moriohpsyker

[moriohpsyker]

Do you headcanon any of Patrick’s offscreen behavior?

Hello!💕

Well, aside from what we already know about Patrick's personality and habits—like watching porn, killing people, doing drugs, and being a sex addict and an asshole to everyone around him—I'd also add a few more things he might do.

I think Patrick sometimes talks to himself or rehearses in his mind how he’ll describe his actions later when he’s alone. It's as if he thinks someone's always watching.

Even though he seems calm, I imagine him having panic attacks in the middle of the night. I picture him pacing his apartment, unable to sleep, and obsessing over minor perceived failures or flaws.

When he isn't with his usual social circle, he may wander through stores compulsively, buying things he doesn't need or want just to pass the time and feel "normal."

I imagine he often calls restaurants or escort services and then hangs up mid-call because he can't decide what he wants—or maybe he just wants to hear a voice on the other end, lol.

Needless to say, I can picture him sketching in his planner. Sometimes he gets upset because he doesn't like how his doodles look, and he crumples or tears up the paper. He's also very protective of his sketches and doesn't allow anyone to see them.

Bonus point: In the movie, Patrick has a telescope, and I always think he uses it to spy on people, especially at night. If he's bored and porn magazines or tapes can't help him get off, he can spy on someone and fantasize about what he could do to that person. These fantasies can range from primitive sex to the wildest things, including violence. It depends on his mood, actually.

Okay, one more thing: In the book, he has a piano in his apartment, but I don't remember him using it. I want to believe that sometimes this man can actually play it, lazily pressing some keys. He's not a virtuoso, but I can see him being proud to have a piano, which makes him look noble. Maybe he used to impress women by playing simple melodies on the piano.

I hope you like my little HC and thank you for asking!

[moriohpsyker]

I did not hesitate buying this at all.

[moriohpsyker]

First post here on Tumblr and ofc it has to be Patrick 🏃‍♂️

[moriohpsyker]

Kira draw pile

[moriohpsyker]

MANIC DREAM PSYCHO CHAPTER 1: Psycho Killer

Pairing: Yoshikage Kira x Reader x Patrick Bateman

Summary: You work as an intern for Pierce&Pierce. By day you're obsessed with your mentor, a pretty blonde with a hand-fetish. By night you have to deal with a pretentious good-looking rich asshole with sadistic tendencies. You’ve got it all down to a routine—two separate lives, one persona for each. But things start to unravel when they both begin to see through your poorly constructed facades. Well, fuck. Good luck I guess.

Tags (More like warnings): Hand-Fetish things and skin peeling.

Words: 5k+

A/N: Hello there, welcome to a series... I guess? A horror romantic comedy about toxic romance and obsession. Setting up this post on tumblr while half-asleep LMAO.

Reader will be referred to he/him, she/her, they/them- it's like a box of chocolate of genderfluidity depending on where they are and who is interacting with them.

Danger.

That's what you seemed to attract despite your will, despite your better judgement sometimes.

Even when you felt safe, the recess of your mind decided that it would attack you for no better reason but to have stimulation then it began.

Overstimulated.

Understimulated.

It makes you wedge in between a place and time that makes you feel like you're going insane. The type of feeling where, maybe it's time to go to a psychiatrist again. Maybe two? Who knows.

 However, today, you were sat at your desk.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

  Click. Clack.

  Typing in the data that was given to you by your mentor, creating a database from scratch. Stocking inventory. Accounting. Numbers. Oh god the fucking numbers.

  You tugged at the black fabric that sat on your face, you tend to hide it so you would feel comfortable sitting here at an office.

  It was strange, but it was a suggestion made by one of the many therapists you saw. Not that any of the sessions lasts long enough to ease your mind; switching therapists to therapists before you inevitably stopped going overall.

  The mask did help though. Maybe the pills that you were prescribed helped too. Sort of. You eventually forgot to continue taking them again.

  Perhaps you were the problem, but that notion never seemed to dwell in your mind long enough before shifting to another task at hand. 

  “Hey.” You snapped your head up, an audible crack popping from a joint in your neck. 

  You swivel the chair around to see your co-worker looking at you with detached interest with a bunch of quarterly review reports you had printed out previously the day before in his hands. On closer inspection, there were a lot of red marks on it— you wanted to crawl into a hole.

  However that embarrassed feeling faded once you noticed who exactly the coworker was.

  “Hey. The numbers on this report are wrong… and quite a bit of them.” 

  “Oh. Sorry Mr. Kira…” 

  “It's fine. Just fix them please.” 

  You reached out to grab the reports, immediately from the corner of your eyes you noticed how intensely he was staring at your hands. When it came to this, you felt insecure about them, the free edge peeled too short until there was nothing but the nail bed. Cuticle a little overgrown. Hang nail indented cavities that you couldn't resist peeling back because you liked the burning sensation of it and also that it irritated you whenever it rubbed against something and you feel the—

  “... the Peterson broker account needs to be… are you listening? I am not going to explain this twice.” 

  Your eyes completely were staring at him now, focusing. 

  Although it seems you could have been focusing on the wrong things again as you now had the sudden realization of how close this man was standing next to you.

  Neatly combed back blonde hair.

Long light lashes.

Eyes the color of a periwinkle type blue that you didn't know was possible.

  You bet that if you gouged it out and held it towards the sun, it could turn a deeper blue or a lighter purple depending on how you angled it, just like a certain nail polish you recalled seeing in your childhood. 

  They were so pretty. He was pretty. Your hands that were clutching the reports were now almost slightly wrinkling them from how tight your fingers curled around them.

