Patrick with a yn during the period is crazy
uhhh this is a tricky one!!
the first time you mention you’re on your period, he freezes — not out of disgust, but out of calculation.
his expression doesn’t change. no visible recoil. but behind the stillness, you can feel something mechanical shifting, like he’s rearranging data.
his relationship with bodily functions — especially other people’s — is complicated. he compartmentalizes. categorizes. if it can’t be toned, trained, or numbed with an imported cleanser, it unnerves him.
and if it’s you, it must be manageable.
he nods once, crisp and short, like you’ve given him a new variable to solve for.
within hours, his medicine cabinet suddenly contains an array of tampons, pads, painkillers, supplements, and two different kinds of heating pads — one disposable, one ergonomic and bluetooth-powered.
he watches you like he’s studying symptoms, not behavior.
the shift in your mood. the way you curl tighter into the couch. the tone in your voice when you’re short with him.
to someone else, it might register as empathy, but to patrick, it’s about control through observation.
he doesn’t like things he can’t fix.
and if pain is something you just endure, he feels equal parts offended and fascinated by the biology of it — and deeply, deeply irritated that it’s something you have to go through without any useful solution.
he’ll murmur things like, “you’re not drinking enough water today.” or “you haven’t moved in three hours, that’s not going to help your circulation.”
not out of care, but compulsion. still — it’s care in the only way he knows how.
in private, he treats it like something sacred.
there’s something primitive in the idea that your body bleeds and survives. it unearths something strange and reverent in him.
he doesn’t like the mess — of course he doesn’t — but if he ever walks in on you changing, or resting with a faint stain on your pajama shorts, he doesn’t comment.
his jaw tightens. but not from revulsion. from restraint.
like it sparks something territorial and ceremonial in him.
“this is a cycle,” he tells himself. “a natural, necessary process. come on patrick, you know what period is.”
he’ll pour you tea like it’s a ritual. bring you ice cream and painkillers, place them silently on the nightstand, and sit beside you with a book he won’t really read.
he becomes possessive in strange, quiet ways.
when you’re curled up, aching and exhausted, you’re more pliant — softer in your movement, slower in your responses.
he doesn’t exploit it, but he leans into it.
he’ll slip into bed behind you without being asked.
rest a hand on your lower stomach, palm flat, and press the heat of his body against your spine.
you’ll ask if he minds. he’ll say, “of course not. your stomach needs to be kept warm.”
and it’s the rare moment he means it — not for show, not for sex, not for power.
just to be there and be the comfort you’re looking for.
he would most likely fall asleep with his big veiny hand tracing shooting circles on your belly to make sure it’s warm enough.
and yes — he still wants you. weird, right?
he’s vain enough to find the hormonal flush on your cheeks attractive.
and though he won’t say it outright, he’s…curious.
about what it would feel like to be close to you like that when you’re most vulnerable, and your body’s more reactive, more sensitive.
“you’re sure it hurts too much?” he’ll murmur one night, voice low in the dark. “you just looked like you needed a distraction.”
if you say no, he won’t press.
if you say yes — even tentatively — he’ll be careful. unnervingly so.
he’ll still want control, but in a way that prioritizes your comfort first.
because this version of you — flushed, tired, trusting — is something sacred to him.
and he treats it accordingly.
how patrick reacts to not being able to have sex — at first, he sees it as a personal offense.
not in a cruel or loud way — but in the exact, cold manner of someone who’s so entitled to you, so used to receiving what he wants, that denial feels like insult.
he’ll retreat into silence for a beat. maybe two.
his hands will still — one resting on your thigh, or curled around your wrist. his mouth will press into a flat line, almost like a boy being told he can’t open a present yet.
“i see,” he says — quietly, but clearly annoyed.
he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he asks how long it’s going to last.
“is it…so bad this time?”
but once the mood shifts and he collects himself, he doesn’t argue.
he’s too image-conscious, too disciplined, to force anything.
instead, he’ll refocus all of that repressed energy into exercise, grooming, or being aggressively helpful — not because he wants to serve, but because if he can’t touch you sexually, he needs to dominate the situation some other way. (he will of course jerk off when you’re not there).
eventually, he finds a way to make the restriction feel intimate — and under his control.
patrick doesn’t cope well with being told “not now” but once he accepts that this is recurring — that it will happen again, and again — he reframes it.
if he can’t have sex, then fine.
he’ll act as if he’s the one choosing not to, which helps restore the illusion of power in his mind.
he might lean over you with a glint in his eye, voice low, and say something like: “you need rest. not me. i’ll take care of everything else.”
and then he’ll draw a bath, heat a towel, clean the sheets. not because he cares — not in the normal, empathetic sense, but because when he can’t have you, he needs to own your environment.
he’ll make you tea while dressed in a thousand-dollar robe. he’ll fold your laundry in gloves, turn down your bed like it’s a hotel. he won’t stop hovering.
to patrick, sex might be off the table, but dominance never is.
what if you realize how needy he is and, knowing how much he usually craves sex, you decide to tell him yes anyway?
if you say yes—knowing what it means to him, knowing how physically driven he is, how intolerant of delay or denial he can be—and you offer yourself up anyway, cramps and all, voice soft with guilt or affection or something between the two?
not with disbelief, exactly. but with a kind of dark, internal stillness. like a man suddenly aware of how easily the world gives to him when he wants something badly enough.
he doesn’t lunge. doesn’t strip you down or devour you the way he normally might.
because you’ve changed something.
you’ve turned this into a gift. a choice. and it disorients him.
