sticker that says "#1 Dad." He keeps it. In his wallet. In front of his platinum AmEx. Priorities.

⦿ At night, when she’s curled up in bed with her stuffed animals, he sits in the doorway for an extra fifteen minutes. Just to listen. Just to make sure she’s breathing. Just to exist in the same world as her. For once, the voices go quiet. The rage simmers low. His brutal, fractured brain grows quiet like a storm finally spent. He kisses her forehead, whispers, "Sweet dreams," and adds, "Don't let anyone touch your juice box. If they do, you call me.” Deep down, the monster sleeps when she’s safe. In that eerie, oddly gentle way, Patrick is the most devoted, terrifying girl dad alive.

Thank you for the reading!💓 Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!

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THE DARK KNIGHT masterlist

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

vacation with bruce wayne

little baby vigilante (breeding kink!!)

upcoming…

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real and accurate saw posting 1/2

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RANDOM JEFF DENLON REFS

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has this been done before