  Yoshikage Kira. 33 years old. He recently moved from a small town in Japan named Morioh to Manhattan. He was a rather mild-mannered man, kept to himself but would also mingle with others if the event calls for it. 

  He was also who Pierce & Pierce decided to use as a test dummy for a new mentoring system they were trying to put in place.

  Kira was your mentor and you felt like you struck gold because he was actually pretty good at it. And you didn't even mind when he shoved all the hard tasks on you while he did all the easy ones since he still helped you when you had any questions.

  Your brain decided that you liked him.

  An awful lot. Just because he seemed mundane. Was nice to you. NEVER STARED AT YOU LIKE MEAT. And of course pretty.  

  You observed him. It was one of the only things that was grounding you as of late. You tracked down whether his hair grew a little longer. His habits. His schedule. His address.

  His messy kills.

  “Sorry. Can you please repeat that again?” 

  A sigh. You could tell that he was getting frustrated with you. Still however, he kept his politeness, never truly getting angry. You smiled behind the mask.

  See, he's still being polite even if he was starting to get a little annoyed.

  Then you listened as he explained what mistakes you made again, this time though, you were taking notes. As much as you liked the crinkle between his brows, it's best not to push his buttons too far especially at work.

  “Okay. Got it! I understand now, thank you Mr. Kira.” You chirped at him.

  “Also clean up your desk… It's unsightly.” You watch as he plopped your pens back into a plastic cup holder. 

  Guess that was the thing that bothered him the most on your desk. 

  He gives you a slight nod before taking his leave.

  The interaction was short and fleeting, nothing interesting but still it calmed you down for now.

  As you turned back to fix your errors, your mind drifted back to your last train of thought.

  The killings. 

  You were just following him from a great enough distance after work like always— you didn't really remember when you started doing that; your body just moved by itself, he didn't seem to notice you. 

  Large gatherings he attended, or sometimes out on the streets—women he picked out always had nice hands. He'd lure them into dark secluded alleyways, covering their mouths before they could scream as he stabbed into them violently.

  Plunging the knife deep into their neck, before stabbing randomly, quick, frantic. Still. Somehow he manages to not be covered in blood as if he was avoiding arteries where blood will spray out when hit.

  You always hid in the shadows (behind some kind of dump or sometimes a far away building with binoculars), watching, lurking.

  You knew it was morally wrong to kill (something you swore you wouldn't do yourself) but you didn't mind, after all, you didn't know who these women were. Why would it affect you? Plus the way his eyes light up, the way he smiled when it looked like he perfected a kill— it was beautiful. Even when he messily dismembers the hand from the body while stuffing the rest in a body bag that he made sure to prepare ahead of time. It's one of the rare occasions where his sleeves were folded up neatly revealing the taut muscles of his forearms flexing, you wish you could get close enough to see his veins— you wondered what color they were. His sweat beading down his forehead being adorably framed by messy strands of blonde as those sweet lips parted, panting ragged by the exertion of murdering someone. 

  He really needed to work out more often instead doing the bare minimum to be healthy or perhaps it was his age?

  Attractive people really get away with anything. Huh?

  Your mind recalls even deeper, his face rubbing up against the hand, adoring it, talking to it as if he had just met the prettiest person alive. He would even give it a name.

  That just made him even more adorable.

You craved that attention towards you.

Pathetic. Odd. Adorable. 

  He doesn't kill often anyways. He only does it when he can't control himself anymore. You noticed that it occurs after the hand starts to decay where he can no longer hide the stench of it or when his own fingernails grow at quite a rapid pace. 

  Ironic how he wanted to live peacefully when one misstep could make him lose everything due to his uncontrollable impulses. His confidence in never getting caught was high but sometimes wavering as he interacts with colleagues. Only you noticed when he fidgets uncomfortably in his valentino suit, spritzing cologne onto a particular area. 

  You supposed you loved that about him anyways. 

  The clock at your desk blared 5:30PM.

  Shit.

  Before you could even finish anything, it was already time to clock out. However, due to your very poor choice in time management, you will have to clock out late to finish the work Kira gave. Which meant less time to follow him after work before he retired for his 11PM bedtime.

  Irritation picked at you. Moreso at yourself for doing this again. 

  There was no other choice but to grab your Sony WM-DD30 walkman which was best in the market in your opinion to listen to music with. It was the only way to keep you from your distracting thoughts.

  Psycho Killer from Talking Heads’ album Talking Heads: 77 blared through the headphones as you hummed along, clacking in the data. 

  It was their debut studio album and this song was particularly catchy. When taken at the face lyrics, one would suspect that the song was written about The Son of Sam since it was released right after his arrest but you believed that it wasn't necessarily about a crazed murderer, no, you instead thought it was just someone who was trapped in their mind and felt alienated by society as they dealt with their violent urges. It was about someone not really knowing who they really are.

  Click. Clack.

  At this rate you should get done in an hour or two.

  The rhythm of your tapping on the keyboard, retyping the report on the IBM computer that sat on your chaos mess of a desk followed along to the beat of the chorus. 

  Then interruption.

  “Do you need any help with that?” 

  Headphones were immediately pulled down. Why was he still here? He should be outside the office right now, doing any errands he needed to do before arriving home.

  Kira looked down at you with a face that wasn't exactly tired, nor thrill— it was just what one might call a neutral expression. You didn't answer, not at first. Silence grew between the both of you and his expression shifted to a miffed one at the lack of your response.

  Then you finally replied.

  “If you don't mind.” 

  Now, it's not the first time your stomach twisted like someone took your small intestine and decided to put it in one of those cotton candy machines that rapidly spun sugar around and around and around. Nausea settled in as you felt yourself get too excited. 