it’s barely audible. not out of concern for you, really—more like he’s double-checking the universe. like he can’t quite believe this offer is real, and he’s terrified to handle it the wrong way and have it taken back.
if you confirm, if you say “yes. i want to,” or “yes, for you,” then you watch something fracture in him, behind the eyes. not violently—almost reverently.
he exhales through his nose, long and slow, and there’s a flicker of something in his posture: the businessman still, but reduced, like you’ve just peeled him out of the immaculate shell and what’s left underneath is…softer. needier.
he’ll touch you very gently at first. reverent. worshipful, even. not out of romance, but out of greed.
because you’re not supposed to say yes right now.
you’re supposed to be off-limits. fragile. in pain.
and yet here you are—giving yourself to him anyway, despite the discomfort, despite the inconvenience. he’ll murmur under his breath as he undresses you: “you always do this to me…”
“you don’t even know what that does to me…”
“you’re still in time to back off.”
and for once, it’s not purely about power or ego. it’s about you choosing him when you don’t have to. and that? that wrecks him.
he’ll be intense—but careful. restrained in a way that feels obsessive. hyper-aware of your breath, your flinches, your pain—but not because he wants to stop, because he wants to consume around it. like he’s trying to claim you without breaking you.
afterwards, he stays closer than he normally does. he cleans you immediately, wipes you down with a cloth warmed in the bathroom sink. places his head against your stomach like some beautiful, terrible thing trying to tether himself to your body just a bit longer.
he won’t say thank you—he doesn’t know how.
but he’ll hold your hips like he’s anchoring himself, and he’ll mutter again under his breath, over and over: “mine. mine. mine.”
because you gave yourself to him when you didn’t have to.
and in bateman’s warped little psyche, that’s more sacred than any expensive dinner, any tailored suit, any perfect night.
you said yes when you were supposed to say no.
and to him, that makes you the only thing on earth worth ruining for.
out in public — especially at an upscale restaurant — he spirals internally if you begin to cramp.
you excuse yourself halfway through the wine list, your fingers pressing against your lower abdomen — and he watches you go, pupils dilating, lip twitching like he’s trying not to scowl.
not at you — but at the sheer lack of control.
he hates the idea that something biological could pull your attention away from him.
when you return, his jaw’s tense. he asks in a voice that’s both concerned and irritated: “do you want to leave?”
he doesn’t want you seen like this — uncomfortable, unfocused, not the luminous, pristine version of you that reflects well on him.
if you do want to leave, he’ll cover the bill immediately, take your coat himself, walk you out with a palm on the small of your back like he’s shielding you from onlookers.
but if you insist on staying, he will compensate.
he’ll flag down the sommelier, demand a different wine pairing, change the music volume, quietly scold the waiter if the lighting seems too dim or the water wasn’t poured fast enough.
because if he can’t fix you, he’ll fix everything else in the room.
if you say “i’m sorry for ruining your reservation. i know how much effort it took, you booked it three months in advance”?
you watch him go still, his expression unreadable in that terrifyingly blank patrick bateman way, like he’s been momentarily rebooted.
for a moment, there’s that flicker behind his eyes. ego. resentment. the innate bateman response to imperfection, especially public imperfection, especially if it reflects on him.
but then he exhales, slowly. something shifts. it isn’t kindness. it’s possession.
“you think that’s what i care about right now?”
his voice is cold, low, with that weirdly composed hostility that somehow never raises in volume, and yet pins you in place. but he leans forward just slightly, enough to make his words feel private.
“what’s the point of the reservation if you’re sitting there in pain?”
“you looked like you were about to pass out on the way back from the restroom.”
he’ll look down at your hand—or maybe your abdomen—like he’s memorizing the way you curl into yourself. like he’s cataloguing it. not with pity, but a strange kind of dark protectiveness.
and then: “i can make another reservation, i can’t make another you.”
he says it stiffly, like the words taste foreign in his mouth—but real, nonetheless. because if there’s one thing patrick bateman doesn’t tolerate, it’s losing his things. and tonight, you’ve just reminded him how human you are.
and in some twisted corner of his psyche, that only makes him grip tighter.
he pays the bill with a cutting glare at the sommelier, takes your coat himself, and helps you into the car without a word—but all through the ride, his hand rests over yours like an anchor.
when you get home, he silently tucks you into bed, disappears into the bathroom…and returns with water, medicine, and the silkiest robe he owns.
he doesn’t comment on the ruined evening again.
but later, when you’re half-asleep under the covers, you feel his fingers ghost over your arm.
“no, don’t say that again. i knew you were about to.” quiet. commanding. “you didn’t ruin anything.”
because as much as he cares about status, exclusivity, and perfection—he cares more about the ownership of the one person who makes him feel something beyond the hollow.
and that, to him, is worth rescheduling dorsia.
later, he asks too many questions — most of them clinical. he’s genuinely curious.
“how long does this last for you, usually?”
“is it heavier at night? are the mood swings worse in the afternoon?”
“what does your doctor say about the cramping? do you chart your cycle?”
he sounds like a spreadsheet come to life. but this is how he deals — he turns emotion into data.
and once he knows what to expect, he builds rituals around it.
your preferred brand of pads is now stocked in the guest bathroom.
your painkillers are sorted by potency and expiration date in the medicine drawer.
he keeps your “softest” clothes folded in a drawer in his closet, just for those days.
he’d never admit it, but he also programs reminders into his calendar — “check-in. day 3. extra irritable?”
because when he knows, he feels in control. and when he feels in control, he can care.
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