  Was he here just for you? Was he worried about you? Your heart sped through the absolute canal of your throat as you swallowed heavily, trying not to freak out as he pulled up a chair to sit beside you. The sudden adrenaline in your veins made you bite down on your lip hard, making you taste iron. Pain helped you settle. 

  A tingle went down your arms. 

  “I- uhm sorry.” You meekly mumbled into your mask. 

  He didn't question when you apologized, rather, he ignored it.

  “I'll finalize the calculations on these sheets, please just enter the data in the database… By the way…”

  Kira's eyes lingered on your hands again and you resist the urge to twitch. “I have some anti-scarring cream if you want some, I notice that you have a lot of… cuts on them.”

  Without skipping a beat, you replied:

  “Oh yeah, I’ve recently adopted a cat. He gets fussy sometimes…” 

  “I see… Your hands are rather dainty.”

  “What?”

  You blinked, but almost softly laughed at the weird interjection, however you held it in. 

  “For a man I mean— actually sorry I don't know why I brought it up.”

  “It's okay. I get that often.” 

  Then there was silence.

  “You don't often stay back this late.” You tried your best to make conversation, fingers now resuming their typing.

  “Mm. Yeah.” 

  “...Thank you for helping me.”

  He just hummed in response.

  A part of you wanted to whisper I like you . But you didn't.

  Instead, you thought back to your hands that he mentioned were dainty . You didn't think they were dainty due to the small callouses forming on the side of your fingers, unless he was referring to their size. Eventually your hands stopped moving, you looked at them more, covered in old nicks and marks as well as newer forming scabs from a night prior.

  They itch. You wanted to pick at them, to scrape them off like annoyances. But you didn't because Kira was still there next to you. 

  And you wanted to pretend you took good care of your hands next to him. From the corner of your eyes, you saw a small tube of cream of silicon scar gel, when did he put it there? Were you supposed to put it on now? You glanced at him.

  Big mistake.

  Because now you just wanted to stare at him forever. 

  “Is there something on my face?”

  You quickly turned your head away. 

  “I had a quick question about the stock here…” You lied. You also knew he knew you were lying.

  A long exhale and your heart tugged at you hearing it, “When you first started working, you were efficient… Do you want to talk about it?”

  Deep down you knew he wanted to avoid having more work placed onto himself in the long run, which is probably why he was staying late despite it going against his schedule. Then again, he could have planned this yesterday to prepare for the deviation today.

  “I guess I've just been unable to sleep as of late...” 

  “I recommend doing stretches before bed and sleeping around the same time.”

  “And a glass of warm milk. It always helps me get to bed.” He added. 

  “I already knew that.”

  You wanted to say but what came out of your mouth was, Thank you. I'll try that .

  And that was the end of that.

Or at least it should be. 

  “How would you know that?” 

  You stood up abruptly from your chair.

“What I said was I needed to go take a piss.” And then you practically almost sprinted to the bathroom.

  Why the fuck and when the fuck were you holding the hand cream?

  It was only noticed that it was held tight within your mildly cold sweat hand when you entered the bathroom stall trying to calm yourself down. 

  You pulled down your mask and you rubbed the tube against your face, Kira held this before you did. His hands have touched it personally. It was new. Did he buy this for you? 

  Stop thinking. Stop thinking. STOP FUCKING THINKING.

  You popped open the cap and started applying it to your hands, rubbing the cream hard enough against your hands to the point the scabs you had were bleeding again making whatever leftover residue that wasn't completely rubbed in to look pinkish on your hands. 

  “Hahaha. Fuck.” 

  Why were you panicking so much? This was the first time in a while since Kira came up so close to you, why were you fucking it up?

  Tears dripped from your eyes involuntarily. You scrubbed at them with the back of your hands forgetting you had the cream on them. It only made you tear up more.

  I want to rip out my eyes.

  . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

  He didn't stop you even if he was tempted to. 

  Kira stared at the place you left empty, contemplating. He felt his palms begin to sweat nervously— if he had heard you right the first time then does that mean he somehow mentioned his night routine before and he had somehow forgotten? 

  That didn't sound right. He would have remembered.

  Even though you had been working here for a few months, you both were not close enough for him to mention anything about his personal life. Most of your conversations were strictly professional and about work.

  Plus your voice has sounded so sure as if you definitely knew what he did instead of just taking his words for it.

  He tapped his fingers impatiently against the table. The recalculation was long done by now and you haven't came back. It wasn't like you to take so long. Actually, he didn't know why he cared so much in the first place. He should have just left on time like he always did.

  But Kira knew why he stayed behind to help much to his annoyance, it was because of your work slowing down making him have much more work than needed and also the curiosity of your hands had progressively almost made it difficult for him to get a peaceful rest at night. 

  Your hands. 

  They were small. He could bury them perfectly with just one of his own hands. He had noted that fact down when he got to shake it once at the introduction meeting for the mentorship program.

  “This is the new kid you'll be guiding. Please treat him well, he's also not from around this city.” 

  Kira saw that only the top of your head grazed his shoulder so he had to tilt his head down a bit to get a clear look at you. He saw the black mask you wore covered half your face but otherwise you wore what every man wore at the office. Suit and tie. Suspenders and slacks.

  Him. The way your hands looked. He had to question if his tastes were changing or did some men just take better care of their appearances here because he was slowly enraptured by the way your hands looked.

  The first time when he laid eyes on them, they were almost like a clean canvas. Pristine. As if you had just got done with a freshly nice manicure, he even noted how there was a protective coat on your nails. He would have almost been surprised by how extremely well maintained they were for a man if he didn't recall someone else at the office who also took great care of his hands. 

  “My sister owns a nail salon and she insisted that I get them nice before my first day at work. I'm so glad she only put on a top coat instead of color.”

  That was the answer you gave him when he just had to know. It surprised himself that he couldn't stop himself from asking you where you got it done but he was also relieved that you answered without hesitation as if it was something normal. 

  The only thing that turned him off as he observed further was the appearance of oddly discolored healing patterns on them.

  Over the months, your hands eventually became unkept like your work ethic— littered in new cuts and scars, fingers occasionally inked and stained for some unknown reason he didn't pry in. 

  He had lost interest in them for its original purpose to put it in his mouth. Caress it. Take it on nice little dates. However, he was beginning to latch on to the idea if he was able to nurture it to its full potential just like how it was in the beginning. 

  He even dreamt about it.

  Which was why he had planned to approach you more today. 

  But something was terribly off by the way you stared at him. Kira was fairly confident in his own attractiveness and it had definitely helped when he wanted a hand or two with things. He was used to a few passing stares here and there (although some days he would obsessively overcheck himself in the bathroom to make sure nothing was standing out) yet the way you stare at him was akin to a cat eyeing its prey. 

  As if you knew something.

  The more he thought about it. The more it made him nervous. He gnawed at his thumb, effectively clipping it with his teeth, his teeth sharply hitting the hyponychium, puncturing the skin.

  “Thank you for… cleaning up my desk for me?” You were finally back and Kira didn't realize that while drowning in his thoughts, he used one hand to organize your desk to his liking.

  It irked you a little that he did that but your mind pushed down the slight annoyances due to your other feelings. The world was a wonderful shade of pink when you get to look at him.

  “You're welcome. You sure were taking your time in there…”

  “Sorry. I guess I lost track of time.” Your eyes were red. You knew that from the excessive rubbing you did on them to clear up your tears. “An eyelash fell onto my eyes and it took forever trying to get it o—.” 

  His thumb was bleeding.

  “Are you okay Mr. Kira?” You approached him closer, more concerned about his finger to even realize how close you were getting to him. 

  His breath hitched when your hand was on his wrist, pulling his hand closer to your face to inspect what he had ruined nervously. He yanked his hand away abruptly only to feel regret when he realized he should have enjoyed the warmth of it longer. It was something he was going to replay in his head at some point.

  He shouldn't be feeling this way.

  “I'm fine.” His voice was strained, cracking a little. 

  You didn't know why but the nervous transition from his usually stoic nature towards you triggered something that made you want to tease him.

  Kira did get nervous with peers or people above him (the whole fitting in thing)— but never with you. You were beneath him in the workplace hierarchy and you often left him alone in peace. 

  “Hmmm. You sure?” You could tell that you probably had a large shit eating grin underneath your mask. The corners of your mouth twitching. Your heart was still palpitating like crazy but it was for a different reason now. You dug your hands in your pocket, digging around before pulling out a bandaid and the anti-scarring gel you used earlier. 

  On any other given day, perhaps you would have just simply handed it to him and been done. Your fingers were trembling a little as you held out your free hand towards him as if asking a cat for its paw. 

  Kira was now just rubbing his wrist awkwardly, glowering down at you and at the offered hand. 

  He noticed a mocking mischievous glint in your eyes. If you both weren't in the office right now with some people still there, he might have just tried to choke you right there and then. You only stared back up at him, silently and expectantly before lighting up as he hesitantly placed his injured hand on yours. 

  Good boy. 

  You could literally feel how sweaty his hands were getting as you popped off the cap of the gel, gliding the pad of your own thumb to where his own was punctured with translucent silicone.

  The way his trousers tightened just from this was all your fault. How could just finger rubbing be obscene? It actually had to do with the light scratches you were doing on the back of his hand. Kira had to control his breathing which mostly meant just holding it in until you finally reluctantly let go, painfully slow. 

  After wrapping the plaster on his finger, it was then when you noticed the odd wrinkles in his slacks. You pretend to ignore it despite a few minutes of a lingering gaze; although you did feel a twinge of smugness for causing his current state. 

  Meanwhile Kira was doing his best to not show that anything was off, even if he had moved his legs around a bit to hide it.

  “There! All good.” You pulled back, giving an appropriate distance between the two of you. It took a few moments of trying to straighten himself but he finally said:

  “Thanks..” 

“No problem! Thanks for always helping me with work things.” 

“... I can apply it myself next time.”

“I know but it helps having someone wrap a bandaid around your thumb, sometimes that part gets tricky.”

  Internally, there was a wave of relief that washed over you due to the fact that the both of you were having a conversation that was at last, flowing somewhat. You sat back down, your head in your hand propped up by your elbow as you looked at him again.

  Both of you were once again in a silent staring competition, except you were the one staring at his face while he was the one who shifted to look back down at your hands again. 

  Oh, well. That was sort of fun while it lasted.

  “I'll finish up the report, you should probably get home now. I'll feel bad keeping you here any longer.” You tell him, repositioning yourself in a more comfortable position to type. 

  “... I can wait until you're done. We can perhaps get dinner?” 

  Were you dreaming or did Kira just ask you out after work? You chewed on your bottom lip, wanting so badly to say yes but unfortunately by the time you would be done with this report, it'll be too late to go get dinner and then attend your other appointment afterwards. 

  And that fucker was annoying whenever you ran late.

  “I would love to, but actually I have something to do later… OH but, maybe another time?” You hope that he would offer it again.

  “That's understandable. It was a sudden invite after all… Yes, perhaps next time.” Kira's tone was filled with not exactly disappointment but more of doubt because if you really had somewhere to be, you should be rushing instead of taking your sweet time staring talking to him.

  “Don't clock out too late.” He said politely.

“Yes, thank you, have a good night Mr. Kira.” You replied back in the same polite manner.

  He gave you and your hands one last glance before walking away to gather his things and leave.

  Once he was away, you slapped your face into your hand; and then proceeded to run it over your hair, tousling it in a mess. Internally screaming as you silently kicked your legs underneath the office desk. 

  It all caught up to you, you touched his hand. HIS HAND. AND HE INVITED YOU OUT. 

  It was such a shame you had to reject it. It almost brought tears to your eyes, but you tried not to let it get to you, shaking your leg restlessly against the floor.

  The appointment. It was a secondary job you've recently taken on for some nights (timed perfectly after Kira has gone to bed) although it has become very frequent as of late— as if the requester was becoming addicted to seeing you. Technically, you could have canceled but a small part of you was falling into routine with this activity. 

  Even if the person of your obsession had asked you out, your mind wouldn't let you fully stray from something you already planned for. 

  At least he said maybe next time.

  Your work was done by the time the clock read  8PM in bright neon red numbers. 

  —

  “Well. I guess I'm not too late…” You mumbled to yourself, standing in front of your appointment's door. You had rushed home after work to change out of your day clothes because you were not letting the possible chance for this man to recognize you at work.

  One of the Vice Presidents for Pierce&Pierce. 

  Patrick Bateman.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock .

  Five knocks. Between two and five you decided that was the ‘normal’ amount of knocks that a person should make at the door. 

  The door swung open revealing a young man with an expensive taste for clothing leaning against the door frame casually as if he has been waiting there the entire time for you. However on closer inspection, you noticed a little bit of heavy breathing, some sweat beads, and his usual combed back was slightly framing his forehead. You didn't say anything about it. 

  “You're late.”

“Well, hello to you too Mr. Peanut Butter.”

“I told you not to call me that, you stupid bitch.” He mumbled the last three words but you caught it so clearly.

“Well until you stop calling me a stupid bitch, I'm gonna keep calling you that.” 

  You stayed still in your position from the door, a polite smile on your face but your words were anything but. You watched as the taller man moved aside with an irritated expression on his face as you walked in, brushing past him, rolling your eyes. Once in, you took off your shoes and placed them neatly at the entrance. You swore every time you walked into this place, it was cold and unwelcoming especially from the monochromatic furnishing and expensive decor. It reminded you of a ‘ home’ you once lived in and it made your mouth fill up with a bitter taste every time you thought about it.

  Brand new newspaper articles sprawled across the floor, his couches covered in protective cloth as you plopped down onto one with a small bounce, wrinkling the sheets a bit so you smoothed it back.

  “So, Mr. PB&J what will it be today?” You hummed, “Ice pick, the scalpel, kitchen knives, the nail gun?” You listed these off as they were just nothing but a grocery list.

  “Oh, but the nail gun, you have rather poor aim, I rather not lose a fucking eye— luckily I managed to dodge that nail last time and it just gave me a new piercing.” It ripped the small tip of your ear off. 

  You watched as Patrick held something rectangular in his hand, it had a handle and there was definitely a glinting shine of metal. But from where you were sitting, you couldn't exactly pinpoint what it was. 

  “Today, I was thinking about listening to some Genesis.” He began, with a smile on his face,  “It was featured in the 1986 movie called the Mona Lisa—” 

  You already knew what it was and you interrupted him much to his chagrin to explain the song, “It's In Too Deep isn't it? That so and so uplifting song about monogamy and commitment or something but to me it just feels like there's underlying context if you take the scene it was played for in the film,” He popped the CD in his Pioneer PD-4300 player. 

  “Manipulation and deception. Selfishness. Falling in love with someone new. A shiny new toy you want in your hand, neglecting the old one. If he really wanted to be all about fucking commitment with the new one, he should have just straight up told the old toy that he didn't want them anymore before going after it. Instead of keeping both. Did he actually truly love her or is it to soften the blow for breaking her heart?” You only could focus on the potential negative connotations to the song, you bite back a laugh mockingly, looking at the way his face scrunched up into annoyance once again, “Something you could relate to huh?” 

  The way you enjoyed pushing his buttons. 

  He couldn't say anything at first, instead he moved closer towards you, letting the music blare from the speakers. 

  “Has anyone ever told you it's rude to interrupt someone when they're talking?” 

  You gave a half-hearted shrug, “You've already told me what you thought about this song before, in case you've forgotten.” Patrick was hovering over you now, bearing his teeth in a grin that never reached his eyes, his shadow swallowing your figure and you just let out a sigh before finally taking a clear look at the object in his hand.

  “You're such a stuck-up bitch, did you know that?”

“It's like you're looking in the mirror.”

  He had a cheese grater. 

  A fucking cheese grater. 

  He roughly grabbed your wrist that was resting nicely on your lap, dragging your entire body up due to the strength of it, before pushing up your sleeve to reveal scarred skin.

  You didn't say anything else. Didn't let out a peep when the cold metal touched your forearm, the sharp edges slowly digging into skin. 

  You knew you were going to be in for a long night because one, you were late and two, you interrupted his favorite little explaining time with an analysis of your own while also insulting him at the same time.

  The small blades started at your epidermis, peeling back the top layer in white skin strands like a cheese stick, flaking off old and new scabs. 

  I guess this is how a block of cheese feels like. 

  You wondered if he was gonna peel enough skin to sprinkle it over pasta. You decided not to dwell on it.

[moriohpsyker]

Touch in the Night

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: How gentle Patrick's touch feels when you know how rough he can be.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smut, Patrick is obsessed(as always), possessive behavior, unprotected p in v sex(doggy and vague prone bone), implied body worship, mentions of spanking, overstimulation and Patrick being sadistic, pet names, dirty talk.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: <1k

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: Silent Circle — Touch in the Night🔥

𝐀/𝐍: Hello, everyone! This prompt won the poll, and I hope you like it! Many thanks to my dear @moriohpsyker for proofreading!💕

Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!

You could hear the muffled rustle of wrinkled sheets and feel the mattress dip beneath your knees. You could feel his sweaty abs clinging to your ass each time he thrusts inside you. All of this had become too familiar—more than you could have ever imagined—to the point that you couldn’t tell where his nerves ended and yours began as you moved together in sync like a perfect mechanism, every detail inseparable and irreplaceable. It was both too much and not enough when it came to the both of you. Every time you had sex—or "make love", as you preferred to call it—you could easily get lost in the moment. You gave everything you had and were ready to make sacrifices or suppress pain when needed.

Because, in the end, it was always about pain.

You were willing to take it, to live through it, and to allow this man to destroy you, even if he could be gentle—you'd never expect or ask him to be, since you loved him the way he was. No less, no more. It was raw and sick, but this is how he made you feel, and you had nothing to be ashamed of. Not even in the moments when you should have been concerned or frightened; not even when Patrick wanted to draw some of your blood just to know how it tasted. Not even the moments when you thought it would be your last time having a sexual encounter with him.

Even when he thought it would be glorious if you died while he fucks you, saying some arrogant shit like: "Look at this whore choking to death on my fucking dick."

And you would thank him for degrading you because you accepted this man the way he was. Brutal, erratic, goofy, and insane sometimes. 

But never really gentle. 

However, everything changed one night when, while giving you rough, almost punishing backshots, he suddenly stopped and ducked down to kiss your shoulder blade and the dip in your back. You were left bewildered and shocked because you thought Patrick was incapable of showing tenderness.

Once again, he proved that he was a goddamn mystery who never ceased to surprise you.

"I thought you'd cry," he rasped, his voice tight as he spoke near your ear. "I thought you’d beg me to stop. I thought you’d break.”

Panting, he drove in, rough again, and your whole body launched forward.

"But then you took it. And you cummed so fast. And then you laid there and begged for more." Patrick grunted through clenched teeth.

You shook under him, gasping for air.

"Do you want to know what I really want, honey?" His hand was back on your ass, rubbing the spot he had spanked. "Do you want to know who I really am?"

Slowly, almost tortuously, he pulled out a little, then slammed into you again.

Hard. No warning. No easing in.

You screamed again, your back arching against him.

"I want you to fucking break," he hissed, darting his eyes down to where your bodies were connected. "I want to fuck the noise out of you."

"Please–"

"I want you hoarse by morning," Patrick groaned, thrusting deeper until he felt you clenching so hard that his vision blurred. "I want your throat to be sore from screaming into pillows."

You were panting so vocally—your voice was a mess. "You'll tear me."

"I want to."

With that, the man reached around and grabbed a fistful of your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you yelp. You were already flat on your elbows, your face smashed into the mattress and the sheets soaked at your thighs. With every thrust, you experienced a firestorm of overstimulation and soreness; your body couldn't tell if the ache was caused by pain or lust.

"I want to fuck you until you forget what it's like…" another harsh thrust punched the air out of your lungs, "...to not have me inside you."

It felt like there was no end to it all—his insatiable appetite for control, his need to dominate, and his cruel desire to inflict pain just to lick the wounds he left in his wake. There were moments when Patrick dismantled you just to rebuild you, again and again. His kisses trailed like fire across your neck. His fingers intertwined with yours tenderly. His weight draped over you like a warm, protective blanket.

Was it considered gentle enough for someone like him?

Whenever your moans became too loud, he was ready to cover them with his greedy mouth. But he was probably doing it mostly for himself, getting off on knowing how much you needed his comfort when he fucked you too hard. Unfortunately, Patrick would never tell you, but he found it addictive. He became obsessed with showering your body with all the physical affection he could muster. His lips, his mouth, his arms, his fingers—everything belonged to you. In the end, you held more power than you knew over this corrupt yuppie who insisted he had no soul.

That was until he met you.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[MY IMAGINES ABOUT PATRICK]🪓[KO-FI]

[moriohpsyker]

A gift I drew for @makeyoumine69

It's of Becca and Patrick from one of her series, Till Death Do Us Part. Thank you for being the first person to interact with me in this fandom 🧡

I have fun with our talks!! AND I GET TO SEE SO MANY PHOTOS OF PATRICK. AS SOMEONE WHOSE BEEN HERE FOR LIKE TWO MONTHS ITS LIKE FREE CANDY.

[moriohpsyker]

Yoshikage Kira Work Doodle Studies

[moriohpsyker]

Today, 6/10/2025. In me flipping around in my American Psycho book.

The way he's cooing at this fucking baby with the funniest ass words have me dying at work. "Yes I'm a total psychopathic murderer—" oh my god, dude 😭😭😭 TALKING IN A HIGH PITCH BABY VOICE IM GONNA OH MY GOD IS IT THE SAME VOICE HE USED FOR THE KITTY IN THE MOVIE I WONDERED.

I am going to close the book and try again later.

[moriohpsyker]

They multiplied.... I'm gonna play spot the difference because there are already subtle differences I noticed between how they are sculpted! I love hand crafted stuff... Will make a post later.

[moriohpsyker]

I finally got the first chapter of Manic Dream Psycho out! Yay! First time publishing anything on AO3.

A Patrick Bateman x Reader x Yoshikage Kira fanfic with a genderfluid reader that has a background story. It's a horror dark romance comedy I guess. We are gonna be playing with what is considered "romance" and also hey a reader insert with them mostly being in the aroace spectrum if that also piques your interest.

It is made for adults, 18+ ONLY Minors should not interact or people who are uncomfortable with the warnings.

READ MANIC DREAM PSYCHO

[moriohpsyker]

hey! hope this isn't too weird lol but could you write headcanons for how patrick bateman would act if the woman he was dating was ovulating? like would he notice? get weirdly possessive or more obsessive? just curious how that would play out with his whole psycho control thing 👀 thanks!!

Patrick Bateman x Ovulating GF (Headcanons)

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smut, Patrick is an animal.

𝐀/𝐍: Thank you so much for sending me this request! I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy reading it. Many thanks to my dear @moriohpsyker for proofreading!💕

🪓He would know because he tracks it.

Patrick is a very organized man, and tracking your menstrual cycle is part of his practical nature. He probably has a calendar or spreadsheet of your cycle, but he wouldn't tell you because you might think it's creepy or weird, even though it really is. So he keeps this information to himself. Once he notices the subtle changes in your mood, the way you talk, how flirty and sassy your tone becomes, how wide your smile is, and how you're absolutely radiating from the inside, he'll definitely check the calendar to see if he's right on time. He can practically taste your arousal in the air whenever you’re around, and it drives him insane.

"You're glowing, darling," he murmurs into your ear, burying his nose in your hair and pressing you tight against him.  "And this scent—so sweet. Lemme taste it.”

🪓His attraction would spike, but it would also piss him off.

Basically, I see him being much more aroused than usual because you’re glowing, your smile hits differently(it's more playful in his opinion), and you’re like a gift with a bow on it, walking around him, asking to be unwrapped. Patrick would be bothered by all of this, especially at work when it gives him a boner. He’s already upset that he has to lock himself up  in his office and jerk off to trashy porn magazines instead of eating you out; to settle inside your dripping pussy. The notion that he could impregnate you would rile him up and speed up his orgasm. He'd see it as an obvious con and another reason to complain—you having a special effect on him while you're just living your life. He could blame nature, but it's easier to blame you and fuck you harder as punishment.

"Shit, I couldn't stop thinking about fucking you all day long," he'd whisper into your parted mouth while doing you missionary style with your legs looped around his lower back. The curve of his cock would massage the front wall of your throbbing pussy so fuckin' perfectly. Patrick would groan, grabbing both your wrists with one hand and pinning them over your head. He'd slam deeper, his hips grinding against yours with the lewd sounds of flesh meeting flesh. "Hey, don't close your eyes, honey. I want you to see the things you’re doing to me.”

🪓The potential of breeding you? What if he has a breeding kink?

Okay, but what if the two of you were actually planning for a baby? That would change everything, since this man would take days off from work to have sex with you throughout your ovulation period. He'd be so genuine about it. He'd be dedicated as hell. Patrick would find ways to impress or shock you with his "absolutely normal" ideas.

One day, he'll suggest filming the conception process so he can rewatch it later. When he notices your face going blank, he'll raise his eyebrows and ask, "What's wrong with that, baby?"

Even if you say no, he’ll drill a goddamn hole in your brain with his whining and preaching about how he wants to memorize your perfect body when he manages to pump you full of his cum; and how he’d spread your legs wide open on camera to show it leaking down your thighs. No, there’s nothing depraved about it. Patrick will wait and let you simmer. He'll persistently feed you pieces of his twisted fantasy, like a demon sitting on your shoulder and buzzing in your ear, until you surrender.

And he eventually, of course, gets everything he wants. 

He'll dress you in pretty pastel lingerie because he wants you to look soft and innocent for the video, to make it look like something that was made in heaven. First, he’ll make you suck him off before delving between your legs. After he’s sure the camera is recording, he’ll feast on your succulent pussy as if it were his last meal. Of course, he'd do it with the wettest, filthiest, slurpiest sounds to gratify his own desires while also humiliating you further. For the sex position, he’d debate between mating press and the prone bone only to try them both.

Then, Patrick will break you in half, with your legs splayed open and pulled up at your knees. He'll drape them over his broad shoulders and squat down so intensely that his heavy balls will slap your ass. God, he'll definitely jerk off to your moans while watching this recording on the days when the doctor forbids you to have sex.

🪓The opposite side of his hyperfixation over your ovulation would be his jealousy.

Patrick would be extremely jealous and territorial on the days when you’re ovulating. He’d be on edge, and even just a small smile given to a waiter, passerby, or anyone else would instantly set him off. He would lose his mind, and he hates it, but he hates other men staring at what's his even more, so you better not provoke him. If you do, be ready for revenge.

"We're leaving," he would hiss, annoyed and spitting venom. "This place is so fucking overrated. The alcohol they're serving here is pure garbage.”

He definitely wasn't acting like that just because you thanked a random guy for helping you pick up a napkin you dropped.

What a tragedy.

Yeah, Patrick is unhealthily possessive, especially when you’re vulnerable and blossoming like this. He’ll see every man as a potential threat if they dare try to get too close to you.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[KO-FI]

[moriohpsyker]

Memory Snippet Diary #1

Pairing: OC (reader?) x OC

Summary: A memory from the past, having sex with your girlfriend almost turns out for the worst.

Word Count: 1,086

Warnings: NSFW, Choking, Minors DNI (18+ ONLY), Dark thoughts. Smut (?). Character being an asshole.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Parents House, 1970

Her calves were right on top of your shoulder, heavy— promising. Pillows propping her lower back to help you angle yourself to arch into her.

The straps of the dildo you were wearing dug into you a bit as you started adjusting your position. You held a tight grip onto her hips, listening to her moans.

Your thighs almost ached from this position but you kept going, leaning your head down to take one of her nipples, swollen and harden from the cold air.

You nipped it, eliciting a small whine. Then you sucked, swirling your tongue around the bud as if it was last thing you'll ever taste.

But really. You felt nothing from this entire interaction.

It was like you weren't even there.

“Oh fuck baby— oh god.”

Why was her voice grating in your ear now. Why did your stomach twist and turn?

You were supposed to love her right?

“Yes, keep going like that oh fuck fuck fuck please harder.” Your finger slid towards to her clit, rubbing the sensitive bud. It was hard. Covered in slick from how wet she was. You didn't slow down your rhythm at all, giving her what she wanted.

It was all notes in your head.

One. Two. Three. Four.

You knew she was going to cum from how high and whiny her voice sounded.

She then all of sudden grabbed your wrist, staring at you with lust filled eyes. Dark and dazed. Her lips parted open and you couldn't help but slow down a little to bite her those plump lower lip. The texture reminding you of one of those teething toys you used to chew as a kid.

Your hands were now placed on her neck.

“Choke me. Please.”

You complied with her request, a grin tugging at your lips. You wanted to resist the urge to laugh even if the feeling of something else was bubbling at the edge of your throat.

“God, you're such a filthy slut for me aren't you? What a good girl begging for me to choke you.” The words that left your lips felt like it should belong to someone else. Not yours.

Your hands wrapped around her throat. Squeezing lightly as you started to resume your thrusting again, your upper thighs now slapping against the thickness of her ass creating such wet sounds. You knew it drove her crazy.

Your breathing was getting ragged but you kept at it, fingers tightening against her throat.

Crush her fucking wind pipes.

Hands immediately went to her shoulders,

Pausing yourself mid-thrust, the dildo popping out of her squelching cunt with a slick pop.

You heard her breath hitched as you climbed on top of her, your legs on either side of her waist as you planted your ass firmly on her stomach.

“Baby is there something wrong?”

Shut up.

“Darling?”

Her voice was beginning to irritate you.

A smile.

“It's nothing baby.”

Your hands were clenched around her throat once more, squeezing, as if testing something.

She was enjoying this. An emptiness was gnawing at you, scratching in your chest, screeching.

Then. It gripped.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Nails dug into her skin as you listen to her pleasant groans turn into panicked whimpers as tears streamed down her face.

Something inside you cracked.

You enjoyed this. Some adrenaline went down your spine as you swallowed hard. Pushing it further, enjoying the way her panicked eyes looked at you in fear. She gasped, struggling to get away from your hands in futile attempt of your weight on top of her. She tried grabbing you but she was flailing around like an idiot.

“S-St—” The poor girl was frozen, tears and drool dripping down her face.

Blue. Her lips turned a beautiful shade of blue.

You heard her bones or was it her muscle creaking in the increasing pressure. You didn't realize what face you were making. You couldn't care less— this was the most you ever felt during any sexual activity with her.

All you could think about was wanting to choke the fuck out of her. To see her eyes roll to the back of her head. To stop breathing. To stop looking at you like that. To stop talking.

Just to finally shut up.

You aren't better than any fucker who treated yourself like this. Aren't you?

Just as she was about to pass out. You let go. Hands covered in cold sweat as you scurried away in a panic, digging your fingernails in your own wrist too.

“Honey?” Stop it with the sweet talk already, she was trying to reach out to you and you flinched and slapped her hand away.

You wanted to puke. You wanted to throw up. How long were you guys having sex? How come she took so long to cum? How come she had to ask you of this so many goddamn fucking times and why do you agree? Why do you let her pressure you? Anger was building up inside you.

And you let it get to the point that you wanted to murder her.

She loved you— she says that she loved you but you were beginning to hate her.

That terrified you more, the thought of hating someone you believed you like. In the end you couldn't help but sob, hot tears flushed over your face in irritation of her and also of yourself.

You didn't actually want to take someone's life. Why were you considering it?

Something darker gripped onto you, heaving as you screamed, clawing into your face crying, writhing as if someone doused gasoline and lit you on fire. Your ‘lover’ tried to calm you down. Anything she was saying wasn't getting through to you. A part of you didn't even feel any guilt and you were sure even if she died, you would feel free.

Free from what? You didn't know, uncertainty biting at you mockingly. Your brain talking to you soothingly as if it wasn't being murderous earlier.

On top of that, the memory of feeling bliss seared into your memory after seeing her cry in fear.

When you recollected, you were in her arms as she rocked you back and forth. The gentle sweetness of it all was dizzying in such a disgusting way to you.

Your eyes closed, leaning into the warmth despite every fiber of your being telling you to run.

“Sorry.” You mumbled out quietly even though there was definitely not a sincere thought in that poor apology.

[moriohpsyker]

I just got the physical copy of American Psycho today, I guess my local bookstore had an exclusive hardcover copy.

It's pretty, the texture is nice, and the lettering of the title feels like acrylic paint or dried up blood scabs.

[moriohpsyker]

The way I have this man's official license. LMAO HE LOOKS SO PISSED OFF IN HIS PHOTO

[moriohpsyker]

The Pathetic Trio! I was craving on drawing something cute with the three of them.

[moriohpsyker]

Had to show love to Kira as well of course…. I wanted to draw him in a Vietnamese traditional garment.